Pray for a Brave Heart

by Helen Macinnes

  “What is strange?”

  “This room. It’s the kind of place Nikolaides would like.” Silver and silk, softness to sit and walk on.

  But the name of Nikolaides had no effect at all. “Do I know him?” Broach poured himself a drink.

  “Perhaps not. This is his room, though.”

  “I don’t care about rooms, frankly.”

  “Is this Mr. Walters’s work, too?” Waysmith asked, looking around with interest.

  “Yes. His taste is excellent, as you see.” Broach came back to his armchair. “Well?”

  Waysmith said, “Would you write an article for Policy—a testament of faith, as it were?”

  “I like that idea. But”—Broach looked a little embarrassed— “I don’t really know whether I’ll write it or not.”

  “Will you think over it, seriously? Tell me your answer tonight.”

  “Tonight, I’m afraid, I can’t be at the inn. I had promised the staff that they could go over to Interlaken for a dance there. And Walters has to meet his cousin in Bern and help her through the customs and give her supper and that sort of thing. I’ve sent him down to the inn with my apologies to Miss Vivenzio. In fact, I’m expecting a ’phone call from her at any minute.”

  “When can you give me your answer?”

  “By Monday?”

  “I may not be in Falken then. Look, here’s my office in Bern.” Waysmith scribbled its address and telephone number on a page from his small note-book. “Leave word there.”

  “Such efficiency,” Broach said, and smiled. Then he looked at Denning. “What newspaper do you represent?”

  “I work for a news-gathering syndicate.”

  “And your syndicate thinks I’m important? Since yesterday?”

  Waysmith thought, so that’s the word that fetched him. That’s the reason we’re sitting inside this room, even if he can’t make up his mind about an article for Policy until secretary Walters gives him some more advice. Waysmith settled back in the couch. Denning could take over from there.

  “Since yesterday,” Denning repeated.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “We’ve had two pieces of information. I’m here to verify them.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re unpleasant.”

  “The newspapers have always been unpleasant about me,” Broach said, with a laugh. “I gave up worrying about their wild exaggerations, long ago.”

  “The facts we have are sober enough.”

  “Such as?”

  “First, the Herz diamonds.”

  Broach sat very still. “What about them?”

  “They are the property of the French Government. They have been missing for—”

  “That’s the first lie,” Broach said angrily. “They were Nazi property, now belonging to the government which—” He stopped short. “What happens to Goering’s jewels is nothing to weep over.”

  “They were owned by Joseph Herz,” Denning said patiently, “who died, along with his family, in a Nazi gas chamber. He left his collection to the French Government. They have been smuggled illegally into Switzerland by the Communists.”

  “Always the Communists,” said Broach angrily, “that’s right, blame everything on them. It’s a fashion I—”

  “Not everything. But certainly this: three million dollars have been paid by some rich dupe towards a hidden fund.”

  “A dupe?” Broach had caught control of himself. He even laughed. “Of course, that’s what you would think.”

  “He’s a dupe because he’s paid out money for diamonds that he can never own. Or what else would you call him? An accessory to a crime?”

  There was a long silence. “And what has this got to do with me?” Broach asked.

  “Would you pay three million dollars for diamonds?”

  “For honest diamonds? Certainly. If I felt like it.”

  “For the Herz diamonds?”

  “Why argue about this? Your facts are all wrong. And I’m not interested in hypothetical questions.”

  “You’ve never heard of the Herz collection?”

  “I know nothing about any stolen property. I never have. I never will.” He rose. “Clear out, both of you.”

  “Certainly,” Denning said and got to his feet along with Waysmith. Andy’s face was a study in worry and horror, both directed against his crazy friend: to come here and insult a man like that—you might as well throw a pot of scalding water over him.

  But Broach suddenly sat down again. “You said you had a second piece of information. Two laughs are better than one, I’m told.”

  My God, thought Waysmith, he’s going to make sure of thumping damages in the biggest slander suit in history, and I’ll have to be a witness. He started for the door, and waited there. But Denning didn’t follow him. He didn’t sit down either. He walked over to the small pile of records.

