Thomas Ochiltree

by Death Waltz in Vienna

  Two to one were not the kind of odds von Falkenburg like to take on – particularly since the only plan he had for saving his life depended on winning. He tried to think of which cards had been played. And then another glance at von Lauderstein decided him.

  Von Falkenburg drew. The card that landed on the table face up was a trey.

  “Natural,” von Falkenburg said quietly, turning up his other two cards to reveal a perfect total of nineteen points. He hoped the others in the room could not hear his heart beat the way he could.

  With trembling hand, von Lauderstein turned over his cards. They totaled eighteen. He had lost the hand by one point.

  As the croupier shoveled one thousand, two hundred crowns of von Lauderstein’s towards von Falkenburg, von Lauderstein stared at him with the desperate look of a stag at bay.

  At that moment, von Falkenburg knew that von Lauderstein was lost. And he was sure that von Lauderstein knew it too. Theoretically, von Lauderstein could get up from the table and walk off with the money that remained to him. But for reasons that had nothing to do with Hanna, he would not. Von Falkenburg knew that as a gambler who had come within one point of total success, von Lauderstein would keep on playing in a desperate effort to summon back that lost opportunity.

  For a moment, von Falkenburg actually felt himself feeling sorry for von Lauderstein. Then he remembered Lasky’s corpse lying in the dark alley and Helena at the mercy of von Lauderstein’s thugs.

  “Shall I deal, gentlemen?” he asked calmly.

  Von Lauderstein was now paying as much attention to the champagne bottle as he was to studying his cards. Was that why his play was disintegrating so rapidly, von Falkenburg wondered. Or had he unconsciously recognized that he could not escape his fate? Maybe he realized that only luck, blind, uncontrollable luck could save him now.

  But luck seemed to have left Von Lauderstein for good, along with all shreds of basic gambling sense, as he placed one huge bet after another, and then made the kind of absurd decisions to draw or stand which some house rules prohibited.

  By ten thirty, all his money was gone. Von Plugge now had the bank.

  “I trust you will agree to accept my credit,” von Lauderstein said thickly. Von Falkenburg wondered whether it was defeat or the champagne that slurred his speech so.

  “Of course your credit is acceptable,” von Plugge said. The credit of an officer in the Austro-Hungarian Army was something it never occurred to anyone to question, at least as far as gambling debts were concerned. For everyone knew what the price of failing to pay up was.

  Von Falkenburg glanced at the clock. An hour and a half of play was left. He was getting anxious about the passage of time. How much longer would von Plugge have the bank?

  Von Lauderstein continued to lose, while von Falkenburg watched the minute hand creep along the clock dial. It was useful – indeed indispensable – for von Lauderstein to be losing to von Plugge. But it was not enough.

  Finally, the shoe was empty, and von Lauderstein’s turn at the bank came, to von Falkenburg’s infinite relief. Up to now, von Plugge as banker had been accepting von Lauderstein’s credit in payment of the latter’s losses, and using his own money to pay von Falkenburg his winnings. But now that he had the bank, von Lauderstein would have to use his credit – that fatal officer’s credit which had done in Endrödy – to pay anything he lost to his enemy von Falkenburg.

  Von Lauderstein won the first hand, bet massively on the next and lost.

  Desperately, he bet even more heavily on the following hand, and lost again. His debt to von Falkenburg – as opposed to the cash he had lost to him earlier – was six thousand crowns, counting the side bet Lauderstein would lose if he failed to win five thousand crowns before the end of play at midnight.

  That was not enough, von Falkenburg decided as the clock chimed a quarter to twelve. Not enough for his purposes, for von Lauderstein might be able to scrape up that much money out of his own resources.

  Von Lauderstein had already declared “Rien ne va plus,” however, so there was no chance for von Falkenburg to increase his bet on his hand.

  It was tie hand between von Falkenburg and von Lauderstein anyway.

