by A. L. Duncan
“Just my luck.”
With one swift tip of the suitcase, the bills dumped onto the floor. She immediately found the hidden cache. Two little tabs lifted the pad and exposed a passport, instructions, and two rail tickets to Istanbul on the Orient Express.
“Istanbul!”
A rap on the door startled her. “Just a minute,” she called out. She started kicking and shoving the stacks of money under the bed.
Liz opened the door and peeked in. “Sorry to bother you, Carolyn.” Puzzled at seeing no one inside, she scanned the room. “Carolyn?”
Janie’s head popped up from the far side of the bed. “Yes?”
Liz giggled. “Oh, there you are.” She eyed the pile of clothes and the discarded suitcase on the bed. “You don’t still live out of your suitcase after all this time?”
Janie stood with a shrug. “You never know when they’ll be moving me again. Staying prepared, you know.”
Liz waved the thought away. “Right. Anyway, I just ’eard the exciting news.”
As Liz sat on the bed, Janie noticed a stack of bills near their feet. Slowly, she laid a foot on top of them and slid them out of sight. “News?”
“Must be wonderful to be able to travel all over the world.”
“It’s exhausting, really.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes,” Janie added with a bit of drama. “Having to stick to a schedule, rushing...always rushing. Meeting strangers you’re not sure you can trust, eating foods you’re not sure will agree with your stomach. Your life always at risk.”
“Oh,” Liz gasped.
“You never know. One reads about all sorts of disasters in the New York Times. Your ocean liner might sink...remember the Titanic? Your aeroplane might crash. The streets of Paris have kids that pick pockets; they’re very good, actually. The Arab countries might kidnap you and sell you into slavery. In China, they’ll try to turn you into a monk. Russians might ship you off to Siberia to die, alone and cold in some out of the way prison. Everything is pretty much out of the way in Siberia, actually. Then there are hurricanes in the tropics, monsoons in India. And don’t ever, ever go to South America. People just disappear there. Oh, but if you do go, don’t drink the water.”
Liz was quite disappointed, her enthusiasm dampened. “The advertisements always make travel sound so romantic.”
Janie stood and began folding her clothes. “I guess it all depends on how you look at it.”
Liz went to the door and turned back in afterthought. “Well, I’ll be downstairs to see you off, I suppose. At least you two can get a belly full of good food from Anna before your flight.”
“Flight?”
VIENNA WAS A beautiful city, known for its medieval history, waltzes, restaurants, and architecture. However, Janie didn’t really notice her surroundings; she had been too airsick to even notice the Alps, freshly capped with snow. Ilene assisted Janie off the plane and onto solid ground.
“After we go to the embassy, we’ll get you to the hotel and then you can lie down a bit,” said Ilene.
“I’m just sorry Anna went to all the trouble of making a wonderful bon voyage meal.”
Ilene grimaced. “Truly, I never knew a person’s skin could look so green.”
Janie winced. “Think I pulled a stomach muscle filling that last sick bag.”
They set off to the British Embassy. The grand lobby was richly appointed in dark cherry wood and red carpet. Janie made a face at the color scheme that had been her father’s favorite.
“Still feeling a bit peaked?” Ilene whispered.
Janie shrugged. “It comes and goes.”
They approached a young gentleman sitting at an ornately carved desk.
“Good afternoon.” He greeted them dispassionately. “How may I assist you?”
Ilene smiled. “Yes. Good afternoon. I was hoping you could direct me to someone who could help me retrieve some belongings. You see, my brother, Teddy...oh, excuse me, Theodore Vanderholt, worked here at the embassy. He left Vienna quite abruptly, I’m afraid, and left his things in his office. He has asked me to pick them up for him.”
Before opening his leather bound ledger, the man directed a questioning eye to a slender, older gentleman who was standing nearby. Meeting Ilene’s polite smile, he opened the book. “Vanderholt, did you say?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
The older gentleman strolled up to her with hands clasped behind his back. “Excuse me, Miss. What name did you say?”
