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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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She realised that lives might depend on the message and whispered rapidly.
A Girl's Initiation Into the Intelligence Service Proves Exciting.
VIVIEN heard the clock strike 7, but she dreaded to open her eyes. Last night she had gone to bed, as usual, in her small room overlooking the courtyard, at the Hotel Monopol.
She knew that when she forced her lids apart, she would see the same familiar surroundings—the dark polished wood, the crimson-patterned wallpaper, the veneered walnut suite, the lemon-chrome curtains... But she knew too that she would awake in another world.
During the hours of darkness, the old life of carefree security had passed away, leaving her stranded in a new Dimension—where she would shrink from shadows and where no locked door could bar out the enemy.
It was her first day in the underground "V" army.
Until recently the war had not invaded her orbit and instinct warned her to remain aloof. She rarely listened to the radio or read newspapers. As the squeeze gradually tightened, she closed her ears to rumors, since it was wiser to live one day at a time and concentrate on her job of running the hotel.
In spite of Anglo-American birth, she was in a privileged position, for her maternal grandmother was the sister of old Fritz Steiner, who owned the Monopol. Orphaned in babyhood, she lived in Austria for most of her life. The only time she stayed in England with her father's brother, an Oxford don, the academic atmosphere had not proved congenial. Consequently, when war broke out, she chose to remain in Austria with her friends.
In appearance, she was 100 percent Aryan, with pale gold hair, worn in a long pageboy bob, and flax-blue eyes. Always cheerful, with a smile for the most difficult patron, she was also briskly efficient and an ideal hotel-worker. She made no secret of her nationality and only laughed good-naturedly when either of her countries was attacked.
"Oh, we're not quite so bad as that," she would say. "Don't forget I'm half British and the other half is American."
They always shared her joke, for, since the exact relationship was forgotten, to them she was old Steiner's granddaughter.
Although she never mentioned it, she thought of the "V" army as a sort of super-race apart from ordinary life. It was not until she met a certain hotel guest, who called himself "John Vanderpant," that she realized that girls like herself were somehow finding the courage to chalk up "V" signs, listen in to verboten radios and even commit acts of sabotage.
VANDERPANT was presumably engaged in business and he
often stayed for a night at the Monopol in the course
of his travels. During their brief meetings, their
relationship was that of hotel manageress and patron.
But she was drawn instinctively to him and she was sure
that he felt the same attraction.
Through thinking constantly of him and watching him unobtrusively, her intuition bridged the gulf between them, so that it was no surprise one evening when he took the fateful first step which could place him in the power of the Gestapo. They were sitting together in the deserted lounge, drinking coffee and smoking, when he touched the initial brooch pinned at the neck of her gown.
"What does this 'V' mean to you?" he asked.
"'V' for 'Vivien,'" she replied. Then she lowered her voice. "What does it mean to you? You can trust me. I'm English, too."
"Too?" he repeated with his acquired Continental grimace. "Well, since you've guessed my dark secret, call up your Gestapo."
When they had finished laughing at the absurd suggestion, he began to tell her about the "V" organization.
"Think of it as a trunk with branches and twigs, because they might be 'persuaded' to reveal the identity of the branches. So the hang out of a twig is a very hush-hush affair and is changed constantly. When we want to contact him, we use our Intelligence—ordinary people of all grades—who pass on our messages. You see, it would be too risky for me to try the direct approach. I might be already under suspicion and my work is too important for me to be liquidated before I've had a run for my money.";
"What is your work?" she asked.
"I rake in new recruits. Great sport. If I slip up in sizing up my man or woman, I can be handed over on a plate to the police. I get a terrific kick out of it."
"Don't," she shuddered. "That's not funny... Have you come here to try and contact anyone in this hotel room?"
"Yes. You."
While she was still gasping with horror, he explained.
"You are ideally placed to receive messages and pass them on, with all the comings and going at the Bureau. No one would suspect old Steiner's granddaughter."
She listened in incredulous dismay. His words had shattered her sense of security by suggesting her inclusion in the ranks of those heroic girls who seemed to be made of different clay from herself. As she looked around the lounge, at the mirrors, the palms, the showcases—the idea seemed both monstrous and fantastic, while she was safe in this warm well-lit place of shoddy splendor... She thought of the Concentration Camp and shuddered again...
"No, no. I couldn't. I'm afraid."
"Good." His voice sounded relieved. '"I've tried to recruit you and I've failed. Perhaps I'm glad to fail."
