Pray for a Brave Heart

by Helen Macinnes

  Meyer nodded. “But we didn’t find everything. Such as nice portable pieces of property, easily hidden, intensely valuable. Do you remember the Herz diamonds, the Delval emeralds, the Dyckman jade collection? Considerable fortunes, all of them.”

  “Three for the file marked Failures.” Something stirred in Denning’s memory. “Gentleman Goering lifted them, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. But once the war was over, we couldn’t find them. They vanished, into air, into thin air.”

  “Or into neat leather bags buried under some potato patch.”

  “The British searched their Zone. We searched. The French searched—but madly.”

  “Oh yes, I remember now… The Herz collection belongs to France.”

  “The owner having died at Dachau, his daughter in Ravensbrück, and every known relative in Auschwitz. The Nazis were thorough.”

  “I suppose the Russians searched, too?”

  “They assured us there was no sign of Goering’s precious stones. They assured us three times, and then even I ran out of ideas how to ask them again, politely.”

  “You didn’t risk sending any of your own men into East Germany?”

  “We’ve had all kinds of fun and games,” Max said soberly. “Some of them weren’t very amusing, either. Then,” he studied his over-decorated socks with distaste, “I was taken off the job in 1948. Someone higher up was persuaded it was all a waste of time.”

  “Was persuaded?” Denning echoed. “You mean that literally?”

  Meyer shrugged his shoulders.

  Denning said, “And who put you back on the job?”

  Meyer stared. Then he smiled. “I like you, Bill. I like you very much.”

  “But you’ve moved out of Restitution of Property. I don’t see why—” He hesitated.

  “Why I’ve started being interested again?”

  Denning said, “I don’t suppose you ever stopped being interested. But”—he hesitated again—“why not let it all rest, Max? Especially,” he added, “especially when diamonds and emeralds are just a lot of decorative glitter.” He rose, stretching his back muscles stiffly, and started hunting for more cigarettes.

  Meyer watched him as he searched under the ties on the bureau. He said quietly, “I don’t suppose anyone who has been working with displaced persons, as you’ve been doing recently, feels much interest in glitter. Not even in three million dollars’ worth of Herz diamonds.”

  “You’re damn well right,” Denning said. He found the cigarettes and tore open the pack roughly.

  “But what will the glitter buy? That’s something else again.”

  Denning lit a cigarette and walked over to the window.

  “There are people, you know, who will pay a fortune willingly for the Herz collection.” Meyer’s low voice came softly across the room. “No questions asked about how the money will be used. But that’s what interests us, Bill: just how will the money be used?”

  “How?” Denning pulled back the folds of the heavy curtains, and looked down into the prim street with its row of placid grey buildings, now retreating into black shadows, remote and cold under the sparse street lights. People still walked down there, fewer in number, more slowly, but with the same preoccupation in their own lives.

  “If someone wanted to finance a secret project, then the possession of the Herz collection would be doubly valuable. No one suspects its existence: everyone agrees it was a casualty of the war, buried too well, forgotten, probably to be discovered by some astounded farmer a hundred years from now. So the secret sale of the Herz diamonds could start a huge hidden fund. The Dyckman jade would add to it. So would the Delval emeralds. Yes: it would grow into a sizeable fund.” Denning let the curtain fall back into place before he answered. “For what?”

  “For the buying of men’s minds. It costs money to finance treachery.”

  For a moment Denning said nothing. “Then I’d double my advice about giving up your search. Leave the glitter buried safely under the potato patch.”

  “I wish we could.”

  Denning came back into the centre of the room, and stood there, watching Meyer.

  “The Herz diamonds are moving out of Europe,” Meyer said.

  “What?”

  “Moving, secretly. Much too secretly.”

  “But where?”

  “Destination ultimately America, we are told. They will be smuggled skilfully. Sold discreetly. And the secret fund will be established. Or reinforced. To be used—” Meyer shrugged his shoulders.

  “Against us?”

  “It certainly won’t be used to aid and comfort us.”

  Denning reached for a chair, emptied its contents on to the floor, and then bestrode it. He said thoughtfully, “And who’s behind all this?”

