“This would be for your own benefit then,” Hector said. “That’s what you’re saying?”
“Me and people like me,” she said carefully. “I told you that… you just didn’t grasp the implication, I guess.”
Hector still wasn’t sure he knew what she meant by that. Orson weighed her words as they hung suspended at the top of the wheel—dangling there and buffeted by the wind as someone was let off the car and onto the platform directly below them. “Then you see this as a means of leveraging racial equality,” Orson said. “That is what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
“In so many words, yes,” she said, “exactly that.”
“That I can endorse, then,” Orson said. “That I’ll still take some risks for.”
Cassie looked to Hector. “And you?”
“How would it work exactly?” Hector asked. “How exactly does your recovery of the Holy Lance advance the cause of race relations?”
“Suppose I can’t know that—let alone answer your question—until we see what I can do,” she said.
Somehow all that sounded even crazier to Hector than the notion of the Spear tipping the balance of power in favor of despots. He said, “And if it does work somehow to that end, when eventually you lose it or it’s taken from you as it has been taken from people throughout history—you’ll die what, a martyr?”
“Worse things to be,” Cassie said. “History travels on the backs of martyrs.”
“But I didn’t know any of them, didn’t care about them and was never in a position to talk them out of sacrificing themselves,” Hector said.
“And maybe that was all for the better,” Cassie said. “This is my choice. What’s your choice, Orson? Hector?”
“I’m prepared to help you, just as I said,” Orson said. “The relic will be yours.” He looked to Hector like some burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
It seemed to Hector to maybe also be disquieting evidence on the side of those Welles critics who contended Orson was not a “closer”—was in fact constitutionally incapable of finishing any of his undertakings, a perspective that seemed to be supported by the string of unfinished and mutilated Welles masterpieces littering the landscape in the wake of Citizen Kane.
Their descent was nearly complete. Cassie sat down between the men, took each of their gloved hands. “And you, Hector?”
He said, “If it’s truly what you want? If you’re certain, then I’ll help you see it through, despite how crazy it all seems to me.”
CHAPTER 38
ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN
Securing taxis remained a vexing challenge in the war-ravaged city.
They returned to their hotel to get some warmer clothes for Cassie and to arrange for fresh wheels. Because Orson was required back on set in a few hours to film a pivotal scene with Joe Cotton, the studio had condescended to furnish a private car to carry the actor and his entourage of two to and from “lunch.”
Orson was already wearing his Harry Lime suit, overcoat and hat. His make up needs were uncharacteristically minimal for this picture. Just this once, Orson was acting on film with his God-given nose.
Briefly passing them in the lobby on his own way to the set, Joe had confided to Hector his belief Orson was almost certainly turning in the performance of his career as the charismatic and charming but coldly evil racketeer Harry Lime. Hector was heartened to hear it.
As their bewildered driver passed the last of the city’s viable restaurants, asking if they really intended to be taken to what was essentially a scrap yard, Hector watched for tails.
So far there was little sign of trouble, but single cars were so sparse that conventional tailing presented its own challenges. As they drove on, Hector tried to think of ways he’d run surreptitious, car-to-car surveillance under the same circumstances and found himself confounded by the challenge.
***
The scrap yard was bounded by a high and rusting fence; its gate was unsecured.
Still confused as to their interest in the place, their driver, a man named Viktor Ebner, exited the car with them. He was intent upon taking a short walk to have a smoke. “I won’t go too far,” Viktor promised. “As you’ll soon enough realize, there’s little to see in there. You won’t be long, I’m telling you.”
When he returned to the car about ten minutes later, Viktor driver was surprised to find they were still inside. He frowned at the back of his car—the trunk’s lid wasn’t secured. Lucky for him it hadn’t come loose while driving, he thought. Clenching his cigarette between his teeth, he lifted and slammed the trunk lid down with both hands. He pulled up on it to make sure it was now indeed locked.
