Stamboul train: an entertainment 45 editions. Published in as an 'entertainment', Graham Greene's gripping spy thriller unfolds aboard the majestic Orient Express as it crosses Europe from Ostend to Constantinople. Exploring the many shades of despair and hope, innocence and. Graham Greene Stamboul Train An Entertainment First published in ' Everything in nature is lyrical in its ideal esse. The Oracle of Stamboul: A Novel · Read more · Stamboul Train: An Entertainment . Read more Stamboul Train aka The Orient Express · Read more.
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He plans on leading a communist revolution, but he finds that the uprising has already taken place and failed. However, he decides to go back to Belgrade nonetheless to stand trial as a political gesture.
But he has been recognised by Mabel Warren, a lesbian journalist, living in Cologne, who is travelling with her partner, Janet Pardoe. Warren believes that she is onto a major news story. Czinner pretends to leave the train at Vienna to escape from Warren. When the train arrives at Vienna, Warren, while keeping an eye on Czinner, leaves the train to phone her office. At Subotica , on the Serbian border the train is stopped, and Czinner is arrested.
A court martial is held, and Czinner gives a political speech, even though there is no real audience present. He is quickly sentenced to death.
Musker is to be deported to England. The three prisoners are kept in a waiting room for the night. They soon realise that Myatt has just come back for Musker, in a car. Czinner is shot, and Musker hides him in a barn, where he dies. However, Mabel Warren arrives at Subotica railway station in pursuit of her news story.
She then takes Coral Musker, whom she has long fancied as a new partner, back to Cologne, But when Musker is last seen, she has had a heart attack in the back of Warren's car, and her ultimate fate is not revealed. The Orient Express finally arrives at Istanbul and the remaining passengers leave Warren left it in Vienna, Czinner died in Subotica, where Musker also left it.
Myatt soon realizes Janet Pardoe is the niece of Stein, a rival businessman and potential business partner. The story ends with Myatt seriously considering marrying Pardoe and sealing the contract, signing by his agent in Istanbul, Eckman, to take over Stein's currant business.
Just supper last night and breakfast this morning. It saves about eight shillings. Listen to me. You'll have breakfast with me. Til tell you. Lunch, tea, dinner.
And tomorrow You haven't escaped from anywhere have you? You'd be bored? But why do you do all this for me? I'm not pretty. I guess I'm not clever. But he denied nothing. His explanation was almost insulting in its simplicity. I feel I know you.
Yes, she thought, they knew each other; they had both admitted the fact, and it had left them beggared of words. The world shifted and changed and passed them by. Trees and buildings rose and fell against a pale-blue clouded sky, beech changed to elm, and elm to fir, and fir to stone; a world, like lead upon a hot fire, bubbled into varying shapes, now like a flame, now like a leaf of clover.
Their thoughts remained the same, and there was nothing to speak about, because there was nothing to discover. But he would have nothing to do with her solution. But in her bag there were stale sandwiches and some of yesterday's milk in a wine bottle, while down the corridor came the smell of boiling coffee and fresh white loaves.
Mabel Warren poured out her coffee, black and strong with no sugar. Campbell, of the News, was after him at once, but he missed him in the street. He never went home, and no more was heard of him from that day to this.
Everyone thought he had been murdered, but I never understood why, if they meant to murder him, they took out a warrant for his arrest.
Between here and Vienna. I've got nearly twelve hours. I'll think of a way. It may be true. That would be a good story. And where is he going? He says that he's getting out at Vienna.
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If he does I'll follow him. I'll follow him to Constantinople if necessary. But I don't believe it. He's going home. He's trusting the people perhaps. He was always popular in the slums. But he's a fool if he thinks they'll remember him. Five years. No one's remembered for so long.
Janet Pardoe had pouted and protested and grieved, but now she was squinting sideways at a Jew who shared a table with a girl, common to Miss Warren's eyes, but with a bright attraction. As for the Jew, his only merits were youth and money, but they were enough, Mabel Warren thought with bitter knowledge, to catch Janet's eye. She tore at another roll with her square worn hand, while her emotion grew, how grotesquely she was aware.
Why, I owe you everything. When I love, she thought, I do not think of what I owe. The world to her was divided into those who thought and those who felt. The first considered the dresses which had been bought them, the bills which had been paid, but presently the dresses went out of fashion and the wind caught the receipt from the desk and blew it away, and in any case the debt had been paid with a kiss or another kindness, and those who thought forgot; but those who felt remembered; they did not owe and they did not lend, they gave hatred or love.
