If he arrives, Krimmer thought. He still had some doubts. He waited impatiently. Four minutes later the call came: the subject in question was just entering the hotel.
So he is hanging in, thought Krimmer. Maybe, just maybe, he will do better than expected. “No photographs necessary. Save the film,” he said, and cut the connection.
He put in several brief calls, one to Renwick included. “Changed my opinion about him?” he asked indignantly, replying to Bob’s first question. “Never had one. He’s your boy. Not a bad type, on the whole. I’ve met worse. He makes guesses, did you know? Wait till I tell you his idea about a snatch. It could happen, too. We might start thinking along those lines.” Then he added the news about Lois Westerbrook, referring to her only by the name which Renwick used: Sugarpuss. And, of course. Grant’s afternoon with Helmut Fischer. “And that covers all the recent details,” Krimmer stated, ready to end the call.
But Renwick said, “We have a piece of news—from Washington. They managed to get hold of Mount Rushmore yesterday and discuss the situation with him. He’s listening. Has his own ideas. Might be useful. Meet me in Pete’s office and we’ll go over them. Usual time. Okay?”
Translate Pete into Prescott Taylor. Usual time meant one o’clock, when most people in the Embassy were out to lunch. And, of course. Mount Rushmore was Renwick’s name for Victor Basset. “He’s listening, is he?” Frank said in surprise. “If it isn’t too late,” he added.
“Always the cheerful optimist,” Renwick told him with a laugh. “See you.” And their cryptic conversation was over.
So Mount Rushmore had ideas of his own, thought Frank. We could expect that. They’ll probably turn out to be just another complication: the successful millionaire taking charge, asserting himself, once the shock (and the hurt to his self esteem, don’t forget that) had subsided. It must have been quite a day at the State Department, Mount Rushmore changing into Krakatoa. But after the blow-up, Victor Basset had listened. At least that was to his credit.
Krimmer opened a closet where he stored a few clothes, and exchanged the leather jacket for a well-tailored tweed. He added a tie, and was ready to face any Embassy at one o’clock. This time, the car he selected was a Porsche of undistinguished brown.
He nodded to the entrance-watcher in his glass-enclosed office and swung the Porsche out into the street. He’d reach United States territory, some distance away from the old city, in nice time even with a convoluted approach. Then he gave a broad smile as he remembered Renwick’s definition of the successful spook: a man who never journeys from one point to another in a straight line. Not even for a box of matches.
11
Over the door hung a gilded sign embossed with a double-headed bird, which might—with some effort of the imagination—be interpreted as an eagle. On either side of the entrance, a tub (plastic moulded to imitate carved stone) was filled with red geraniums. A wooden plaque, painted to look like bronze, announced that here was the Two Crowns Hotel, proprietor Bernard Mandel, founded 1856. At least the geraniums were real, Grant thought as he mounted two shallow steps. But he had to admit that the building, from the outside certainly, was prepossessing: it was one of the nineteenth-century houses that had invaded a medieval quarter, got their foothold, and defied further change.
Inside? He found himself in a medium-sized lobby made small, dominated by its furnishings. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the sun and the street. Lighting was provided by pink wall-fixtures of Venetian glass; chairs and couches, heavily upholstered, had bulging arms; low tables—blond wood with a hard glossy surface—had thick tubular legs; shining blond wood again for the massive reception desk; a staircase covered by the angular design of blue and red Turkish carpeting; highly polished parquetry on the floor, with electric-blue rugs; everything in order, everything spotless, a bourgeois heaven.
And empty at this hour, except for a small woman who was almost hidden by the desk. She turned from arranging some envelopes in their pigeon-holes and smiled at him inquiringly. He took a bold step on a treacherous rug, felt it threaten his balance, and halted, reminding himself to walk gingerly. She decided he was shy, tried to make him feel at home with another friendly smile, and asked if the gentleman would like a room.
“No,” he assured her. “I am looking for Mr. Mandel. Is he here? I am from New York. My name is Grant.”
