The man touched his cap, plodded away, and was already out of sight before Denning found a cab to take him to the Waysmiths’ hotel.
Where did he vanish so quickly? Denning wondered. Into one of those telephone booths round the corner? Was he now calling Keppler?
You worry too much, he told himself. And yet, in this kind of work, one small mistake, and there was no chance to say you were sorry: one small mistake, and you were dead, and so were several other people, too.
13
JOURNEY TO FALKEN
This, thought Denning as he entered the Hotel Victoria and asked for the Waysmiths’ room, might be called an unnecessary delay in his journey to Falken. (Le Brun would certainly disapprove of it.) Yet he was worried about Paula. Somehow, in spite of all his precautions yesterday, he had drawn her into his circle of danger. Why else would Rauch, the temporary mail clerk at the Aarhof who had startled him yesterday with that bogus message from Max, enter Paula’s room to search it that night? In his own mind he felt that he was responsible for that. Now, he had to warn Waysmith to keep Paula out of Bern until all trouble with Rauch and his friends was settled. One way or another, he added grimly.
But he managed to look cheerful, even confident, when Andy welcomed him into the Waysmiths’ white and gold bedroom. Their suitcases were packed and locked, Paula was wearing her hat, their coats were lying on a bed, the remains of lunch were on a small table drawn up at the French windows.
“Hallo,” Andy said. He was in a bad temper. He shook hands, and gave Denning a careful look.
“Hallo, Bill!” Paula came forward, her smile wide and gentle. “We had almost given up hope. But I’m so glad you could manage.” She held out her hand, and looked over at Andy pleadingly.
Denning said, “I owe you two apologies.” He took her by the shoulders and kissed each cheek. “There they are. For yesterday, Paula.” He smiled into her blue eyes.
“But for what?” It was a sweet pretence, telling him he was forgiven.
“Brushing you off at lunchtime and cutting you dead at supper.” He looked at Andy and grinned. “It takes really good friends to be able to endure that treatment. Sorry for being late today, Andy. I had some business to clear up before I could see you.”
Waysmith had softened a bit. “Well, you don’t have to kiss me to prove it.” He was smiling more naturally now.
“Don’t I?” Denning dropped his hat on the bed. He looked at Andy. He put out his hand again. This time, they shook hands warmly.
“Have you had lunch?” Paula asked. “We were too hungry to wait. But I left some sandwiches for you.” She pointed to the table.
Denning looked embarrassed. “To tell the truth, I’ve just had a couple of ice-cream sodas. Couldn’t face food for the next ten hours.”
“What on earth have you been doing?” Waysmith asked. “Entertaining your second childhood? Have a seat, anyway.”
“I think I’ll walk around and try to digest.”
“Did you really give the little schoolgirl a lunch of ice-cream sodas?” Paula asked delightedly.
Denning’s walk was cut short for a moment. “Where did you see her?”
“With you. I was hurrying back here after interviewing all the house agents in Bern. You seemed to be concentrating hard, so I didn’t stop.”
“She’s English,” Denning said briefly. “In addition, she has a turn of phrase all her own. You have to concentrate with Emily.”
“Titian-red hair and the largest dark eyes in town,” Paula told her husband.
“Carrot head and braced teeth,” said Denning.
“In three years, no man will even remember having thought that,” Paula predicted.
Andy glanced at his watch. “Cut it out, both of you. We have to leave here within the next fifteen minutes.” He looked at his wife. “If you mean to keep your promise to Francesca.” Then he turned to Denning. “We had a bit of an upset here last night. A man broke in, two men to be precise—”
“Two?”
“The newspapers were very poor about it,” Paula said. “Not that I wanted publicity. But the whole report of last night’s incident was played down almost to nothing.”
“Perhaps the newspapers were very good,” Denning said quietly. “As they were in the report of Max’s death.” They stared at him, then at each other. Waysmith reached quickly for a newspaper. Denning told him, “Page three, column five.”
“In the Henziplatz?” Waysmith asked.
Denning nodded.
