The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  Once, Gottling said in English, ‘I always thought Daranyi lived on handouts. He must be loaded to live in the Old Town.’

  ‘He is honest and works hard,’ said Lilly, defensively.

  ‘I’m not criticizing, young lady, I’m envying,’ said Gottling. He glanced at Craig. ‘No use brooding, my friend. You’re doing all you can. Don’t try to outguess fate. That’s the recipe for ulcers. Let’s see what old Daranyi has to say.’

  Gottling now addressed himself to Lilly in Swedish as they drove on, and Craig lapsed deeply into himself. He was sickened with fear for Emily and Walther. Actually, less so for Walther, whom he had never seen, who had no existence in his memory, who was a wraith. It came down to Emily, actually. He tried to visualize her, her glossy dark hair and green eyes and virginal bearing, and he remembered how she shrank from men and violence. And now, despite Eckart’s reassurances, the apprehension of where she was, who was with her, what was at stake, corroded Craig’s insides like a bitter acid.

  Gottling bumped his Volvo recklessly, twisting and turning through the crooked streets of the Old Town, and from the window Craig caught a name on a street-sign that whisked past, and it was Västerlånggatan.

  Lilly had moved forward to the edge of the back seat, and now her hand, pointing ahead like an aimed arrow, came between Craig and Gottling.

  ‘It is there,’ she said, ‘right there past the lane where’-and then she caught her breath-’where the ambulance is parked.’

  Craig peered through the windshield. There was an ambulance-at first he had thought it a truck-against the pavement, and several dozen curious spectators, young and old, gathered around it in respectful attendance.

  Gottling swerved to the kerb across from Mårten Trotzig’s Lane, braked, and the motor died.

  ‘What has happened?’ Lilly cried. ‘Do you think something has happened?’

  The three of them were instantly out of the car and across the street, with Lilly running ahead to the ambulance. When Craig caught up to her, she was still conversing in an indistinct hum of Swedish with the white-coated driver and his assistant, who were leaning against the fender, smoking. A throng of spectators had pressed closer to Lilly and the ambulance men, to catch what they could of the talk.

  Craig shoved his way roughly through the wall of people and was at Lilly’s side. ‘Lilly-what is the matter?’

  She was frantic. ‘It is terrible, Mr. Craig. I was always afraid this would happen. Daranyi has been stabbed many times, and he is inside, and the physician is with him.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Oh-they do not know.’

  ‘Is it very serious?’

  ‘Come, quick, we must go inside.’

  Lilly took Craig’s hand, and the crowd parted. As they hurried into the apartment building, Gottling called to them that he would wait. Craig waved gratefully, and stayed with Lilly.

  Inside Daranyi’s living-room, so bachelor-neat and Middle European, Craig found four or five people seated in repose. They were mostly elderly, and obviously neighbours who were Daranyi’s friends, and who had come to hear the worst. Lilly was addressing one squat old lady now-a shopkeeper, it turned out-and Lilly spoke in tearful Swedish, and the old lady’s replies were almost inaudible.

  ‘What is it, Lilly?’

  ‘It is bad, Mr. Craig. He was attacked in the street-half an hour ago-and the physician is examining him now. I must see. I must find out the truth-poor Daranyi-’

  She left Craig and went to the bedroom door, turning the handle gently, and then easing herself inside.

  A voice from behind was directed at Craig. ‘Hiya, Mr. Craig.’ He spun about, and seated on a brown leather chair was Sue Wiley. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m dying by inches, I’m a wreck,’ she said, eyes blinking, hands fluttering. ‘Can you imagine such a thing? You want the morbid details?’

  Craig pulled a chair towards her and sat sideways in it. ‘I didn’t know you knew Nicholas Daranyi.’

  ‘We had a transaction,’ said Sue Wiley. ‘Never mind about that. Let’s say we were both in the business of information, and we found each other. Anyway, I got to thinking about the Ceremony this afternoon, and I figured I could use some more dope on it-past performances, such and since Daranyi is a historian-’

  ‘Historian?’

  She stared at Craig. ‘Isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. What happened?’