"Do you despise me?"
"Definitely no," he assured her. "A timid recruit is a positive danger. You can't force these things. When it grips you, you won't be able to resist it. It'll be part of you."
She looked into his shining eyes with a faint pang of jealousy. She felt that she had been offered something big and worthwhile—and she had rejected it.
"What do you get out of life?" she asked.
"Excitement."
"No happiness? Won't there ever be a woman?"
"No. Verboten."
"Not even a woman who worked with you and shared your danger?"
"No." Then suddenly he smiled. "Who knows? One day, perhaps, when all this is over, there may be a cottage in the country or a flat in town. Whichever she prefers. Some day..."
SOME day... After that, it was only a question of
time before her first day... She opened her eyes.
Jumped out of bed and began to dress.
"Perhaps it was those drinks," she thought. "I'm not used to so many. I must catch John before he goes and ask him for time. I'm not backing out. All I want is time; time to get steady and used to the idea."
She felt relieved by her decision although she was oppressed by a sense of urgency. John was due to leave the hotel early, and she might have missed him. In her impatience the lift could not take her quickly enough down to the ground floor, and directly she reached the lounge she ran across to the bureau.
"Has 52 checked out yet?" she asked.
"No," replied the clerk, glancing at the clock. "He's cutting it fine. I know my lord made a night of it for I had the joy of letting him in. You must pardon my indiscretion if he is a friend of yours."
"Every patron is a friend of the hotel, Georg," she told him.
As she looked at the youth, she realized his secret hostility bred from a sense of grievance. He was rather like a kewpie, with very light curly hair, slanting eyes and a broad permanent smile. Unfortunately, he was not so good-natured as he appeared, while he was too slack to be entrusted with authority.
Her other helper, Edda, was older than herself, but she too could not be allowed much contact with the guests, because of bad manners and a disagreeable personality. Although she was pure Nazi, she was dark and pallid with mean, pinched lips. Not only was she envious of Vivien's blonde coloring but she was also jealous of her position as old Steiner's official granddaughter.
Her insolence usually took the form of sardonic servility. That morning, she carried Vivien's coffee and dry roll to the desk and laid them beside her with a stressed "Service." As she did so, John entered the lounge. His hat was on and he carried his coat and suitcase.
Because she knew that both her assistants were watching her, Vivien felt her face flush.
"Give me 52's bill, Georg," she said sharply.
As she crossed the lounge, she noticed a change in John. His lips were stern and he looked at her indifferently as though she were a stranger. Taking the account from her, he glanced at the total with a shrug—as though to indicate he was stung—before he spoke in a peremptory whisper.
"Something broke, last night. I'm going hell-for-leather to contact someone... This item is wrong, Fräulein... Listen. At noon today a man will tap by a showcase. Pass him and whisper, `'Tonight at eight, 103, Postgasse.' He's six foot, very fair, blue eyes, blonde hair with shaven sides, well dressed, scar over his eye."
While he was murmuring the description, he opened his note-case, thrust some dirty notes into her hand—and dashed through the revolving doors... Her chance of reprieve was gone.
"Who's after him?" asked Edda.
"Not me."
Vivien felt too laden with heavy responsibility to snub the girl for her implied suggestion. John had accepted her as a new recruit to the "V" army and had given her a definite job. The lives of others might depend on whether she kept a cool nerve and a clear head. Yet her brain, whirled when she tried to memorize the simple address.
In her confusion, she took up her cup so carelessly that the coffee slopped into her saucer and her roll fell to the carpet, Georg scooped it up and returned it to her with a low bow.
"There's this consolation, it can't fall butter-down," he remarked.
"Soon, there will be butter for all," said Edda. "You are nervous this morning, Fräulein. Didn't you sleep well? You should when your stomach is full and your conscience clear."
Vivien ignored the remark and hurried away, eager to escape Edda's malicious gaze. She always worked at high pressure, but that morning she was grateful for the shortcomings of a skeleton staff. While she was engaged with the floor-housekeeper and the chef, she forgot the ordeal ahead of her. But in her constant visits to the bureau—which was the nerve-center of the hotel—she was conscious of Georg and Edda as potential spies.
As the morning wore on the tension grew almost unbearable. She longed for noon, even while she dreaded the passing of every minute.
"First time I've seen you watch the clock," remarked Georg. "He's a lucky fellow."
"That's not funny, Georg." she said coldly. "We are here to work."