  Von Lauderstein got ready to deal what would clearly be the last hand before midnight put an end to the game.

  “Va banque,” von Falkenburg said quietly. Logically, he knew he was making a mistake, for if he lost, von Lauderstein have made up his losses to him and would be totally out of his grasp. But if it was a wrong decision, it was a totally irresistible one.

  He looked across at von Lauderstein, who returned his stare defiantly. Von Falkenburg was sure that von Lauderstein felt as he did: that this was how the game should end.

  Von Lauderstein dealt the cards.

  Von Falkenburg looked at his hand. It contained a trey and a deuce, giving a total of five points – the hardest baccarat hand to decide whether to draw to.

  Ace, deuce, trey or four would all put him closer to the coveted nine. But a five, six, seven eight or nine would force his score to be counted against nineteen. Even if he drew a nine he would have worsened his hand by one point, as the fourteen it would give him would be five points from nineteen (as opposed to the four points he currently was from the equivalent nine). And if he had the bad luck to draw a five, he would have a certain-to-be-defeated total of ten points in his hand, one over the coveted nine and nine points from the equivalent nineteen.

  At the same time, the five points he had at present were not a very good hand either.

  He looked up at von Lauderstein. The man appeared to be going through some strange internal struggle, but that did not give von Falkenburg any idea of what he should do himself.

  Mathematically, it was probably safer to stay. He remembered that a lot of low cards had already been dealt out of the shoe, which suggested he might have a greater-than-normal chance of drawing one that was too high.

  And suddenly, he realized that he could no more stand than he could have avoided saying “va banque.” On this final hand, which could literally decide between his life and death, he simply could not play a hand as poor as the one he had without trying to improve it, whatever logic might say.

  “Carte,” he said.

  It was an eight that slid face up towards him across the table.

  An eight.

  With a total of five, he had been four points from nine. Now he had a total of thirteen, which placed him six points from the equivalent nineteen. He had succeeded in transforming a poor hand into a disastrous one.

  The clock began to chime…twelve strokes signaling the beginning of the last full day of von Falkenburg’s life, for by eight A.M. the following day he would have to shoot himself.

  His mouth was dry as sand as he watched von Lauderstein try to make up his own mind, for even though the agreed time when the game would stop had struck, by convention the last ongoing hand would be played out.

  Von Falkenburg knew that if von Lauderstein decided to stand, it would almost certainly mean that he had a better hand than von Falkenburg’s, for he could hardly have a worse hand and not draw.

  Von Lauderstein hesitated a moment more, the internal struggle he was going through even more apparent. Then he drew.

  The card was a three.

  “Damn you! Damn you to hell!” von Lauderstein shouted at von Falkenburg, rising from his chair so that it fell over with a clatter. He stood in front of the table visibly trembling, his jaw hanging open slackly.

  “May I turn over your hand, Colonel?” von Plugge asked.

  “Do whatever you like! Damn you all to hell!” von Lauderstein answered with a strangled voice.

  Von Plugge turned over the other two cards of von Lauderstein’s hand. As he did so, he looked at von Falkenburg incredulously.

  The two cards which von Plugge had just turned over were a ten and a seven.

  Von Lauderstein, von Falkenburg realized, had done the incredible. Or perhaps the not-so-incredible, considering his s
tate of mind and what had gone before.

  Von Lauderstein’s first two cards had given him an excellent seventeen, only two points from the perfect nineteen. But he had drawn anyway, in defiance of all logic, despite the fact that of all the cards he might get, only two could help him, and the rest would harm him.

  He had drawn a three, which had put him over nineteen, with the result that his score had to be reckoned against the equivalent twenty-nine, from which he was separated by nine fatal points (as opposed to the only six points that separated von Falkenburg from the equivalent nineteen.)

  Von Lauderstein had drawn, von Falkenburg realized, because of that previous crucial hand that he had lost by only one point – an eighteen to von Falkenburg’s nineteen. The struggle which von Falkenburg had seen in his face just before he drew this time was a struggle between intellect and irresistible impulse: the impulse to make sure that that previous defeat was not repeated.

