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Page 22 text:
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from China through Russia and the Balkans. Tea. I believe. At Litzen, dangerous ammunition was substituted for the tea. No one knows save the agents and I. The tea arrives at Penning Station at 12:40—tonight. He turned his eyes to me. May I ask, said I, have you the confidence of those agents? No. Against them. I know, but they do not know me. Something must be done, said Bobby, twisting the ends of his gray moustache fiercely. You know? Nicovai nodded. They will unload that shipment on the right bank of the river. You know what buildings lie on the other side. Come. We put on our coats and went out. It was as dark a night as I have ever seen. No light and little sound. Just a thick, pitchy blanket that weighed on my mind like an unpaid debt, for I am conscientious. I looked at my watch as we silently stumbled along. It was 12:38. As we approached the station we heard the signal and the rumbling of the on-coming train. I felt Nicovai’s hand guiding me and presently found he had led us to a high fence. He motioned us to conceal ourselves in the bushes, where we could see by the watchmen’s lanterns something of what was going on without being seen ourselves. The train drew up, puffing and blowing. Men gave hoarse orders and began unloading. Box after box was lifted from the freight cars and carried to the barn on the river bank. So long we watched that my knees grew cramped, my back lame and my throat dry. I wanted to croak, yell, or sing, but the powers of action were denied me. The train groaned, puffed, and slid away into the darkness and still we had not moved. The minutes passed and the silence hung around us like a dense, oppressing fog. Then I felt a pressure on my arm and stiffly rose to follow my companions. Stealthily we crept along the fence until we were behind the barn. Nicovai whispered an order to Thornton, who immediately disappeared. He led me to a small door at one side of the bam. It could hardly be called a door, since it was scarcely a foot and a half high. Watch inside and wait, he hissed in my ear. His hot gray eyes flashed into mine for an instant and then I was alone. I drew a deep breath and squeezed through the opening with difficulty. Darkness—inky darkness, blank and solid. I thought of matches and then of the ammunition and then the matches again. A foolish fear seized me. I must have light! The match sputtered and flared up. All around and stacked up to the ceiling were the boxes of ammunition labeled tea. Tea! Tea! Tea! Strange, ominous, threatening tea! The match went out, but the picture remained stamped on my mind. How long I stood there with the burnt match in my hand I do not know. I only knew that sooner or later I should scream—and yet I could not. I could feel those boxes as though I had their entire weight upon my shoulders! I turned blindly to the door and saw to my horror that a body was worming through the aperture. I stood rooted to the floor. 1 could not move. I could not speak. The figure stumbled to its feet. A match flamed, and, amazed, I stared into the wide, terror-stricken eyes of Max Nicovai. Why, what’s the matter, Hal! came Bobby Thornton's voice close to my ear. Been having a bally nightmare, what? I say, really, you look bad! Let me fix you a good hot cup of tea! Page 16 Rachel Cook, Script.
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Page 21 text:
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TEA WE were lounging idly before a roaring fire in my English friend’s comfortable home near London. The house was, as he was, typically English. The chairs, the table, the tea kettle, the blue china cups, were all unmistakably English. I had a feeling that all 1 needed was a red muffler round my neck and a pair of silver buckles on my shoes to be an accurate Dickens character. But nevertheless, I had had a fine, a well-er-comfortable dinner, you know. I had no doubts about it. 1 was beginning to feel that delicious warmth and content that radiated from the fire, overpower me and slightly numb my consciousness, but 1 was fully determined to keep my mind on my friend’s conversation. “I say, Hal, what are you thinking about?’’ This question, seemingly out of a void, roused me again to life. “What I shall dream about tonight,” I responded foggily. “1 say, Hal, don’t you think you'd better have another cup of tea?” I declined with a shake of the head which caused me an effort. The Englishman believes his beastly tea to be a remedy for everything. It's even a stimulantl “Do you always plan your dreams? asked my friend. “Always, 1 replied, but sometimes they forget to follow the plan. How strange, murmured my friend, and in the midst of wondering whether he meant my plans or the fact that the dreams sometimes refused to obey me, I was startled by hearing the same exclamation uttered in an entirely different voice. How strange! said the voice. 1 sat up hurriedly and with a suddenness that made my head throb. Standing in the doorway, with a dark cape thrown over his shoulders, was a tall man whose features I could not distinctly make out. May 1 ask what is so strange to you? 1 demanded brusquely of this intruder. He made no answer but gazed fixedly at my companion and then advanced with outstretched hand. Bobby Thornton ! To find you here! Bobby seized his whiskers in one hand and the stranger’s fingers with the other and gazed into his eyes. “Max! he said in a hoarse whisper, Max Nicovai from the south of Russia! As the man advanced into the firelight, I saw a remarkable face. Black waving hair tossed back from a high, broad forehead, level brows, and clear-cut features. But his eyes as he glanced at me' seemed to send a shudder to my very heart. They were hot gray, black-rimmed, filled with a tragic intensity of feeling and set in a white mask of a face. My friend Thornton came out of his trance and presented me to Nicovai and we all sat around the fire and sipped luke-warm tea. Nicovai spoke in sentences or rather half-sentences that left them to your imagination to fill out. 1 met Max on that Russian adventure 1 told you about, Hal. said my friend; he was the young gentleman who secured the boat and maneuvered me down the river that memorable night. Can 1 do something for you, Max? Yes. replied the Russian, passing his long white fingers through his hair, strange to come to you. There is trouble. A shipment of goods sent Page 15
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