"Pardon, Fräulein," broke in Edda gleefully, "but you have made a grave mistake in the menu. We have not served this sauce for years. It needs a lot of butter."
Vivien bit her lip as she penciled the correction.
"I've gone to bits," she told herself. "What can they think of me?"
She was aroused by the sound of a sharp tapping upon glass. Looking up, she noticed a tall heavily-built man who was rapping impatiently upon a showcase to attract attention. She was glancing at him indifferently—since showcases were Edda's business—when, suddenly her heart gave a leap as she recognized John's description of the anonymous agent.
This man had a fair skin which was florid and red-veined. Ice-cold blue eyes and closely shaven hair under his smart hat. She searched for the distinctive scar and found it when he turned his head—a smallish red angry crisscross under his left eye.
"It must be X," she thought.
Then she glanced at the clock for confirmation and discovered the time was nine minutes to 12. She told herself that either the clock was slow or the agent was too early. But the discrepancy was a bad jolt and made her hesitate to contact him.
Now that the minute was upon her, she dared not leave the bureau. Guilt made her feel an object of general suspicion. Everyone knew and everyone was watching her. Everyone was waiting for her to make that fatal move which would land her in a Concentration camp.
The tapping grew so insistent that it goaded her from the safety of her base. Edda went on typing her menus and Georg continued to add up his columns. In proof that they were legitimately occupied. It was up to her to give a demonstration of the swift service which was the Monopol's policy.
"If I make a mistake," she thought desperately, "I'm for it. He'll ask questions. Questions about the address and who gave it to me. All sorts of questions. How can I explain it away with George and Edda listening?"
Before she could solve her problem, she had reached the showcase. The man pointed to a cigar, grunted and flicked a coin down upon the glass. As she swept it up, she realized that lives might depend on the message and whispered rapidly.
"Tonight at eight, 103, Portgasse."
THEN she waited... Nothing blew up. Indeed the man's
reaction was as unusual as to justify her soaring
confidence. Instead of staring blankly and asking her
to repeat the words, he eyed her keenly and then turned
nonchalantly in the direction of the restaurant.
She returned to the bureau with a springing step. Now that her message was delivered, she felt that she had exaggerated the risk. John would not entrust a dangerous commission to an untried recruit. In short, there was nothing to this spy business. It was merely as a matter of pabulum that she asked Georg a question.
"Is that man staying at the hotel for the night?"
"Yes," replied Georg, "I booked him while you were upstairs with the boss. He's got 88."
"Good. Did you get top price?"
"Unfortunately, no. I could tell he was Prussian and naturally he must have our best suite."
"Naturally."
As she was reflecting on the excellence of the agent's disguise, he strolled into the lounge, to get an aperitif. His hat was now removed, revealing a completely shaven scalp.
"Blond hair." The words slipped back into her memory, awakening a dormant suspicion. She watched the man throw back his drink and then—in an effort to allay her subconscious worry—she began to look through a pile of spiked papers.
Presently she heard a faint drumming and glanced up to discover its cause. The carpet beside the showcase had worn so threadbare that it had been cut away to reveal the parquet flooring. Upon this strip of waxed board, a man was doing a sort of elementary tap dance, as though to register impatience.
He was signalling with his feet. As she grasped the fact, she realized that this was the agent she had been told to expect. He was tall and very fair, with bright blue eyes. Although his head was partially shaven, the hair on top was flaxen while over one eye was a livid white scar.
She looked at the clock and saw that it was on the stroke of twelve.
It was the worst moment of her life. She had made a ghastly blunder, even if it were no fault of hers. The mistake was due to the fact that Fate—in a freakish mood—had contrived the same description to cover two men. Staring at him with horrified eyes, as though she had condemned him to death, she realized that not he alone, but other victims, would pay the penalty of her error.
The crisis sharpened her wits. She knew that it was impossible for her to slip away, in order to warn the agent at 103 Postgasse. The entire management of the hotel depended upon herself, so that such unprecedented action would focus on her the limelight she must avoid. Probably too, she would be followed and so give the whole show away. As she knew no telephone number to ring, the only chance to save the "twig" was through the blonde stranger.
After first glancing swiftly around, she caught his eye and—daring greatly—made the Victory sign with her fingers.
"Are you the gentleman who booked a room over the phone?" she asked in her high official voice "I terribly sorry but there has been a blunder. I forgot to reserve it... Georg, who has 88?"
