The Clincher Box

by Walter Serner
translated from the German by Kevin Blahut

Whitehill regained consciousness very slowly. Even after he had opened his eyes he could not
see anything. His forehead throbbed powerfully. Slowly he sat up. And only now did he begin
to remember. The evening before he had gone to see Broc in Conventry Street. Mzir, the Pole,
had spoken, and so had Kouropatrouska. Then he himself had spoken. It occurred to him that
he had been irritated by the strange way in which Genove and Jegera regarded him. And he
recalled quite clearly having had the impression that people were allowing him to speak
without paying attention to what was saying. And then suddenly …
Whitehill grabbed his forehead. And then his gaze clouded over.
He looked around the room and immediately pressed his fingers to his temples: it
looked exactly like a hole in Pitcher. There was a small window with bars over it, and behind
it a dark brick wall with another window, also barred. After reflecting for a short time,
Whitehill came to the conclusion that the police had silently entered the room while he was
speaking, snuck up behind him, knocked him out somehow, and brought him to Newgate.
He stood up and listened. Nothing. He rapped careful words on the walls. Nothing. He
examined the door, the peephole: no lock, no bolt, no edge. But right next to the door, in an
indentation in the wall, was a buzzer. Whitehill rubbed his cheeks. There had been no buzzer
in the cell where he had spent three months. He went to the window. There seemed to be no
doubt that things had happened exactly as he had imagined them, although it did seem strange
that he had been the first one to be drugged, since he had been standing in the middle of the
room. Then he saw the buzzer, although he had not taken his eyes off of it. A long time
passed before he admitted to himself that he wanted to press it, but did not dare to. He wanted
to look at his watch, but then smiled to himself when he realized that he had pawned it three
days before. He went through his pockets. Everything was there, the wool purse, the
Browning, the Neb-Kas, though no matches. But he had not had these things in Pitcher.
Something else was clearly afoot here, he suspected a trick, yet he couldn’t understand it. His
ears became hot and his desire to ring the buzzer an irresistible compulsion. All at once he
leapt forward and pressed the buzzer so quickly his joints cracked. While he massaged them
nervously, the door flew open.

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 Whitehill shrunk back. In the door stood a man in a dinner jacket and a black cape. In
his hands he held a top hat, white kid gloves, and a long-stemmed red rose.
Whitehill wanted to sit down. His excitement had traveled to his legs, which became
weak. He thought he was shaking, and was ashamed.
The man sat on the foldaway seat and indicated with his hand that Whitehill should sit
on the bed opposite.
Whitehill did as he was instructed. He swallowed as he stared at the man’s short, sharp
moustache, which began to twitch:
“We have suspected you for a long time, Whitehill. One of my people followed you
again yesterday and saw everything, although he did not hear what you said. Unfortunately,
your comrades were able to escape. Therefore it was quickly seen to that no one could
contemplate your release. You are in Rog House, and I am the head of the Secret Department
for State Security. For people of your ilk we do not have even a short trial — there is no trial
at all. Only by confessing all of your group’s machinations can you hope to lighten the
severity of your sentence. When all of your statements have been proven true, you will be
deported to India. You can be assured that you will never see England again.”
Whitehill was surprised to have understood every word, because he felt as if he could
only see his hands, resting on his knees, heavy as lead. When he finally succeeded in looking
up, he said, without being able to remember later having thought about it: “I cannot make a
confession. I should be taken in right now. I know nothing at all. Only that I am lost.”
The man stood up, and the rose fell out of his hand. “Give me your weapon!”
Whitehill thought: “I will shoot him and then — away from here!” But as his right
hand went to his back pocket, he noticed that the man had a small Browning aimed at him.
After Whitehill had surrendered his weapon, the man backed slowly out of the cell, his
gun still pointed at him, and slammed the door.
Whitehill jumped up right away, pressed the door, shook it, and felt it up and down.
Without success. Only when he sat down on the bed, abusing his throat with his fingers, did
he realize that only an unimaginably terrible despair could have driven him to spend so much
time trying to open the door. His head sank, and his body slumped back at an angle.
When he opened his eyes, it was dark. He had slept. A strange smell that had not been
present before penetrated his nose. It was like an unknown delicacy, like young wine from a
southern country … Whitehill smiled; he was hungry and what he smelled was the red rose.
He felt for it, found it quickly, and smelled it. Again and again. So long and so deeply that he

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almost began to lose consciousness. He did not want to think. It was over. Maybe tomorrow,
maybe … He saw a picture he’d once noticed in the London News: the gallows in the
courtyard of Rog House. He leapt up. Sweat ran down his forehead. His legs could not
support him. Every muscle in his body shuddered. Then he turned his head quickly: “The
buzzer!” he gurgled hoarsely. “I have to press it. Because I can’t take it. I will have to lie.
Because I don’t want to …”
He staggered to the door and pressed his fist against the wall three times before he
found the buzzer. Then he slid to the floor.
A short time later the room became bright. Whitehill raised his head slowly: the man
in the dinner jacket, this time without his cape and top hat, had entered the room.
“You rang because you wanted to talk. I am listening.”
Whitehill pulled himself to his feet. As he stood, it became clear to him that, no matter
what he did or said, he was lost: no one who had been to see Broc had ever received a pardon,
and no one had ever broken out of Rog House. He was filled with a burning wish not to
believe any of it. To no avail. In a strange way, this horrible realization brought back his
strength. “I will not talk. Do with me whatever you like.”
The man slapped his thigh. “And if we don’t send you to India, but release you on the
street with five thousand pounds?”
Whitehill shrugged his shoulders: a surprisingly clumsy trick. “I will not talk.”
“You are a member of the anarchist group Broc and Zegarac. The Society.”
“No.”
“I know what you said in Conventry Street.”
“He lied to you, like all spooks.”
“In my department we take things more seriously. Whoever lies, falls.”
Whitehill displayed a certain sour amusement. “Everyone in your position is lied to
constantly. There is no point to any of this.” He fell out of the bed whistling. When he looked
up, the man was no longer in the cell.
Whitehill was about to stand up when an elegant lady rushed into the room,
immediately took his arm, and sat down next to him on the bed.
Having become accustomed to surprises, Whitehill reacted to this invasion with
distaste. Yet her rustling taffeta dress, the fine scent of L’heure bleue, and the increasing
sense of warmth from her thighs soon took effect. Whitehill had to make an effort to pull

