The Spider of Sarajevo

by Robert Wilton

  The doorman knocked, Cade checked his tie, and then he was in.

  A man of about his own age, dark-haired and good-looking, was already halfway across the room to meet him. ‘My dear Mr Cade.’ Strong but not fulsome. ‘We are most grateful you have come. A pleasure, sir.’ A single handshake, firm and held for a moment, and released. ‘My name is Paul Henschler.’

  More refreshment? No. A cigarette? This time he accepted.

  Unfortunately Mr Silvas could not be with them. Cade produced gracious regret, wondering if Henschler was the real name, wondering if there was a Silvas, wondering if he was watching somehow. Pleasantries exchanged, and Cade studied the man in front of him: a sharpness, a decisiveness, yet the sense that business wasn’t his natural environment. He seemed somehow too strong for trade alone. And he was studying Cade just as Cade was studying him.

  Furniture good but not showy; a telephone on the desk. Prosperity and activity.

  Henschler began a polite interrogation of Cade & Cade. The ownership. How much of the business was cloth and dry goods. Whether they had shops. Involvement of partners. The German had done his homework.

  ‘What prompted you to open an office in Constantinople, Mr Cade?’

  He’d tried to make it sound conversational, but it came out blunt.

  ‘Couple of things, really. An experiment in putting ourselves further up the supply chain, and cutting out the middlemen of continental Europe. And, personally speaking’ – smile – ‘the chance to see a bit of life.’ Henschler nodded.

  Cade took the opportunity to reverse the interrogation. What sort of partnership did Silvas envisage? Why were they interested in someone new to Constantinople? Presumably for the potential trade with Britain, no? And more about their business. Henschler and Silvas dealt in import-export, with some investment activity; they were active throughout the Austrian Empire, with good links in the Balkans, and some into western Europe. On the specifics – the nature of the ownership, whether the stock was traded, the relationship with those markets – Henschler’s answers became general, even uncertain. He might be a decisive figurehead, but he was not a businessman.

  The telephone rang, and Henschler answered it. His eyes stayed on Cade. Words in German, then a smile: ‘It is Mr Silvas himself. He wishes to greet you.’

  Cade stood and took the apparatus.

  ‘Mr James Cade? I’m delighted that we have the chance to speak.’ The voice had the usual distortion, as if coming down a drainpipe in a blizzard, but Cade got the accent, and the courtliness. ‘I was disappointed that we could not meet; I trust you are seeing the best of us, regardless.’

  ‘Very pleasant and impressive welcome, Mr Silvas.’

  ‘It would be such a pleasure if we could co-operate, Mr Cade. I have gained such a positive impression of you. The little… difficulty you had was so tiresome, and I was delighted we could help you through it.’

  ‘That was – that was very kind of you.’ Henschler was sometimes watching him talk, and sometimes consulting a handwritten list on the desk.

  ‘When I have an idea, Mr Cade, I don’t tolerate obstacles. Now my idea is to work with you.’ More of the same; final pleasantries, and then the connection was all blizzard, and he handed the apparatus back to Henschler.

  The dark fellow replaced the receiver in its cradle, and glanced up. ‘You see, he does exist, Mr Cade,’ and at that Cade had to laugh. Still wouldn’t trust you an inch with a tuppenny bit, but professionals you surely are.

  ‘As he said on the telephone, Mr Henschler, it’ll be up to me to decide on your proposal.’ Henschler nodded. ‘Or… do you feel that I am under a certain… obligation to you now?’ He had to say it.

  Henschler gazed at him. Then sniffed. ‘Facts are facts, Mr Cade. We need not invest them with emotion. You’ll be taking a business decision.’ Cade started to nod. ‘And yet… Mr Silvas can be a persuasive – even aggressive – businessman. You’ll strike a hard bargain, no doubt, but I dare say you’ll be working with us in the end.’

  The threat was there. But it seemed that the worst he’d be getting was a genuine deal that he might not otherwise have chosen to take up – and perhaps a few business snippets to keep London happy. He said: ‘I’ll look forward to the bargaining.’

  A knock, and a man approached Henschler and leaned close. Henschler kept watching Cade. Murmuring from the man, and at the end of it, distinctly, Cade caught the phrase, ‘Er ist tot.’

  He is dead.

  He’d heard that clear enough. And this was something different to what he’d overheard on the landing, and Henschler’s reaction was different: acceptance – no, satisfaction. Still watching Cade.