I am one of those, thought Miss Warren, her eyes filling with tears and the bread drying in her throat, I am one of those who love and remember always, who keep faith with the past in black dresses or black bands, I don't forget, and her eyes dwelt for a moment on the Jew's girl, as a tired motorist might eye with longing the common inn, the scarlet curtains and the watered ale, before continuing his drive towards the best hotel, with its music and its palms.
She thought: She has a pretty figure. Faithfulness was not the same as remembrance; one could forget and be faithful and one could remember and be faithless. She loved Janet Pardoe, she would always love Janet Pardoe, she protested inwardly; Janet had been a revelation to her of what love could mean ever since the first evening of their meeting in a cinema in Kaiser Wilhelmstrasse, and yet, and yet They had come together in a mutual disgust of the chief actor; at least Mabel Warren had said aloud in English to relieve her feelings in the strained hush of the dark theatre: Yet even then Janet Pardoe had wished to stay till the end, till the last embrace, the final veiled lechery.
Mabel Warren urged her to come and have a drink, but Janet Pardoe said that she wanted to see the news and they both stayed. That first evening seemed now to have revealed all of Janet's character that there was to reveal, the inevitable agreement which made no difference to what she did. Sharp words or disagreement had never ruffled her expressionless mood until the evening before, when she had thought herself rid of Mabel Warren. Miss Warren said viciously, not troubling to lower her voice at all: You won't let a man touch you?
How could I? It was no good thinking of herself, her coarse hair, red lids, and obstinately masculine and discordant voice; there was no one, even a common Jew, who was not her physical rival. When she was gone, for a little while Janet Pardoe would remain a beautiful vacancy, hardly existing at all, save for the need of sleep, the need of food, the need of admiration. But soon she would be sitting back crumbling toast, saying: I've always felt that. What does it matter, she thought brutally, what Janet does so long as I don't know?
What does it matter to me if she lets a man take her to bed as long as she comes back? But the last qualification made her wince with mental pain, for would Janet, she wondered, ever return to an ageing plain infatuated woman? She'll tell him about me, Mabel Warren thought, of the two years she had lived with me, of the times when we have been happy, of the scenes I've made, even of the poems I've written her, and he'll laugh, and she'll laugh, and they'll go to bed laughing. I had better make up my mind that this is the end, that she will never come back from this holiday.
I don't even know whether it's really her uncle she's visiting. There are as many fish in the sea as ever came out of it, Miss Warren thought, crumbling a roll, desperately aware of her uncared-for hands, the girl with the Jew, for instance. She was as poor as Janet was that evening in the cinema; she was not lovely as Janet was, so that it was happiness to sit for an hour and watch every motion of Janet's body, Janet doing her hair, Janet changing her dress, Janet pulling on her stockings, Janet mixing a drink, but she probably had twice the mind, common and shrewd though it might be.
When the train came out again into the sunlight, coffee-pots glimmering and white linen laid between an open pasture, where a few cows grazed, and a deep wood of firs, Miss Warren had forgotten what she had wished to say, for she recognized in a man who entered the restaurant-car Czinner's companion.
At the same moment the girl rose. She and the Jew had spoken so seldom that Miss Warren could not decide whether they were acquainted; she hoped that they were strange to each other, for she was forming a plan which would not only give her speech with the girl but would help her to nail Czinner once and for all to the bill page of the paper, an exclusive crucifixion. Mabel Warren, watching them with the trained observer's eye, noted the Jew's raised shoulders, as of the ashamed habitual thief who leaning forward from the dock protests softly, more from habit than any real sense of injustice, that he has not had a fair trial.
The casual observer might have read in their faces the result of a lover's quarrel; Mabel Warren knew better. There are things I must do,' and she followed the girl out of the car over the rocking bridge between the coaches, stumbling and grasping for support, but with the ache in her head quite gone in the warmth and illumination of her idea.
For when she said there were things to do, 'things' meant nothing vague, but a throned triumphant concept for which her brain was the lit hall and a murmuring and approving multitude. Everything fitted, that she felt above all things, and she began to calculate what space they were likely to allow her in London; she had never led the paper before.
