Judgment on Deltchev Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Eric Ambler
paid for the memoir, but it was not used. It was not the moment.’
‘Where is Petlarov now? Is he here?’
‘He may be.’
‘I should like to talk to him.’
‘He will know nothing about the trial, Mr Foster.’
‘I’d still like to talk to him.’
‘He may not wish to see you.’
‘Then he will say so. You said you wanted to be helpful, Pashik. Here’s your opportunity.’
He wriggled unhappily. ‘Please, Mr Foster. I see I mustexplain to you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You do not understand. After the arrest of Deltchev, Petlarov was naturally arrested too. He is released now, but he is still suspect. It would be most indiscreet to have relations with him. I cannot take the risk.’
‘You don’t have to. Just get a message to him from me. I suppose he can speak German?’
‘I do not know. Perhaps not.’
‘Send a message as if from me asking him to telephone me at my hotel this evening.’
He sighed. ‘Very well, Mr Foster. But I think it will be useless.’
I held up the envelope with the file in it. ‘We don’t want to take this with us, do we? We could leave it at your office on the way and write a note to Petlarov at the same time. Your office boy can deliver it.’
He pursed his lips together at this. ‘I see you still do not trust me, Mr Foster,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
He saw the danger of explaining just in time. ‘It is not important,’ he said with dignity.
He took the envelope from me. Then I remembered. ‘Oh, by the way,’ I said, ‘what does this refer to?’ I showed him the paper with the Aleko note on it.
He looked at it blankly for a moment. ‘Oh, that, Mr Foster,’ he said, and taking it from me put it in his pocket, ‘that is nothing. Something from another file.’
When once you know how a person lies, it is difficult for him to deceive you again. With Pashik it was a special tone of voice he used for direct lies that gave him away – a cold, too matter-of-fact tone. He had used it before in telling me the untrue story of the American journalist whohad tried to go to Greece for the weekend. I supposed the fact that he had lied about this piece of paper to be equally unimportant.
The large courtroom at the Ministry of Justice had been thought too small for a political trial of such moment. It was being staged, therefore, in the main lecture hall of the Army School of Aeronautics, a modern building on the outskirts of the city.
The walls, ordinarily decorated with engineering charts and war trophies, had been hung with flags – those of the Republic and of the Soviet Union, and, at greater intervals, those of the other sympathetic nations of Eastern Europe. Just above on either side of the judges’ dais two draped Soviet flags bulged over (but, tactlessly, did not quite conceal) one of the trophies, the tail plane of a Russian aircraft, presented by a German flak unit during the war. Pinned to some of the flags were notices printed in four languages saying that smoking was prohibited. In the balcony a row of soundproof booths had been erected for the interpreters relaying translations of the proceedings to the earphones of the foreign diplomatic and press representatives below. In the balcony, too, on heavy stands or clamped to the balcony rail, were big floodlights pointing down into the court to illuminate it for the Propaganda Ministry’s film cameras. Beside the judges’ dais, on both sides of the prisoner’s rostrum, at the corners of the hall, in the balcony, by the doors, and below every flag on the walls, guards were posted. They were all officers or NCOs and armed with machine pistols, which they did not sling, but held ready in their hands. It had been explained by the Propaganda Ministry that when the evidence against the criminal Deltchev was publicly known, attempts mightbe made by the people he had deceived to kill him before justice could be done.
The courtroom was crowded. My place and Pashik’s were in the foreign-press
‘Where is Petlarov now? Is he here?’
‘He may be.’
‘I should like to talk to him.’
‘He will know nothing about the trial, Mr Foster.’
‘I’d still like to talk to him.’
‘He may not wish to see you.’
‘Then he will say so. You said you wanted to be helpful, Pashik. Here’s your opportunity.’
He wriggled unhappily. ‘Please, Mr Foster. I see I mustexplain to you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You do not understand. After the arrest of Deltchev, Petlarov was naturally arrested too. He is released now, but he is still suspect. It would be most indiscreet to have relations with him. I cannot take the risk.’
‘You don’t have to. Just get a message to him from me. I suppose he can speak German?’
‘I do not know. Perhaps not.’
‘Send a message as if from me asking him to telephone me at my hotel this evening.’
He sighed. ‘Very well, Mr Foster. But I think it will be useless.’
I held up the envelope with the file in it. ‘We don’t want to take this with us, do we? We could leave it at your office on the way and write a note to Petlarov at the same time. Your office boy can deliver it.’
He pursed his lips together at this. ‘I see you still do not trust me, Mr Foster,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
He saw the danger of explaining just in time. ‘It is not important,’ he said with dignity.
He took the envelope from me. Then I remembered. ‘Oh, by the way,’ I said, ‘what does this refer to?’ I showed him the paper with the Aleko note on it.
He looked at it blankly for a moment. ‘Oh, that, Mr Foster,’ he said, and taking it from me put it in his pocket, ‘that is nothing. Something from another file.’
When once you know how a person lies, it is difficult for him to deceive you again. With Pashik it was a special tone of voice he used for direct lies that gave him away – a cold, too matter-of-fact tone. He had used it before in telling me the untrue story of the American journalist whohad tried to go to Greece for the weekend. I supposed the fact that he had lied about this piece of paper to be equally unimportant.
The large courtroom at the Ministry of Justice had been thought too small for a political trial of such moment. It was being staged, therefore, in the main lecture hall of the Army School of Aeronautics, a modern building on the outskirts of the city.
The walls, ordinarily decorated with engineering charts and war trophies, had been hung with flags – those of the Republic and of the Soviet Union, and, at greater intervals, those of the other sympathetic nations of Eastern Europe. Just above on either side of the judges’ dais two draped Soviet flags bulged over (but, tactlessly, did not quite conceal) one of the trophies, the tail plane of a Russian aircraft, presented by a German flak unit during the war. Pinned to some of the flags were notices printed in four languages saying that smoking was prohibited. In the balcony a row of soundproof booths had been erected for the interpreters relaying translations of the proceedings to the earphones of the foreign diplomatic and press representatives below. In the balcony, too, on heavy stands or clamped to the balcony rail, were big floodlights pointing down into the court to illuminate it for the Propaganda Ministry’s film cameras. Beside the judges’ dais, on both sides of the prisoner’s rostrum, at the corners of the hall, in the balcony, by the doors, and below every flag on the walls, guards were posted. They were all officers or NCOs and armed with machine pistols, which they did not sling, but held ready in their hands. It had been explained by the Propaganda Ministry that when the evidence against the criminal Deltchev was publicly known, attempts mightbe made by the people he had deceived to kill him before justice could be done.
The courtroom was crowded. My place and Pashik’s were in the foreign-press