He pushed his way through to us. “Has Steve told you, Jessica? We return to Vienna tonight.”
“Tonight! But it’s such a long way, and you must both be tired out.”
Bruno smiled faintly. “Steve and I can take it in turns to drive. It is better for you to get away from here, we think.”
Strings must have been pulled with officialdom, for I was asked no questions. As soon as the men had eaten, as soon as good-byes to the Krikls had been said, we were on our way in Bruno’s car. Steve told me he had fixed with the police to have the hired Volkswagen returned.
“And what about your own car?”
“We’ll think about that tomorrow.”
Sitting in the back of Bruno’s car with Steve, his arm around me, I began to fill in some of the missing links that had been puzzling me.
“How was it you appeared on the scene?” I asked Bruno.
“I got Steve’s letter by this morning’s post, and came at once.”
“Steve’s letter . .. ?”
“I didn’t want to bother you, darling,” Steve explained, “but after we heard about those two men calling at the Gasthaus, I thought Bruno ought to know what was happening. I got Herr Krikl to mail it for me.”
“But I don’t understand. You speak almost as if Bruno was somehow involved.”
“I will answer that for myself, my dear. You know me as a professor of physics, and that is what I am, ja. But there is another side to my activities about which I do not speak.”
“I see! And Steve ... you knew this?”
“Let’s say I had a shrewd idea.”
I thought of the curious friendship between Bruno Hutyens and Max. Now at last I could understand why Bruno had pursued it, despite the fact that they had so little in common. I asked sadly, “Was it because you suspected Max that you got in touch with him in the first place?”
Bruno didn’t answer—perhaps he hadn’t heard. But Steve gave my arm a sympathetic squeeze.
I wished that the steady drone of the car’s engine would lull me to sleep, but there was still too much swirling in my mind.
“What will happen about the scrolls?” I asked.
Steve said, “Bruno’s fairly sure he knows where they were originally stolen from—a museum in France that specializes in ancient biblical writings. But the authorities here will check and make sure they go back where they belong.”
We drove on through the night. I tried to think about the bright future, but it was overlaid by a gauze of sadness. The past was still too close.
“The money you found in your desk, Steve! What’s to be done with it?”
“Considering it came from the Nazis,” he said soberly, “how about a spot of poetic justice?”
“You mean, send it to a fund for refugees—something like that?”
“I think it would be a good idea, don’t you?”
“And there was the fifty pounds I got from Richard Wilson….”
“Darling, you can carry things too far! Where would you propose sending that—the Kremlin?”
I sighed. “What will happen to Richard Wilson now?”
“Well, in the first place, he and his pal Voltek will be facing a double-murder charge. I imagine there’s a lot else stacked up against them.”
We were traveling fast now on the autobahn. I began to unwind and feel calmer. I lost count of time, drifting between sleeping and waking. Steve took over the driving for a while after we had stopped for a cup of hot milky coffee at a roadside cafe. It was some time in the early hours when at last we ran down the ramp into the car park of the Hutyens’ apartment house.
I was soon to discover why Steve and Bruno had been anxious to rush me back to Vienna. From the safety of the Hutyens’ home I could be protected from the wily attacks of reporters who clamored for a human-interest story to add to the bare bones of the official releases.
Steve came around to spend each evening with me. Over Klara’s lavish dinners we would all discuss the latest developments. I learned that a number of Leopold’s confederates, including the two men who had asked questions about us at the Gasthaus, had been rounded up. But Ilse Hellweg had mysteriously disappeared, leaving the Villa Imwald without warning and vanishing into thin air. I didn’t doubt, considering her calculating mind, that she had foreseen some such emergency and cushioned herself for the future.
And there was Gretl Kolbinger. As I’d guessed, she was broken up by the news of Otto’s death. But it was unlikely, Steve said, that any charges would be brought, since her personal involvement had been slight.
After staying indoors for a full week, I was getting restless. The newspapers seemed to have lost interest in the case of the Kutani Scrolls, and when Steve came that evening, I asked him to take me out.
He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Where would you like to go?”
I had already decided. “The Weisser Stier, please.”
“I’d have thought that would be the very last place!”
“Don’t you see, darling, I want us to start all over again.”
This time I would happily wallow in the charming atmosphere of Old Vienna, thoroughly enjoying the romantic waltz-time mood of Strauss and Lehar. I wanted us to have a carefree evening out, as hadn’t been possible that other time. Nothing, I determined, was going to spoil it.
And nothing did. Not even when the unlikely happened and Mitzi Flamm turned up, with a new man on her tow rope. Catching sight of us, she came plunging across the room.
“I’ll get rid of her,” said Steve quickly.
“No, don’t bother.” She had no power to hurt me now. Nothing and nobody could dent the armor of my newfound happiness. On a quick laugh I added, “Even the Mitzis of this world have their place.”
Steve grinned, those wide-set gray eyes of his meeting mine across the table. How was it possible for any man to say so very much, just with a single glance?
Copyright © 1971 by Nancy Buckingham
Originally published by Ace Paperbacks
Electronically published in 2015 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more
information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.BelgraveHouse.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
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