“Hagemann will make his try at Esther now,” he said, watching the smoke curl upward from his hand—the sight of it depressed him. “He doesn’t have any choice now that Mordecai’s dead. But if he doesn’t come by, say, midnight, then I’ m going after him. One way or the other, we nail him.”
Hirsch merely smiled. “What’s the matter, Christiansen? You feeling guilty because you couldn’t get the old boy out alive?”
“I just want to know if you’re coming along.”
It was a long silence. The two of them sat there, hardly moving, almost within arm’s reach of each other. It could have ended any way at all.
Finally Hirsch stood up and went over to a small wooden cabinet on the wall beside his bed. There was a bottle inside. He grabbed it by the neck and carried it and two glasses back over to his desk.
“I think we could both use a drink, “ he said, pouring the clear liquid into first one glass and then the other. “White Moroccan rum—not at all bad once it burns away the nerve endings.”
It tasted exactly like nail polish remover, but by the time he had finished half the glass Christiansen discovered he was no longer so sick of life.
“I take it the others are ready to go along with you in this piece of foolishness. Yes? I thought so.” Hirsch, who apparently was more used to the stuff, poured himself a second glass of rum. “I think you’re all crazy, but I’m prepared to be practical. If you’ll wait until midnight, you can count me in. I still think he’ll come here.”
“I hope you’re right. Those cliffs scare the hell out of me.” .
The both laughed, perhaps a trifle uneasily.
“Okay. Now tell me about what happened to Mordecai.”
. . . . .
It was only by chance that Christiansen happened to see him. The passageway that led from the staff quarters to the back stairway happened to have a door that opened onto the lobby, and that door happened to have a small triangular pane of glass in it, and Christiansen happened to look out through it as he passed. The man was sitting at one end of a sofa, in his overcoat, pretending to read the newspaper. His face was partially obscured by a frond of one of the potted palms, but it was him. The night before he had been sitting at Hagemann’s table at the Café Pícaro,
He was a big man in his early twenties, with yellowish-blond hair. His face had a deceptive look of innocence, which only meant, if he was one of Hagemann’s bodyguards, that he hadn’t learned anything from experience. He was keeping his overcoat on so the outline of the Luger he carried under his left armpit wouldn’t show through the jacket.
And if this lug was around, that could only mean that Hagemann was somewhere in the building, way ahead of schedule.
Christiansen felt his throat tighten as he fought off the temptation simply to push through the door, gun in hand, and start shaking the big dumb thug down. Except, of course, that he might not be a big dumb thug, and there was nothing to be gained by starting a fight at this stage. Esther was upstairs in her little third-floor room and, for all anybody knew, Hagemann might be up there with her. It was a time for walking on tiptoes.
He had to find Hagemann first.
The man was showing signs of getting ready to leave. He pulled back the sleeve of his overcoat to look at his wristwatch and then refolded his newspaper and set it down on the table beside him. His right hand crept up and pressed briefly against his chest and arm, as if he sought to be reassured that he hadn’t left his Luger at home.
Christiansen forced himself to begin climbing the stairs. He dreaded what was coming next.
The stairwell was narrow and opened onto every floor through a fire door. It was the perfect place for an ambush, but Christiansen managed to get all the way to the third story without running into any more of Hagemann’s bodyguards. Perhaps he felt sure enough of himself that the one man downstairs was deemed sufficient.
It was a question of waiting and seeing. If Hagemann was in the room with Esther he couldn’t leave without Christiansen knowing about it. There was always the fire escape, of course, but Esther’s room faced the front of the building and Hagemann would be unlikely to attempt an escape with an unwilling hostage where he could be seen by anybody who happened to be walking by on the street. Besides, what was the goon for unless he planned to come back down through the building?
And if the goon came up to the third floor, then that was where Hagemann had to be. And it was necessary to take care of the goon first—it wouldn’t do to make a move on Hagemann unless one knew one’s back was safe.