“Was it that car smash?” Paula asked, crossing quickly over to her husband. She read the brief paragraph again “Oh, Bill…” she said. And why, oh why, had she used the words “car smash”? Must she always remind Bill of Peggy’s death? He never talked about it, never even mentioned Peggy. But his silence keeps her alive, Paula thought, and I wish—for Bill’s own sake—that wasn’t so.
“It wasn’t an accident,” Denning said. “It was murder. But keep that quiet meanwhile. Will you, Andy?”
Waysmith looked at him. “Why tell me at all?”
“So that you’ll listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“Will you get Paula out of Bern? Not just for a week-end. Keep her away from here until Rauch’s friends lose interest. They aren’t gentle people.”
“We’re just leaving Bern,” Paula said, too quickly. She glanced nervously at Andy.
“We’re going to Falken.” Waysmith’s voice was sharp again, with the anger which springs from concealed worry.
Denning stood very still. “Take Paula to Interlaken, Grindelwald, Zurich—plenty of places to choose from.” He moved around the room, glanced out of the window, kept his expression as casual as his voice.
“I’m supposed to be working in Bern,” Waysmith reminded him. “And—” He halted and shrugged his shoulders.
Quickly, Paula said, “And Falken is so near… We are going to take a house there, and Andy can commute.”
Denning pulled out his pack of cigarettes. Even a small gesture like that reminded him of Max. “I’d leave Falken alone, Andy,” he said.
“No,” said Paula. “We’ve decided all that. Bill, I’m in no danger from people like Rauch. It’s Francesca. That’s why we’re going to Falken. She lives there. Perhaps we can help her. Perhaps we can’t. But we’re going.” She looked at Andy, defying him to change her mind.
“Sure,” Andy said, “we’re going there, armed with a pea-shooter and a slingshot. Paula—”
“No,” Paula said again. “We’ve argued enough, Andy. We’re going. You want to go, anyway. You know that.”
Andy shrugged his shoulders. “You see?” he said to Denning.
“Not altogether. What danger is Francesca in?”
Paula looked a little uncomfortable. She glanced over at Andy, but he was pulling on his coat and gathering some magazines and newspapers together. Paula said, “She tried to help some people. And that started some complications.”
Andy said, “Complications? Is that what you call having our lives twisted, knotted, and thrown around?” He began opening and closing drawers, giving a last check-up to the room as he talked. “I’ve had one hell of a day, Bill. Kept phoning you until four in the morning. Then I didn’t sleep till nearly six, and was wakened at eight. Called you again. No answer. Argued with Paula all through breakfast. Got the police to come round and take fingerprints off that wardrobe door handle, and made the mistake of telling them we were leaving for Falken. So we got a summons to the police station, and had a nice friendly talk with an Inspector Bohren. Then I rented a car while Paula went house-hunting. Called you again and got through at last. Packed. Waited. Did some business by telephone. Waited. Waited for Paula. Waited for you. Well—now I’m going. The bill is paid, the car’s parked outside. Can we give you a lift back to your hotel?”
“You can give me a lift to Falken.”
Waysmith closed the last drawer with a bang. “Is this a sudden whim?”
“No.”
“I’ve told you as much as I can. At the moment. Later, I’ll—”
“All I want to know is this: are you on a mission?”
“Nothing official.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“Well, you’re on a mission of your own, aren’t you?”
“We’re just helping a friend.”
“So am I.” Max may be dead, but now he needed help more than ever.
Waysmith had been watching him closely. “Sorry if I sounded too suspicious. But when I’m giving a lift to anyone, with my wife in the car, I’m damned if he’s going to be a professional agent on a mission.”
“And you’d be right,” Denning answered. He meant that too.
“Let’s get the bags downstairs,” said Waysmith. “We’re wasting time here.” He moved to the telephone and called for a porter.
Denning was just as quick. He lifted his hat on his way to the door. “I’ll taxi to the station and pick up my things from the cloakroom. Meet me there. Main entrance. A quarter past two?”