  ‘I decided to drop in on him for an interview a little while ago, before getting back to change for the Main Event. I took a taxi here, and kept it, and pounded on his door, but no one was home. So I started to leave, and just as I got outside-I happened to look up-and there he was, coming along the pavement. I started to call out to him, but before I could open my mouth-whambo!’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning two hoodlums pounced on him-in broad daylight, mind you-I guess they were hiding in that skinny little lane. They came out, one in front of him and one behind-and the bigger one in front clamped a hand over Daranyi’s mouth, and the other one behind lifted a blade-some kind of knife or dagger-and began punching it into Daranyi. Well-boy, oh boy-I stood on that pavement absolutely petrified. And then I started to yell, to scream bloody murder-and the hoodlums froze the way I’d been frozen-and then they just broke away and ran like crazy. And that little Hungarian, he flopped down in the street like a dead whale. Well, everybody was in the street by then, and my taxi-driver was calling the cops.’

  Craig asked himself: why Daranyi? Was this in some way a part of Eckart’s intrigue? He was on the right trail, he felt, and then, sagging inside, he realized that he might be too late. ‘Did you recognize either of them?’

  ‘No. Looked like a couple of delinquents, far as I could see. Wore those fat knit jazzed-up sweaters-one was turtleneck-I already told the police all I could see. The detectives are checking the alley or lane or whatever for clues. So anyway, here I am-Sue Wiley, Ace Witness.’

  ‘Are you hanging around for a story?’

  ‘What story? A down-at-the-heels historian gets mugged by a couple of kids who want his gold watch? Nuts. I’ve got to get out of here-this is the day-but those cops want me to wait a while. I’m sure sorry for the Hungarian. Hope he doesn’t die. Sa-ay, Mr. Craig, you’re a cute one, aren’t you? I’m the interviewer, and you’ve got me doing all the talking. Who was that blonde number you were holding hands with?’

  ‘Daughter of friends of mine in Wisconsin,’ said Craig. ‘I met Daranyi briefly, through her.’

  ‘Likely story.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Craig, ‘likely story.’

  The bedroom door had opened without anyone’s emerging as yet, but Craig was on his feet immediately. The doctor, prematurely grey and urbane, carrying his identity badge of a black bag, came out of the room, still speaking in Swedish to Lilly who followed him. As he spoke, Lilly hung on his every word, and then abruptly he broke away and went out the entrance door. Lilly’s hand beckoned to Craig.

  He joined her.

  ‘They are going to bring the stretcher now,’ said Lilly. ‘You are permitted to have one minute with Daranyi.’

  ‘How is he?’ Craig asked with concern.

  ‘He will be all right. He was stabbed three times, but the physician says they are only flesh wounds, not so deep because Daranyi was wriggling and squirming when they tried to kill him. There may be minor surgery. I do not know.’

  She went back into the bedroom with Craig behind her, closing the door to shield them from Sue Wiley.

  There was a fine old brass bed, worn but polished, and on the bed a mound of blanket, and this was Nicholas Daranyi. He was lying on his stomach, his arms up on the pillow and his head sideways within his arms, so that his face pointed towards Craig. His dazed eyes, with their sedated pupils, were on his visitors.

  Quickly, Craig took the chair beside Daranyi.

  Lilly knelt on the f
loor below the bed. Anxiously, she said to Craig, ‘Do not waste words. Even though it is not so serious, he is weak and in pain. Go to the point. I have already told him of Emily being with her father, and what is wanted of Professor Stratman. I am not sure Daranyi understood everything, but-’

  Daranyi made a sound, from his pillow, halfway between protestation and groaning. ‘Lil-ly-I understand.’

  ‘He knows all about it, then,’ Lilly said to Craig excitedly.

  Craig leaned towards the pained face on the pillow. ‘Daranyi, you can hear me-I have only an hour-a man named Eckart has Max Stratman’s brother here. He-the brother-was supposed to have been killed long ago by the Russians, but he’s alive-been brought here somewhere in this city-in order to make Professor-’

  ‘I-understand.’

  ‘Have you ever heard the name Hans Eckart?’

  ‘Yes,’ Daranyi answered immediately, almost professionally. ‘A German physicist, East Berlin. He lunched with Professor Stratman on December fifth.’

