The Privateer's Revenge(59)

"Sir, it may well be—"

"Now, it is within your power to turn your back and walk from this room—but for the rest of your days you must live with the knowledge that you have failed when called upon.

"Now, sir, will you do your duty?"



It had been hard to accept that he had been unable to muster any rational argument against the request but he found comfort in observing that the post was only that of confidential secretary taken a trifle further. But he had been wounded by d'Auvergne's polite assurance that there would be no question of personal risk when he had acceded.

Before going further he was curious about one thing: "On the question of trust, sir, how is it that you are assured my character is as you allege?"

"Oh, on that score, I had your room and small baggage searched, and who but a hopeless scholard would burden himself with Goethe and Locke for light reading?" he smiled.

Renzi returned a thin smile while d'Auvergne opened a businesslike chest and found a pair of heavy, intricate keys. "The records are in the crypt below. I have one key, you the only other. Be of good care, Renzi. People's lives are in your hands with those papers."

At Renzi's set face he continued lightly, "Take it from me, dear fellow, it's a quite different and wider moral framework we find ourselves in, but you will discover that being a friend to logic will extract you safely from many a sentimental mire. For example, see if you can overcome your present scruples sufficiently to detect the transcendent moral certitudes in this little exercise.

"I, as a commander, have several thousand lives in my charge and must meet the foe on the battlefield. If I can convince the enemy commander that my attack will come by course A when, in fact, I will come by B, there will be at the close of that day perhaps some hundreds fewer widows left to grieve. How might this best be brought about?"

Renzi shook his head, even more uncomfortable in this world of shades and compromise.

"Well, here is one sure way. Do you charge a brave man with dispatches, emphasising their grave nature and enjoining their safe delivery by all means. He is not to know their false nature and when he is betrayed and valiantly defends them, even to the death, the enemy will be convinced of their authenticity and act accordingly."

With a tight smile he concluded, "So, of course, many lives are saved for the one expended. You really cannot argue against that, Renzi."

And, to his anguish, he found he could not. These were moral quicksands of a kind he had never been forced to confront before, and their serious considering would occupy him painfully for some time to come.

"I would find it . . . difficult, sir. Er, may I know what action you intend in respect of the letter?" It was something he could test d'Auvergne with.

"Stofflet, you mean. All actions must be considered, of course— but pray tell, what do you yourself propose, Renzi?"

"He must be stopped, of course. Taken up as a spy?" He remembered the kind, bald-headed baker from whom he had begged bread. Now he knew that the man was married happily, with children he expected to see soon.

"For a public demonstration in these fevered times that there are spies in our midst? I think not."

"An assassination?" Renzi said neutrally.

"Goodness me, no! Crass barbarism and not to be countenanced by a civilised nation."

"Then taken up quietly and a strict parole demanded before banishment?" Renzi suggested boldly, remembering d'Auvergne's words about brave men suffering death undeservedly.

"Perhaps not. I rather think he must meet with an unfortunate accident."





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CHAPTER 10


KYDD TRUDGED UP THE STEEP STEPS. Without noticing, his path had taken him to another level of the town. It was more densely settled and had an indefinable rakish air, which focused round a theatre. Idly he went up and read the billboard: "The Much Adored Griselda Mayhew as The Princess Zenobia and the Magnificent Richard Samson as Count Dragonheart in Carpathia, or, Cupid's Trust Rewarded."

He turned to go but his eyes were caught by another notice underneath: "Stagehands required: none but those able to go aloft and haul ropes heartily shall apply."

If this was not work for a sailor then what was? A week or so of jolly theatricals and then he could claim as much as—as a whole mutton pie, with the full trimmings, of course, and swimming in lumpy gravy. His stomach growled as he entered the theatre.

A short, sharp-eyed man appeared from nowhere. "Where you off to, m' lad? Performance not until seven. Not until seven, I say!"

"Oh, er, th' notice said as how stagehands are required."

"You?" The man stepped back to take his measure. "Done it before? A flyman, I mean?"