Codeword Golden Fleece Read online

  Simon could not yet bring himself to accept it that never again would he look upon that charming debonair face and that the master mind that lay behind it would fashion no more subtle schemes for the discomfiture of their enemies; although the evidence of his eyes told him that de Richleau was dead. It had all come about with such appalling suddenness. It was still too close to be fully realised; yet one thing was quite certain—the Duke could not aid them now. Richard was crippled and out of it altogether. Little Marie Lou and Lucretia, both of whom had so often helped in the past with good ideas, were out of it too. Poor Jan, who might have proved a useful standby, if he had still been with them, was dead. The whole battle, both its direction and its waging, lay now with him and Rex, and even Rex was wounded.

  He had simply produced a small coin and taken the ticket that was handed to him. The conductor roused him from his nightmare thoughts on his reaching the limit to which his fare took him. He got out to find himself in the centre of the city, opposite the National Theatre. Hailing a droshky, he had himself driven back to the Peppercorn, still with tear-dimmed eyes that took in nothing of the scene about him.

  Upstairs in their bedroom he found Rex waiting. How to break the news was another problem. Simon had not even thought of that. He sat down on the bed to gain a moment’s respite.

  ‘Well! D’you get it in?’ Rex asked eagerly.

  ‘No,’ Simon muttered. ‘I’ve got it here,’ and he produced the flat, square packet from his robe.

  ‘Where’s the Great White Chief?’ suddenly enquired Rex, sensing from Simon’s manner that something had gone seriously wrong.

  ‘There was shooting, Rex. I was almost inside the Legation gate. He covered me and shot two of them who got in my way. But there were six of them at least. He told me that whatever happened to him I was to run for it. When I looked back … Oh God!’ Simon sank his face into his hands and burst into a flood of tears.

  For a moment Rex stood there, stunned.

  ‘You don’t mean …’ he stammered. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ He seemed to wilt as though someone had hit him, and as his great shoulders sagged he lost height.

  Then, recovering a little, he burst out: ‘It can’t be! I refuse to believe it!’

  Walking over to Simon, he sat down on the bed beside him and put his good arm round his friend’s shaking shoulders. ‘Let’s hear the whole of it, Simon,’ he urged. ‘Come on, old boy. You’ve had a packet, a blind mute could see that. But try to tell me just what happened?’

  It was some time before Simon became sufficiently coherent to give a detailed account of the scene outside the British Legation. Rex listened without comment and was forced to admit to himself that there could be little hope for the Duke.

  When it was done they sat plunged in silent despair, until at length Simon said: ‘What shall we do now? We’ve got to get the Golden Fleece to the Legation somehow.’

  ‘Oh, to hell with the Golden Fleece!’ Rex groaned. ‘What’s it matter now?’

  ‘It matters no more, but every bit as much, as it did before.’ replied Simon logically.

  ‘I know, I know! But it was for that accursed bit of paper that he got himself rubbed out. We’ll win the war sooner or later whether the barge traffic is stopped or not. Why should you and I deliberately follow Greyeyes into a death trap? And it’s certainly shrouds for us if we try making that Legation.’

  ‘But we must!’ cried Simon, spurred for the first since his return into a positive reaction. ‘We must, Rex. We’ve got to get this packet to Sir Reginald somehow. Of course we’ll win the war sooner or later; but every single day it goes on hundreds of people are being killed and maimed. The chance to shorten it is in our hands. If Hitler’s oil is cut off he must collapse far sooner than he would otherwise do; or else occupy Hungary and Rumania in order to get his supplies going again. And even if we compel him only to do that it means a great dispersion of German effort, which again will enable the Allies to win considerably earlier than there is any hope of their doing at present.’

  ‘You’re crazy, but I’ll say you’re right about it all the same,’ Rex admitted. ‘Well, how’ll we set about it?’

  ‘Goodness knows! I don’t.’ Simon shivered. ‘Don’t think I could face walking into that hornets’ nest again, even if I had ten men all standing round armed and ready to protect me.’