It meant nothing to her. She picked up the telephone, still smiling at him—a sweet-faced woman with neat grey hair and a matronly figure, dressed modestly in a most unbecoming blouse. Her manner changed; she became nervous, frowning slightly, as she conveyed his message. “I’m sorry, Herr Mandel.” she said, suddenly contrite. “Of course, Herr Mandel.” She put down the receiver. She sighed. “I am new here, only three days. Herr Mandel did not want to be disturbed.”
With relief, Grant said, “Then I’ll leave a note.” He was forming it in his mind as he took a careful step towards the desk: Sorry to have missed you. Your brother-in-law asked me to call and bring his greetings from New York. And that, thought Grant, might get me out of this without too much skin off my elbow.
“No, no!” she protested. “Herr Mandel will see you. As soon as I said your name, he was pleased. One moment and he will be here.” She glanced at a door that lay below the steep rise of the staircase, and returned to her problem with the mail. Grant studied the wallpaper. Surely this place must have been redecorated since Max Seldov had seen it. It was quiet, as Max had said; but comfortable? Not to the eyes, certainly.
The door under the staircase opened and closed, and a man appeared with his head bent as if he were searching for something on the polished floor. Offending dust, perhaps? He had a green apron tied round his waist, black trousers, a silver-buttoned green waistcoat, and a snow-white shirt. He paused at a table to straighten an ashtray that was already squared, and looked briefly at Grant. Then he moved to the staircase, his head turned to let him survey the street through the open door, and began climbing. His head was still turned away from Grant, as though he found the screaming blue wallpaper with its splotches of yellow flowers completely absorbing.
He was halted on the third step by the woman at the desk. “Rupprecht!” she called worriedly, “What is this name? Fleisher or Fletcher?”
Rupprecht did not look back at her. He let out two sharp sentences about her stupidity, about the postmark—couldn’t she use her eyes, had she to be told everything? And went on upstairs.
The woman bit her lip. She was close to tears, but she managed a shaky smile for Grant before she began studying the stamp on the envelope. “American—then it’s Fleisher!” she told herself. “Fletcher is from Australia.” She looked up, caught Grant’s sympathetic glance. “It is difficult at first.”
Yes, he thought, it was difficult for a middle-aged woman who needed the job and was nervous about losing it. “You’ll soon learn,” he told her.
“I hope so. This is a very good hotel, such nice people. Rupprecht is not usually so cross. Oh, Herr Mandel—this is—” She stopped in confusion over forgetting Grant’s name, and turned to sorting the mail. So here was Bernard Mandel, founded 1856.
“Herr Grant?” Bernard Mandel came forward from the same door that Rupprecht had used. “It gives me pleasure to see you.” His English was pronounced carefully, almost without accent. “Max wrote me. He told me you would come here.” He seized Grant’s hand, shook it twice in a hearty grip, and then released it as suddenly as he had taken it. He was a massive figure, rounded and broad-shouldered, handsomely dressed in a grey flannel jacket with green facings. Greying hair receded from an extensive brow. Sharp grey eyes encompassed Grant at one glance. Soft red lips were now spread in a wide smile. His skin was indoors white, and gleaming with exuberance. Or, thought Grant, his jacket is too thick and his shirt-collar too tight. His welcome was certainly warm.
“Anna,” Mandel ordered, “go and have your lunch. Tell Hans to bring us a glass of wine. Go, go! I shall guard the desk.”
“No wi
ne, thank you,” Grant said. “I have only a few minutes—”
“No wine, Anna,” Mandel called after the woman as she was about to leave. And not, Grant noted, by the door that Mandel and Rupprecht had used. Mandel’s own private office? If so, Grant was not being invited inside. He sat on the edge of an armchair. Mandel sank into the couch. “And how is Max? Doing well?”
“Very well,” Grant said.
“But that job of his—buying pictures, selling them.” Mandel shook his head, pursed his lips. “Max, I told him, you do better to run a hotel. Oh, it is hard work, I know, but you have good food, a good bed, and good people around you. Of course, you have no moments of your own, but life is rich, interesting, so many different persons from so many different countries.” This developed into a monologue, kindly and yet slightly condescending, about the Two Crowns and its world-wide clientele. “As you see, Mr. Grant,” he waved an arm around the room, “we make our hotel like home.” He paused, waiting for confirmation.