“Vanderholt. Theodore Vanderholt.”
He shook his head and replied dryly, “I’m afraid we have had no employee of that name at this embassy.”
“Surely there must be some mistake,” she protested. “Perhaps, if you just let him look in his book—”
“That,” the old man closed the ledger, “won’t be necessary. I can assure you, there has never been an employee by that name here.”
Janie’s hackles were raised. She could see right through the man’s cool demeanor. The artful dodging of deceitful diplomats seemed to come quite naturally to such men.
“Come on, Ilene. We should go,” Janie urged quietly.
“Don’t be silly. I know for a fact that my brother worked at this embassy.” Ilene frantically searched in her purse. She pulled out a letter from Teddy and waved it before the gentlemen’s disinterested glances. “Here, he wrote me frequently, and every one on embassy stationery.”
The older gentleman cocked an ill-humored eyebrow at her. “Although we at the British Embassy pride ourselves on the strictest of security measures, I’m afraid it could be possible for someone to be clever enough to acquire our stationery.”
Ilene gasped. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid you’ve made a trip for nothing. Good day, Madame. Lieutenant, please see our guests to the door.”
Ilene stood staring in astonishment at the man’s stiff back as he departed. “Well, I never.”
Janie glared after him. “I have. Come on.”
They walked out of the Embassy and heard the callous thud of the doors closing behind them. They descended the steps slowly. “I just don’t understand it,” Ilene mused. “They acted as if Teddy never even existed.”
“Unfortunately, this sort of thing happens all the time. He must have been working on something the embassy needs to keep under wraps.”
Ilene stopped. “Well, what’ll we do now?”
Before Janie could answer, a young gentleman called out to them, drawing their attention. Ilene and Janie turned at his swift approach.
“Excuse me, Miss,” the young man said, halting before Ilene. “Forgive my abrupt encounter. I was watching you inside the embassy. My name is Tisdale.”
Despite her irritation, a grin played around Ilene’s lips. “Samuel Tisdale?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Oh. Teddy wrote of you often. I feel as if I know you.”
The man flushed. “I...recognized you from your photos.”
“Oh dear.” It was Ilene’s turn to blush. “Those awful things?”
He laughed. “You’re right. They don’t do you justice. You’re much prettier in person.”
“Nonsense.” She raised an eyebrow at Janie’s smirk. “Oh. Forgive me. Mr. Tisdale, this is Carolyn Vaughn.”
He nodded politely. “Hello.”
Janie thought she noticed a slight hesitation as he took her hand, one that implied recognition, if only for the name. Ilene distracted her from further musings. “Perhaps, you can tell us what’s going on here. Why is the embassy being so obstructive?”
Samuel turned a nervous eye over his shoulder and peered at the facing windows. Setting his hat on his head, he replied, “Not here. Do you mind a walk? It’s not far.”
“Not at all.”
Samuel Tisdale was a dashing young gent around Teddy’s age, early thirties, sporting an athletic figure. Not surprisingly, he easily took the steep flight of stairs that led to his apar
tment just off a main street. Janie and Ilene followed at a more sedate pace as he held the door open.
His was a humble flat tucked above a cobbler’s shop, with walls of white stucco and the barest of furniture. He tossed his hat and keys on a mail plate and moved past the women. “You’ll have to forgive the arrangements. The place hasn’t been as tidy since Teddy’s been gone.” He sighed and glanced around. “Hard to believe we spent four years here.” Glancing to them he asked, “Can I get you ladies something? Tea, perhaps?”
Ilene nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“You wouldn’t by chance know anything about the creamy coffee here? I hear it’s something a traveler should not pass up.” Janie interjected.
Samuel beamed. “Serve you right up.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Tisdale,” said Ilene.
“Call me Sam. Please,” he replied.
“All right. Sam.”
