What the second Sergeant Schirmer had become, however, was a question that the Sergeant himself had made no attempt to answer.
His own account of himself had ended inconclusively at the time of the closing of the Yugoslav frontier by Tito, and with a bitter complaint against the manœuvrings of the Communist politicians which had defeated the Markos forces. But George had very little doubt now about the nature of the Sergeant’s subsequent activities. They had conformed to an ancient pattern. When defeated revolutionary armies disintegrated, those soldiers who feared for political reasons to go back home, or who had no homes to go back to, turned to brigandage. And since, quite clearly, neither the Sergeant nor Arthur was, to use Colonel Chrysantos’s words, a “simple, deluded fanatic of the type that always gets caught,” their gleanings in Salonika had almost certainly gone into their own pockets, and those of their men-at-arms. It was a delicate situation. Moreover, if he were not to seem suspiciously incurious, he would have to invite them somehow to explain their set-up in their own way.
It had been Arthur who had provided the opening.
“Didn’t I tell you it’d be worth your while to come, Mr. Carey?” he said triumphantly when the Sergeant had finished.
“You did indeed, Arthur, and I’m very grateful. And of course I understand now the reason for all the secrecy.” He looked at the Sergeant. “I had no idea that fighting was still going on in this area.”
“No?” The Sergeant drained his glass and set it down with a bang. “It is the censorship,” he said. “The government hide the truth from the world.”
Arthur nodded gravely. “Proper Fascist-imperialist lackeys they are,” he said.
“But we do not talk politics, eh?” The Sergeant smiled as he filled Miss Kolin’s glass. “It is not interesting for the beautiful lady,”
She said something coldly in German and his smile faded. For a moment he seemed to be reconsidering Miss Kolin; then he turned to George cheerfully.
“Let us all fill our glasses and come to business,” he said.