  “You like music?”

  “Isn’t that evident?”

  “I see you have one of my favourite composers here.”

  “Do we have something in common, then?” Broach asked, with mock seriousness.

  “You must have met him last year when you attended the Cultural Congress in Prague. Andrássy was especially produced, wasn’t he, to conduct one of his own compositions?”

  “I have met him,” Broach said carefully, ignoring the Cultural Congress. “And extremely disappointing he was to meet.”

  “Was he still disappointing to meet in Falken?”

  Broach hesitated. “In Falken?” His voice was stilted.

  “Yes. He is in the same situation as you are.”

  “As I am?”

  “He decided he wanted to live abroad.”

  “Now,” Broach said with amusement, “surely you aren’t comparing me with Andrássy?”

  “Not man for man.” Denning almost smiled. “He’s only one of the great musicians. But your situations are similar— according to Francesca. She believes that each individual should be free to choose where he wants to live. Do you agree with that?”

  Broach said, “Andrássy may have been a good composer. At one time. But he has become a traitor. Our circumstances are completely different.”

  “They certainly are. You are free to talk like this. And he has been abducted. Possibly tortured. Doesn’t that turn your stomach, even a few degrees?”

  “If I let myself believe all the fantastic stories spread around—”

  “All right, all right,” Denning said curtly. What was the score, anyway? The diamonds: Broach hadn’t known the full story on them; there he could be graded as an ignorant dupe, who hadn’t bothered to check on the facts. Andrássy: Broach had known about him, and twisted the record to justify his actions; there he was more than a dupe; there, he could be graded as willing to tolerate evil, willing even to take a small part in it. Compared to Broach, Nikolaides was a petty offender: theft of property was nothing at all, compared to the theft of a man’s life.

  Still watching Broach, Denning took a step away from him.

  The gesture was not missed. Broach said, his voice rising, “You really believe all these lies that the capitalist press invents? You believe them? An intelligent man like you—how can you believe them?”The telephone bell rang.

  “Ask Francesca,” said Denning. “Ask her if these facts are lies. Why don’t you answer her call?”

  Waysmith took a deep breath. First, the pot of scalding water; now, the bucket of ice: shock treatment, if ever he had seen it. He went instinctively towards the telephone. Broach hadn’t moved at all. Perhaps he scarcely heard the steadily ringing bell. Waysmith said, “I can’t bear to leave a telephone unanswered,” and he picked up the receiver. Denning turned his back on Broach, and looked out of the window.

  Waysmith answered in surprise. “Speaking,” he said. Then, sharply, he called, “Bill!” And Denning, glancing quickly round, saw Waysmith’s hand now raised warningly for silence as he listened intently.

  The sound of a car’s engin
e, making a last burst of speed up the hill towards the house, broke into the stillness of the room. Broach came to life. A look of surprise, of sudden worry, of consternation appeared on his face. He looked at his watch.

  Is the car unexpected, or too early? Denning wondered. He glanced back at the driveway. But it wasn’t a car that had appeared, and swerved across the grass to avoid Waysmith’s Citroën at the door. It was a small brewery truck, running lightly now down the curve of driveway to enter the woods.

  Broach said, “Get out of here! Both of you.” He advanced on Waysmith. “Give me that call. It’s mine.”

  “Just a moment,” Waysmith told the man at the other end of the telephone. He held on to the receiver with both hands, as he faced Broach. “They’ve got Francesca,” he said. “She went to telephone you in Frau Welti’s office. And that’s where they snatched her. Got away through the back door. One policeman with his skull smashed—his helper was out, delivering a false message. Who sent that false message to the inn? You—you?” He raised the telephone as if he’d strike Broach with it.

  Broach yelled back, “You’re wrong, you’re wrong. This has nothing to do with Francesca. Nothing!”