  A kick in his brain; a memory of his twenty-five-year-old self. Glasgow docks, a lantern-lit office, a man a foot taller than him and broken-nosed, an errand from his father to overcome a hold-up with the off-loading of some cloth from a freighter, a test of young James’s mettle. Then, a man had come in with bloody knuckles, bragging to the broken nose that someone wouldn’t be obstructive any more, and broken nose had kept on looking at Cade, and Cade with bowels like jelly had tried to hold his pose of suavity and gone hurrying back to the old ’un babbling of criminals and cut-throats. And the old ’un, matter-of-fact, like he was commenting on Jimmy’s school report: ‘Aye, boy; but did ye get oor cloth out?’

  Do nothing criminal yourself, but do not be surprised that there are criminals.

  The man across the desk was watching him with calculation, and Cade wondered if his expression had showed that he understood.

  This was not Scotland, and the name of Cade & Cade was not known here, to police or to whatever ruthless men ran the front lines of trade. He, too, could very easily end up tot and few would know and the few who cared were far away. Cade was back in a Glasgow shack, with the sick instinct that common sense alone would not save him.

  Duval

  The station clock struck six, and it drew Duval’s attention up the inside of the building. Another Viennese barn. Lord, but they did grand here, didn’t they? All very stable and do what you’re told.

  Another train had come in while he’d been drinking; two – there seemed to be two streams of people heading away from the platforms, and the concourse was filling with those waiting to leave. It was like the flushing of the city; the old lot out, and a fresh rush of people in.

  At the station offices to the side – Duval fancied himself a bit of an expert on railway administrative arrangements now – policemen were herding someone into a doorway. He felt a moment of sympathy. Outside the offices, a man had stopped and was staring. That’s right, old chap; meditate on your sins.

  Another journey across the boundaries of the world, another new city, another new start. He sent his bags ahead to the Grand, and walked. Every building in the city seemed self-satisfied. But, here and there, something sprightly in glass or ironwork, as if gypsies had come out of some distant part of the empire to dance for the bourgeois.

  Frosch the smuggler had told him that among the many poses and impostures of the man who called himself the Marquis of Valfierno was one secret pleasure. He had installed himself, or been installed, as the figurehead of a conservatoire of music in Vienna – ‘He has no ability for any instrument, that one! No, like a monkey with a violin! But he loves music and loves to think of himself as connoisseur. Ah, such a charming life!’ – and because of this pleasure, and because the woman he called his daughter liked to play, he was often to be found there.

  A doze, a clean shirt, two glasses of wine – nice crisp white the Austrians did – and it was past seven when he arrived at the Conservatoire. He’d paid off the taxi early. Had to go carefully.

  The front of the Conservatoire was a set of high, heavy-curtained windows bracketing a discreetly signed door. Mustn’t seem to loiter. At the side there was an alley, leading to a cobbled square behind the building. Duval crossed the square into another shadow, and looked back.

  At the rear of the Conservatoire, on the g
round floor, a single room stretched the width of the building and projected into the square. Apart from the framework of iron and wood – rather elegant – it was all glass. Through the glass he could see a highly polished wooden floor, a chandelier, some plants and a grand piano.

  There was another alley leading back down the other side of the Conservatoire. Halfway along it he found a side door, open a crack.

  Half-open doorways are an eternal enticement; and an eternal unease. Perhaps…

  From inside he heard voices. One had a German accent but was talking English; the other wasn’t English but nor, presumably, was he a German-speaker.

  ‘What do you mean “delayed”?’

  ‘The other woman, the German, came first. She was supposed—’

  ‘I know what was supposed to happen! Where is the Englishwoman?’

  ‘She is coming a few minutes later; that is all we were told.’

  A burst of angry German, then English again. ‘I cannot wait! All our timings have been thrown.’

  ‘Just a few min—’

  ‘I must get to Porzellangasse, to the Englishman. Or Belcredi will have lost him, or shot himself in the foot or surrendered or some such.’

  ‘And if the other—’

  ‘Just keep the women apart! You have the drug; use a gun if you must. You: come with me!’

  The door was yanked open and Duval had pushed himself back against the wall and the man who emerged turned the other way, towards the main street. A tall man, dark-haired, pulling on a hat and striding hard; he was followed by another.

  Duval held himself for a frozen moment longer.

