His eyes dropped to her slippers, twists of colored silk coiled on stilted golden heels. He pointed to the flickering sign a block away. “We’ll have a drink and decide.” He took her arm and pushed her forward.
The place was down at the heels and the eyes of the too few customers were resentful of her exquisiteness. Piers didn’t care. He propelled her to the back of the long bar. “Champagne or absinthe, beloved?”
She looked across at the bartender. Piers was afraid then she meant to speak, to give him over. He had forgotten that he was wanted. It had been a mistake to allow her to divert him.
But she didn’t betray him. She said, “I’ll take what you wish, Piers.”
He ordered, “Two brandies.” The liquor burned him. He looked at Morgen, the way her hair lay against her cheek, the way red roses scented her breast. He didn’t want a hostage. He wanted only somewhere to lay his head. He put his hand against her arm. “You’d best go back to Hugo.”
“No,” she said.
He struck, “He doesn’t want you empty-handed.”
Her face held the beauty of a beloved. “He wants me any way I come to him.”
The truth seared him and he said angrily to the bartender, “Another brandy.” He swallowed it in one draught.
She said, “Have you decided where we go?”
It came to him then, that simply. How to hold the hostage and to escape her. His eyes narrowed. “He wants you but you won’t go empty-handed, is that it?”
She was silent.
He smiled at her. “If you’ll take me to Fabian, I’ll give you the letters.”
Her mouth was small with anger. “I don’t know where he is. No one knows. Not even Gordon.”
“I’d be safe there. No one knows.”
She put down her glass. “We can’t continue like this. I’ll go wherever you say.”
He lifted her fingers, turned her hand and touched the palm. “Devotion. Moving, isn’t it?”
She said, “Call a cab, Piers. We can’t stay here.”
He smiled at her. “Yes.” She had made the suggestion. Call a cab. Call Willie. He took the card from his pocket. “I’ll do that, dear one. I even know where we’ll be safe. With a murderer. But you won’t mind that.” Willie could take care of her. Piers would leave her safe with Willie. He wouldn’t be stricken until they had Morgen again.
He walked to the phone booth at the front of the room. He didn’t touch the handle of the door. He had glimpsed outside the pane the round shadowy face of the German hireling. Anger shot into him; now that he had made his plans he wouldn’t have them thwarted by the follower. He strode to the door. He heard Morgen calling after him, “Piers—wait—”
He pushed outside. The man was starting fast across the street. Piers ran, he caught the coatsleeve, swung the dumpy figure about. The moon face stammered with sudden fright. Piers said, “Sorry. I don’t want you tonight.” He drew back his fist and he thudded it against the jaw. The man fell heavily. His head broke against the curb.
“Piers!” She screamed it now.
He said bitterly, “I suppose he has a weak heart.” The man lay without motion.
“Piers!”
From the bar doorway, the curious were emerging. He had to let her go, to take his chances alone. There was nothing else to do. If the police took him, he would never see Fabian or peace. He turned her to him. “I can’t carry you further. Not now. Don’t try to follow me. Good-by, Morgen.” He kissed her and then he ran crazily into the dark side street with her screaming and the sudden shouts of the bystanders after him.
He ran faster than they could run. He couldn’t have retraced his path, ducking, twisting, lurking, cutting back. He didn’t know the block where he found a subway kiosk; it was somewhere on Lexington. He felt the breath of pursuit as he clattered down the steps, fumbled for a nickel, and pushed past the turnstile just in time to catch the train roaring in. But they weren’t behind him; the stairs and platform were empty when the train jerked out again.
When the Sixties appeared he knew it was a downtown subway. His breath began to modulate and he straightened his tie and coatsleeve. He’d lost his hat when he ran. It didn’t matter. She’d give his name to the police when they came but they already had the name. He wondered if the uncle of Johann Schmidt actually had a weak heart. The man had lain so still. He wondered if he had held the power of death again in his hand.
He left the train at Grand Central and shuttled to Times Square. When he emerged to the street, Broadway was as untouched, as beautiful and garish and heartless as always. She didn’t know the battle being waged on her doorstep against one of her children; if she knew she wouldn’t care. She had too many children to care about one. She would know nothing until the bombs fell again.
