On the flank. That was everything, von Falkenburg decided. The mere mention of the name “Putzi,” with the revelation it implied would throw von Lauderstein into a panic.
The only question was the form that panic would take.
Some of the possibilities might not do Helena any good, von Falkenburg reflected uncomfortably. But by and large, he did not think that von Lauderstein would dare harm her, for fear of what von Falkenburg (in von Lauderstein’s mind) might do to Hanna.
In reality, of course, he would do nothing to Hanna. But for once, the psychological difference between him and his enemies was working to his advantage. Up to now, he had always been hampered by his inability to fully imagine what it was like to be totally selfish and ruthless like they were. But in a mirror-like fashion, someone like von Lauderstein would not be able to imagine anyone who was not that way, anyone who was not willing to harm an innocent young woman so as to get what he wanted. As for the risk to Helena, von Falkenburg had already concluded that there was no way his enemies would let this witness live anyway, so he was not putting her in additional danger.
The main question was whether or not von Lauderstein would show the letter to Putzi. It was a toss-up, von Falkenburg decided. What he knew of von Lauderstein’s personality suggested weakness, which in turn could imply an unwillingness to take responsibility.
But von Lauderstein was also a man obsessed; obsessed with his love for Hanna. And he was thus bound to be afraid that if he went to Putzi for instructions, Putzi might order him to sacrifice his mistress for the cause they were working for.
Putzi, von Falkenburg had always suspected, was three times the man von Lauderstein was. And from that point of view, it would be best for von Falkenburg if Putzi stayed out of the picture for the time being. But whether von Lauderstein brought him into it or not, one thing was certain: Helena would not be offered back in exchange for Hanna. That was a step von Lauderstein would not dare take on his own initiative, and which Putzi would simply forbid.
The mantelpiece clock showed almost midnight. Hanna gave him von Lauderstein’s address, and he wrote it on the envelope. Then he rang for Alphonse.
“Alphonse, I need you to find a public messenger. I know it is not easy at this time of night, but the Princess’s life depends on it. The messenger is to deliver the letter, get a receipt from the butler, and give you the receipt before being paid.”
“Yes sir,” Alphonse replied. Then he added, “I could deliver the message myself, sir.”
“I’m afraid not, Alphonse. The recipient’s butler might recognize you.”
“Very good sir.” Von Falkenburg realized that Alphonse would be willing to do a great deal more than just deliver a letter in order to help save his mistress.
Alphonse disappeared, and von Falkenburg led Hanna into the drawing room. Since she had been waiting for her mistress to come home – knowing nothing of the abduction – the downstairs maid had not yet gone to bed. Von Falkenburg asked her to bring some tea and pastries to Hanna.
“Mmm, good,” Hanna said, stuffing her mouth with pastry with a complete lack of self-consciousness.
He poured himself a brandy and waited impatiently for the time to pass.
“You love her a lot don’t you?” Hanna asked, her mouth full of pastry.
“Hmm?” he asked, looking up from his brandy snifter and pretending not to understand.
“I said, you love her a lot – the Princess,” Hanna persisted.
“What makes you say that?”
“Mmm, hard to say. The way you’re sitting. You’re trying to look all calm and collected as you sit there sipping your cognac. But there’s something about you…. Finally, you men aren’t hard to read!”
And she laughed, nearly choked on her pastry, and then laughed some more.
So much for his pose of gentlemanly indifference, von Falkenburg told himself. It had never occurred to him that girls like Hanna could see through him. But maybe she possessed a special clairvoyance: an extra dose of female intuition dished out on the same unaccountable basis that extra intelligence and beauty were given to women like Helena.
“Can you tell me what you’re going to do to get the Princess back?” Hanna asked.
“Hanna, I’ve found that it’s healthiest for my friends not to have too clear an idea of what I’m up to.”
He thought she would pout at receiving an evasive answer like that, but instead she replied, “von Lauderstein’s such a bully, I suppose one can’t be too careful.”
He asked her if she wanted to get some sleep, as there was no need for her to stay up. But she said she was far too excited to go to bed.
Both out of curiosity, and in order to pass the time, von Falkenburg tried to find out some more from her about von Lauderstein. But it soon became apparent that for all his obsessive passion, her lover trusted her with no details whatever of his activities.
And as long as von Lauderstein’s generosity continued, Hanna had been content to ask few questions.
“Where did he meet you?” von Falkenburg asked. “At the Kamiski-Palais-Theater?”
“That’s right. He told me he fell head over heels in love with me from Row R.”
Von Falkenburg suspected that she was proud of being able to project her sensuality that far.
Alphonse entered.
“I got the message delivered, sir.”
“Have any trouble finding an errand-runner?”
“No, sir. At this hour they are all in the beer halls.”
Von Falkenburg knew that in entering a beer hall of the kind frequented by public messengers, Alphonse had made a real sacrifice of his precious dignity.
Well, von Falkenburg told himself, now there was nothing for it but to wait. He was glad Hanna did not feel like going to bed. Her chatter – silly but amusing – helped keep him from fretting to pieces waiting.