  Denning shoved him aside as he reached Waysmith. He took the telephone. Keppler’s voice was saying angrily, “Where’s Denning? Where’s—”

  “Here,” said Denning quickly. “For what it’s worth, there was a Bern brewery truck at the inn’s back door. Grey in colour, small. It has just arrived here. Seems to be delivering beer right into the woods, north-west of the house. And you’ll find a hut there. Certainly there is a man and a dog, besides the two men on the truck.”

  Broach made a lunge towards Denning, but Waysmith caught hold of him.

  Broach shouted, “The truck was never near the inn. You’re lying, you’re lying!”

  “Did you hear that?” Denning asked Keppler quietly.

  “Yes,” said Keppler’s voice. “It sounds as if there was another truck around.”

  “Same model, colour, and licence plate?”

  “For Andrássy… So that’s how they were going to do it. Who would notice two trucks if they looked identical?”

  “Who would notice even one brewery truck in Falken?”

  “I’ll have a search made of the road near the foot of the Blümlisalp trail. You stay where you are. Who’s with you and Waysmith?”

  “Broach.”

  “The secretary hasn’t arrived back yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He left the village just a few minutes ago. Alone. With an iron-fast alibi established.”

  “Do we wait for him, or start searching the woods?”

  “Wait for us. Ten minutes, and we’ll be there. Bohren and his men will attend to the woods. Can you manage? Good luck.” The connection switched off.

  Broach had now recovered his dignity. He was hard-eyed, tense-lipped. “Take your hands off me,” he told Waysmith coldly. “And get out, both of you. Contemptible, contemptible lies. Now I know how you build up your cases against innocent people. You see a truck delivering some beer to the inn, you see it delivering a barrel here. So you fabricate a story from that, invent a crime to link me with—”

  “With what?” Denning asked. “With Francesca’s disappearance?”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Everything you don’t want to hear is a lie,” Waysmith said wearily. “Come on, Bill. There’s just so much of this that I can take.”

  “We’ll stay here, Andy.”

  “We’re wasting time,” Waysmith said sharply.

  We’ve almost ten minutes to waste, thought Denning. He didn’t move. And Waysmith, watching his face, stopped protesting. Broach picked up the rifle. “You are now trespassing. Do I have to call the police?”

  Denning laughed,

  Waysmith said, “Sure, this guy just about kills me, too. But I’ll do my laughing afterwards. If Francesca is still alive.”

  That stopped Broach, and held him.

  Denning’s voice was suddenly grim. “There’s a chance she is still alive. They’ll have to transport her out of Bern before they can really go to work on her. She won’t give out information easily, not Francesca.”

  Broach stared at him. His nostrils were rigid, white-edged. There was a strange gleam over the surface of his pale face.

  “When I worked with the French underground,” Denning went on, “I met two girls like Francesca. They outlasted our best men when they were caught and tortured. One held on for three weeks in Ravensbrück.”

  “This,” Broach burst out, “is a despicable act. You think you’ll blackmail me with lies to—”

  “I’ve given you up,” Denning told him contemptuously. “You can believe what you like.” He turned back to Waysmith. He went on talking, ignoring the rifle, ignoring Broach.

  And Waysmith, quick to follow Denning’s lead, wondered for one wry moment if Denning was as conscious as he was of Broach’s strained face, of the rifle’s dangerous tilt, of the taut hand that gripped it and ungripped it with savage nervousness. “Funny thing about this fellow,” Waysmith said, “he argues when he could go and see for himself. All he has to do is to walk into the woods and have a look at a truck.”

  “He won’t find Andrássy, either. Perhaps he knows that. Perhaps he prefers to stay here and act pure.”

  “Like the people who saw the trainloads of political prisoners being carted off to labour camps and never objected.”

  “Perhaps he’s waiting,” said Denning. “For instructions.”

  “That’s it. He’s waiting for his secretary to give him permission to—” Waysmith broke off. “Say, Bill, have I stumbled on something?”

  “I’d call that a pretty good stumble,” Denning said slowly.

