“The train,” said Ingolls Suddenly. “Did you plan that and carry it out?”
Otto said: “It was planned and the charge placed and the . . . the beginning work done by my superior officer. But he could not be there on the final day—and I was commanding the work-party. I was . . . involved in the wreck because a man had left something near the track and it might have been dangerous to be found and I tried to recover it.”
Clare spoke again. Her face was hidden from him by the hand which was over her brow. She said:
“That terrible thing in Texas? That dreadful oil fire? Did you . . .”
This time he did not let her finish. He said:
“That was . . . had nothing of my work in it. It was my superior officer—the same man. I have had . . .” He fumbled and lost his words and sentence and breathed deeply and started again. “I should explain that my work was more than being assistant to my super—to this man. It was double work. He is suspected of having ambitions for himself which are not liked by the ones above him, and my main duty was to report secretly upon him while being his aide—his lieutenant. . . . I do not explain it well but perhaps you will understand.”
Ingolls said: “We’re starting at the wrong end, Clare.” He looked at his daughter and she turned her face towards him but did not speak. “We’re behaving like children,” he said. “He tells us two astounding facts—first, that he is in this country as a Nazi agent—or ‘officer’ as he calls it—and second he says that he has decided that he no longer believes in Naziism. And we are so flabbergasted by the whole thing, like a pair of kids, that we just grip on to the first one—which is far less important.” He continued to look at Clare while he spoke but Otto could feel that the words were as much for him.
“We were carried away by the hope,” Ingolls said, “that the snake we’ve been nourishing in our bosom hadn’t been poisoning our friends. We had to try and prove that to ourselves. But let’s stop that nonsense right now! Let’s ask him questions which really matter.” He looked at Otto now, still standing stiffly above him. He said:
“Falken, did you say your name was? Falken: Why did you change? What, if you have changed, are you going to do about it? And in any and either case, what did you tell us for? Why—if you
Otto met the hard, grey, unreadable eyes without retreat. He said:
“I changed because I have found out that what I was taught is lies. I can explain more if you wish, but it will take me very long and if you do not believe me now you will not if I say more. But it is true.”
He waited, and Ingolls said: “Go on!”
“I know what I am going to do—but I will answer that afterwards. And I told you because . . . because . . .”
He stopped. He had been ready. He had known the words he was going to say—but they had gone.
Clare got suddenly to her feet. “I know why,” she said to her father, and wheeled away from the group and the soft circle of light about the chairs and stood somewhere in the shadow.
Ingolls peered after her. “So!” His voice was without expression.
Otto plunged, not knowing whether or not he had been grateful for the interruption. He said:
“There is another reason . . .” and could have cut out his tongue for the word ‘another,’ and checked only a little and went on: “There is one reason why I told you: it is weak and I am not proud to give it. It is that I would like your opinion, sir, upon what I . . . upon the decision I have made to do. And especially is that so after what you have told me last night.” The English words were playing tricks with him now and he feared that he had not made sense with them but knew he could not do better. He swayed a little upon the splints and angrily called his body to attention.
Ingolls stood up. He pointed to his chair and said: “Sit,” in a manner which gave no room for protest.
Otto lowered himself into the chair. He felt weak and shaking and was angry with his body. He saw that Ingolls had stepped out of the light now and in the shadows was standing beside the dim straight figure of Clare. A murmuring came to his ears but no word.
And then Ingolls was back in the light, standing over him.
“I don’t know,” Ingolls said, “whether I want to hear what you’re going to do.”
He might have said more, but his daughter spoke before he could continue. She came back into the light and stood beside him, but with her back to Otto in the chair. She said:
“Of course you don’t want to hear! Why should you? It’ll only be more difficult for you to do what you have to do!” Her voice still did not sound to Otto’s ears like her own.
Ingolls said: “And why shouldn’t I hear what he’s got to say? We’ve listened so far; why no farther?”