This captured their interest and they heard him out in silence. “So,” said the old man at last as he followed the rapid tracings of Methuen’s finger along the spine of the mountain range. “So they finally guessed what we are doing.” The tall young man walked up and down several times with compressed lips; then, in a sudden gust of rage, he stopped and drove the dagger he carried into the table. “It is all their fault,” he cried passionately. “I told them not to infiltrate too many men into this area. I told them we would draw attention to ourselves. I told them.” The old man clicked his teeth sympathetically and nodded. “Never mind. We will do it yet. Over the mountains and through the karst country to the coast.”
Methuen asked permission to smoke and lit a cigarette. “I am hungry,” he said, “and you don’t want my opinion. But I tell you that unless we break through the cordon we will be surrounded and lose the treasure.”
Black Peter gave a harsh laugh. “That at least not,” he said, “for the path runs along the bottomless black lake, and if we can’t get it out Tito at least won’t get it. That I swear.” He made a wide gesture in the air and added: “That at least I swear.”
“I’m hungry,” repeated Methuen wearily, and with an impatient gesture Black Peter came over to him and said: “I am not convinced of your story as yet.” Methuen shrugged his shoulders and replied: “Well, ask headquarters. But if you waste precious time you may find …” His voice tailed away for a new sound had begun to reverberate in the cave — the sound of planes. They were close now and the noise of their engines rippled and boomed among the hills. In the camp outside the tunnel there was a stir. Orders were barked. Feet clattered on the stony corridors. Black Peter opened the door and shouted: “Branko!” A savage-looking one-eyed man shambled into the room touching his forelock and caressing the butt of a revolver which he wore in his belt. “Bring this man some food,” said Black Peter. “Quickly.”
“I want time,” he said, sitting down at the table once more. “I want time to consider.” There was a tap at the door and a man in a stained military tunic came in and saluted. “Five planes, sir. They saw nothing.”
Black Peter made a gesture of despair. “How could they help not seeing,” he said. “Go away,” he added to the messenger. “Go away”; and in tones of weary resignation he said: “Ignorant peasants, what do they know?”
A table had been cleared in the corner and Methuen was told to sit down and wait for some food, an order which he obeyed with alacrity. The nervous relief at not having committed any major blunders had intensified his hunger and weariness, and placing his folded arms upon the table he leaned his head forward and fell into a sleep which was only broken by the arrival of a bowl of soup swimming with meat and fragments of bread. The drone of voices at the other end of the tunnel had undergone a subtle transformation and now that he was awake once more he realtized with a start that Black Peter and the old man were not talking to each other in Serbian any more. They were talking Bulgarian, obviously under the impression that their conversation could not be understood by their guest. Methuen smiled grimly to himself and heard Black Peter say: “No, you always accept things at their face value. Why should headquarters send him separately, since they are sending these men to-night over the mountains? Why could he not have come with them? And the story about Marko’s death … that’s another thing that makes me doubt.…” The old man said “Ach!” several times in deprecating tones. “Black Peter sees spies everywhere,” he said.
Peter blew a puff of smoke from his nose and said: “And the Englishman?”
“Anyway, he was very obvious.”
“Perhaps this one also is an agent.”
“Then take no chances. Treat him the same.”
The old man raised his right hand and did a graceful little sketch in the air of someone firing a pistol; it was a fluent, graceful little gesture, which Methuen caught out of the corner of his eye as he bent to his soup. He realized with a thrill of horror that they were referring to Anson’s death. “At least,” said the old man, “Branko will do the job cleanly and efficiently — like the monk.” He laughed a small creaky laugh and went to the window — which was blank and did not pierce the rock. In this embrasure, however, an ikon stood and the old man studied it with loving attention while he continued to speak, softly, insinuatingly: “The decision is yours, Black Peter. If you are worried about him let us do away with him. But I think his information is correct. You heard the planes.”
Peter sighed and relapsed into Serbian again. “Very well, barbar,” he said. “But I shall be on my guard,” and coming over to the corner of the cave where Methuen still sat eating he clapped him on the shoulder and said: “We accept your story.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank him,” said Black Peter curtly, and leaning forward he rapidly ran his hands over Methuen’s coat. With a swift gesture he pulled the pistol from its sling and held it up to examine. Methuen went on with his soup. “It’s a new American model,” he said. “We have bought some in Paris.”
“This is a silencer,” said Black Peter.
“Yes.”
“I will keep it for myself. You may have mine.”
“Very well.”
He stood up and faced Black Peter, smiling mildly, but inwardly furious to lose this treasure. “Now,” he said, “surely it is time to do some planning for our move to-night.”
“You should sleep first.”
“Where?”
Black Peter shouted once more for the ruffianly Branko and said: “Take this man and let him sleep until midday. Watch him. Bring him back.”
Then he turned aside to his great map-littered table, humming a song.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN. Black Peter Has Doubts
He slept for a good six-hour spell and the sun was high when he awoke on his bed of straw at the end of a long tunnel. As he sat up and yawned he felt a pair of strong arms gripping his shoulders and in a moment his wrists were tightly tied together behind his back. He turned and stared into the hairy face of Branko his jailor. “What is this?” The old man drew the knots secure and tested them with a grunt before answering with laconic abruptness: “Order.”
“But Black Peter said—”
“He has changed his mind. Until we can check on you.”
Methuen swore loudly and lay back once more. The old man squatted on his haunches and cut an apple into squares with his knife. He proceeded to eat it noisily. “This will gain you nothing,” said Methuen. “Absolutely nothing. Can I talk to Black Peter?” Branko shook his head. “He is busy.”
Methuen felt the pangs of a gradually dawning despair; he should, he realized now, never have come up here. He should have been content with the knowledge he had gained. Now all his plans might miscarry unless he could gain the confidence of Black Peter.
He requested and was given a long drink of water; and after some thought he stood up and walked to the mouth of the tunnel. Branko followed his every step. The grassy hollows round the great stone obelisk were alive with men and mules engaged in the various activities of a camp. There must have been a good spring somewhere hereabouts, for a long line of men were watering the animals; others were setting up shelters and lighting fires. Immediately opposite was another hollow tunnel, obviously the entrance to some old abandoned working, and here Methuen saw the flash of yellow light from carbide lamps. Two sentries stood on guard at the entrance with tommy-guns. Shadows flapped and staggered inside the mouth of the cave and Methuen made out the giant form of Black Peter. “There he is,” he said. “I must talk to him.” His jailor tried to detain him but he shouldered him aside and walked to the cave-mouth where the sentries barred his way. He called out: “Black Peter! I must talk to you.”