The mantelpiece clock showed two-thirty. He rose from his chair. He wanted to be about five or ten minutes late for the appointment he had proposed, and to which he was sure von Lauderstein would send someone.
“It’s time?” Hanna asked.
“Yes.”
“Will you be back soon?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied. In fact, he knew that there was a good chance that he would never be back, but he saw no point in mentioning that.
“Go to bed, Hanna. There are plenty of beds in this house, and you need your sleep to stay pretty.”
“You’re right,” she answered. But she made no move to budge from the chair.
Out in the cool of the night, von Falkenburg realized for the first time just how harebrained his scheme was. But it was the only way he could think of to rescue Helena, so there was no choice but to go through with it.
It had rained while he was talking and waiting with Hanna, and although the rain had stopped now, the pavement gleamed under the streetlights, and the cracks between the cobblestones were full of water. He strode across the Ring to the Stadtpark.
There were not even any prostitutes in the park at this hour. It seemed as if he were the only person alive in the city. Perhaps he should have brought his revolver after all, he thought. He had decided against doing so because he feared the sound of a shot might carry a long way in the dead stillness of the night, and the intervention of the police was the last thing he wanted. That was still a valid consideration, he decided, and anyway it was too late now.
He reached the embankment of the Wien and peered down at the shallow water rushing over cobblestones that formed its bed. The tiny tributary of the Danube had to be one of the more insignificant watercourses in the world. It was no more than a few inches deep, and ran through an artificial cut. For that matter, much of it had been completely decked over a few blocks upstream: the “Right and Left Wien Banks” were just two sides of a broad street.
Here it was open to the air, but sunk deep between two high stone embankments. The bed of the street was some forty feet below street level.
A
lonely spot. Ideal for his purposes, von Falkenburg decided, but he knew its loneliness made it ideal for his enemies’ purposes too.
Carefully, he climbed down a long flight of stone steps to the river’s bed. The stream only occupied the center, leaving a sloping margin of a few feet on either side to walk on.
The moon was out, but the depth of the cut let little of its light penetrate, for it was not directly overhead. Von Falkenburg paused for a moment to let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. Then he proceeded downstream towards the Danube Canal, being very careful to look as unthreatening as possible. His right hand wanted to grip the hilt of his sword, but he kept it away by an act of will.
The rushing, shallow water made a strange noise in his ears, and that, along with the slick, sloping pavement under his feet, had a very disorienting effect. He had been here before on some of the lonely, melancholy nocturnal walks that had long been a habit of his. But not for a long time.
Suddenly, a terrible doubt came to him as to just which bridge was the Stubenbrücke.
He paused and tried to recollect which steps he had come down. He had passed under one bridge. Was the next one the one he had named as the site of the “prisoner exchange,” or was it the one after that?
He was almost sure the bridge he had named in his note to von Lauderstein was the one after the next. Almost sure. He strode under the bridge, trying to act calm, prepared for anything. It was terribly dark, and the sound of the water much louder as it resounded from the bridge above. He was glad to be through to the other side.
Nothing had happened. So assuming that von Lauderstein had risen to his bait, the bridge ahead had to be the one. It would take him three minutes to walk there.
He strode forward, trying unsuccessfully to keep calm. In the darkness ahead, he could make out no one under the bridge. That could be a good sign or a bad one.
There were only about ten paces to go. He suddenly was very conscious of the sound of his shoes on the pavement.
He calculated that he would be under the bridge in eight steps. He counted the steps to see if he was right. It was best, he felt, to keep his mind occupied with something like that.
Seven…six…five…four…
No, he really could see no one under the bridge.
Three…two…. He had miscalculated. It would be at least four more steps before he was under the bridge.
Four…three….
The desire to quicken his pace, to force the issue, nearly mastered him, but he fought it down
Stroll calmly, he told himself. Act trusting.
And if von Lauderstein had decided to do nothing?
He strode into the darkness beneath the bridge and began to whirl around an instant before the hands he knew would be waiting could touch him.
He lashed out with his right foot where he sensed someone must be and he felt the foot connect. His sword was in his hand now, the symbol of honor on which everything depended.
Von Falkenburg felt a fist crash into his jaw and he reeled back, but his eyes were beginning to accustom themselves to the darkness. He could make out forms now, and he brought the sword slashing down.
A shock went through his arm as he felt the sword’s edge meet bone, and a fearful shriek pierced the air, but there was no time to think about that, because what light there was caught the blade of a knife as it lunged for his belly.
He twisted to one side, so that the blade just missed him, and as he did so, he smashed the hilt of his sword into what seemed like a face.
A moan of pain, and he hit again, harder. This time it must have been the skull that he struck, for the form he could dimly see had slumped at his feet.
That was two…were there anymore? Von Falkenburg looked around him, blood dripping from his sword blade. Paid thugs, as he expected. Perhaps the same ones who killed Lasky. He was sorry everything was over so fast, for the fighting lust still boiled within him.
No, there were no more. Nor was Helena there, but then he had not expected for a moment that she would be.
