organisation in the event of war with Rumania would be welcomed at Bucharest.
He had an uncomfortable feeling, however, that this answer was not the right one. The question of Bessarabia’s incorporation in Rumanian territory had, he knew, been a bone of contention between Bucharest and Moscow in the past. Early in 1918, when Rumania had been driven back into a small corner of her territory by Germany and her allies, when Bucharest was occupied by the Central Powers and the Rumanian Government had moved to Jassi, the Rumanians had established themselves in Bessarabia. As Rumania’s ally, nominally at all events, Russia had not objected. In any case, the Russian Government had at that time been too preoccupied with the White armies in the southwest, and other problems, to deal with the situation. But later in 1918 trouble had arisen between the Russian and Rumanian soldiery in Bessarabia, and the Soviet Governmenthad demanded that Rumania should evacuate the territory. The latter had pointed out with some reason that, as a state of extreme famine existed in what was left of Rumania, the return of an unpaid and unfed army would probably precipitate complete anarchy. Russia had been preparing for war with Rumania, and things had looked hopeless, when Rumania had finally succeeded in persuading a suspicious Russia of the purity of her intentions. Reluctantly the Russians had agreed to a treaty by the terms of which Rumania promised to evacuate Bessarabia within a specified time. She had never fulfilled that promise, and Russia, again preoccupied with more immediate troubles, had allowed Rumanian dominion over Bessarabia to go unchallenged until the
fait accompli
was generally recognised abroad and it was too late for anything but protests. Under the circumstances it was hardly likely that Rumania would have failed to allow for the fact that, in the event of a general European conflict, Russia might attempt to assert her undoubted legal rights by annexing Bessarabia. Besides, the orders were dated 1925. If Rumania had been able to do without the information they contained for so long, they couldn’t be so very valuable. Very odd.
As for Herr Sachs, he was as much of a mystery as ever. Kenton now knew for certain what he had suspected all along; namely, that the man had not been what he claimed. The fact that he had been carrying military secrets of a somewhat unsensational nature instead of dangerous drugs or stolen banknotes merely confused.
The credit for the murder might, he decided, be awarded to the “Nazi spy.” The man had looked quite capable of it. It was also possible that, having failed to find the photographs, the murderer had summoned his friends to await the arrival or departure of an accomplice with the photographs. In that case the man with the muffler might have been an ally of Sachs.
That explanation, however, would not do. The man with the muffler had behaved as though he already knew of Sachs’ murder.
Then there was the woman. Judging by her voice, she was young, and since she had spoken in Russian, probably interested in the destination of the photographs. She had addressed him as “Andreas.” Who was Andreas? The murderer, the man with the muffler, or someone else?
He gave it up; but, rather to his surprise, he found himself speculating as to the girl’s appearance. Her voice had possessed an oddly attractive quality. The chances of his ever meeting her face to face were, he thought, remote. A dark courtyard, a single whispered sentence, the momentary glare of a torch and—that was all. How curious it was! Until the end of his life probably, at odd moments separated perhaps by intervals of years, he would remember and wonder what the owner of the voice had looked like. His mental picture of her would change with time. If his life were unhappy, he would imagine her to have been very beautiful, and would regret that he had not stayed in the courtyard. When he was very old he would tell other old
He had an uncomfortable feeling, however, that this answer was not the right one. The question of Bessarabia’s incorporation in Rumanian territory had, he knew, been a bone of contention between Bucharest and Moscow in the past. Early in 1918, when Rumania had been driven back into a small corner of her territory by Germany and her allies, when Bucharest was occupied by the Central Powers and the Rumanian Government had moved to Jassi, the Rumanians had established themselves in Bessarabia. As Rumania’s ally, nominally at all events, Russia had not objected. In any case, the Russian Government had at that time been too preoccupied with the White armies in the southwest, and other problems, to deal with the situation. But later in 1918 trouble had arisen between the Russian and Rumanian soldiery in Bessarabia, and the Soviet Governmenthad demanded that Rumania should evacuate the territory. The latter had pointed out with some reason that, as a state of extreme famine existed in what was left of Rumania, the return of an unpaid and unfed army would probably precipitate complete anarchy. Russia had been preparing for war with Rumania, and things had looked hopeless, when Rumania had finally succeeded in persuading a suspicious Russia of the purity of her intentions. Reluctantly the Russians had agreed to a treaty by the terms of which Rumania promised to evacuate Bessarabia within a specified time. She had never fulfilled that promise, and Russia, again preoccupied with more immediate troubles, had allowed Rumanian dominion over Bessarabia to go unchallenged until the
fait accompli
was generally recognised abroad and it was too late for anything but protests. Under the circumstances it was hardly likely that Rumania would have failed to allow for the fact that, in the event of a general European conflict, Russia might attempt to assert her undoubted legal rights by annexing Bessarabia. Besides, the orders were dated 1925. If Rumania had been able to do without the information they contained for so long, they couldn’t be so very valuable. Very odd.
As for Herr Sachs, he was as much of a mystery as ever. Kenton now knew for certain what he had suspected all along; namely, that the man had not been what he claimed. The fact that he had been carrying military secrets of a somewhat unsensational nature instead of dangerous drugs or stolen banknotes merely confused.
The credit for the murder might, he decided, be awarded to the “Nazi spy.” The man had looked quite capable of it. It was also possible that, having failed to find the photographs, the murderer had summoned his friends to await the arrival or departure of an accomplice with the photographs. In that case the man with the muffler might have been an ally of Sachs.
That explanation, however, would not do. The man with the muffler had behaved as though he already knew of Sachs’ murder.
Then there was the woman. Judging by her voice, she was young, and since she had spoken in Russian, probably interested in the destination of the photographs. She had addressed him as “Andreas.” Who was Andreas? The murderer, the man with the muffler, or someone else?
He gave it up; but, rather to his surprise, he found himself speculating as to the girl’s appearance. Her voice had possessed an oddly attractive quality. The chances of his ever meeting her face to face were, he thought, remote. A dark courtyard, a single whispered sentence, the momentary glare of a torch and—that was all. How curious it was! Until the end of his life probably, at odd moments separated perhaps by intervals of years, he would remember and wonder what the owner of the voice had looked like. His mental picture of her would change with time. If his life were unhappy, he would imagine her to have been very beautiful, and would regret that he had not stayed in the courtyard. When he was very old he would tell other old
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