Free The Alien by Josephine Bell Page B

write it down, nor the address.
    â€œI shall not forget,’’ he said. Margrethe nodded. She had expected more opposition, if not an adamant refusal. His puny reluctance worried her. There must be something behind it, but she could not begin to think what that might be.
    â€œWe dress for this – party?’’ Boris asked, when they met outside Mr. Sørensen’s room, after making their separate ways back to the office.
    â€œNo, no. Anything you like. Informal. Some of the students have a very strange appearance. National costume. Then there is a Spanish group. They wear black, all black and they are very dark, black hair, black eyes and they play on guitars and sing in a harsh voice.’’
    â€œHoly Mother of God!’’ said Boris, startled into a return to his devout youth.
    The collection of mixed races at the tennis club house was not, however, intimidating, Boris decided, not even very exciting. He followed Margrethe about, being introduced to fellow humans of many different colours, builds, clothing and degrees of animation. The only language he heard was English.
    For about an hour he chatted easily with a mixed group of Africans and Asiatics, during which time he noticed that Margrethe drifted away from him to a circle of her own compatriots. But when a murmur went round that the buffet had begun to operate, she appeared again at his side and he found himself eating a sagging sausage roll and drinking very weak coffee in a group exclusively Scandinavian. It was clear to him that the object of the exercise was near at end.
    It was managed naturally, so smoothly that he discovered a new reason to admire his primrose-haired colleague. The man beside whom he had been standing for quite a quarter of an hour said, in answer to some casual remark about suburban tennis clubs, “But they are not only social meeting-places. The game is serious. There are even Olympic players who begin here.’’
    He turned, on an apparently sudden impulse, to Boris.
    â€œI will show you one of the famous in her extreme youth. You like to see? Then come!’’ There was not even a hint of command in the voice.
    Boris followed and they walked through a side door into a small room with a large table at the centre, set round with chairs. The committee room, he saw at once. On its walls were hung groups of players going back to the years immediately after the Second World War. There were only two individual portraits: one of the robust, eminently successful-looking business-man and local councillor who had presented the club rooms to the club; the other of the famous woman player who had been nurtured there.
    Boris went back to the door and pushed it wide open before rejoining his new acquaintance. They stood side by side admiring the player’s stalwart build, her pleasant extroverted smile.
    â€œYou have given Margrethe some interesting facts,’’ the man said, not altering the tone of his voice but speaking now in German. “Where do you get them from and what do you expect us to pay you for them?’’
    Boris frowned. The man was crude. After such a pleasant discreet approach his questions grated. This surprised Boris.
    â€œWho are you , my friend?’’ Boris asked, mildly, also in German. “Forgive me for asking, but Margrethe has given me to understand that formalities are now necessary.’’
    â€œHow can I satisfy you if you refuse to satisfy us?’’
    Boris sighed.
    â€œA difficult position indeed. But let me remind you of certain information I supplied that you have now proved to be correct.’’
    The man nodded and Boris said, “And again—’’
    He went on with his list. The other listened, unwilling at first, then with reluctant agreement.
    â€œSo’’ said Boris, finally, “my source must be a good one. You agree?’’
    â€œFor me,’’ said the man, “it is altogether too