Background to Danger by Eric Ambler Page B

about Rumania that had interested him. Ah yes! It had been that business about Concession Reform. A newspaper that had printed an article against it had been beaten up. Well, there didn’t seem to be much to be got out of that; though, of course, you never could tell. That was the trouble. One end of the game was played in the rarefied atmosphere of board-rooms and week-end shooting parties; the other was played, with persons like Sachs as counters, in trains, in cheap hotels, in suburbs of big cities, in murky places away from the bright highways dedicated to the rosy-cheeked goddess of
tourisme
. Someone spoke in an office in Birmingham or Pittsburgh, or maybe on board a yacht off Cannes, and a few weeks later a Mills bomb burst in a printing works in Bucharest. Between those two events, unknown both to the man who had spoken and to the man who had pulled the pin from the bomb, was a misty hinterland in which the “Colonel Robinsons” of the earth moved silently about their business. Yes, he would certainly give up the photographs. His rôle had always before been that of spectator; let it remain so.
    He crushed his cigarette out on the floor and rose to his feet. As he did so, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, a pause, then the rattle of a key in the lock.
    His heart beating a little faster, he stood by the window and waited. The door opened, the beam of a torch cut across the room, swung round and shone straight into his eyes.
    “Well, old man,” said the voice of Captain Mailler, “are you going to be sensible or do I have to knock hell out of you first?”
    For about five seconds Kenton did not speak. In those five seconds all his resolutions, all his sane reflections on thedesirability of giving in gracefully and keeping out of trouble, were swept away by just two things—Captain Mailler’s voice and Captain Mailler’s words. In those five seconds the entire structure of resentment, anger, obstinacy and defiance that reason had so completely demolished was re-erected. And this time it was supported by a body no longer tired, a brain no longer distracted by the after-effects of concussion.
    “You can do exactly what you like,” he said at last; “but if you think you can bully me into doing anything, you’ve made a mistake.”
    “Don’t be silly, old man,” said the Captain evenly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. A nigger out in the States once felt that way about things, and those fellows are really hard eggs. But by the time I’d finished with the beggar he would have jumped over the moon or razored his own father and mother if I’d told him to.”
    “I’m an orphan.”
    The Captain clucked reprovingly.
    “Shouldn’t get cheeky if I were you, old man. Doesn’t pay. The chief didn’t care for you much and he’s given me a free hand. To tell you the truth, old man, I don’t much care for you, either. As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t be so sorry if you did try to keep your mouth shut for a bit. I could do with a bit of fun.”
    Kenton did not answer.
    The torch wavered slightly.
    “Vorwärts!”
said the Captain.
    Two men appeared from the blackness of the passage outside and seized Kenton’s arms. He shook them off, received a kick on the ankle, the pain of which took his breath away, and was hauled out of the room and downstairs to the hall.
    Mailler vanished into the Colonel’s room. A minute later he reappeared and signalled to the men holding Kenton.
    “The chief wants to see you, old man,” he said. “If I were you I’d watch my step. He’s not feeling very pleased with you.”
    “I’m not feeling very pleased with him,” retorted Kenton.
    For a second he thought the Captain was going to strike him. Then Mailler grinned unpleasantly.
    “You and me’ll be having a little chat soon, old man,” he said.
    He nodded to Kenton’s escort and they went in.
    The Colonel was standing in front of the fire; and in a suit of tweeds and by the subdued amber