  “Whoever was in a position to find the diamonds.”

  “Is that all you can tell me?”

  “For the moment, yes. Except that it’s a major operation, obviously.”

  “How did you find out about the Herz collection?”

  “That’s one of the ironies of our jobs, Bill. For years I’ve worked on this problem. Results: zero. Then, three days ago, suddenly, a man came to see me in Frankfurt. Quietly. A frightened little man.”

  “An informer?” Denning spoke the word without enthusiasm.

  “If it weren’t for informers, the jails would be half-empty, and murderers would walk free,” Meyer replied calmly. “Ask any policeman, Bill.”

  “I know, I know.” Denning was impatient. “But can you trust this man?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly throw my arms around him and kiss him on the brow, but I’d listen to what he had to tell. An informer and his information are two quite separate things. You don’t have to stroke the bee to get the honey.”

  “He isn’t just one of those types who want a little publicity?”

  Meyer was suddenly amused. “Hardly. He’s a jewel thief, Bill.”

  Denning looked startled.

  “He’s one of a syndicate, a very minor member,” Meyer continued, enjoying the moment thoroughly. “Actually, it was his boss who sent him to tell me what their intelligence service had discovered. Amusing, isn’t it?”

  “In a sour kind of way.” Then, thoughtfully, Denning said, “How do you rate their intelligence?”

  “Judge for yourself. Here’s their information. First, the diamonds have moved out of East Germany. Second, they have already reached as far south as Switzerland. Third, they are to be smuggled out of Europe, probably by way of Genoa. Fourth, the flat price is three million American dollars, cash on the barrelhead.”

  Denning considered all that. “If this syndicate is any good at its own speciality, why don’t they steal the diamonds before they leave Europe?”

  “Because they’ve discovered that the organisation which is moving the diamonds is more powerful than they are. Much more powerful.”

  “And I suppose we are to take action—”

  “We haven’t much choice, have we? Genoa worries us. Naturally. Next step, New York.”

  “—and once we’ve controlled the situation, they will take the diamonds before the French can get them. Is that the idea?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised. We’re the simple-minded Americans. Once we stop the diamonds from reaching New York, we lose interest. That’s what the jewel thieves expect, anyhow. Naive characters, in their own way.”

  “So that’s, why they came to you, and not to the French?”

  “They refused to give any information to the French.”

  “Somehow, I don’t feel this is very complimentary to us. Who is head of the syndicate?”

  “Nikolaides, a Bulgarian possibly, of probably Greek descent, now a French citizen.” Meyer gave a wave of his hand, dispensing with Nikolaides. “He isn’t important to us, except that he sent Charles-Auguste with that startling information.”

  “Charles-Auguste who?”

  “Maartens. Charles-Auguste Maartens. Let’s call him Charlie for short. I’m
meeting him in Bern. Thursday night. Eleven o’clock.”

  “And he’s scared?” A frightened little man, Denning remembered.

  “He’s scared stiff.”

  “I don’t like it, Max,” Denning said slowly. “I don’t like it one bit. You’re meeting this man, yourself?”

  “That’s the arrangement he made. I wasn’t in any position to argue with him.” Meyer grinned suddenly. “That’s my general excuse. Between us, I just want to close the file on the Herz collection—personally.”

  “What do you expect to find out from him?”

  “The sailing date from Genoa. That, at the very least.” Meyer didn’t elaborate. He went on, “We’re meeting at the Café Henzi.”

  Denning frowned, trying to place the café. “Where is it?” he had to ask.

  “It’s just off the Kramgasse, north of the cheese market. It’s popular with tourists. Strange how they always like to eat and drink near an open market place: makes them feel the food must be good, I suppose.”

  “I could reach Bern by Thursday morning,” Denning said. That would give him the day to wander around the Lower Town, time to make sure of the Café Henzi.

  Meyer’s face relaxed. He said quietly, “That would be fine, Bill.” Then, watching Denning’s thoughtful eyes, he added, “Don’t start worrying about the details. You won’t be in the Café Henzi, anyway.”