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘No-nothing.’

  ‘Daranyi, once you told me that you had an assignment from someone connected with the Nobel Prize awards. And Lilly has told me you were supposed to dig up inside stuff on those of us who are laureates.’

  Daranyi closed his eyes and grunted into the pillows. ‘Yes. I had that assignment.’ His eyes remained closed, and the mound of blanket shuddered in a slight spasm of distress.

  Immediately, Lilly reached out to touch him. ‘You are suffering too much. You have said enough. You must not-’

  Daranyi’s lids opened and his eyes were alert and angry. ‘Quiet, Lilly. Can I not have a pain like ordinary mortals!’ He focused on Craig. ‘I have said little, but I am going to say much. Craig, these wounds of the flesh are nothing. The real injury that has occurred is to my professional pride. I have done this work for years. This you know. Always, I have been treated with dignity, with respect, like any competent workman should be. But this time I have been insulted-insulted. To have taken on this most difficult assignment-to have done so well, delivered so much, in good faith-and to be paid not in the salary I requested but in violence. This outrageous breach I shall not forgive. If I cannot have money, I will have revenge. Craig, I pray you can extract such payment for me.’

  ‘I’d like nothing better.’

  ‘Good.’ Daranyi tried to lift his head, groaned, and dropped his head to the pillow once more. He sucked his breath, and then he said, ‘Craig-what-what was on the tape? What did Eckart say? What did the girl say? Omit no detail.’

  Speaking with precision and haste, Craig repeated, to the best of his memory, the threat of the tape recording. When he was through, he thought that Daranyi had not heard him, for the man appeared to be dozing or unsconscious. Suddenly Daranyi spoke. ‘Walther Stratman was known as Kurt Lipski all these years-is that what the voice said?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The head on the pillow moved with some private understanding. The eyes opened fully. ‘Yes,’ said Daranyi quietly, ‘it is all one, then. I gave them the information about Lipski, the clue that Walther Stratman was that person and still alive. They had no idea about Lipski and his interest in Miss Stratman until I dug it out and gave it to them.’ He winced. ‘And you see how they paid me for-for giving them this information.’ His face showed anguish. ‘The pain they have given me-’

  Lilly grabbed Craig’s arm. ‘Mr. Craig, he is so white. He must not go on. He will faint. Please-’

  ‘Wait,’ Craig snapped, pushing her hand away. He turned back to the bed. ‘Daranyi, for God’s sake, while you can-to whom did you give this information? Whoever it was, that is the person at the bottom of it, the person responsible for bringing Walther here. Tell me who?’

  Daranyi had vengeful strength for this. ‘Dr. Carl-Adolf-Krantz. He assigned-accepted-the information-paid me-this way… I gave him the photocopies-about-Emily Stratman-and-and-Ravensbruck-and about-the inquiries-from Lipski-from Russia-and now-’ The breathing from the pillow was heavier. ‘He-Krantz-Krantz-is-the-one-to-find-he-’

  But the voice drifted off, as the lids folded over the eyes.

  ‘Daranyi,’ pleaded Craig.

  Lilly was touching Craig’s arm. ‘You have what you want.’

  ‘Yes, but-’

  The door had opened behind him, and the two stretcher-bearers came in with the doctor.

  ‘-I had just wanted to ask him,’ finished Craig lamely, ‘what he meant by Ravensbruck.’

  As Craig rose and backed off, the doctor replaced him and looked down at Daranyi. ‘The patient is unconscious,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘We must move him to the hospital. Do not be worried. The injuries are superficial.’ He considered Craig curiously. ‘You learned what you wanted from him?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Craig. ‘Yes, I have what I want.’ Lost in thought, trying to fit together the puzzle, Craig walked through the living-room with Lilly, ignored Sue Wiley, and went into the hall.

  ‘Krantz?’ said Lilly in an undertone.

  Craig nodded. ‘Krantz.’

  ‘I must remain with Daranyi,’ she said. ‘You must find Krantz and Emily. Do not take bad chances-the police-’

  Craig took Lilly’s hands. ‘When you know about Daranyi, phone me at Concert Hall if it is before six-thirty. Otherwise-’

  ‘You will hear from me, Mr. Craig.’