He next frowned at the fence line: a stretch of chain-link was peeled away from its support post. He didn’t remember it looking that way on the drive up, but then he had also been preoccupied by his pretty lady passenger, stealing glances at her in the rearview mirror on the drive over.
***
As they had approached the gate of the scrap yard, Hector registered the bag Cassie was carrying. He held out a hand and said, “Please, allow me.”
She passed him the bag but simultaneously reached inside. She extracted a large container of salt as the bag passed into his hands. In reaction to his expression, she said, “Just indulge me, please.”
“Of course,” Hector said. “Possibly bad for the birds though.”
“Worse for other things,” she said, finishing up her salt line across the entryway. She stowed the salt container back in her tote bag. “You may yet thank me for this, you know.”
“Maybe I will,” Hector said with little conviction.
Orson said, “Let’s keep moving along. Remember, time is short for me.”
Pointing, Hector said, “My source, a fella back at the amusement park, said that the cars salvaged from the wheel—whatever’s left of the balance of the former thirty that didn’t become the fifteen back at the park—are now scrapped somewhere at the back of this junk yard.”
“That’s almost like a kind of poetry, your phrasing, I mean,” she said.
Hector said, “To the back, drift leftward and down the hill.”
“Seems a long way to haul something that big,” Orson said.
“The road twists,” Hector said. “There’s also a rail line running across the back of the yard—that’s the way they get the bigger stuff moved here and deposited.”
Fresh flurries began to sift down. Already feeling a bit winded, Hector pushed on, leading the way.
Soon, an old man came trudging their direction, waving his arms and calling out questions about who had let them in and what they wanted in his field of junk.
Hector introduced himself as a scout for the movie production team, then said they were seeking the discarded cars from the great wheel for possible use in filming the movie that was so dominating Vienna’s newspaper headlines.
“But the real wheel is still standing you know,” the old man said, watching for a reaction to what he must have thought was news to them.
“Of course it is, but that’s not the way movie making is done,” Orson said. “You see you can’t get the cameras and lights up there on the ride. No, a car on the ground is much better in terms of stillness and just running power to the camera, in controlling lighting.”
The old man pointed toward the back of his sprawling rubbish heap. “They’re not in good shape, I warn you. But if you fancy one, then we can talk terms. You’ll find me in the shack nearest the gate—the one with chimney smoke, of course.”
“Of course,” Cassie said. She turned to Hector and said, “Come along Mr. Reed, Mr. Welles, before the weather worsens.”
It did seem as though they were losing the light, but several hours too early. Hector wondered if some winter storm front might be creeping in without proper prediction.
A jumble of red and black char lay ahead of them. Hector counted seven cars salvaged from the wheel, all of them in various states of destruction. Only one looked relatively intact;
the rest all lacked their roofs. A couple of the cars were missing their sides.
“So far as numbers go,” Hector said, “nearly each has at least one legible set of numbers still visible.”
But none of them were numbered twenty-five.
Only one car, all but kindling, had no discernible number. Orson said, “Hardly seems worth checking that one. There’s nowhere left to hide anything.”
A soft curse. Cassie smiled ruefully. “In its terrible way, it’s sickly perfect, isn’t it?” she said, her voice filled with dejection. “The damned Nazis blew up the very thing that might have saved them. Hitler destroyed the very relic he spent years obsessing over.”
“The least of his sins, in my view,” Hector said.
The rubbish heap’s caretaker was returning, waving a hand and calling out, “Hey there, any luck? Any chance this old man’s Christmas might be more prosperous than the last?”
“Still talking amongst ourselves on that topic,” Orson said. “Tell us, if a car from the wheel isn’t here, then where might it possibly have gone?”
“Woosh,” the old man said, pantomiming an explosion with his arms. “If it’s not here or back on the wheel in the park, then it’s gone to God.”
A train whistle blew at the back of the scrap yard, drowning out the old man’s next words. Arms still outstretched and waving, the old man shuddered, frowned. He took a false step or two, pulling his hands to his chest, then clutched at his heart and toppled over onto his back.