He hated it. He hated the very idea of leaving Esther alone in there with a creep like Hagemann. But there was nothing to do except to wait and see.
Christiansen listened for the sound of footsteps on the carpeted stairs. He didn’t have to listen long.
This kid had never learned that he wasn’t invincible. The Reich might fall, the Fatherland might lie in ruins, but this particular son of Germany seemed to think he had nothing to worry about. He wasn’t expecting any trouble. Who the hell could give him any trouble? He didn’t care how much noise he made.
A smart man knows how to deal with people who hide behind doors. He just pushes the door all the way open and squashes the poor bastard flat. This didn’t seem like a very smart man, but Christiansen wasn’t taking any chances. He stood with his back to the wall, on the same side as the hinges but far enough away that the door couldn’t catch him as it swung around. He kept his gun under his coat. This was not the time for guns.
The door opened, only about three feet—so much for precautions—and when it closed again Hagemann’s trained dog was looking around, trying to figure out which way the room numbers ran. By the time he saw Christiansen it was already too late.
It all happened in a blink and a half. The man turned a little to his left and something in his face changed as he realized he didn’t have the place to himself. He was too surprised to know what to do—he never even got his right hand out of his overcoat pocket. Christiansen gave him a push on the shoulder, just enough to turn him a little so they faced each other straighter, then he caught him with a good, solid jab to the floating ribs. This was a big boy, so he gave it everything he had.
It seemed to be enough. The wind shot out of him in a rush and almost at once he blushed bright pink, all the way up to the hairline. He wouldn’t be shouting for help any time soon—and he wasn’t going to live any longer than that. Christiansen hit him again, just for insurance, and then, while the man sank quietly to his knees, reached into his coat pocket and took out the coiled length of catgut that was his constant companion.
As soon as he had made a noose he slipped it over the man’s head and pulled it tight. They tear at the air and they fight—you have to give them “A” for effort—but there’s nothing they can do. There was a faint gurgling sound, cut off sharp, and the man’s legs kicked out wildly as Christiansen dragged him down the hall toward a storage closet that someone had left with the door ajar.
Good. Let the son of a bitch enjoy himself.
It was a distance of no more than eighteen or twenty feet, but Hagemann’s boy had already stopped struggling by the time they got there. He might even have been dead already, but in any case it wouldn’t be long. Christiansen made a second loop, tied it, took out his pocketknife to cut away the slack—he was running short and might need the rest of it for later—and hung the fellow up from a coat hook. The next person to come in here for a couple of rolls of toilet paper was going to be in for a nasty surprise.
The pistol was a Luger sure enough. Christiansen left it right where it was, in the inevitable shoulder holster under the man’s left armpit. The fewer complications the better.
The hallway down to Esther’s room seemed to go on forever. Christiansen walked as quietly as he could, listening for the slightest sound. It was the middle of the afternoon—who would be in his room at this hour?
But someone must have been listening for him as well—or, perhaps, just listening—because quite su
ddenly, as if it had been planned as a surprise, the door to Esther’s room staggered open. No one came out. Christiansen took the pistol from his waistline and waited.
“Rudi, is that you?”
So much for the element of surprise. Christiansen decided there was nothing to be gained from playing it coy—after all, the man was in there waiting for trouble and there was no point in panicking him into anything drastic.
“No, Colonel, it isn’t Rudi. Rudi isn’t coming.”
There was silence. Christiansen didn’t move—he simply took his pistol in both hands and pointed it toward the open door—and apparently Hagemann didn’t move either. It was a stalemate.
“It’s you, isn’t it, Mr. Christiansen.”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Yes, of course, it would be. I thought you would still be off with your Jewish friends.”
In the pause that followed, Christiansen could hear what sounded like a struggle, with the advantage all on one side, of course. There was movement—the noise clothing makes as it brushes against furniture—and, at intervals, a few tiny female gasps. At least he hadn’t killed her.
“Tell me, Mr. Christiansen, did you get Leivick out?”