There was the Disarmament Conference and the arrest of a peer for embezzlement and a baronet had married a Ziegfeld girl. None of these stories was exclusive; she had read them on the News Agency tape before she went to the station. They will put the Disarmament Conference and the Ziegfeld girl on a back page, she thought. There's no doubt, short of a European war or the King's death, that my story will lead the paper, and with her eyes on the girl in front, she considered the image of Dr Czinner, tired and shabby and old-fashioned in the high collar and the little tight tie, sitting in the corner of his compartment with his hands gripped on his knee, while she told him a lot of lies about Belgrade.
How Dr Czinner Escaped Death. Exclusive Story. Her voice did not carry, and she had to repeat her exclamation in a shout, which fitted ill with the part she was assuming--an elderly woman struggling for breath. The girl turned and came back to her, her unschooled face white and miserable, with nothing hidden from any stranger. Are you ill? I feel so sick. I can't cross. I'm a silly old thing, I know,' bitterly but of necessity she played upon her age, 'but if you would give me your hand.
I wish my fingers weren't yellow.
Thank God I don't still smell of drink. The girl came back. You needn't be afraid.
Take my arm. When they reached the next corridor she spoke again. The noise of the train was softened, and she was able to subdue her voice to a husky whisper. I feel so ill. His name's Dr John. I came over faint last night and he helped me. Let me find him. What's your name, my dear? I have a niece just like you. I work on a newspaper at Cologne. You must come and see me one day. The darlingest little flat.
Are you on a holiday? I'm off to Constantinople. A girl's ill in an English show there. Why not give up the hope of keeping Janet Pardoe, and invite the girl to break her contract and take Janet's place as her paid companion?
No smile softened her incredulity. Coral Musker said with longing: Say that again about my being pretty. Jews are not to be trusted. That I didn't like him because he was a Jew? My compartment's at the end of the corridor with my niece. I'll go there if you'll fetch him. The train came to a sharp halt and then began to move backwards. Miss Warren left the door a little open, so that she could see the corridor.
When Coral Musker and Dr Czinner appeared she closed the door and waited for the sound of their footsteps to pass. They had quite a long walk to the end of the corridor; now, if she hurried, she would have time enough. She slipped out. Before she could close the door the train started with a lurch and the door slammed, but neither Coral Musker nor Dr Czinner looked back. She ran awkwardly, flung from one side to the other of the corridor by the motion of the train, bruising a wrist and a knee.
Passengers returning from breakfast flattened themselves against the windows to let her by, and some of them complained of her in German, knowing her to be English, and imagining that she could not understand them.
She grinned at them maliciously, uncovering her great front teeth, and ran on. The right compartment was easy to find, for she recognized the mackintosh hanging in a corner, the soft stained hat. In the brief pursuit of Coral Musker along the corridor she had thought out every move; the stranger who shared the compartment was at breakfast, Dr Czinner, seeking her at the other end of the train, would be away for at least three minutes.
In that time she must learn enough to make him speak. First there was the mackintosh. There was nothing in the pockets but a box of matches and a packet of Gold Flake. She picked up the hat and felt along the band and inside the lining; she had sometimes found quite valuable information concealed in hats, but the doctor's was empty. Now she reached the dangerous moments of her search, for the examination of a hat, even of the mackintosh pockets, could be disguised, but to drag the suitcase from the rack, to lever the lock open with her pocket-knife and lift the lid, laid her too obviously open to the charge of theft.
And one blade of her knife broke while she still laboured at the lock. Her purpose was patent to anyone who passed the compartment, and she sweated a little on the forehead, growing frenzied in her haste. If I am found it means the sack, she thought: But if I succeed, she thought, prying, pushing, scraping, there's nothing they won't do for me in return for such a story; another four pounds a week wouldn't be too much to demand. I'll be able to take a larger flat; when Janet knows of it, she'll return, she'll never leave me.
It is happiness, security, she thought, I'll be getting in return for this, and the lock gave and the lid lifted and her fingers were on the secrets of Dr Czinner. A woollen stomach-belt was the first of them. She lifted it with care and found his passport. It gave his name as Richard John and his profession as teaching. His age was fifty-six. That proves nothing, she thought, these shady foreign politicians know where to download a passport. She put it back where she had found it and began to slip her fingers between his suits, half-way down in the centre of the suitcase, the spot the customs officers always miss when they turn up the contents of a bag at the bottom and at the sides.
She hoped to find a pamphlet or a letter, but there was only an old Baedeker published in Konstantinopel und Kleinasien, Balkanstaaten, Archipel, Cypern, slipped inside a pair of trousers. But Mabel Warren was thorough: She looked at the fly-leaf and read with disappointment the name of Richard John written in a small fussy hand with a scratching nib, but under it was an address, The School House, Great Birchington-on-Sea, which was worth remembering; the Clarion could send a man down to interview the headmaster.