  But tactically it wasn’t good. For Broach, standing so still, regained his assurance. “I’m waiting for no one,” he said. “Walters has gone on to Bern.” He raised the rifle. “I’ll count up to ten. Get out.”

  “There is Walters arriving in Bern right now,” Denning said. “Hear him?” The strong drone of a powerful engine climbing the hill to the house came steadily nearer.

  Broach forgot both of them for that minute, at least. He crossed swiftly to the window. Then he turned and stared at them.

  Denning took out a cigarette and lit it slowly. How many of the ten minutes had gone? Only half of them? Surely more.

  Waysmith took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. He cursed them as he did every day. He didn’t like a fight with his glasses on; yet, without them, he’d misjudge distances. But there was one thing to be thankful for at this minute: the rifle was no longer pointed at his head. One false move, there, and Paula would never have recognised his face again. Stop thinking of Paula, he warned himself: no weakness, Danton! He counted the steps of Mr. Walters, coming briskly into the house.

  The little man halted at the door. He looked at the rifle, at the stick lying beside the couch where Denning stood, at the glasses in Waysmith’s hand. He frowned, puzzled and annoyed. Then he came forward with a smile.

  “I got your message, sir,” he said to Broach. “So I came back here.”

  “But I sent no message.”

  Mr. Walters blinked. “Then it must have been from Haase.”

  Waysmith felt a sense of disappointment. His guess about Walters hadn’t been so good after all: there was still another who gave orders around here. But Denning saw the quick look of warning which Broach received, and Keppler’s peculiar phrase jumped into his mind: “iron-fast alibi”. Mr. Walters was always quick to establish his minor role, it seemed.

  “Oh,” said Broach, recovering himself, “Haase. Of course, Haase.”

  “I’m sorry if I interrupted you and your guests, sir.” Walters eyed Denning’s stick again, as he backed towards the door with a polite bow.

  Denning said, lifting the stick and leaning on it, “This is only for my bad knee, Mr. Walters. No need to be alarmed. We came to interview Mr. Broach.”r />
  Walters’s alarm was apparent only for one moment. “No doubt you had an interesting conversation.” He was still edging towards the door.

  Waysmith put on his glasses, and crossed the room quickly to reach the door before Walters. “Don’t go,” he said. “In fact, perhaps you could settle some of the arguments we got into.”

  “Arguments?” Walters looked at Broach, almost sadly.

  “Don’t worry,” Broach said. “I think I handled their arguments all right. They are fairly clever propagandists, these two. I shouldn’t be surprised to find that the State Department bribed them to come and persuade me back to America. Just look at their faces—I’ve hit on the truth.”

  Waysmith shook his head in wonder. “You really do believe you’re an important kind of fellow, don’t you?” He leaned against the doorway, his feet outstretched, blocking Walters’s exit. “What’s that?” he added quickly. “Another car coming up your little hill?”

  Walters crossed quickly to the window. He looked incredulous, worried. He stood beside Broach and waited for the car to come into the driveway.

  Denning called softly, “Mr. James—”

  Walters turned round.

  Then he realised what he had done. “What did you say?” he asked coldly.

  But Broach had taken a step away from the window. “It’s a truck,” he said unbelievingly.

  Walters glanced back at the driveway quickly. For a moment his control slipped.

  “An earlier delivery than expected?” Denning asked. But there was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach: Heinz Gauch had failed, Keppler had failed. Here was the brewery truck with Andrássy, and not one policeman, not one security agent in sight. And how many of Walters’s men were in that truck? Certainly two, perhaps three. “Andy,” he said quietly, and gestured towards the door.

  “Then there were two trucks. Two,” said Broach. His voice rose. “Who was in the first one?”

  Walters paid no attention: he had his own problems. “Fools. Idiots.” He turned angrily away from the window, wrenching, himself free from Broach’s hand, and ran towards the door. “Where do you think you’re going?” he shouted at Waysmith and Denning. “Broach! Cover them with that rifle!” And he ran into the hall, towards the front door, yelling another set of commands to the men outside. “Don’t stop there, you fools! Drive on!”