They were talking now not to be polite, but to keep track of each other’s position. It was a kind of unspoken truce that would last until Hagemann decided it was time for him to come through that door.
“Yes, we got him out.”
“You did? Mr. Christiansen, you never cease to astonish me. It will serve to remind me that I’m dealing with one of my own kind now. I’ll have to be more careful—the Jews don’t have your sort of enterprise.”
That was the moment he chose to step out into the corridor. Christiansen was ready to drop him at the first little flurry of movement, and then he saw that what he would be shooting at wasn’t Hagemann, but Esther. He had his arm around her, just at the rib cage so he could hold her arms down, and the muzzle of his Luger was pressing against her neck.
“As you see, it’s a difficult position.” Hagemann grinned at him over the girl’s shoulder. Yes, Mordecai had been right—the man was insane. “If you shoot, I’ll shoot. Even if your bullet kills me instantly, my finger will still contract on the trigger, a reflex action of my dying nervous system, and Miss Rosensaft’s brains will be scattered all over the corridor wall. Of course, I’m assuming you do care something about the state of Miss Rosensaft’s brains, but perhaps the evidence of your presence in her room last night is nothing from which to draw hope. Perhaps a man like you takes a more dispassionate view of our little melodrama, and the sight of her head split open and gushing blood wouldn’t disturb you so very much after all.”
He was smiling. He actually found the idea amusing.
Christiansen lined up on a spot just a quarter of an inch or so below the inside corner of Hagemann’s right eye. He didn’t look at his gun—he didn’t have to—and the last thing he wanted to look at was the expression on Esther’s face. He concentrated on Hagemann. All Hagemann had to do was to move the muzzle of his pistol so much as two inches and he would be a dead man. He would never feel a thing or even hear the sound of the shot that killed him. He would simply die.
“Take it easy,” Christiansen murmured. “Just relax, Esther, don’t try to fight him. Don’t struggle at all. Just be a limp weight.”
He didn’t want to look into her eyes. He didn’t want to see them huge with fear. He could just imagine. . .
Her feet weren’t even touching the floor—Hagemann was carrying her under his arm like a child’s doll, but then she didn’t weigh very much.
“I’m going to the stairwell, Mr. Christiansen.” The smile on Hagemann’s face had taken on a fixed quality. He wasn’t fooling anybody—he was just as scared as everybody else. “You are going to back away to let me pass.”
“And suppose I just stay right where I am.”
“Then I shall know there is no way out for me and I shall kill Miss Rosensaft here and now. Why not? Why shouldn’t I? Are you going to start backing up, Mr. Christiansen, or do we end it this second?”
Christiansen took a tentative step backward. It didn’t commit him to anything, but it bought a little bargaining time.
“So what if you make it to the stairwell? You’ve got two flights to go down, and then there’s the lobby. And you’ll be all alone. Would you like to see Rudi before you go? I’ve got him hanging around in that broom closet just down the hall. He makes a picturesque sight. Perhaps you’d like to say goodbye.”
The light changed in Hagemann’s eyes—whether it was fear or anger was impossible to know. But something had reached him. He took a step forward, pressing the muzzle of his gun deeper against the side of Esther’s throat. She gave a little gasp of pain.
“You shouldn’t have killed Rudi like that, Mr. Christiansen. Did you strangle him with your little cord? He was a soldier—he had a right to be shot.”
“He was a butcher, just like you.”
The two men were no more than fifteen feet apart, so there was no room for error. Christiansen took another step backward, and then another.
“I’ll get you,” he said quietly. “Somewhere between here and the street, I’ll nail you. Kill the girl and I’ll see to it that you take hours and hours to die. I’ll gut-shoot you, Hagemann, and let you roll around on the floor, praying that you’ll bleed to death quickly. You’ll have plenty of time to remember how you murdered my parents at Kirstenstad. But either way, easy or hard, you’ll never make it out of this hotel.”
“Won’t I? Won’t I really?”