"Herr Von Ringner," replied the clerk glibly.
As she stared at the agent, willing him to understand, she felt the flash of his response.
"Oh, bad luck," he said with a shrug. "I left it to a pal to ring you up about it. Did he leave any message for me?"
"No, Fräulein," broke in Georg. "The calls have been only for our clients. There has been nothing for this gentleman.
"On the contrary," Vivien informed, "I took the message myself, when you were not in the lounge."
"If there is one, it will be here," declared Edda, almost snatching at the spiked memoranda, in her eagerness to prove that Vivien had made another slip.
Instantly Vivien removed it from the girl's grasp.
"Allow me to know my own business while you attend to yours," she said.
Her brain worked feverishly while her fingers rustled the pile of flimsies. She believed that the "V" agent understood that Von Ringner had received the information which was meant for him, but that was a minor point. The essential was to give it to him also and in such a manner as to awake no curiosity or suspicion in Georg or Edda.
Suddenly she took a bold step.
"I've found it," she said, removing a slip from the bottom of the papers and reading it aloud. "It says, 'Tonight at 8, 103, Portgasse.' Your friend wants you to ring him... Here it is—you might forget the address."
The man glanced at the slip, on which was scrawled "Ring Laundry"—folded it and placed it in his notecase.
"Won't you have another room?" asked Vivien, as he turned to go. "We have some very good ones vacant. Georg—"
"No thanks," cut in the agent.
When he had gone through the revolving door, she shrugged her shoulders.
"Nothing but the best will suit his Highness. Who does he think he is?"
"Maybe he has a lady," sniggered Georg.
"Maybe. Pity you let the other suite, Georg. We might have rushed him for the top price."
She was grateful for Georg's characteristic suggestion because it was proof of a normal atmosphere. She had carried through a daring bluff in the presence of her assistants—and it had sounded so like ordinary routine business that she doubted whether either could remember the message or the address.
During the hours when luncheon was being served, she had no time to think of anything besides work. She was constantly between the kitchen and restaurant—serving, giving directions and exploiting the personal element.
She was watched closely by Edda who had to help wait whenever the number of guests was above the average. Her mind was poisoned with envy as the younger girl welcomed the patrons. She hated her for her blonde coloring, her flair as hostess, but—above all—for her black satin gown.
She could not guess that the positions were reversed and that Vivien would have been profoundly thankful to change places with her assistant. During the slack hour after luncheon, she was back in the Bureau, she had too much time to think and realize her position.
She had saved the others at the price of her own safety.
After the Gestapo had raided the deserted 103, Postgasse, they would inevitably demand an explanation from herself. They would not believe her protestations of ignorance of any fairy tale about a message given to her by an anonymous stranger. To them, she would be merely a girl who knew something—and who must be persuaded to talk.
As the minutes crawled by she began to feel on the verge of hysteria. Her nerves frayed by the strain of waiting for catastrophe.
When the lounge was beginning to fill with afternoon patrons, she noticed a girl who was greedily sucking up raspberry syrup at one of the small tables. Her short fur coat, the tilt of her veiled hat and the way she crossed her legs were all familiar, but she could not place her immediately. She frowned, because it was her boast never to forget a face. But within a few seconds her professional prestige was restored.
She recognized the girl as the daughter of a well-to-do business man and—incidentally—a minx. She was fond of sweets and had patronized the Monopol Cafe regularly until recently. Presumably her absence was caused by illness, for her full cheeks were pale and her little dark eyes no longer shone with vitality.
Vivien noticed also the nervous twitch of one eyelid as she approached the girl.
"You've deserted us," she said reproachfully. "Why? Is the syrup better somewhere else?"
"Oh, no," the girl assured her. "It's divine. I've missed it terribly. But I've been away in—in a holiday camp."
The explanation was overheard by Edda who commented on it when she returned to the Bureau.
"That little fool is learning sense," she whispered spitefully to Vivien. "'Holiday camp?' Another name for it is 'Concentration Camp.'"
The blood seemed to drain from Vivien's heart as she listened.
"What did she do?" she asked.
"Nothing, so to say. She was having a drink with a pick-up when the Gestapo pulled him in and her as well. It took time to persuade them that she didn't know the man from Adam, but they let her go. She was lucky."
"Lucky?"
"Naturally. It is bad policy for the Gestapo to admit mistakes. They were rather rough with her, trying to make her talk—but of course she has forgotten all that."