  Craig nodded, and hurried-outside into the darkening cold. The spectators were still there wondering, and the ambulance, waiting, its rear doors flung open, and across the street he could distinguish Gunnar Gottling behind the wheel of the station-wagon.

  When he slid in beside Gottling, he said, ‘I think we’ve got our man.’

  ‘Name him.’

  ‘Carl Adolf Krantz.’

  Even Gottling, whose features were too arrogant to concede surprise at any time, showed astonishment. ‘Krantz? I always knew that little rat was pro-German and anti the human race, but I always thought he was too proud of his position-a judge on two Nobel committees-to sink to this. So it’s Krantz? Are you sure?’

  ‘Daranyi was positive. Krantz hired him to do some espionage on the Nobel laureates-apparently Professor Stratman and Emily were the real targets-in order to get something on the Stratmans and force the Professor to come over to the other side. Daranyi dug up some information no one else but Krantz knew or could use-and the key part of that information was on the tape.’

  ‘I’ll be goddamned, then it’s true,’ said Gottling. ‘But I’ll bet my britches it isn’t Krantz alone. He’s gutless. If a poodle barks, he goes up a tree. I called him a rat. That’s too princely. He’s a weasel, really. There must be others.’

  Craig chafed irritably. ‘I’m not interested in nit-picking. I don’t care who in the hell is responsible. I just want to find Emily and her father. Daranyi says Krantz, so Krantz it is.’

  ‘Simmer down, pal. What time you got?’

  ‘Ten past four.’

  ‘We’d better shake the lead out of our asses then. If I remember, everyone leaves for Concert Hall in ten or fifteen minutes.’ He started the station-wagon. ‘Krantz is probably still in his apartment, getting ready to leave.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Ha, who in Stockholm doesn’t? It was the only balcony in the city, during the war, that was draped with a swastika!’

  Gottling had said ten or fifteen minutes, but now he accelerated the Volvo through the Old Town, wheeling and careering, as if there were only one minute to make St. Peter’s gate. They passed gay, open Christmas stalls and the municipal Christmas tree on Stortorget. They sped over the illuminated bridge, twisting away along the canal, and because Craig was still not used to the left-hand drive, with oncoming traffic approaching from the right, he had a mounting fear that he would never survive to see Krantz-or Emily.

  There had been a sharp turning, and an attractive street stretched westwards between the Mälaren canal and rows of expensive apartment bu
ildings, the string of small cars parked before them shining under the high street-lights.

  ‘Norr Mälarstrand,’ said Gottling.

  As they drew nearer to their destination, Gottling slowed the progress of his station-wagon, head ducked low, squinting past Craig and out the right-hand window, hunting for Krantz’s apartment.

  Craig’s mind had gone to the Nobel judge they were seeking. Since his arrival in Stockholm, he had not seen much of Krantz. The Swedish physicist has been assigned to the Marceaus, Garrett, Farelli, Stratman, and Ingrid Påhl and Jacobsson had been assigned to the literary laureate. Nevertheless, Craig had a distinct image of Krantz-an ugly, stunted man with a hog’s snout and a scrub moustache and goatee, and a repugnant personality. Craig had no specific plan of action in mind for when he came face to face with the vicious, mis-shapen hippogriff, but the rage in him was bursting now, and he knew that he would kill Krantz if necessary, to extract some word of Emily and Walther Stratman’s whereabouts.

  ‘We’ve caught him just in time,’ he heard Gottling mutter.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The fifth apartment down. There’s the rented limousine parked in front.’

  They had slowed to a crawl as they approached the limousine, and through the Volvo windshield Craig could see a portly figure in chauffeur’s cap and uniform in the brighter area under the street-light, gloved hands, clasped behind, waiting for Krantz.

  ‘You park,’ said Craig tightly, opening his door. ‘I’ll grab Krantz.’

  ‘If you need help-’

  ‘I won’t need help,’ Craig called back.

  He crossed the street, squeezed between bumpers of two parked cars, attained the pavement, and going fast, and then running, he approached the entrance of the orange apartment building, its shadowed balconies jutting above like military pillboxes.