Janie had Sam and Teddy’s relationship figured out as soon as she met Sam in the embassy’s courtyard. To the uninitiated eye, his slightly feminine manner and gestures were well camouflaged beneath a deep voice and muscled physique. She pointed out a photo of Sam and Teddy to Ilene. Their arms were around each other, and a florist card tucked within the frame read, ‘With all my love, Teddy.’ Ilene, clearly startled, paced away and attempted to regain her composure.
“So, tell me,” said Sam. “How is the old boy doing these days?”
Ilene turned to Janie for assistance.
Sam stepped down from a stool with percolator in hand. Smiling, he added, “Found a hobby by now, I suppose. He was getting quite good at his chess with fellow patients at hospital, or perhaps they were all quite bad.” He laughed under his breath.
Ilene’s brow wrinkled and she inhaled sharply, which brought him to a stiff halt.
Knowing Ilene didn’t have the heart to break the bad news, Janie spoke up. “Mr. Tisdale...Sam, I’m afraid that Teddy is...no longer with us.”
Sam heaved a long, sighing breath and his eyes watered. Swallowing hard, he murmured, “Checkmate.” His shoulders slumped as he leaned back against the counter and sniffed back tears.
Ilene approached him and placed a gentle hand on his back. “Why don’t you come sit down?”
“I can make a great cup of tea,” Janie added, taking the percolator from his hands and setting it on the counter.
“That sounds wonderful,” Ilene replied, guiding him away from the kitchenette.
A short while later, the whistle of the kettle drew Janie from the sofa. She returned with tray and tea. Janie sat next to him and poured him a cup. Sam pulled his shoulders back with fresh resolve.
Janie handed him the cup. “Sam, we need to know what happened to Teddy’s belongings.”
“Carolyn,” Ilene chided, “I don’t really think this is the appropriate time to—”
Sam slapped his legs with open palms. “No. No. She is absolutely correct. There are issues that must be discussed.” He pulled a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket and tapped a cigarette on the en vogue geometric shapes on its cover. Lighting it, he gratefully accepted a cup of tea from Janie. “In answer to your inquiry, if you work for His Majesty, then you and your belongings are His Majesty’s. I’m sure your father has mentioned such...should we say, protective measures.”
“None of which I ever understood in light of personal, intimate belongings,” Ilene grumbled. “Teddy mentioned something about a book on Byron’s works, for instance. What in the world would His Majesty’s government want with such a silly book? I’m certain they could buy hundreds of copies of their own.”
Sam stood and lighted the cigarette Janie plucked from her own case. “While Byron is not at all hard to come by, I’m afraid there are a rare few who would kill for the new edition.”
“Goodness.”
He made his way over to a small desk. “One can never be without a good book, nowadays. There’s a book seller nearby that’s holding another book for Teddy.” Sam seemed caught up in his own thoughts as he scribbled on a calling card. He held out the card to Janie. “I’m certain it will be an interesting read.”
Janie asked, “Special edition?”
“Something like that.”
Realizing Sam’s implication, Janie reached for the card.
“You’ll find the store on the next corner south of here. Give my card to the old man there and tell him I sent you. He’ll help you find what you’re looking for.”
“I hope he knows what it is I’m looking for,” Janie murmured to herself.
“What was that?” Ilene pressed.
“I think I’ll go down to that bookstore before it closes.”
“Right now?”
“Why don’t you and Sam get acquainted, and I’ll meet you at the hotel.”
“Carolyn, really, you don’t have to go to any trouble. The last thing we need at Aria Manor is another book.”
Janie waved off her objection. “It’s okay. I’d like to take a walk anyway.”
“Your stomach still giving you trouble?”
Janie summoned the nauseated look and nodded. Turning to Sam, she said, “Think you can do me a favor and see her to the Hotel Sacher?”
“I would be delighted,” he assured her.
“Well.” Janie held out her hand, “it was nice meeting you, Sam.”