Only yesterday, Vivien would have heard such a tale in silence and then tried to forget it, with all the other things which must not be remembered... Since then, a gulf had been crossed and this story was her own—with one ominous difference. The girl was innocent of intrigue while she was deeply involved.
Their fates would be the same. She shuddered as she though of 'rough treatment' and wondered whether she could endure protracted pain. Her chief dread was that an admission might be wrung from her when she was in a dazed condition. Then she realized that Edda was speaking.
"What a fool to pick up a stranger! You and I, Fräulein, are too wise. We know that the hotel is packed with Gestapo agents posing as business men. Sometimes I wonder if your brooch keeps them guessing. Of course, here we know it is your initial."
The words made her realize that while she was facing the gravest peril, there might be worse to follow—the bitterness of betrayal by someone very dear... Suddenly she could endure the confinement of the Lounge no longer. Although she remained miraculously fresh with the minimum of air and exercise, she occasionally took a walk during the afternoon.
"Carry on, Edda," she said. "I am going out."
TOO overwrought to wait for the lift, she ran up to
the first floor. Old Steiner was his own best patron,
for he occupied a vast apartment, furnished with stuffy
Victorian splendor. He was bedridden but, in spite of
his age, his vast bulk had not shrunken. Just as in his
youth he prided himself on filling out his coat, he
boasted now of the size of the coffin he would
require.
"I'm going to the shops, darling," Vivien told him. "Can I get anything for you?"
"No, my dear," he replied, "but you can do something for me." He pointed to her initial brooch. "Don't wear that again. Didn't you know it is the Victory sign? I hear the Gestapo are testing the loyalty of all the hotel staffs, while they pose as guests. There is leakage everywhere, messages and thus and thus... You might give a wrong impression with that brooch and sometimes it is difficult to explain. Authority has a mouth—but no ears."
Vivien had never seen his jovial face so grave... Suddenly the sour atmosphere of the sealed room swept over her like a stinking dun wave. She felt on the verge of fainting as the spark of suspicion, smoldering in her brain since she had heard Edda's story, now flared up in distrust of John.
She remembered that she had accepted him without credentials, other than his alleged British birth. That claim might be false, and even were it genuine, nationality excludes no one from the ranks of traitors. As a matter of cold fact, she had been attracted to him so strongly that she had walked voluntarily into his net.
"I must get away at once," she told herself in a panic.
She kissed her great-uncle fondly and when she reached the door, she looked back at him, wondering if she would ever see him again. Then she rang for the lift which jerked her up to her room. Without a plan and not daring to pause for reflection, she rammed on her hat and dragged on her coat. Her sole provision for the future was to put her passport and money into her handbag. Then she ran downstairs, hurried through the Lounge and passed through the door out of the Monopol.
When she was in the street she boarded the first tramcar. She did not know its destination, but, when the conductor came to collect her fare, she had presence of mind to say "All the way."
"It will take me somewhere 'out,'" she thought. "I must think—I must think."
Instead, she found herself incapable of clear or consecutive thought. With a vague sense of relief, she watched the shops slide past the window. She was in motion, and that fact suggested flight and inspired her with an illusion of freedom. She was escaping from the Gestapo. Never, never would she return to the Concentration Camp.
In a half-comatose state, which was the aftermath of her brainstorm, she gazed through the dirty glass at the parks, the avenues, the groups of statuary and fountains. Large houses, which still appeared grand and imposing when veiled with the first blur of twilight, gave way to meaner streets and blocks of apartment flats.
Suddenly she thought of old Steiner, and for the first time she realized that he might pay the penalty of her disappearance.
"They won't believe he knows nothing," she thought. "I must go back—at once."
BECAUSE she was going to her doom, the return
journey seemed much shorter. After she had leaped off
the tram, she waited only a few minutes before the
return car clanked along the misted road. She boarded
it and then sat, sunken in depression, until brighter
and more frequent lights flashed past and she realized
that they were passing through the main avenues.
It was while they were waiting for the traffic signals to change color that something happened—something hideously unnatural as an evil dream, where a friend turns suddenly into an enemy. Suddenly she saw John in the street, standing on the pavement curb. Acting on impulse, she jumped from the car and ran toward him. Apparently he recognized her for he half waved to her before he hailed a taxi and was driven away.
"He can't look me in the eyes." she thought bitterly. "Well, that's told me all I want to know."