“Very homey,” said Grant.
“One thing I am sincerely sorry over. Believe me, Mr. Grant. We have no bedroom that is free. Everything occupied.” He looked around him again. “Of course, our guests are out at this moment, visiting the city. You should come here in the evening, when all are returned. Then you would see how busy this place is. You would enjoy—”
“I’m sure I would. There really is no need to apologise. I didn’t come here looking for a room. Max asked me to bring you his best wishes, that’s all. He would have been disappointed if I hadn’t seen you. So—” Grant was on his feet, ready to say goodbye. Frank, he was thinking, may have been exaggerating—some deep antipathy, perhaps; some personal hurt that had turned to hatred. But Mandel dangerous? Sinister? The worst this type could do was to talk you to death.
“Such a short visit!” Mandel hefted his bulk out of the enveloping cushions and sighed with regret. “You are quite comfortable in your present hotel?”
“Very comfortable.”
“Good. Which is it?”
“The Majestic.”
Mandel raised his eyebrows. “Very nice, very nice. But expensive, no?”
Now, what will he write to Max? Grant wondered, and countered with, “Not for me. My expense account takes care of the bill.”
“Ah, you have business in Vienna?”
“I write articles for magazines.” Grant couldn’t resist adding, “About art.”
Then people in your business can make some money?” Mandel nodded his head, asked sadly, “Why does Max not write articles?”
“Max is doing all right, I assure you.”
“But he doesn’t travel like you. How long will you stay in Vienna?”
“Two weeks, I hope.” Suddenly, Grant was on guard.
“Two weeks? Some night you must come to dinner here, and meet my guests.”
“That’s very kind of you, but—”
“You are too busy with your own friends,” Mandel finished Grant’s sentence for him. “Of course, of course. You have many friends here?”
“A few. I spent some time in Vienna several years ago.” Grant began walking towards the entrance. Mandel accompanied him with a pace so slow that Grant’s progress became a step-halt-step-halt agony.
“They must be happy to see you. Been keeping you busy since you arrived? There is so much to do in Vienna. What have you visited?”
“Actually, I haven’t seen any of my friends as yet. I arrived only yesterday.”
Mandel threw up his hands. His face beamed. “You came to visit me so soon? I am flattered, Mr. Grant.”
“Well, I was up in the University district, and you were only a short distance away. It seemed a good idea—I might not be near the Schotten Allee again.”
“You know Vienna, I see.”
“I like to walk around. And this helps.” Grant drew the small Vienna guide-book from his pocket. The complete tourist.
Mandel waved it aside. “Yes, yes. I know it. I advise my guests to buy it.”
They were at the front door. “Well,” Grant said, “I’ll tell Max that you are—”
“A moment, please!” Mandel said, halting abruptly. “A present—something to send to Max and the family. But I have nothing ready.” He was desolate. Then his face lit up as he thought of something. “Mr. Grant, may I ask of you a favour? I buy a gift for Max, and you take it to New York. No need to declare it at the Customs—you say it is your own property. Will you do that for me? Duty is heavy if I send it by mail—and so long to arrive.”
“Well, if it isn’t something that’s breakable—” Grant began.
“It will be no trouble for you. I’ll choose something easy to carry, something you can slip into your suitcase.”
“You’d better let me know what it is. Its value, too. It will be questioned, and probably examined, by the Customs officer.”
“Ah—you do not like playing a little smuggling game?” Mandel was astounded.
“Frankly, no. I don’t like complications. Just mark the contents and the value on your package and we’ll keep everything simple.”
“Of course, of course. I’ll have it sent to your hotel before you leave. What is your room number?”
“307.”
“I am in your debt, Mr. Grant. On your next visit, I shall have a room for you here—if you have no expense account at the Majestic.” A hearty laugh, a hearty handshake. “Auf Wiedersehen!” He stood at the top of the steps to give a genial wave.
