‘Koskash,’ he said, ‘it is time we had a talk.’
‘Certainly,’ said Koskash, putting down his pen.
‘Koskash,’ said Seymour, ‘you have not been entirely honest with me.’
‘Haven’t I?’ said Koskash, surprised. ‘I am sorry you should think that.’
That man the other night, the one I gave the papers to: he wasn’t a seaman, was he?’
‘Wasn’t he?’
‘He wasn’t British, was he? This is the British Consulate and you would only have power to issue papers to British nationals.’
‘Not necessarily. If they are crewing on British ships — ’
‘I looked at your copy, Koskash. It was made out as for a British national. Why was that, Koskash?’
‘I–I do not know.’
‘You lied to me, Koskash. You knew he wasn’t a seaman.’
Koskash looked uncomfortable.
‘I am sorry,’ he said.
‘Who was he, Koskash?’
Koskash shook his head.
‘I am afraid I cannot say,’ he said.
‘This won’t do, Koskash. I’m afraid you have to say. This is the British Consulate and the man wasn’t British. You were issuing British papers to a man who wasn’t British. And not even a seaman. Why was that, Koskash? Why did you do it? Was it for money?’
Koskash jumped as if he had been stung.
‘No!’ he said. ‘No. Not that, never! I would never do a thing like that for money!’
‘Then why, Koskash?’
Koskash just shook his head.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I am very sorry.’
‘I am afraid, Koskash, that I need to know.’
He waited.
‘Shall I help you? What I think you were doing was helping someone to leave the country, someone who couldn’t leave the country in the ordinary way. I wonder why that was? I can only think, Koskash, that it was because the authorities were looking for him. Was that what it was, Koskash?’
He waited, but Koskash did not reply. He just shook his head faintly from side to side.
‘They could leave the country only under a false identity, and that you were willing to provide for them. You could give them false papers, papers which would enable them to get on a ship. Why, Koskash, why were you doing that?’
Koskash found his tongue.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I am truly very sorry. But I cannot tell you that.’
‘But you must, Koskash. Otherwise I may have to go to the authorities. Mr Kornbluth, say, or, more probably, to Mr Schneider.’
Koskash closed his eyes as if in pain but shook his head again dumbly.
‘I do not want to do that, Koskash, but I am afraid I may have to. If you won’t tell me anything. You have been abusing the trust Mr Lomax placed in you.’
‘No!’ said Koskash.
‘But yes! This is the British Consulate. The British. And you have been issuing false papers under its name. You have been taking advantage of your position here for purposes of your own.’
‘No,’ said Koskash. ‘I would not do that. I would never do that. It would not be honourable,’ he said earnestly.
‘But, Koskash, that is exactly what you have been doing. You have been making out papers secretly — ’
‘No!’ said Koskash hoarsely.
Seymour stopped.
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Are you saying,’ said Seymour slowly, ‘that you were not doing this secretly?’
‘That is right, yes. I was not doing it secretly.’
‘What are you saying, Koskash? That Mr Lomax knew what you were doing?’
‘That is so, yes.’
For a moment Seymour couldn’t think what to say.
‘You surprise me, Koskash.’
‘I know. It is surprising,’ said Koskash simply. ‘But it is true.’
‘He knew what you were doing? And didn’t stop it?’
Koskash nodded.
‘How far was Mr Lomax involved in this? In what you were doing? This. . arrangement? He knew what you were doing. Was there more to it than that?’
Koskash shook his head.
‘He knew what I was doing,’ he said hoarsely. ‘That is all.’
‘He knew, but condoned it. Is that what you are saying?’
‘That is what I am saying,’ said Koskash quietly.
Chapter Eight
‘Sand.’
‘ — or,’ said Seymour.
The man at the Club’s reception desk raised his head.
‘Or what, sir?’
‘Sandor. That’s the name. S-a-n-d-o-r. Sandor. It’s a Hungarian name. Comes from my mother.’
‘Right, sir. Thank you, sir. Well, Mr Sandor, if you’ll just — ’
‘That’s just my first name. You said you wanted my full name.’
‘Well, yes, sir. If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Pelczynski.’
‘Pel. .?’
Resignedly Seymour spelt it out.
‘It’s a Polish name. Comes from my grandfather.’
Why did he have to go on like that? He knew why. Ever since he had started going to school he had been self- conscious about his name. Most of the teachers in the East End were used to the assortment of immigrant names but it so happened that his first teacher had not been; and floundered.
‘Pel. .’ Mumble, mumble. ‘Well, thank you, sir, I’ll — ’
‘Seymour.’
And even that had problems. ‘Listen,’ his grandfather had said when he got to England. ‘No Englishman is ever going to get his jaw round a name like Pelczynski!’ And he had changed it to Seymour, retaining, however, Pelczynski as a second Christian name in the family to the chagrin of his descendants ever since.
‘Sandor Pelczynski Seymour,’ said Seymour firmly.
‘Right, sir. Thank you, sir. If you’ll just take a seat, I’ll tell Mr Barton that you’re here.’
So Seymour sat down on the horsehair-stuffed, leather-upholstered sofa in the foyer of the English Club and waited. Seymour wasn’t used to clubs. Ordinary policemen from the East End weren’t. But he had been in one once, taken in by a superior when he was one of the team working on the Ripper case in Whitechapel not long before. Seymour’s job had been to check out some of the royal suspects. Well, that had been a waste of time. He had run straightaway into the same wall of superiority and superciliousness, call it class distinction if you liked, that he had encountered when he had gone to the Foreign Office. The English Club in Trieste wasn’t quite like that but it had something of the same air as the club he had been taken to in the West End. ‘Neutral ground,’ his superior had said. Well, it wasn’t neutral ground as far as Seymour was concerned.
There were the same comfortable chairs, the same discreet, deferential servants. From a room in the back he could hear the click of billiard balls. English newspapers were strewn on the tables and there was a rack of illustrated periodicals hanging from the wall. While he was watching, a man came in and took one. He went into an inner room, where Seymour caught a glimpse of yet more comfortable chairs. ‘Surrey, 231 for one,’ the man said to someone already sitting there.
On the wall were pictures of hunting scenes, together with a portrait of the monarch: not, actually, the present King but the old Queen, Victoria. The English Club in Trieste, like most clubs, in Seymour’s view, was a bit behind the times.
Barton came bustling in.
‘Seymour! Good to see you. Good of you to come.’
‘It was kind of you to invite me.’
‘I thought, just while you’re here — I know it probably won’t be for long, but even so, I thought you’d be glad of the chance to get back to a piece of England occasionally.’
‘I would indeed,’ said Seymour untruthfully.
Barton led him into the inner room, the reading room perhaps, and took him over to a corner, away from the only two other inhabitants.
‘Tea? Or something stronger?’
‘Coffee?’
‘Coffee it is.’ Barton went off to place the order, then came back and sat down opposite him.
‘Well, how are you finding things? And how are you getting on with sorting things out over poor old Lomax?’
‘Oh, reasonably well. People are very helpful’