  ‘No. I reckon to try that way again means curtains for both of us for sure. But there must be some other line? Does it have to go to Sir Reginald? Why? Only because he’s the British Diplomatic representative here and could get it by fast bag to London for us. We’ve got thirty days to go before the option runs out. We ought to be able to reach London in that time. Why not let’s fade right out of here and take it to London ourselves?’

  Simon looked up, and his tear-dimmed eyes showed a little flicker of light. ‘Um,’ he nodded. ‘I believe you’ve hit it, Rex. As long as it reaches the British Government in time for them to cable the money here so that Sir Reginald can complete the deal by midnight on the 20th of October we’ll have pulled off our coup.’

  ‘How long d’you figure it’ll take for us to get back to London, under war conditions?’

  ‘No need to worry about that. If we can get safely out of Rumania, into any of its adjacent countries, the job’s as good as done. British Minister in Sofia or Istanbul will despatch the Golden Fleece to London by fast bag for us just as readily as Sir Reginald would have done.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Rex. ‘Sure, you’re dead right about that. And the little river steamer’ll take us down the Arieshu to the Danube where Bulgaria forms the southern bank. Come on, Simon, we’ll have more time than we want later being lonely for the smile of the Great White Chief. I don’t like the face of our dyspeptic-looking landlord one little bit, so the sooner we’re out of this joint the better. Get those “Hail-Mary” clothes off while I pack the bag. We’ve still got all the time we want to catch the three o’clock boat.’

  Simon pulled the coif off his head. He was just about to struggle out of the robe when there came a sharp rattle of the doorknob, and the door was unceremoniously thrown open.

  ‘Well! Talk of the devil…!’ Rex exclaimed on seeing the landlord bulking in the doorway. Then his eyebrows drew together in a frown as he saw that behind the fat man was a little fellow wearing a trilby hat and that they were accompanied by two uniformed policemen.

  The landlord had already stepped into the room. Pointing at Simon accusingly, he broke into a spate of Rumanian; then, picking up the discarded coif from the bed, he waved it excitedly in front of the others, before throwing it down with a gesture of angry disgust.

  The little fellow came forward, giving a quick flick to his hat that pushed it on the back of his head as though he were a detective in a Hollywood gangster film; they guessed at once that he was a plain-clothes officer.

  ‘I spek Engleesh,’ he announced with a sibilant accent. ‘You not conduck yourselves nice ‘ere, no. Ze managaire, ‘e telephone complaint zis morning. I say you ‘phone me gen when zey comes in. ‘E ‘phone; I come. What you make in zose woman’s clothes, eh?’

  Simon strove to raise a smile, as he replied: ‘Well, I’ll tell you. This is a kind of fancy dress. I’ve been trying it out for a party.’

  ‘You wore et in ze street. In Bucharest zat ees an offence. We no allow men to walk aroun’ in ze clothes of women. Get me pleese your passports.’

  Simon produced his and the detective turned to Rex, who produced his also. The little man looked carefully through them, then put them both in his pocket.

  ‘Hi!’ exclaimed Rex. ‘Give me that back. I’m not going to have you walking off with my passport.’

  The man shrugged and displayed a police badge which he was wearing under the lapel of his coat. ‘I take et for check-up. Ef et ess O.K. you get it back later. You call tomorrow, twelve o’clock, at ze Dambovita Distreck Office. I gif you.’ Then turning to Simon, he added: ‘You comes with us.’

  ‘I was only
wearing it for fun,’ Simon protested.

  ‘You make zat story for magistrate tomorrow ten o’clock. Perhaps ‘e sink you tell truth.’ The detective shrugged again. ‘Now, no argues. You comes to police office. We lock you up for night.’

  With the two stalwart, dark-visaged policemen standing in the doorway there seemed little choice but to obey. It was a bitter pill to Simon that after what had happened barely an hour before he should now be lugged off to a lock-up, instead of being left in peace to nurse his grief; but at least he could thank his stars that his visitors were not Iron Guards and that he was only being arrested for a misdemeanour.