A good story might be hidden there. The guide-book seemed to have been bought secondhand, the cover was very worn and there was the label of a bookseller in Charing Cross Road on the fly-leaf. She turned to Belgrade.
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There was a one-page map, which had worked loose, but it was unmarked; she examined every page dealing with Belgrade and then every page dealing with Serbia, every page on any of the states which were now part of Yugoslavia. There was not so much as a smudge of ink. She would have given up the search if it were not for the position in which she had found the book. Obstinately and against the evidence of her eyes she believed that it had been hidden there and that therefore there must be something to hide.
She skimmed the pages against her thumb, they ran unevenly because of the many folded maps, but on one of the early pages she found some lines and circles and triangles drawn in ink over the text. But the text dealt only with an obscure town in Asia Minor and the drawings might have been a child's scribble with ruler and compasses.
Certainly, if the lines belonged to a code only an expert could decipher them. He's defeated me, she thought, with hatred, smoothing the surface of the suitcase, there's nothing here; but she felt unwilling to put back the Baedeker.
He had hidden it, there must be something to find.
She had risked so much already that it was easy to risk a little more. She closed the suitcase and put it back on the rack, but the Baedeker she slipped down her shirt and so under her armpit, where she could hold it with one arm pressed to her side. But it was no use going back to her own seat, for she would meet Dr Czinner returning. It was then that she remembered Mr Quin Savory, whom she had come to the station to interview.
His face was well known to her from photographs in the Tatler, cartoons in the New Yorker, pencil drawings in the Mercury. She looked cautiously down the corridor, her eyes blinking a little in a shortsighted manner, and then walked rapidly away. Mr Quin Savory was not to be found in the first-class carriages, but she ran him to earth in a second-class sleeper. With his chin buried in his overcoat, one hand round the bowl of a pipe, he watched with small glittering eyes the people who passed in the corridor.
A clergyman dozed in the opposite corner. Miss Warren opened the door and stepped inside. Her manner was masterful; she sat down without waiting for an invitation. She felt that she was offering this man something he wanted, publicity, and she was gaining nothing commensurate in return.
There was no need to speak softly to him, to lure him into disclosures, as she had tried to lure Dr Czinner; she could insult him with impunity, for the Press had power to sell his books.
Want an interview. She fetched her notebook from her bag and flipped it open. Travelling incognito? Then I may go to Ankara, the Far East. My public wants a novel. It'll be called Going Abroad. An adventure of the Cockney spirit. These countries, civilizations,' he made a circle in the air with his hand, 'Germany, Turkey, Arabia, they'll all take second pew to the chief character, a London tobacconist.
D'you see? For five years the world has thought him dead, but during that time he has been living as a schoolmaster in England, biding his time. Miss Warren wondered. You don't believe in that? Fitzroy 61 Tavern? When the trial was over Dr Czinner had disappeared. Every station had been watched by the police, every car stopped. It was little wonder that the rumour of his murder by government agents spread rapidly.
He was now quite at his ease and watched the clergyman covertly while he talked. A poet's an individualist. He can dress as he likes; he depends only on himself. A novelist depends on other men; he's an average man with the power of expression. If people recognized 'im they wouldn't talk, they'd pose before 'im; 'e wouldn't find things out. Now that she had got him started, she could think quickly: Her pencil made meaningless symbols, which looked sufficiently like shorthand to convince Mr Savory that his remarks were being taken down in full, but behind the deceiving screen of squiggles and lines, circles and squares, Miss Warren thought.
She thought of every possible aspect of the Baedeker. It had been published in , but was in excellent condition; it had ne ver been much used, except for the section dealing with Belgrade; the map of the city had been so often handled that it was loose.
They seem to me the touchstone of lit'ry integrity. One can 'ave that, you know, and yet sell one hundred thousand copies. Now what do you consider your contribution to English literature? There's been too much of this introspection, too much gloom.
After all, the world is a fine adventurous place. A woman passed along the corridor, and for a moment all Mr Savory's attention was visibly caught up to sail in her wake, bobbing, bobbing, bobbing, like his hand. Miss Warren gloated over him. It was not that she hated him, but that she hated any overpowering success, whether it meant the sale of a hundred thousand copies or the attainment of three hundred miles an hour, which made her an interviewer and a man the condescending interviewed.
