Stamboul Train by Graham Greene Page B

failed.
    â€˜Communist outbreak in Belgrade,’ she read. ‘An attempt was made late last night by a band of armed Communist agitators to seize the station and the prison at Belgrade. The police were taken by surprise and for nearly three hours the revolutionaries were in undisturbed possession of the general post office and the goods-yard. All telegraphic communication with Belgrade was interrupted until early this morning. At two o’clock, however, our representative at Vienna spoke to Colonel Hartep, the Chief of Police, by telephone and learned that order had been restored. The revolutionaries were few in number and lacked a proper leader; their attack on the prison was repulsed by the warders, and for some hours afterwards they stayed inactive in the post office, apparently in the hope that the inhabitants of the poorer quarters of the capital would come to their help. Meanwhile the government was able to muster police reinforcements, and with the help of a platoon of soldiers and a couple of field-guns, the police recaptured the post office after a siege lasting little more than three-quarters of an hour.’ This summary was printed in large type; underneath in small type was a more detailed account of the outbreak. Miss Warren sat and stared at it; she frowned a little and was conscious of the dryness of her mouth. Her brain felt clear and empty. Dr Czinner explained, ‘They were three days too early.’
    Miss Warren snapped at him, ‘What more could you have done?’
    â€˜The people would have followed me.’
    â€˜They’ve forgotten you. Five years is the hell of a time. The young men were children when you ran away.’
    Five years, she thought, seeing them fall on her inevitably through future days, like the endless rain of a wet winter, watching in mind Janet Pardoe’s face as it worried over the first wrinkle, the first greyness, or else the smooth tight lifted skin and dark dyed hair every three weeks whitening at the roots.
    â€˜What are you going to do now?’ she asked, and the promptitude and plainness of his answer, ‘I’ve told you. I’m getting out at Vienna,’ filled her with suspicion. ‘That’s nice,’ she said, ‘we’ll be together. We can talk. You’ll have no objection to an interview now. If you are short of money, our Vienna office will advance you some.’ She was aware that he was watching her more closely than ever before. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘perhaps we can talk,’ and she was certain this time that he was lying. He’s going to double, she thought, but it was difficult to see his motive. He had no choice but to get out at Vienna or at Budapest; it would be unsafe to travel farther. Then she remembered him at the Kamnetz trial, fully aware that no jury would convict and yet giving his dangerous useless evidence while Hartep waited with the warrant. He’s fool enough to do anything, she thought, and wondered for a moment whether, behind the quietness, he was already standing in the dock with his companions, uttering his defence with an eye to the packed gallery. If he goes on, she thought, I’ll go, I’ll stick to him, I’ll have his story, but she felt curiously weak and undecided, for she had no threat left. He was beaten, leaning back in his corner old and hopeless, with the newspaper gathering dust on the floor between them, and he was triumphant, watching her leave the carriage, the Baedeker forgotten on the seat, with nothing but silence for her exclamation: ‘I’ll see you again at Vienna.’
    When Miss Warren had gone, Dr Czinner stooped for the paper. His sleeve caught an empty glass and it fell and shattered on the floor. His hand rested on the paper and he stared at the glass, unable to concentrate his thought, unable to decide what it was he had to do, pick up the paper or gather the dangerous sharp scraps. Presently he laid the paper