  And so he had lost again by one point – this time, the point that placed him over nineteen.

  “My God,” Wroclinski said, shaking his head.

  Von Falkenburg remembered how his decision to draw to a five, even though it was a defensible play, had also been take on the basis of an overpowering urge, and said nothing.

  Von Lauderstein had recovered his composure slightly, but he nevertheless poured a glass of champagne from the bottle without even bothering to let the waiter do it for him, ice water from the outside of the bottle dripping down onto his pants.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, for an extremely interesting experience,” he said. “As I explained earlier, I will have to give you both I.O.U.’s.” Both von Plugge and von Falkenburg indicated with gestures that that was perfectly acceptable to them.

  Von Lauderstein sat down at a small writing table in one corner of the room and took two squares of paper out of his wallet.

  Von Lauderstein filled out the I.O.U.’s and handed them to von Plugge and von Falkenburg. Von Falkenburg looked at his. It was for the sum of fifteen thousand, three hundred crowns – a very substantial sum of money indeed. Recalling the past betting, he figured that von Lauderstein must owe a comparable sum to Plugge.

  Von Plugge folded his note and put it into his wallet. Then he excused himself.

  Von Lauderstein looked like he was getting ready to leave too, but von Falkenburg said to him, “excuse me, Colonel, but may I have the honor of a word with you in private?”

  Von Lauderstein started at him suspiciously – clearly wondering whether von Falkenburg would be more dangerous to him if he agreed to his request or refused it.

  Finally, he said, “I am at your orders.”

  Von Falkenburg led him to a small lounge where he knew there was a telephone. Fortunately, the room was empty.

  “So,” von Falkenburg said, closing the door after him, “at last we are face to face.”

  Von Lauderstein said nothing

  “I have been face to face with your friend Putzi,” von Falkenburg went on. “He plays for very high stakes, von Lauderstein. But my game with him is not quite over yet.”

  “It will be soon,” von Lauderstein said, glancing at a mantelpiece clock.

  “You mean because since midnight has struck this is my last full day that has begun?” von Falkenburg said. “But a lot can happen in one day – particularly as far as taking others with me to destruction.”

  “What are you driving at, von Falkenburg?”

  “Very simple. We both know you can’t pay that I.O.U. you gave me….”

  Instinctively, von Lauderstein drew himself up to his full height, his face aflame with indignation.

  “You want to challenge me, von Lauderstein? Go ahead. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to shoot you down like a mad dog. But we both know you don’t have the nerve, so why don’t you sit down?”

  Von Lauderstein did not sit down, but he did not challenge von Falkenburg to a duel, either.

  “You will have your money in twenty-four hours,” he said.

  “Indeed? We’ll see.”

  Von Falkenburg picked up the telephone and asked for a number. He glanced at von Lauderstein and saw that a great deal of the habitual redness had gone out of the man’s face.

  “You can’t…!”

  Von Falkenburg paid him no further attention, but simply said into the instrument, “please tell your master that Captain von Falkenburg wishes to speak to him.”

  “My God, von Falkenburg…!” von Lauderstein blubbered. But von Falkenburg had the psychological initiative so totally that von Lauderstein did not try to seize the receiver from his hand.

  “Hello, Putzi?” Sorry to bother you. But I didn’t want you to have to concern yourself about a gambling debt of your friend von Lauderstein. You see, it’s a debt to me that grew out of a very exciting card game we had tonight at the Jockey Club. Anyway, out of recognition of all the things you’ve done for me, I’m not bothering to collect it. I’ll be sending the I.O.U. over to you right now by club messenger. Good bye, Putzi.”

  Von Falkenburg turned back to von Lauderstein, who had collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

  “You botched the kidnapping of Princess von Rauffenstein, and you’ve been losing at cards to your protector’s mortal enemy. Don’t you think it’s about time you stopped losing, von Lauderstein?