He heard a moan at his feet, and he could make out a man clutching his arm, from which something glistening was oozing out onto the cobblestones. Suddenly, von Falkenburg felt revulsion.
He knelt down beside the man and ripped a piece from the latter’s shirt. He wrapped it around the upper arm. The knife that had nearly gutted him was lying nearby, and von Falkenburg inserted the blade in the knot and twisted until the flow of blood was reduced to a trickle.
“My arm…my arm…oh God!…I’m crippled!…crippled!” the man groaned.
“If the use of your arm is all you lose, my friend, you will be able to count yourself lucky,” von Falkenburg said through clenched teeth. He knew he had not yet won – would not win – unless he could conceal the tide of disgust rising within him.
“Oh my God! It’s bleeding! I’m bleeding to death!”
Even in this grotesque moment, von Falkenburg’s powers of observation were active, and he noted with interest that the legendary cowardice of the defeated bully was really a fact.
“Shut up,” he said. “Your life depends on me.”
“Please…we didn’t mean….”
“I said shut up.”
The man gave a moan
“All I have to do is take this blade out so the tourniquet untwists, and all your blood will flow out of you in very short order,” von Falkenburg said.
“Oh God! What do you want? I need a doctor.”
Von Falkenburg loosened the tourniquet slightly to emphasize his point, and was rewarded with obedient silence.
“I’m not interested in any excuses you might feel like making,” he said. “I know who you are, and who sent you, and why. You’re hired thugs in the pay of Colonel von Lauderstein. You’ve abducted a woman. You were sent here to seize a female friend of von Lauderstein’s in case I was foolish enough to bring her with me, and to beat word of where she is out of me in case I was not.”
Von Falkenburg was tempted to add “right?” but did not. He knew that a pose of omniscience would be far more effective.
The man was literally trembling with fear as he waited to find out what von Falkenburg would say or do next. Von Falkenburg had to keep thinking about the abduction of Helena in order to force himself to go on with this revolting scene.
“If you tell me where the woman you kidnapped is being held, I’ll take you to a doctor. If you don’t, then you had better hope you’ve lived right, which you haven’t, because there won’t be time for any last rites.”
“And…and the police?” the man asked.
Fantastically, this criminal who thought he was in mortal danger – and who was seriously wounded – instinctively feared the police almost as much as he did death.
“If the address you give me turns out to be the right one, you will not be bothered by the police. If you are foolish enough to give me a false address…well, the doctor is my friend.”
Von Falkenburg said the word “friend” in a tone of voice which could leave little doubt that the friend was the kind of man who would not hesitate to kill someone as a favor to von Falkenburg.
“I…have a doctor of my own…he works with us…” the man said.
“Shut up. It’s my friend or nobody.”
“And Franz?”
Franz had to be the other thug.
“Hold the knife in the knot,” von Falkenburg ordered the man. “And remember, if you pull it out to use on me, you’ll bleed to death.”
Von Falkenburg knew the man was too afraid of the tourniquet coming loose to try to run. Besides, von Falkenburg could grab him if he tried to get up from the pavement.
Von Falkenburg ripped off another piece of the wounded man’s shirt and used it to tie the still-unconscious Franz’s hands tightly behind him. Another piece served as a crude but effective gag. It would be some time before Franz was conscious enough to make a serious effort to get loose, and even then he would probably not succeed. Someone would find him in the morning,
for in the daylight he would be visible from the embankment. But he was secure enough until then, and even if by chance he did get free, it was unlikely that he was so loyal to von Lauderstein that he would rush to report his failure to him.
“Get on your feet,” von Falkenburg told the man with the wounded arm. It would have been faster and simpler to help him get up, but von Falkenburg knew he must maintain a pose of utter indifference to suffering.
When one is sitting on the ground, getting up without the use of one’s arms is not easy, and the man made heavy weather of it.
“Up, or do you want some kicking as encouragement?” von Falkenburg forced himself to say.
Finally, the man was on his feet, whimpering slightly.
“Start walking,” von Falkenburg said. The only thing he added was not a word, but the presence of his sword point pressed against the man’s back. He had not yet asked the man for the address where Helena was being held, for the kind of scene he had planned would be more likely to guarantee truthfulness.
And so they started upstream. Against all his doubts, the first part of von Falkenburg’s plan had succeeded. He had guessed that von Lauderstein’s response to his note offering an “exchange of prisoners” would be to prepare an ambush for him, and he himself had suggested the perfect site for it. From his walks along the bed of the Wien he knew that under the abutment of that particular bridge there was a substantial recess let into the embankment. As he had expected, the thugs sent to lie in wait for him had immediately recognized its potential for their purposes.
What they had not counted on was that von Falkenburg would be expecting them to be in that recess, and expecting an attack. Above all, they had not counted on the use he could make of his sword. Precisely because an officer’s sword was something one always saw hanging at its owner’s side at restaurants, the theater, the race track – and something never seen outside its scabbard except at parades – it was easy to overlook the fact that in addition to being a symbol of its wearer’s honor, it was also a weapon. For most people, the sword was simply a part of the officer’s uniform, like his tunic or his képi.
Thomas Ochiltree Page 17
