While he recounted again the details of his journey, emphasising its dangers and discomforts, he was ramming a great many small bottles and boxes into a portable medicine-chest.
‘And you, Pringle,’ he said, giving Guy a malevolent glance, ‘you were a party to all this. I saw you in the hotel more than once. You did not choose to let me know what was going on. I had to learn from a stranger.’
As Guy, listening with an air of miserable guilt, made no attempt to defend himself, Harriet broke in on Pinkrose to say: ‘Professor Inchcape did not want you to be alarmed. He gave definite orders that you must not be told anything until after he had gone.’
Pinkrose, winding his scarves about his neck, drew his breath through his teeth, but made no other comment. A small threatening smile hung round his lips. After some moments he said: ‘The whole matter will be fully reported to head office. The board can judge. Meanwhile, I am forced to pay my own fare to Greece. I shall expect to be reimbursed; and I can only hope the Athens office will accord me the courtesy and consideration that has been so sadly lacking here.’
The boat-train to Constanza left at half-past three. Pinkrose had barely time to catch it. That and the fact the Black Sea could be rough at this time of the year caused Guy to find his tongue. He said: ‘Why not wait until tomorrow? My wife is going to Athens by plane. Dobson is also going …’
‘No, no,’ Pinkrose broke in impatiently, ‘I am looking forward to the sea journey. It will do me good.’ He picked up his greatcoat. As Guy stepped forward to hold it for him, he swung away with a look that suggested Guy’s good-natured helpfulness was simply another indication of his duplicity.
A porter entered to collect the luggage. Pinkrose had ordered a taxicab, which now awaited him.
Harriet said: ‘Goodbye.’ Pinkrose shot her a glance, apparently not holding her culpable, and made a movement towards her which, given time, might have turned into a handshake – but he could not wait. Without a word to Guy he was gone.
The Pringles felt a sense of trespass at finding themselves alone in the room. Harriet put her arms round Guy’s waist. ‘Darling, how can I go tomorrow and leave you here?’
‘You’re going to get me a job,’ he reminded her.
Her despondency lifted somewhat as, turning the bend in the stairs, they saw David down in the hall. He had gone ‘to the Delta’ – whatever that might mean – when they went to Predeal and this was his first reappearance. There had been at the back of Harriet’s mind a suspicion that he might not reappear at all. His covert trips at this time could too easily lead to disaster. Or he might, knowing the time was at hand here, have made his way over a frontier. But there he was, looking comfortable and confident as ever, and Harriet felt warmed by the sight of him. As Guy delightedly hurried down to greet him, David’s small mouth curled at one corner in amusement at his friend’s exuberance. He was about to sign the register and said: ‘I found, when I returned this morning, that the Minerva had given me up for lost. A member of the master race was occupying my room. My baggage had been put into the cellar. Fortunately, when I reached here, a room was just being vacated.’
‘Pinkrose’s room, I suppose,’ Guy said and he described the attack on Inchcape and what he called ‘the flight of the professors’.
Snuffling to himself at the picture of Pinkrose in the Japanese dressing-gown, David said: ‘I know several chaps who’d’ve paid to see that. Pinkrose owns one of the most magnificent houses in Cambridge, but no one ever sees inside it. He’s practically a recluse. The sad thing about all this is that Inchcape is probably his only real friend.’
When he heard that Clarence had also gone, David smiled indulgently. ‘I liked old Clarence,’ he said and gave a laugh of surprise at his own admission. He added: ‘I don’t think any of us will be here much longer,’ and the Pringles, knowing he could not tell them any more, asked no questions.
As they moved together through the hall, David caught his breath, seeing for the first time the black Gestapo figures. He raised an eyebrow at Guy, but neither made any comment. They left the hotel with a sense of nothing to do but await an end. They did not want to separate.
David had to look in at the Legation and asked the Pringles to go with him.
Standing at the kerb, waiting for a trǎsurǎ to stop at the hotel, they watched a fleet of Guardist motor-cyclists in new leather jackets and fur caps. They passed uproariously, stern-faced and purposeful, as though on their way to an execution or an interrogation of treachery, but after circling the square at top speed, scattering the pedestrians and driving cars into the kerb, they disappeared whence they had come.
‘Not a useful occupation,’ Harriet said, ‘but it must be great fun.’
Waiting in the trǎsurǎ while David reported his return, Harriet held tightly to Guy’s hand. He said to comfort her: ‘You heard what David said? I may be leaving here sooner than we think.’
‘Um.’ Harriet feared he might stay just too long and never leave at all; but she had ceased to plead with him, knowing he felt bound to see things to their conclusion, whatever the conclusion might be.
When David rejoined them, he said: ‘I have to meet someone, but not yet. Shall we drive up the Chaussée?’
The sun was low in the sky. They had put down the trǎsurǎ hood and they felt in their faces the keen little breeze that would sharpen through the coming weeks into the wind that brought the snow. The Chaussée had already an air of winter. The trees, parched by the fires of summer, were completely bare. The garden restaurants had packed up. The cafés had taken in awnings and parasols: some had closed down altogether. October was here and life had retired indoors.
David said: ‘There’s a belief going round that Germany has important plans for Rumania, that she’ll regain her position in the scheme of things.’ As he sniffed and snuffled, Guy asked: ‘What do you think?’
‘I think the Germans will devour this place, ruthlessly. They’re demanding conscripts now. Not a word about it in the papers, of course, but I’m told the Rumanian peasants are being herded into cattle-trucks and sent to train in Germany. Poor fellows, they go willingly because their officers tell them they’re going to fight for England. They say: “Tell us about these English. How do they look in the face?”’
Harriet said: ‘Do they actually think the Germans are British?’
‘They don’t think. When the times comes, they’ll be told: “This is the enemy. Fight!” and they will fight and die.’
They were now in open country and could see the Snagov woods like a plum-coloured haze in the distance. The Snagov lake reflected a brazen sky. Here and there a window flamed, but the fields, flat and empty, had a dejected air in the rich autumnal light.
David said: ‘I have to meet this fellow at the Golf Club.’
‘The Golf Club!’