Failure of the same overwhelming kind was another matter, for then she was the avenging world, penetrating into prison cells, into hotel lounges, into mean back parlours. Then with a man at her mercy between the potted palms and the piano, when he was backed against the wedding photograph and the marble clock, she could almost love her victim, asking him little intimate questions, hardly listening to the answers.
Well, not so great a gulf lay, she thought with satisfaction, between Mr Quin Savory, author of The Great Gay Round, and such a failure. She harped on his phrase. None of this " adults only " stuff. They give you as school prizes. I'll put that in about healthy traditions, she thought, the public will like it, James Douglas will like it, and they will like it still better when he's a Hyde Park case, for that's what he'll be in a few years.
I'll be alive to remind them.
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She was proud of her power of prophecy, though she had not yet lived to see any of her prophecies fulfilled. Take an expression in the present, a line of ill-health, a tone of voice, a gesture, no more illuminating to the average unobservant person than the lines and circles in the Baedeker, and fit them to what one knew of the man's surroundings, his friends and furniture, the house he lived in, and one saw the future, his shabby waiting fate.
She felt grateful to him for the illumination which now flooded her mind with light, leaving no dark corners left in which Dr Czinner might hide from her. I see just the way to present you.
Our public can't wait. Hungry, you know, for its lion's steak. No time for proofs. People in London will be reading the interview while they eat their breakfast tomorrow. But she could not afford the time; bigger game called, for she believed that she had guessed the secret of the Baedeker.
It had been the consideration of her own prophecies which had given her the clue.
The map was loose, the paper in a Baedeker she remembered was thin and insufficiently opaque; if one fitted the map against the pen drawings on the earlier page, the lines would show through. My God, she thought, it's not everyone who would think of that. It deserves a drink. I'll find an empty compartment and call the steward.
She did not even want Janet Pardoe to share this triumph; she would rather be alone with a glass of Courvoisier where she could think undisturbed and plan her next move.
But when she had found the empty compartment she still acted with circumspection; she did not pull the Baedeker from under her shirt until the steward had fetched her the brandy. And not at once even then. She held the glass to her nostrils, allowing the fumes to reach that point at the back of her nose where brain and nose seemed one. The spirit she had drunk the night before was not all dissipated.
It stirred like ground vapour on a wet hot day. Swimmy, she thought, I feel quite swimmy. Through the glass and the brandy she saw the outer world, so flat and regular that it never seemed to alter, neat fields and trees and small farms. Her eyes, short-sighted and flushed already with the mere fume of the brandy, could not catch the changing details, but she noticed the sky, grey and cloudless, and the pale sun. I shouldn't be surprised at snow, she thought, and looked to see whether the heating wheel was fully turned.
Then she took the Baedeker from under her shirt. It would not be long before the train reached Nuremberg, and she wanted everything settled before fresh passengers came on board. She had guessed right, that at least was certain. When she held the map and the marked page to the light the lines ran along the course of streets, the circles enclosed public buildings: But what did it all mean? She had assumed that Dr Czinner was returning to make some kind of personal demonstration, perhaps to stand his trial for perjury.
The map in that context had no meaning. She examined it again. The streets were not marked haphazardly, there was a pattern, a nest of squares balanced on another square and the balancing square was the slum quarter. The next square was made on one side by the railway station, on another by the post office, on a third by the courts of justice. Inside this the squares became rapidly smaller, until they enclosed only the prison.
A bank mounted steeply on either side of the train and the sunlight was shut off; sparks, red in the overcast sky, struck the windows like hail, and darkness swept the carriages as the long train roared into a tunnel.
Revolution, she thought, it means nothing less, with the map still raised to catch the first light returning. The roar diminished and light came suddenly back. Dr Czinner was standing in the doorway, a newspaper under his arm. He was wearing his mackintosh again, and she regarded with contempt the glasses, the grey hair and shabby moustache, the small tight tie. She laid down the map and grinned at him. He sat down opposite her without a sign of hostility. He knows I've got him fixed, she thought; he's going to be reasonable!
He asked her suddenly, 'Would your paper approve? But when they get my story, that'll be a different matter. There's this. We'll get the story from your headmaster. And these scrawls. I've put two and two together. His attitude puzzled her and for an anguished moment she wondered, Am I missing the best story?
Is the best story not here at all, but at a south-coast school among the red-brick buildings and the pitch-pine desks and ink-stands and cracked bells and the smell of boys' clothes? The doubt made her less certain of herself and she spoke gently, more gently than she had intended, for it was difficult to modulate her husky voice. I don't want to interfere with you. Why, if you succeed, my story's all the more valuable.