He walked on the opposite side from the Astor. He lifted his eyes to the fifth floor window, that center window. He thought there was a shadow but he didn’t know. He couldn’t enter through the lobby; Cassidy had warned him not to be seen again tonight. It wouldn’t be Cassidy alone after him now; the call would have gone out to the department from Gordon as soon as he left the Waldorf. They weren’t afraid of him. Not now with Anstruther known dead.
Morgen knew a way in not through the lobby. So did he, if no guards were on the door. Now that he had run from Morgen the want of her was in him again. He could have had her with him this night, for comfort against the cold of tomorrow. Despair was fogging him anew. There was no way that his voice could be heard tomorrow, not without Fabian. Fabian must speak for him. David would come. The Africans too knew it was the last night; they must have seen his message by now.
He circled to the service entrance and he hesitated. But he couldn’t hesitate; he must go on. There was no one seeming to watch it. He went inside; he wasn’t challenged. He climbed the stairs until the count said the fifth floor. He had miscalculated. He descended one flight, went still unchallenged to his own door. He put in the key and opened it. Only when he stood in the open doorway did it occur to him that he might have been shot down as he entered, that the enemy could have been waiting here. It was then he saw in the half-darkness the figure against the far wall.
“David.” Unbelieving, he uttered his relief.
“Come in quietly and close the door.” Hugo’s voice was stone. “I am waiting. You are covered by my gun.”
Piers closed the door and he stood there while the lights lifted, bright and red and blue. He saw the blunt barrel of the automatic, the protuberance of a silencer within it. He didn’t move. “Why are you here?”
“Those letters. You will give them to me.”
He took his time. “You offer me my life in exchange?”
“I offer you nothing. I have come for those letters.”
Piers asked mildly, “If these were so important, why were they kept in open files?”
Hugo said, “They were harmless unless you should read them. You who know too much.”
“Too much to live?”
“Exactly.”
Piers took a breath. “I don’t intend to die.”
Hugo’s mouth was scornful.
“I don’t think I will die until you know what I have done with Morgen.”
The immobility was shaken. “Morgen—” He brazened. “She led you here and she escaped. You are bluffing.”
That had been the plan, not for her to get the letters from him but to lead him to Hugo. She knew where Hugo would wait. And if she couldn’t lead Piers there—but she knew and Hugo knew he would return here tonight. They had seen and understood the message to David. They would even know David; with them nothing was left to chance.
Piers shrugged. “Then kill me. You aren’t going to get the letters yet.”
Hugo’s voice chunked the words. “Where is Morgen?”
“She is safe.” He asked lightly, “How did you get into this room?”
“Where is Morgen?”
“You don’t believe that she is safe for the present? Why don’t you search for her? Or is that benea
th the dignity of the new Führer?”
Hugo hardened. “You have found that out.”
“Morgen told me. We are old friends, you remember? What did you and Bianca decide?”
Hugo asked, “Why did Morgen tell you?”
His voice was soft. “I persuaded her, shall we say?”
The lights showed the labor of Hugo’s mind. “If you have injured her—”
“Injured Morgen? I who saved her from the International Judgment?”
He said harshly, “That you might deal in your own fashion.”
“Vengeance is the Lord’s, Hugo. If I had wanted it, could I not have carried it out long ago?”
“Not as now. Now when we are ready for fulfillment. Morgen has worked for this—that I may ascend my rightful place.”
“Don’t say too much,” Piers warned.
“Why not? You won’t repeat this. Even if you should, you have been discredited. The United States Government is seeking you. The man who killed Anstruther, stole his papers for his own use.”
Piers was fired with rage. He didn’t care about the gun; he was a man of peace but he would have killed Hugo at this moment with his bare hands had Hugo been Gordon. His fists tightened but he spoke quietly. “You’re saying a lot of words, Hugo. We call it whistling in the dark.” Hugo wasn’t going to kill him. He was to live to settle with Gordon. “You don’t have the Anstruther papers. You don’t have the African letters.” His mouth twisted. “You don’t have Morgen.”