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himself away from the tender fingers that had insinuated themselves around his arm. He
slapped his knee nervously.
The lady spoke first. “How do you like me?”
Whitehill opened his mouth noisily; suddenly he was embarrassed to be unshaven.
“So good that you would allow yourself a taste?”
Whitehill narrowed his lips contemptuously. “I have only five shillings.”
“Not like that. Something else.” The lady pushed him back, put her arms around him
and pressed her thighs and breasts tight against him, so that the pleasant smell of her breath
filled his nose and mouth. With a glance she established that his hostile tension had subsided.
“Act as though you had succeeded with some trick and escaped from here. Broc will have
great respect for you. As soon as you have turned the group over to us, you will receive five
thousand and everything you want from me. For a few days. Or longer, if you want. What do
you think?”
Before he could turn his gaze to her, Whitehill felt two hot lips against his, one soft
hand at his throat, the other sharp and sweet … and a red flood filled his eyes. But just as he
was about throw himself on top of her fragrant, alluring body, a sudden burst of strength freed
him.
“Everything depends on you.” She looked him over with an ironic reproach, shaping
the rouge on her lips with her index finger.
Panting, Whitehill had to clench his fists to keep himself from raging blindly. The pain
clarified his thoughts. “If I’d had her just now, I might’ve said yes.” Then he laughed:
“Cleverness is often the stupidest calculation. Thank you. I am the mouse. You are the cat.”
She yielded slightly. “Under no circumstances?”
Whitehill shook his head brusquely.
She moved her hands as though blessing him. “They will torture you.” She put her
finger on the buzzer.
But Whitehill saw that she did not press it. “I consider that a stupid threat. They only
beat people occasionally now.” He felt a bitter taste in his mouth.
She pressed the buzzer and looked at Whitehill firmly. But his eyes suddenly became
so cruel and unyielding she knew there was nothing more she could do to muddle his
thoughts. Turning around quickly, she rushed out the door. Almost simultaneously the light
went out.

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 Convinced that they would leave him alone now, perhaps to starve for a few days,
Whitehill threw himself on the bed. When he awoke, the cell was bright and the door was
open, but there was no one to be seen. Immediately he leapt up, but then fell back: Broc had
appeared in the door.
Whistling thinly, Whitehill turned his back to him. “That must be a spook who
resembles him.” His eyes became very small. Then he felt someone touch his arm. He turned
his head and saw a table covered with white and next to it the fake Broc, who invited him to
take a seat. He sat down happily and began to eat.
Across from him Broc smoked, and when he saw that Whitehill’s hunger had been
sated, he offered him his cigarette case.
“Sarony?” Whitehill smiled as he stuck out the tip of his tongue and bit it. “You even
know Broc’s brand?”
“I take great care in tormenting my friends.”
“I’m not going to fall for you.” Whitehill filled his lungs with smoke. “It’s enough for
you to do your duty.”
“I am Broc.”
Whitehill spat under the table. Then he made an ordinary sound with his lips that he
had learned at the racetrack.
The other man gave an unusual whistle.
‘Do I know that from somewhere?’ Whitehill cleared his throat despondently.
A few seconds later the woman from the previous evening rushed through the door
and kissed his hair, which she stroked with both hands: “Did you sleep well, Charlie?”
Whitehill put the cigarette aside. He felt as though he had heard something very funny.
There … it came from outside: glasses clinked softly, voices murmured. He looked back and
forth between the man across from him and the woman beside him. And suddenly he felt,
without knowing anything, that he was in good hands.
Broc stood up. “Whitehill, do you remember what you said to us the evening before
last: ‘When admitted into the Society everyone must undergo the most severe possible test.
Not only his gingival suitability should be tested, but also — the integrity of his will.’ Now,
my dear Whitehill, you have proven your integrity better than many of us.”
Whitehill pushed up his lower lip and, smiling uncomfortably, rubbed one of his
fingers against his chin.

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 Broc threw his cigarette against the wall. “The elegant gentleman was Léonor Lévin,
one of our most valuable colleagues. The lady here is my companion, Sure Stek. She has been
my assistant for many years. You are in London, in Conventry Street, in fact in my apartment,
which you never left.”
“Then who was the person who …” Whitehill mumbled, reaching for his forehead.
“I took the liberty.”
“You, Broc?”
“And then we deposited you in this cell, which is primarily used for similar purposes.”
Whitehill coughed very softly.
Sure Stek laughed heartily: “This room is called The Clincher Box.”
Whitehill roared with laughter.
Broc took him by the arm and led him into the salon next door, where the members of
the Society, wineglasses in their hands, greeted him riotously.