Hector was closest and saw the spreading red stain on the man’s chest and hands—realized the old man had been shot. He was drawing his gun even as he turned in the direction from which the shot had to have been fired.
Above the train whistle, a female voice called out, “Drop the gun now Mr. Lassiter, or your witch friend will be the next we shoot.”
Stalking down the hill behind them were three figures. One appeared to be a woman and her stocky little boy; the other was a tall, slender blond man—Klaus Fuchs.
The woman and child—his head still bowed—were the same ones they’d seen earlier at Prater, the ones who’d tried to share their car on the great wheel. The woman said, “I mean it, Mr. Lassiter, get rid of your gun.”
Hector complied in so far as he lowered his gun to his side but he didn’t let go of it. Somewhere out there was a fourth person—one with a rifle and a scope. For now, the trio and their hidden sniper held all the cards.
As he watched them draw closer, Hector wondered if the woman and child weren’t also the same ones he’d seen carrying balloons the night before, staggering their way toward his hotel before turning to follow the retreating Herr Fuchs.
Just a few steps from them now, the child looked up sharply and Cassie gasped. Even Hector was startled to see the boy’s face with its black moustache and goatee.
Hector was quickest to recover. He said, “Pavel Maslak, right?”
A nod. “Are you telling me this is where the search for the Holy Lance ends, Lassiter?”
“Afraid that’s so,” Hector said. He frowned at Klaus Fuchs, who seemed paler, more drawn than before. Something vacant in his eyes. “See you didn’t run home to your mother after all,” Hector said. “Unless this dumpy little German witch is mommy. Not going back was a mistake, Klaus.”
Cassie said, “Don’t waste your breath on him, Hec, he’s a thrall now.”
“A thrall?” Hector couldn’t keep the edge from his voice. “You mean now he’s a zombie, too?”
“A thrall, not a zombie,” Cassie said. “More like hypnosis at work here.”
The little man said, “Toss me the medallion.”
“Hell, why not,” Hector said. “It’s just a paperweight now.” He threw the little warlock the bronze disc.
The little man said, “Red twenty-five. You think that refers to one of these cars, then.”
“Sure,” Hector said. “Used to be thirty of them on the Prater’s wheel. Since the bombing, there are fifteen. Sadly, the one we want is kindling somewhere, and evidently the so-called Spear of Destiny with it. I mean, I’m not out here for my health.”
A mean smile from the little man. “What’s left of your health, you surely mean. What this witch,” he gestured at Cassie, “was able to maintain of your health against my attacks.”
“Yeah, well, I’m coming back either way,” Hector said. “By the way, are you two Thule or Vril? And who is the lady here, by the way?”
“We’re neither Vril nor Thule,” Maslak said. “My companion’s name isn’t of import to you. In fact, she insists on anonymity. If her real name were ever to come out, and her true age with it, there’d be a clamor for others of our secrets.”
Hector had just about reached the end of his patience with all this occult stuff. Orson also seemed to have reached his limit. The actor said, “The car we need is presumed destroyed. We’re no longer interested in pursuing this further, even if we could. We’re going to leave, and leave you here with disc and the cold dead trail.” Orson took a step and the ground erupted at his feet. The sound of the shot closely followed.
“Don’t move again,” Maslak said. “We’re far from done here, and things are far from settled.”
“Suppose that just might be so,” Hector said. “I certainly have a question or two still hanging in the wind. Like your age. I hear wild tales about you, old son. How many candles on your birthday cake this year, Pavel?”
The little man thought about it and said, “True immortality of course can’t be achieved, but let’s just say lives can be made long enough to seem something like forever, Mr. Lassiter. Whether it’s a blessing or a curse is open to debate after one has buried nearly everyone who mattered—all the ones lost to you because you can’t age and die like a normal man. And a note of caution if you think of hurting me now or sometime down the road of life. If you kill me, you inherit that blessing… that curse.”