Hugo was gusseted with doubt. Had he, Piers, been armed, he could have winged him then. The man was off guard. Piers pressed on. “You are easily taken in, you new Germans. Just as were the old. Do you remember the Russian campaign? You’ve believed that Gordon was discrediting me. You haven’t looked deeper. You haven’t considered that we too could play a game to discredit you.”
Hugo’s smile was confident. “Gordon is our man, Piers. We didn’t have to convince him; he came to us three years ago in Rio. He planned Anstruther’s death, not us.”
Piers knew Hugo lied. He’d listened to German lies so often. Gordon was their man, yes, but out of passion and ignorance. Piers’ lip curled, “You put guilt on him for the plan, on me for the fulfillment?” He shook his head. His suggestion was mendacious as Hugo’s own. “I know Schern’s treacherous touch too well for that, Hugo. You think the police are after me because Gordon told you that? It has never occurred to you that they were put on me to protect me? That this room is under constant surveillance? That Cassidy will be up here soon to make his regular check? Then what will you do, Hugo? If something has happened to me, you will face the law.”
Doubt riddled Hugo. It wouldn’t have shaken Schern but Hugo wasn’t a diplomat, he was a decoration. He spoke with anger out of his unsureness. “I don’t want any more words. I want those letters.”
“After you have them, you will kill me?”
The mask of the beast was over his face. “Turn out your pockets.”
“They aren’t on me.”
“Turn them out.”
“You’re not afraid I’ll pull a gun?”
Hugo said, “We know you do not carry a gun.” There was no doubt that the dossier was definite.
Piers shrugged. He emptied his pockets on the bedspread. He did it slowly, spreading out the scant display, opening the billfold to show its innocence. He even laid the key-ring there—with such a number of keys Hugo could not recognize an important one. “Nothing, you see.”
Hugo walked to them, the gun still pointed. He touched them apart. “Where are the letters?”
Piers was silent.
Hugo lifted the gun and he struck Piers across the mouth with it. Piers tasted blood and helpless fury.
Hugo repeated without inflection, “Where are they?”
He said bitterly, “Where you will never lay hands on them.” He added, “No matter what you do.”
Hugo’s mouth smiled but his eyes were inhuman. He said, “You’ve had your chance. Morgen didn’t want you to die. Not for any reason you think. Because she thought I might be involved. But no one saw me enter this room. I know because I was covered when I came in. No one will know who killed you.”
For the first time the reality smote Piers; he was to die. He was to stand here and die. And with him would die the hope for peace.
“I have a silencer. I know you are not protected by the police; I know Gordon better than you. If you did pass the letters to someone else, I’ll let Schern take care of that. Without your word to corroborate them, they won’t be of much use. I don’t believe they’ll be any danger with you out of the way.”
Piers drew forth again the weapon he’d counted on, his last chance. “You may kill me, yes, and what about Morgen?”
Again there was the faintest hesitation. And in the silence from his stand near the door, Piers heard the elevator doors open, heard the footsteps approaching his room. David now, too late. And quickly he knew he was wrong; David did not walk with sound. It was the police. He had spoken truth without knowing, the police would keep checking on his room. He couldn’t escape the law now; he could escape death. He smiled.
Hugo didn’t understand the smile. He raged, “You’re lying about Morgen, too. You wouldn’t have hurt Morgen, she means too much for you.”
“One thing I wasn’t lying about,” Piers said. “The police detective is coming to this door right now.”
Hugo backed into deeper shadow.
“You can’t kill me, not and get away with it. It’s too late now, Hugo. He’ll take me. The government will have the letters before tomorrow.”
Hugo’s mouth moved. “Stand away from that door. Let him come in.”
He realized with sudden horror what Hugo meant to do. Only the beast was there; another killing meant nothing. And as he realized he suddenly recognized the steps. They were not those of a man. The rap sounded.
“Stand away. And say nothing.”
His throat was dry. “You can’t do it. You won’t get away with it. It’s murder.”
“Quiet.”