And then, of course, Christiansen understood. The stairway—yes, the windowless stairway. Once Hagemann was inside, and had let the door swing closed behind him, he could make it a condition of trade that if the door opened again, if Christiansen tried to follow him there, Esther would be shot at once.
“I didn’t come here with just Rudi, you know.” Hagemann shook his head slowly, and as he did so the gun muzzle wobbled against Esther’s throat in a way appalling to see. “My driver is downstairs now. He has his orders, to come inside the moment he sees Rudi start upstairs and to wait in the lobby. Don’t come along with me to the stairwell, Mr. Christiansen. You would make me very nervous in that enclosed space, and no one could tell what foolish thing I might do.”
Like partners at a dance, they moved down the corridor, one careful step at a time. It seemed to take hours, and then, suddenly, they were almost beside the stairwell door.
“You might open it for me, Mr. Christiansen.”
“No, Inar—don’t!”
It was Esther, in a voice that sounded like a scream of pain. He had to look at her now, and her face was ravaged. The suffering of years had been etched into her in those few minutes. There were tear stains on her cheeks, unheeded and left to dry. Her eyes pleaded with him.
“Don’t let him take me with him, Inar. Don’t do that to me, not if you care at all. Kill him!”
She tried to tear herself free, knowing that if she succeeded it would mean nothing except her own death.
She fought against this man she hated and feared so desperately, but he was too strong. Hagemann simply clamped her more tightly under his arm until it seemed she would not be able to breathe.
“Go ahead, Mr. Christiansen. Now is the time, if you want to.”
“Please, Inar! Don’t let him have me alive.”
It was a done thing. In his mind’s eye he could already see it happening—the way Hagemann’s head would snap back when the bullet hit him, his arms and legs flailing out, the fine spray of blood as his skull split in two. . . The man was already dead, dead meat bleeding into the carpet. All it would take was that one little squeeze on the trigger. Except that he couldn’t bring himself. . .
Except that it would all happen to Esther too. She would die in the same instant—Hagemann wasn’t kidding about that. That was what Christiansen saw in his mind, the split second when she too would he turned into garbage. And he just couldn’t.
Hagemann had won.
With his left hand he reached across his body to touch the wall, feeling his way until his fingers brushed against the door handle.
“My God, Inar—please!”
“He doesn’t have any choice, my dear. It would seem that once more you have worked your magic. You’ve made Mr. Christiansen love you even more than he does his revenge.”
The sound of Hagemann’s laughter filled the corridor. It was all a great mad joke, you see. He had been right all along.
As Christiansen moved backward he carried the door with him until finally it was all the way open. The arm at the top locked into place—the entrance to the stairs yawned open. He stepped away. He would give Hagemann all the room he wanted. There wasn’t any choice.
Hagemann stepped over the threshold, still carrying Esther in front of him like a shield.
“Close it behind us like a good fellow,” he said. “And don’t follow us. Don’t do anything except wait up here and stay out of trouble. I don’t have to explain what will happen if you decide on something desperate.”
The look in Esther’s eyes pleaded with him. There were many things worse than death, and this surely was one of them.
It was still possible. Christiansen willed himself to fire, but he couldn’t. The nerves in his arm simply wouldn’t obey. Hagemann was grinning at him—he knew what was in his mind. He was daring him to do it.
With painful, sluggish deliberation the door swung closed.
The muzzle of Christiansen’s pistol sank slowly down—he couldn’t seem to hold it up anymore. There was a pressure in his chest and neck, a feeling that something inside him would burst any second. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears and he wanted to weep with simple rage.
Do something, you stupid bastard, he thought to himself. Do something before you die of indecision.
And then he remembered Hirsch.
A telephone, God damn it. All he needed in the whole stinking world was to pick up a goddamned telephone and call the goddamned desk. Hagemann wasn’t going to walk through the whole fucking lobby with that filthy Luger screwed into Esther’s ear. Hirsch could still burn him down before he got to the front door.
The Linz Tattoo Page 35