  Denning looked up swiftly. “You’re meeting Charlie by yourself? Alone?” He shook his head. “That’s really tricky, Max. Very tricky.”

  “It will be easy,” Meyer assured him, “compared with these last three days. God!” He sighed wearily. “I’ve been checking on Charlie-for-Short”—he pointed to his clothes—“I’ve started some of our people doing research on Boss Nikolaides and his syndicate. I got one of our men, Taylor, to make a journey to Munich and contact Le Brun of the French Intelligence. I got another to meet Johann Keppler who’s in Swiss Security. And neither Boss Nikolaides, nor the group that is moving the diamonds, had to have the least suspicion that we were doing any of that.”

  “I must say you’re a fair example of the simple-minded American. Nikolaides will be disappointed with you.”

  Meyer grinned cheerfully. “To hell with men like Nikolaides. He uses me, so all right, I’ll use him.”

  “I can imagine the feelings of the French if you had hidden this news from them,” Denning said dryly. “Or of the Swiss, who must be pretty tired of having their peaceful country used by other people for their secret skirmishes.”

  Meyer nodded, and rose. He smoothed down his trousers, pulled at his coat. “Too damned tight,” he observed critically.

  “Très chic, très snob, presque cad,” Denning consoled him. “But I still feel the overcoat is a mistake.”

  Meyer said, “Black and shapeless as the shadows. It has its merits. I take if off before I enter a cellar café. In the streets—I prefer to be undistinguished. Sometimes not even a friend of Charlie’s.” He moved over to pick up his criticised coat. “I hope I look just one of the little men—sporadically affluent. Now, if I were mixing with the upper echelons, such as Boss Nikolaides, I’d have monograms and caviare all over my shirt front.”

  “Real black caviare, daddy? The kind whose dye doesn’t come off?”

  “One more crack out of you, son, and I’ll promote you to carrying my gold toothpick.”

  Denning said, in a thick accent, “Enoff of thiss foolish laugh-making. Where do I stay in Bern, blast you?”

  “Try the Aarhof. Reasonable. Respectable. Not too far from the station.”

  “That may be useful, for a quick exit.”

  “I hope you won’t need that kind of usefulness,” Meyer said, his voice now completely serious. “Take it easy, won’t you, Bill? just travel as you planned, and enjoy yourself. Have fun.”

  “Sure. Almost,” Denning reminded him.

  “Golf clubs, camera, and all. Don’t pretend anything. You still know me, in case anyone should inquire. But you just haven’t seen me for a couple of years.”

  “You’re desk-bound in Frankfurt,” Denning agreed; “and how shall I get in touch with you?”

  “I’ll let Keppler, the Swiss Security man, arrange that. He knows Bern’s possibilities. Once I’ve met Charlie at the Café Henzi, we’d all better get together—you and Le Brun and Keppler and I. And then, you can deliver my report, word for word, in case I have to go jet-propelled off to Genoa.”

  “I hope you aren’t relying on me alone—” Denning began quickly.

  “Oh, I’ll have other reinforcements,” Meyer said quickly. “I hope,” he added. Then he smiled grimly. “Perhaps I’ll be busted right down to a lieutenant without either hyphen or colonel, next time we meet.” He studied the floor at his feet for a long moment. “I’m too vague for you, Bill?” he asked suddenly.

  “I don’t suppose it’s wise to be more specific.”

  “Actually,” Meyer struggled into his coat, “I’ve told you more than I’ve told any one man. I’ve turned in a full report, of course, so that I’ll get some backing and proper action. But a report is a report.” He faced Denning suddenly. “Remember my regrettably emotional outburst earlier this evening? For the buying of men’s minds, I think I said. How would that look in a report? Yet I meant it. I know I’m right. But how would it look?”

  “Regrettably emotional.”

  “You can imagine some poor guy, just below the policy-making level, scratching it out and substituting ‘presumably for propaganda purposes’. Then the next man to read it murmurs, ‘Oh, not those dreary peace-front meetings; not those mimeographed appeals, all over again.’”