  Rex was silently cursing the interfering landlord who had brought this infuriating and possibly dangerous complication on them. It was de Richleau who had done all the shooting outside the Legation, so Simon could not be called to account for that. But if the Iron Guard learned of his arrest they would endeavour to fix the assault on von Geisenheim, the Attaché and their chauffeur, and the theft of their car on to him. That was where the danger lay. Fortunately he was being taken only to a local police station on a minor charge, so there was at least a possibility that the higher authorities and their Iron Guard friends would not receive information that he had fallen into the hands of the police.

  Simon had been thinking on much the same lines, and was just about to ask if he might change into more suitable clothes before they took him away, when he checked himself in time. His proper clothes had been in the back of the Chrysler, so he had none to change into except the Bukovina Jew outfit which was hanging up in the wardrobe. He had been wearing that the night before, and, even if von Geisenheim were half dead from his injuries, the chauffeur, and probably the Attaché as well by this time, would have described their attackers. If he put on his black clothes and fur-trimmed hat the local police might identify him from any description that had been circulated as the man wanted by Headquarters on an entirely different and much graver charge. Once that happened his number would be up; but, if he could keep his two identities separate, there seemed a fair chance that within twenty-four hours he might wriggle out of this minor mess and the people he really had reason to dread would never know that he had slipped through their fingers.

  ‘All right, then,’ he said to the perky little detective. ‘I’ll come along if you wish.’ Then, with his heart in his mouth, he produced the envelope containing the Golden Fleece and, tossing it to Rex, said as casually as he could:

  ‘You might post this, will you? If I’m held by the police for a day or two on some formality I’d like to know that it’s on its way.’

  The onlookers made not the slightest attempt to interfere, and Rex pushed the packet into an ugly, wide-mouthed vase on the mantelpiece, remarking lightly: ‘I’ve a letter of my own in that thing so I’m less likely to forget it than if I put it in my pocket. Sorry about all this. It’s too damn’ silly, and I shall get high on my own at the party tonight. If I don’t fall in the river on the way home I’ll be seeing you in the morning.’

  As the two policemen were about to march Simon away the landlord said something in Rumanian and tapped Rex’s suitcase with his finger.

  The detective translated. ‘ ’E say you pack an’ go. Zis ’otel family place. Verrie quiet, verrie respectables. ’E not want you ’ere. Peoples like you bad for ’is business. ’E say you get out.’

  ‘Tell him I wouldn’t stay in his lousy joint if he paid me,’ Rex said angrily. ‘So long, Simon.’

  The door closed behind the little group, there followed a trampling of feet on the thinly carpeted stairs, and Rex was alone with his unhappy thoughts.

  For a little he thought miserably about the Duke, then he forced his mind back to the present and what he had better do. The ball was now with him. He was last man in, and his side had fared pretty badly. He hated the thought that he might have to abandon Simon, and debated whether he dared go along to the court the following morning to find out if Simon got into a real jam through additional charges being preferred against him, or if he would get off with a fine and a caution; but he decided that he must not risk it.

  If the police did identify Simon as one of the men who had attacked von Geisenheim they would jump to it that he, Rex, was another of the gang; and immediately he appeared at the police court he would find himself popped in the cooler, too. Then their last hope of getting away with the Golden Fleece would be gone.

  ‘Come to that,’ he said to himself, ‘if the police have a lucky break, or attempt any serious check-up on this phoney nun stuff, they’ll tumble to it that I was one of the bunch that got after old von G. long before tomorrow. They’ll be coming round here to pull me in any time after the next hour or so. Perhaps it’s just as well that sanctimonious heel of a landlord has handed me my check. I’ll have to beat it outta here anyhow, and his having given me the bum’s rush provides an explanation for my quitting.’

  When he had said to Simon, ‘If I don’t fall in the river on the way home I’ll be seeing you in the morning,’ he had purposely left himself free to choose whether he left Bucharest at once or decided to stay on. He knew that if Simon did not see him in the morning he would at once realise that the alternative had been adopted, and that by ‘falling in the river on the way home’ Rex had meant taking the river steamer down the Arieshu as the first stage of his journey back to England.