Hector was more than prepared to put that one to the test. He said, “Look, let’s just all leave here without anyone else bleeding or dying like this poor old innocent man you’ve killed. Orson is right, the search is a dead end. The Nazis blew up the prize years ago. Let’s all just stand down and retire to neutral corners.”
The little man smiled and shook his head. “What a fool you two are, flummoxed and tricked by this self-styled white witch, as though there can ever really be such a thing. There is only one path and that is the left-hand path. Once feet are put upon it, there is no retreating, no turning back, we all become more the thing we always were. You’re either with God, or you’re with the Devil. If you practice the dark arts, even if you remained convinced you do it in the name of good, you still serve the Devil. This woman has betrayed you time and again, Lassiter.”
Cassie just shifted her gaze between Hector and the tiny Russian. “Woman is the Devil’s Door,” Maslak said. “It has been so since Eve, and you, you writer with all your books littered with femmes fatales, once again have fallen prey to the whiles of a scheming, dissembling woman. Tell him, witch! Tell him the terrible truth. Tell this man what it cost to ward him against my spell, what bloody thing you had to do, to literally sacrifice—who you had to sacrifice to keep him alive and recovering against my hexes. Tell the hack writer about how you have tricked him and his silly actor friend here, how you’ve done it today.”
The little man gestured at Orson. “Show the would-be magician, the parlor conjuror and ham actor how you tricked him. I want to savor his reaction—his real reaction, not the ones he manufactures on cue.”
Cassie said, “Hector, Orson, they aren’t going to let us walk away from here—you know that.”
“No, I’m sure that much is true,” Hector said carefully. “But they have somebody out there somewhere with a high-powered rifle and some kind of radio connection, clearly, so I’m still looking for next moves. While we wait for my next terrible epiphany, please address—or better, refute—this little monster’s claims. What did you do to try and save me?”
Ca
ssie’s dark eyes pleaded. “I’ll confess to this much, darling—a thing I do regret. While you were recovering, while Orson was wrapping up his film, I… I took a page from your playbook, I’d guess you’d say. I created a fake second medallion.”
“The one we’ve been following,” Hector said. “The disc that brought us here, it isn’t real?” Hector shook his head. “On reflection, an amusement park ride does smack of a hinky place to hide something so important… so holy.”
“That’s right. Closure for you two, at last, I thought. Safe passage back to the other side of the looking glass, while I assume all the risks, just as we finally agreed I would at the end. Something to stop all those who hunt you because they think you and Orson are the surest key to reaching the Holy Lance.”
Hector raised his empty hand in Cassie’s direction. He said, “If you have the real disc on you, give it to them now.”
“I don’t have it here. Why would I? And they’d surely kill us if I did give it to them, Hector.”
“I’ll surely kill these two men and right here, right now if you don’t,” Maslak said. “After all, I’ve already begun killing you, witch. You were careless with a fingernail, my dear. That’s more than enough for me to work my magic. Just a few words from my lips will bring it all down on you.”
“Wait, please,” Cassie said, looking stricken, holding up her hands. “The disc isn’t here. Let my friends go, let them go back to the hotel, and let me talk to them on the phone to know they are really safe there. Then I’ll take you to the disc.” She looked at the ground. “And then… let the heavens fall.”
Hector dismissed the little man’s occult threats against Cassie, his pale blue eyes urgently searching the horizon of the scrap heap for signs of the sniper.
“Why would I trust you after the way you’ve played these silly artists, these men who regard themselves as friends?” The little man smiled at Hector and said, “I’ll tell you what she wouldn’t. She killed a baby as part of her so-called white rite to save you from my hex. I thought attacking you directly would make her more malleable to my will, you see. I always knew this would come down to a contest between myself and this tainted bitch, a contest between our respective brands of magic. She loved you enough to kill a baby for you, but not nearly enough to give me what I want. Not enough to surrender the disc.”
The Great Pretender: A Hector Lassiter novel Page 23