  Denning’s face showed the shadow of embarrassment. He had translated Meyer’s phrase about buying men’s minds on that same pedestrian level.

  But if Meyer noticed he had scored sharply, he didn’t say. He went on, quietly, “By the time the report reached the policy makers, it would be as weak as China tea, watered down until a three-day-old baby could drink it.”

  Denning dusted off Meyer’s hat and held it out. “I’ll be your report. And I don’t water down easily.”

  “That’s what I want, Bill.” Meyer smiled suddenly. “When we meet in Bern, I’ll be able to fill in a lot of gaps for you.” He frowned at the floor again.

  “Forgotten something?” Denning asked. He knew Meyer’s difficulty: to tell enough, without telling too much. Only the completely necessary facts had been given, and now Max was reviewing them, worried in case he had left out something small but vital.

  “Recently, in my own job,” Meyer said slowly, “I’ve—” Then he stopped short. What he had discovered during the last three weeks wasn’t proved yet. Perhaps there was no connection after all with the money which the diamonds would bring. He looked at Denning. “Never mind about that—it’s just something I’m going to work on, once I finish this business with Charlie. It may all connect.” He gripped Denning’s arm and moved to the door. “One thing I did forget,” he said lightly. “About Keppler. Don’t be alarmed if he sends you messages signed Elizabeth. He’s definitely well-adjusted.”

  And with that, he was at the door, pausing, listening, and then opening it. Just as quickly, as silently, it closed behind him.

  For a long moment, Denning stood quite motionless. He could hear nothing at all. He resisted a foolish impulse to switch off the lights and go over to the window. In the quiet street below, two cars passed.

  Then he moved slowly over to the bureau. He straightened Peggy’s photograph. He stayed there with it, his hand on the leather frame, his eyes thoughtful. There was something more to all this than Max had been able to tell him. He remembered the grim look on Meyer’s face—just something I’m going to work on, once I finish this business with Charlie. It may all connect. And he remembered, too, that Max Meyer’s instinct for connecting odd facts had never yet failed him. He wished, suddenly, that Meyer’s instinct for self-preservation was as keenly developed. His eyes looked at Peggy for a moment. He though
t, what have I to lose now, anyway?

  The clock said it was almost midnight. Briskly, he turned to face the room, saw confusion worse than he had imagined, cursed crisply, and began jamming his gear into his trunk. The time for decisions was over.

  2

  ARRIVAL IN BERN

  There had been an early shower of rain, just enough to add a polish to the clean streets, but now the sky was blue with white friendly clouds chasing each other high above the pointed roofs and sharp steeples of Bern.

  The Aarhof on the Spitalgasse was a medium-sized hotel, efficient and comfortable even from the outside. Like the other buildings in the street, with which it formed a continuous row, its first floor consisted of arches (the Aarhof had five) leading from the kerb into the arcade that covered the whole stretch of sidewalk. Above the arches were four floors of ten tall windows, slightly shortening as they reached the broad overhang from the red-tiled roof. And every window, like all the other windows in this street, like most windows in all the streets, had its green box of bright-red geraniums.

  Eminently respectable, Bill Denning decided as he stepped out of the Aarhof’s small bus which had brought him in solitary magnificence from the station. and he recalled, with some nostalgia, the little hotel in the Lower Town where he had once spent a couple of nights. Switzerland was one of the few countries where you could have a cheap room under the eaves, over-looking a seventeenth-century courtyard, without forcing yourself to ignore a delicate smell of sewage or a welcoming bedbug between the sheets. But it seemed ungrateful in a way to regret his promotion to a five-arch hotel. It could have been much more painful: he could have drawn one of those three-hundred-bed affairs where the feeling of afternoon tea under the potted palms still hung over the lobby at breakfast time, and it would only take a mild swaying of the floor to make you think you were trapped in the lounge of an Atlantic liner. And he took some comfort, before he stepped into the cool shadow of the arcade, that in the middle of the street behind him there stood, on top of a geranium-ringed fountain, a figure out of Breughel, a red-smocked bagpiper with cheeks puffed out and a goose for his audience.