“You’re all packed?” Paula asked in amazement. You see, her eyes said to Andy: Falken wasn’t such a sudden whim after all.
Denning looked at them both. “It’s good to see you again,” he said unexpectedly, almost with a touch of emotion. Then he was gone.
Paula began packing the sandwiches in some spare Kleenex. “He’ll be hungry before we even reach Falken. Ice-cream sodas are only lethal in the first hour.” She laughed softly. “Bill—with an ice-cream soda! He always loathed them. And how did his English Emily come into the picture, anyway? For that matter, how did Bill?”
“You ask me that?” Andy wanted to know, as he finished counting the suitcases in spite of distractions.
“And what about you?” she countered. “Weren’t you the man who rushed off to Frankfurt to see Max Meyer?”
He was silent for a moment, thinking of Max Meyer. His lips tightened. Then he looked down at her.
“Paula—” He put an arm round her shoulders.
“We’re going, darling,” she said gently.
“Now’s the time to change your mind.” If I had only known about Max, he thought, I’d have made twice the resistance about going to Falken.
“Could you change yours? Could you turn your back and walk away?” She smiled and shook her head. “Darling, you’re the hardest man to persuade to do what you really want to do.”
“Paula,” he said, tightening his grip on her shoulder. He kissed her, long and hard, a tense kiss telling her all his worries and fears.
Then a discreet knock sounded on the door, a porter entered, Paula straightened her hat, Waysmith wiped the lipstick from his chin, and all became business-like once more.
* * *
And everything went so smoothly at the station—no delays, no difficulties—that their spirits began to lighten, as if they felt that this easy departure from Bern was a good omen. They sat packed together in the front seat of the inconspicuous Citroën which Waysmith had rented, a car similar to many they passed, even to its Bern licence plate. Waysmith was driving, relaxing little by little as he became sure that no car was following them. Paula had a map ready for reference if necessary, but her eyes were quick with memories: this was the same, that had altered, here were new houses, over there was a village she had always wanted to visit. And Denning, still pessimistic, still concealing it, began to feel at least a new sense of reassurance: the basic worries still remained, but the unnecessary fears were vanishing. Dangers, if you could see them clearly, were not unbeatable; if you could see them without blurring them in a mist of worry increasing worries, of fears compounding fear, of doubts adding to hesitations, you had a chance of winning. And even if the chance was small, it was still a chance.
“Feeling better?” Paula asked suddenly.
“Better enough to be hungry.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” she asked Andy, and produced the wrapped sandwiches from her outsize handbag.
“Peggy used to have a bag like that,” Denning said, “a kind of magician’s catchall.”
Paula looked at him quickly, before she could control her sudden amazement. But he was talking on, quite naturally, about Peggy, dipping into the past which they had all shared. Paula relaxed. Conversation, she thought, was like learning to ride a bicycle: when you worried about hitting a telephone pole you rode straight into it; but take away that fear, and you never even noticed the telephone pole. The four years’ gap in their friendship no longer was a wide gulf: it closed over, gently, quietly, and gave the sure footing they needed to step into the present. They could talk freely about themselves and the new shapes their lives had taken.
They followed the road to Thun for less than sixteen miles. “A piece of cake,” said Waysmith as he turned the car at Paula’s direction into a narrower southbound road. “How on earth does it take forty-five minutes to reach Falken?”
“Villages keep passing at eleven miles an hour,” Paula reminded him. “Here’s another one. Slow down, Andy, or we’ll all be arrested.” She didn’t add that this mountain road had more twists and turns than the easy first half of the journey. Andy would find that out soon enough.
“There isn’t a policeman within sight,” Waysmith said. Then he thought, I wish there were, though; I wish there was a whole garrison of policemen strung along this peaceful road. They met no cars, either. But there were other hazards: horse-drawn carts, stacked with timber; a farmer’s wagon; several cyclists; three hikers; escaped chickens; a herd of surprised goats; the constant houses, with their balconies and broad red eaves, which would suddenly appear, among a clump of trees, around a curve of a hill; and children who ran out to look or a woman who interrupted her work to wave at the passing car.