  But now Rex suddenly saw that it was no use his taking the river steamer. When he had made enquiries at the jetty that morning the man in the office had told him that it was not necessary to take tickets in advance but that he should bring his passport with him, because the steamer touched on Bulgarian waters when it reached the Danube and no one was allowed further than the mouth of the Arieshu unless they had proper credentials. And now he no longer had a passport, because that ‘so-and-so’ of a detective had taken it from him.

  To call for it at the police office at twelve o’clock the following day entailed exactly the same risk as going to the court to find out what happened to Simon. And that was quite definitely off. There did not seem to be any point in going on the river steamer if he was to be turned back even before it reached the Bulgarian frontier, so he tried to consider the whole position afresh and get a new angle on it.

  For some ten minutes he sat on one of the cheap iron bedsteads with his head in his hands, trying to think of a safe, speedy way of getting through to Bulgaria; but whatever route he took the loss of his passport now presented a major obstacle, and he dared not apply for another at the American Legation because that was one of the places where it seemed certain that the Iron Guard would be on the look-out for him.

  He wondered how the Duke had meant to proceed when they got down to the Danube. Probably he had intended evading the Rumanian frontier guards, by hiring or stealing a small boat in which to row across at night, or even that they should slip off the river steamer at some place where it passed close to the Bulgarian shore and swim for it. Some bold stroke of that kind would have got them past the Rumanians, and by hitch-hiking to the border Rex felt fairly confident that he would find a way of evading the frontier police; but now, without a passport, it would be necessary to outwit the Bulgarian frontier patrols as well, and he did not feel that the odds were very good on his managing to cross such a wide river as the Danube without being spotted by the trained watchers on the far bank. If he were caught trying to enter Bulgaria without a passport the authorities would not simply turn him back; they would hand him over to the Rumanians, and falling into their hands was the one thing above all others that he must avoid.

  ‘How would the Great White Chief have played it?’ he asked himself. ‘Now the river steamer’s a washout and the police are even more on their toes about us than they were when he planned that line for our get-away. Maybe he’d go to earth right here in Bucharest for a while; adopt a masterly policy of inactivity, as he used to say himself. It would certainly be up his street to remain in the thick of things when the enemy were wasting their shoe-leather looking for
us all along the Bulgarian frontier; and that sure is where they’ll have turned on the heat, seeing that it’s the quickest way out.’

  The thought gave him another idea. As the Bulgarian frontier was by far the nearest to Bucharest, de Richleau would probably have chosen another route for their attempt to get out of the country. Yugoslavia, Hungary, Poland and Russia also had frontiers bordering on Rumania, but all of them were at a much greater distance from Bucharest than Bulgaria, and, even when reached, were in the opposite direction to that in which Rex wanted to go;

  Russia and Russo-German-occupied Poland he ruled out at once, as, if he arrived in either without a passport, he might have great difficulty in getting any further and would probably be clapped into prison right away. Hungary and Yugoslavia offered better prospects, and there was no great river to cross into either, so the odds were against his being caught trying to enter and turned back at once. If only he could get twenty miles or so into one of them he might still be arrested, but it was hardly likely that the authorities would then return him to Rumania before he had had a chance to get in touch with his Legation, and once he had done that he could count on the protection of the American Minister.

  But how to reach either still remained a problem; and there was, too, the unpleasant prospect that, lacking a passport, he might be held while enquiries were being made about him for days or even weeks in the gaol of some little mountain town. And time mattered.

  If only he could have got hold of an aeroplane the whole thing would have been so simple. Aircraft were to Rex what horseflesh had been to the hunting squires of Georgian England. When he was at home in the United States hardly a day passed without his going up in a plane. He had flown everything from a Tiger-Moth to a Pan-American Air Liner and possessed four planes of his own. If, by hook or by crook, he could obtain one now, the crossing of the desolate mountain chains to the west would hold no terrors for him. He could fly straight out to Belgrade, or even Rome if the aircraft had sufficient range and fuel. Once he reached one of these capitals, being arrested on his arrival would not matter. Within twenty-four hours American diplomatic representatives on the spot would have vouched for him, and he would then only have to get the Golden Fleece despatched by fast bag.