When she entered the Monopol, she was dead to sensation. Sustained by courage bred of force of habit, she smiled and chatted to acquaintances on her way through the lounge. Afterwards, she put on her overall, as usual, and helped the chef in his preparations for the dinner. When the meal was being served, she was kept busy in the restaurant, greeting old patrons, laughing at their jokes, consulting the tastes of new clients.
Again she watched the clock as the hands left the numeral eight and began to travel imperceptibly around the dial. When they reached the half hour, she knew that at any moment, she might be interrogated.
But although she expected a summons, when it came, it took her by surprise. She was listening with unfeigned interest to a stout man's account of his triplets and looking at the snaps of three super babies, when the waiter touched her arm.
"Pardon, Fräulein," he said. "A gentleman wishes to speak to you in the Lounge."
Her heart leaped and then seemed to stop as she forced herself to walk out of the restaurant. When she entered the Lounge, it was nearly deserted, so the first person she saw was the Prussian, Von Ringner. Because her sight suddenly blurred, his figure appeared magnified and unhuman as a statue, devoid of all natural feeling.
"You asked for me," she said with desperate courage.
His smiling eyes menaced her with the terror of a cat playing with its prey.
"Fräulein," he asked softly, "who gave you that message for me?"
She moistened her lips to utter—for the first time—the lie that must be repeated, while her endurance availed, or to the end.
"I don't know. I never saw him before."
His smile broadened as he patted her shoulder.
"Wise girl," he said, "you know when to forget. Good. I will buy you something pretty."
Snapping his fingers at Edda—who produced a withered bunch of Neapolitan violets from the flower-stall—he presented them to Vivien, clicked his heels and marched out of the lounge.
SHE stood staring after him in dazed wonder as she
fastened the violets to her dress. While she was
fumbling with them, John passed through the revolving
doors and walked towards the girls. He was the picture
of a smart and larky businessman as he greeted her with
a familiar grin.
"I see you've been decorated. Who's my rival? Well, I've had a successful day. What about a drink?"
As Vivien walked beside him to a table in a distant corner, he spoke to her in an undertone.
"Never run after me again in the street. It might give a wrong impression and attract unwelcome attention to yourself. I'm not safe to know intimately."
"You cut me," she reproached him.
"You? Never. I only want to protect... But I gather, from the violets, that your gentleman friend approved your discretion?"
"Yes. I can't understand it. John, I made a terrible blunder."
"I know and it's all been taken care of. Our Mr. X reported to me. It was stinking luck—the sort of thing which would happen once in a hundred times. After this, I shall have to work out a fool-proof method of identification."
"Was the nice second man Mr. X?"
"Of course. We don't mention names. He tumbled to your bluff and called the tea party off. He told me you were like an oldtimer. Nice work."
"The snag was this," went on John, "it put you on the spot. Von Ringner would know that no girl would dare play a practical joke on him and he would make it his business to find out who was behind you. I couldn't stand for that... I've been on the job all day, saving you. My hat, what a day."
"What happened?"
"Nothing much. Von Ringner and Co. turned up at 103 Postgasse, on the stroke of 8. They found it dark and shut up. A man stood in the doorway, expecting them. He pushed a parcel into Van Ringner's hand, whispered what it was and then cleared off."
"Wasn't he followed?"
"Definitely no. Von Ringner loves his stomach—and the Black Market penalties are stringent. You see I fixed up a pleasant and natural solution of the mystery. Pood. Food—the one subject about which no questions are asked."
John tossed off his drink and laughed again.
"Hell look on it as a bribe—necessarily anonymous. He'll probably connect it with the next person to hint at preferential treatment. But nothing will be said. Some other blighter will get the credit for my day's hard labor... And how. Every hour of the day. I've bought, I've begged. I've borrowed—I've even stolen. Nothing too small to swell the main amount. You must bribe handsomely or not at all."
"What was it?" asked Vivien.
"Butter."
As their laughter rang out, she looked at him with shining eyes.
"What a thrill it is," she whispered. "And you and I are in it together."
Turning to a guest who drew near—as though to share the joke—she pointed to a vile caricature of an Englishman in an illustrated paper.
"Mr. Vanderpant was showing me this funny picture," she said. "But he won't believe me when I tell him I'm English."
Then the man joined in their laughter... But the eyes of both John and Vivien were dreamy. He was thinking of the future. Some day... And she was hearing faint faraway thuds, all beating in time together.
A vast underground army was marching on to Victory.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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