  Von Lauderstein looked up at him, the expression on his face a mixture of desperation and savagery.”If I’m lost, so are you, von Falkenburg. While you sit there gloating, just think about what awaits you tomorrow at 8:00 A.M.”

  “I am thinking what awaits me, which is why I thought it would be useful for us to have this little chat, von Lauderstein. You’re right, at present, we’re both lost. You can’t get back your mistress, Putzi probably won’t pay your debt to von Plugge now – that I.O.U. is still outstanding – and Putzi may even decide that it’s time for you to vanish from the scene altogether.”

  Von Falkenburg paused a moment to let the implications of what he had said sink in.

  “Tell me, von Lauderstein, have you never thought of changing sides?” he asked.

  Von Lauderstein’s mouth opened like a fish’s in astonishment.

  “You’re finished in Vienna, von Lauderstein, finished because Putzi won’t stand for any more of your bungling, finished because you can’t pay von Plugge if he doesn’t. Finished because even though what I have learned in the last seven days isn’t enough to save me, it’s enough to destroy you.”

  That last statement had nothing behind it, but von Lauderstein was too confused and demoralized to challenge it.

  “But if you’re finished here, there are plenty of other places, and I know someone who has the money to give you a new start there.”

  Von Lauderstein’s reply was a confused movement of his head and hands.

  “If you’re interested, let me know,” von Falkenburg said.

  “Good night, von Lauderstein,” he added, and walked out of the room.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Delighted you decided to drop by, von Falkenburg,” Putzi said. “You’re an interesting person to talk to, and I rather hoped I might have one last meeting with you.”

  Putzi glanced significantly at the mantelpiece clock to underline his words. Von Falkenburg’s last full day was well advanced.

  “Time is getting short, isn’t it, Putzi? For both of us.”

  Putzi’s only answer was to hand von Falkenburg a snifter of brandy he had just poured and say, “if I remember from your last visit, you find this stuff tolerable.”

  Von Falkenburg realized that with his show of indifference, Putzi had already taken some of the wind out of his sails.

  “You’re not very understanding of your friends, are you, Putzi? I’m referring, of course, to Colonel von Lauderstein.”

  “I would be very disappointed in you, von Falkenburg, if I seriously thought you were dull enough to actually believe that I have or want friends.”

  “Let’s say your tools, then,
Putzi. Shouldn’t a good workman take care of his tools?”

  “A good workman knows when a tool is worn out, and when it is, he throws it away.”

  “You are planning on throwing von Lauderstein away? I would have thought that would have its dangers.”

  “I spend less time planning than acting, von Falkenburg. The Danube is a big river, and one that flows fast. How far do you think it will carry von Lauderstein’s body? To the Black Sea? I doubt it, but far enough, at any rate.”

  It took all of von Falkenburg’s self control to keep his features composed. So Putzi had had von Lauderstein murdered!

  “I’m surprised you didn’t decide to add that crime to the others you’ve already tied around my neck, Putzi,” he managed to say at last in a nearly natural voice.

  “I thought of that, von Falkenburg,” Putzi said, “but time was of the essence. That was a nice gambit of yours with the card game…but then I’ve never underestimated you, just as I’ve never underestimated anyone in my life.”

  As he spoke, Putzi walked over to a beautiful little marble table with a chessboard inlaid on top, and sitting on the squares an antique Chinese ivory chess set. He casually moved the white king pawn two squares.

  “And you know what’s fascinating to me, von Falkenburg? Your plan, which I think I understand and which with von Lauderstein’s death has doubtless failed, depended on your winning heavily from him. Winning so much that he would have to give you an I.O.U. that you could send to me as final proof of his uselessness and unreliability, thus forcing him to consider a deal with you. And yet, even though you had to win, I would wager my life that it never occurred to you to cheat.”