“The law will take you.” The sweat stood on his temples, in his eyes. “You can’t escape no matter what you do. You can’t lie to Cassidy—he doesn’t like Germans.” He was pushing, pushing the man to the brink of fear, of self-control. His teeth cut into his broken mouth. “I’ll live and I’ll have the letters. You’ve lost. Put away the gun.”
Hugo’s word was a snarl. “Quiet.”
He heard the pass key in the lock, the knob turning. The lights from Broadway faded. That alone he couldn’t plan. As the door swung open in the darkness, Hugo fired the silenced shot. She walked into it, kept walking.
Hugo’s face was raw. “Morgen!” The lights came up. He cried it, “Morgen!”
Her mouth opened but only blood came out. She crumpled and she lay there, moving, but without movement. Piers closed the door. He saw the gun where it had fallen from Hugo’s hand but he didn’t move. Hugo stumbled forward, knelt to her.
Piers’ throat closed. “Don’t touch her!”
Hugo didn’t hear. Piers circled to the gleam on the rug. He picked it up and pointed it at the man. There was agony beneath the numbness. He repeated, “Don’t touch her!”
Hugo raised his head. His empty eyes saw Piers. “You killed her.” His voice was livid as a wound. “You killed her!” He came to his feet. “You knew she was there.”
Piers said, “It was her life or mine. Mine was more important.” The smile was terrible on his face. “She died for you. And you will die for her, for murdering her.”
Hugo’s voice was without feeling. “I hate you. I’ve hated you since the days of Berlin. You and your sanctimony. You and your arrogant righteousness, while you were signaling the bombs to destroy my country. I wanted to kill you the first night I met you. Morgen wouldn’t let me. She liked your pretty face.”
“She loved me,” Piers said. He was trying to understand. “It wasn’t something she could explain. But she loved me. The way she m
ight have loved the good if she’d ever had a chance to know it.”
Hugo moved as in a dream. “I’m going to kill you.”
Piers said quietly, “I have your gun.”
“You killed Morgen. I’ll kill you.” He was whispering it, like one mad, and he kept moving.
Piers held the gun steady and then willfully he thrust it away. He didn’t want Hugo to die. He wanted him to be destroyed and to live, to live as he, Piers, would live and grieve. He needed no arms with which to battle Hugo; it must be tooth and claw alone.
As for himself, he knew now he was not to die. He had the gift of death for others, not for himself. The gift he had borne to Anstruther, to a nameless man on Broadway, in full knowledge to Morgen. The hate in him matched the hate in Hugo as they met. The lights faded, the lights glittered, with the unendurable ceaseless rhythm of a heart, of the cosmos. She lay white and silent, not seeing the beasts that tore at each other, because she was dead. This was jungle, only jungle ways were valid.
There was fresh blood in Piers’ mouth, the blood of his enemy wetted his thumbs. They fell, beating, scraping at each other. And in the heat Piers saw her face, the stillness of it, the desolation on her mouth, the stain spreading below the roses on her breast. All of his judgment on the man who had forced him to destroy her went into that last blow. Hugo was still.
Piers’ breath jerked. The faint residue of man-spirit in him alone kept him from killing the beaten man where he lay. He rose unsteadily. He rasped, “Get up.”
Hugo lay quiet. Another weak heart? He stirred the body with his toe. “Get up. Finish it.”
Hugo didn’t move. Piers took out his handkerchief, wiped at the blood on his face. He didn’t see the quick grasping movement. He heard the report of the silenced gun and the sting in his shoulder. He fell on Hugo before he could fire again and he broke the gun out of the man’s hand. He didn’t use it. His fists beat the final blows.
Hugo twitched and was still. This time he wouldn’t move. Piers swayed to his feet again. He looked at the gun in his hand. Mechanically he broke it, removed the shells. He didn’t want to be shot in the back. He didn’t trust Hugo von Eynar even when he lay unconscious. Piers dropped the empty gun beside Hugo’s hand. His own prints covered it, his and Hugo’s. It didn’t matter now. If Germany won tomorrow, nothing mattered. If they lost, his truth of tonight would be accepted. He wiped his mouth again and he walked to the door.
Delicate Ape Page 17