“Yes,” he breathed, taking her hand. “And...thank you.”
Janie wasn’t sure what to make of his gratitude. It seemed earnest.
“Do be careful,” Ilene called.
Janie winked at her and departed.
Striding down the sidewalk, Janie’s mind reeled as she scanned the many storefronts and knick knack shops that still held an old world charm. Most side streets were cobbled and many buildings were quite different in style, a hodgepodge of beauty and eccentricity. The corner bookstore seemed simple enough. Except for a disturbing swipe of black paint on the window. A young man was given the unappealing task of removing it with a razor and a rag. Most of the word had been wiped off, but Janie knew it was anti-Jewish propaganda. She had read a bit of an article in the London paper on the plane mentioning such waves of bullying. A little bell chinged at Janie’s entrance, and the resident shopkeeper lifted his head from behind a stack of books and journals on his cluttered desk. However, his face was not that of an old man, but of an older teenage boy. Long black locks curled down the sides of his head under a black brimmed hat.
She moved into the store, drifting past shelved books in German, and other languages she couldn’t identify. Finally she came face to face with an old, white beard. Bristly and thick, it practically stood on its own under a sharp nose that supported a small pair of wire-rimmed glasses that had formed a permanent indention in the skin from constant wear. A stern pair of dark eyes stared at her. The beard grunted.
“Um...” Janie patted her pockets. She pulled out the card and held it up to the man’s scrutiny. “Samuel Tisdale sent me.”
The man’s forehead wrinkled and his dry lips pursed as he glanced over the scribbling on the card. It was then Janie noticed Sam had written in Hebrew.
He lifted his gaze and squinted at her. “You the American, eh?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. American.” Janie wasn’t sure what she was getting herself into by confirming her nationality, but her nervous, stuttering reply seemed to amuse the beard, as he cracked a grin. It lightened the austere ambience.
The old man shuffled away and disappeared behind an office door. When next he appeared, he frowned at a new customer who had just entered the store. The old man stepped back into the shadows to eye the customer closely before returning confidently down the main aisle. Janie followed him to the counter, where the young lad was shooed away in mumbled Hebrew. Aged fingers lifted a pencil, wrote a receipt, and placed it inside the front cover before sliding the book into a small brown paper bag.
Janie reached for the book, but the old man jerked it back and stared at her e
xpectantly. With a frown, she dug into her trouser pocket and then tossed a bill on the counter. His eyes went from the bill back to her, and he gestured for more. Her frown turned to a disgusted grunt.
After she had flipped a few more bills on the counter, he finally slid the book over the counter. Picking up her purchase, she exhaled. “This better be a damn good read, Rabbi.”
“The Torah is the only book any man needs to read,” the man said, his face grave.
She halted in mid-step. “Torah?”
“God said to Moshe, ‘go to Pharaoh, and say to him, thus says God, let my people go.’”
“Excuse me?”
The old man leaned on an elbow and shook a finger at her. “You tell Samuel, there is no free man like the one who is involved with the study of Torah.”
She nodded. “I’ll do that.”
Janie walked as she conjectured about the contents of the book, and why a non-Jew like Teddy would be interested. She decided to give her mind a rest by escaping into a quaint little clock shop. Inside, she was immediately drawn to the works of art on display, many original in design. The sounds of clocks ticking were everywhere. Music boxes sitting on windowsills and shelves came in every shape imaginable —elaborate carousels, moving clowns, ballerinas. A voice from behind addressed her in German. She turned around and found the speaker was a short, middle-aged man with mussed gray hair. He wore a gray shop smock that was stained with clock oil, on which he now wiped his grimy hands.
“Do you speak English?” Janie asked.
“Ja,” he replied happily.
“Great. I’m looking for a music box.”
His eyebrows lifted at the prospect of a sale. “Ah!” He led her over to a disc-playing music box. “This is a beautiful music box. Very precise still.”