“What’s going on, anyway?” Denning asked suddenly after they had seen four houses with uniforms hanging to air over the balconies, and two front doors where men sat on wooden benches and cleaned their rifles. “General mobilisation?”
“Reservists,” Paula said. “They are all in the army until they are sixty.”
Waysmith looked at his wife.
“But it’s true,” she insisted. “Francesca was talking about it yesterday. After basic training, all men spend three weeks each year in the army until they are thirty-six. After that, two weeks each year in the army until they are forty-eight. And then, they still keep their rifles and uniforms until they are sixty. General inspection once a year. Shooting practice once a week. What’s more,” Paula added, watching her husband’s face with sudden amusement, “they pay for the bullets they use each week. So they’re all expert shots.”
That’s comforting, Waysmith thought. “I’m glad I married a native, almost,” he said. “So helpful on safari.” His confidence began to rise. So did the speed of the car.
“Eleven miles an hour,” Paula reminded him. “There’s a village just around this corner.”
They passed seven houses and a small white church with a narrow spire. “That was Gurgli,” Paula told them.
“No comment,” Denning observed.
“In about three minutes, we’ll go through Gurgli-Bad,” Paula went on. “And don’t ask me if that makes Gurgli good. I was a schoolgirl here, myself.”
They approached five houses and a miniature castle.
“Still no comment,” Waysmith said, and changed down from second into first. But if Paula thought he was going to travel this route each day, just to have the pleasure of passing Gurgli-Bad or better, then… He stopped thinking in order to concentrate on the twisting road with its steep drop, on one side, towards a rush of blue-white water.
Paula gave a last wave to the small castle. “That was where I went to school. And Francesca too.”
“Paolo and Francesca,” Denning said, with a grin. “Or was that a standing joke?”
“Of course—what else would you expect?” She half-smiled, as she looked back at the school and watched the hills changing into mou
ntains, the steep sloping meadows bright with blue and white flowers, the scattered houses sheltering under their wide-spreading roofs. And how I hated it, she thought: all I wanted was a city street and noise and people, a sense that I was alive and a part of the world. “When we were young, how unsure of ourselves we were,” she said. “Always afraid we were missing something. But now—I’d like to live a few months each year deep in the country like this, where I could catch my breath and take stock of myself.”
“Without Andy?” Denning asked.
She looked at him quickly, but he was smiling. She smiled too, and shook her head.
“I’m all in favour of that kind of place for my wife’s school,” Waysmith said, looking back too for a moment as the road stopped climbing and straightened to run through a stretch of pine and birch trees.
“Nothing to do but pipe her woodnotes wild,” Denning agreed.
“Like an oboe player on an off-night,” Paula suggested.
“Can you tell me,” the unmusical Waysmith asked, once the joke was made even worse by having to be explained to him, “can you tell me why we should all be so damned hilarious?” And that reminder sobered all of them. Or perhaps it was the first sign of Falken, no more than a mile ahead of them.
The road had brought them through the small forest, and as the trees began to thin out, they could see the beginnings of a broad valley, where the mountains had stepped back and Falken’s toy houses were scattered, like a handful of confetti, over the sloping meadows. It was a smiling village, lying open to the sun among green fields and tongues of forest, a place of innocence and peace. Even the torrent, which had rushed in cold fury to meet them for the last five miles, had become a placid stream flowing calmly through the meadows, a straight band of pale-blue crystal, to form the spine of the valley.
“Stop here, Andy,” Denning said as they reached the last fringe of trees. The road ahead followed the stream, and then bridged over it. There it divided, one branch continuing over the hills and far away, the other leading into the village of Falken itself. A cluster of white and brown houses. A church. Then more woods creeping down from the hillsides. Meadows interlaced with trees, sprinkled with more houses. And curving around, cupping the gentle valley, forming the background in depths, were rock-capped ridges, then white-crested peaks.
Pray for a Brave Heart Page 18