I'll promise not to release anything at all until you give the word. Why, it'll be a grand story. It was as if he had warded off with temporary success five years of pitch-pine smells, and the whine of chalk on blackboards, only to sit now in a railway carriage and allow the baulked years to come upon him, together and not one by one. For the moment he was an old man nodding into sleep, his face as grey as the snow sky over Nuremberg.
I can see you depend a good deal on the slums. She was very forbearing; she felt certain that this was not success she faced, it resembled failure too closely, and failure she could love; she could be tender and soft-syllabled towards failure, wooing it with little whinnying words, as long as in the end it spoke. A weak man had sometimes gone away with the impression that Miss Warren was his best friend. She knelt forward and tapped on Dr Czinner's knee, putting all the amiability of which she was capable into her grin.
Don't you understand that? Why, we can even help you. Public opinion's just another name for the Clarion. I know you are afraid we'll be indiscreet, that we'll publish your story tomorrow and the government will be warned.
But I tell you we won't breathe so much as a paragraph on the book page until you begin your show. Exclusive to the Clarion. Did the poor fool, she wondered, think that he would stand between her and another four pounds a week, between her and Janet Pardoe?
He became, old and stupid and stubborn on the opposite seat, the image of all the men who threatened her happiness, who were closing round Janet with money and little toys and laughter at a woman's devotion to a woman.
But the image was in her power; she could break the image. It was not -a useless act of mischief on Cromwell's part to shatter statues. Some of the power of the Virgin lay in the Virgin's statue, and when the head was off and a limb gone and the seven swords broken, fewer candles were lit and the prayers said at her altar were not so many. One man like Dr Czinner ruined by a woman, and fewer stupid girls like Coral Musker would believe all strength and cunning to reside in a man.
But she gave him, because of his age and because he reeked to her nose of failure, one more chance. By nine I shall be telephoning to the Cologne office. They'll get my story through to London by ten o'clock. The paper doesn't go to press for the first London edition till eleven. Even if the message is delayed, it's possible to alter the bill page for the last edition up to three o'clock in the morning.
My story will be read at breakfast tomorrow. Every paper in London will have a reporter round at the Yugoslavian Ministry by nine o'clock in the morning. Before lunch tomorrow the whole story will be known in Belgrade, and the train's not due there till six in the evening. And there won't be much left to the imagination either.
Think what I shall be able to say. Dr Richard Czinner, the famous Socialist agitator, who disappeared from Belgrade five years ago at the time of the Kamnetz trial, is on his way home. He joined the Orient express at Ostend on Monday and his train is due at Belgrade this evening. It is believed that his arrival will coincide with a Socialist outbreak based on the slum quarters, where Dr Czinner's name has never been forgotten, and an attempt will probably be made to seize the station, the post office and the prison.
But if you'll say more I'll tell them to hold it until you give the word. I'm offering you a straightforward bargain. The compartment filled with the smell of gas. Cabbages were growing in the allotments through the bad air, gross bouquets sprinkled with frost. He said so softly that she had to lean forward to catch the words: She protested uneasily and with anger, as if the criminal in the dock, the weeping man beside the potted fern, had been endowed suddenly with a mysterious reserve of strength.
If I could do him an injury, she thought, watching in the mirror behind him success, in the likeness of Janet Pardoe, wandering away, lovely and undeserving and vacant down long streets and through the lounges of expensive hotels, if I could do him an injury. It angered her the more to find herself speechless and Dr Czinner in control. He handed her the paper and asked her: Then read this. The message it contained infuriated her.
She had been prepared for news of some extraordinary success, of a king's abdication, a government's overthrow, a popular demand for Dr Czinner's return, which would have raised him into the position of the condescending interviewed.
What she read was more extraordinary, a failure which put him completely out of her power. She had been many times bullied by the successful, never before by one who had failed. 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.
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: Five years is the hell of a time. The young men were children when you ran away. I'm getting out at Vienna,' filled her with suspicion. 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.I don't trouble to remember what a boy calls himself.
His eyes were on her face, his finger on her pulse; he watched her with a passion which was trembling on the edge of speech, but she knew that it was not passion for her or any attribute of her. The streets were not marked haphazardly, there was a pattern, a nest of squares balanced on another square and the balancing square was the slum quarter.
He had a grey moustache and wore glasses and a shabby soft hat. A poet's an individualist.