Well, what do you make of all that? Grant asked himself as he openly consulted his guide-book and took the direction for the nearest trolley-car. Apologies to Frank: he could have been right, after all. If it hadn’t been for his warning, Grant might have paid little heed to a few odd details. Probably he would have thought they were unimportant, just as he might have seen Mandel as a well-meaning and total bore. Now, however, the details seemed more than odd. They were definitely peculiar.
Such as: Anna offering him accommodation and Mandel maintaining there was no space available; Mandel’s delay in coming to meet him—or was he occupied with more important business? Mandel not letting him stray from that decorator’s nightmare of a room, instead of inviting him—more naturally—into the privacy of his office. (And wouldn’t Mandel, as the proud hotel-keeper, have tried to show Grant some of the other rooms? Thank God he hadn’t.) Or Mandel being so quick to accept Grant’s refusal of a drink, as though he wanted the visit to be brief. Yet not too brief. Once Grant started to leave, he slowed down the departure until he had his questions answered... Then there was the man Rupprecht: he would know Grant again, but did he hope Grant wouldn’t know him? That could explain his angry outburst: an excuse, in fact, not to come back downstairs and show his face. (Thin, dark-browed, sharp-nosed, was Grant’s memory of that one glimpse.)
Of course, it was possible that Anna understood little about the hotel’s reservations; nervous as she was in her new job, over-eager to please, she was simply trying to be efficient. Possible, too, that Mandel’s questions were prompted by a surfeit of curiosity, well-intended; a friendly man who was embarrassed by an inconvenient visit. Yet one fact still remained: Mandel had wanted Grant to clear out, and stay out. Comic, thought Grant: the opposite of what he had expected. Yes, comic. And definitely peculiar.
He paused at the corner, and—just in case he was still being watched from the steps of the Two Crowns—consulted the guide-book once more. Half-way to the trolley-car’s stopping-place, he saw a taxi and hailed it with relief. Soon he’d have a leisurely lunch in the Kärntnerstrasse, get the taste of the Two Crowns out of his mouth. After that, a pleasant stroll to Helmut Fischer’s shop. It would be open by three o’clock.
12
Three o’clock meant ten minutes after the hour. Perhaps more. Grant ought to have remembered that Helmut Fischer was never punctual: he had equal disregard for time and money, an easy attitude to adopt if you were born into a thriving family business. He had inherited it at the heady age of twenty-two
, and then astonished the more light-minded among his friends by leaving Vienna when the Nazis moved in. He could have stayed, even made it profitable: some of the old-school German officers, unlike Gentleman Goering, actually paid for the pictures they coveted. But Helmut Fischer was his own master—both parents dead, his sister married to an American—and he meant to keep it that way. First, he retreated into his beloved mountains; and then, when his small village was invaded by a detachment of the master race, made the long and dangerous escape to England. Detention, red tape, poverty, inaction: years he never talked about. Eventually, he persuaded the Free French to use his talents in mountain-climbing and skiing, and was dropped into Bavaria as the snows were melting and the war was ending. Fischer’s anecdotes always finished with a wry touch of humour, usually against himself. And in spite of the discipline of those war years—perhaps because of it?—he still couldn’t open his shop on time.
Grant decided not to loiter around its window. Instead, he would continue on his after-lunch stroll, and find out if the man across the street was really interested in him.
Grant had first noticed him—quietly dressed in a dark blue suit—as they almost collided at the corner of Singerstrasse, and thought nothing of it—just someone waiting for a friend at a crowded intersection. But the man had stopped waiting: he walked barely ten yards behind Grant until Fischer’s shop was reached, then sauntered across the narrow street as if some window over there had caught his eye. No one could have followed me from the Schotten Ring, Grant worried; no one... The taxi hadn’t been waiting for him—it was a matter of sheer chance to hail it, a matter of luck to have it stop for him, even if it was driven by a grinning maniac who had whisked him at incredible speed through impossible streets. Nor had he observed anyone concentrating on him when he sat over a long lunch at a café table. Not until Singerstrasse itself was there any hint that he was being followed. Hint? The man was practically bludgeoning him with the fact. Either he takes me for a damned idiot, Grant thought angrily, or he’s more of a fool than I am.
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