  From somewhere above him, he could hear a piano.

  An Englishwoman walking into a trap. An Englishman in more immediate trouble. The key chap was the dark-haired one – presumably the German – and he was heading to Porzellangasse. Move.

  The German looked like he was going to walk – obviously it was close – but Duval flagged down a horse-cab and thrust gold at the driver and urged him to Porzellangasse, and the cab lurched forwards before he could sit and the hooves were rattling over the cobbles.

  They reached Porzellangasse inside a minute. He had a head start on the German. But so what?

  A bell clanged somewhere and the cabman swore and Duval heard the cab shifting away as a tram lurched round from behind him and began to moan along Porzellangasse.

  He began to follow it, looking for inspiration. The houses smart but not grand. A hundred yards ahead, the tram swayed around a bend. Duval pressed on, glancing at the occasional plaque, peering at windows. The street was empty in the dusk now.

  The bend was not a sharp one, but from his pavement it had been enough to obscure the other half of Porzellangasse. As he turned the bend, immediately, twenty yards ahead, there was a man pausing in front of a doorway. Checking a number beside it, looking up at a window; reaching for the bell.

  The clothes were wrong. They were a traveller’s clothes: tweedy, hard-worn. A man from out of town.

  An Englishman?

  The door opened and the man disappeared.

  Duval walked on towards the house. A glance at the number – 33 – and the windows told him no more than it had the other man. But like those of the Conservatoire, the builders of this house had thoughtfully set it beside an alley; many of the houses had the same – access to gardens, or mews, perhaps. Duval slipped into its darkness.

  The alley stretched the length of the houses. He edged forwards. At the back of the houses the alley continued between six-foot walls, presumably enclosing gardens. Another few steps in the gloom, and now he heard voices.

  They seemed to be coming from inside the house, but that was only possible if there was a window open at the back, over the garden.

  Another few steps forwards, and Duval tripped on something and fell headlong and crashed into a dustbin. The greatest possible clattering, lid on bin and there must have been a second bin and that was clattering and he was scrambling to his feet and trying to free himself from metal and stench and gaping round himself, and immediately he saw that what he’d tripped over was the body of a man.

  Gasping, heart-lurching confusion and he vaulted back over the body and ran, the way he’d come, squeezing past a tram as it swung round the bend in Porzellangasse and away. He didn’t stop running until he’d two more turns and two blocks behind him.

  Then out into a main street again, and slowing and trying to recapture his breath. Now what?

  Keep moving. On a corner next to a milliner’s, a beggar woman pushed a flower at him. He took it without thinking, found a coin and laid it on the grimy hand, and hurried on wondering whether the coin was too small or too big.

  By a fountain, he stopped and smoked a cigarette. The Conservatoire. That was why he’d come. Besides, Englishwoman in trouble there. Decent thing. He pushed the flower into his buttonhole; it was too large, and sagged sadly on his lapel.

  He took a deliberately roundabout route; seemed the thing to do, on this night of strangeness. It was around half past seven when he contrived to find the back way to the Conservatoire, through an archway and into the cobbled square. As he emerged into it, hungry for shadows, he found a motor car parked beside him, shuddering with the vibration of its engine.

  No driver; must be nearby though. The car’s bulk helped shield him, and he watched the Conservatoire. With evening closing in, even the few lamps inside made the glass room shine; the square was dark around it, as if the salon itself had become a lantern. Now, from wherever it was, he could hear the piano more distinctly.

  Inside, vivid in the brightness, there was a woman, and Duval’s heart kicked. The girl on the train?

  But no. Something about the way she held herself was different, and even from across the square the face seemed wrong.

  The Englishwoman?

  What am I doing here? He started to move across the square, pressed against the wall, fingers feeling stone and mouldings and doorposts, wanting to wrap the shadows around his shoulders. The notes of the piano fell singly out of the sky onto him, footsteps, heartbeats, fingers brushed over his hands.

  The girl had stood, was pacing. By the time he got level with the glass conservatory, her back was to him. An instinctive consideration of her figure.

  Get her attention? A tap at the window; a warning. But what could he say? And how would she react to a face leering out of the night at her?

  He moved past the brilliance of the conservatory into the darkness of the alley again.

  And then something revolted in him. While a city murmured and glowed with life, while trams raced and men hurried on decisive errands and handsome women paced brilliant salons and somewhere someone played the piano – and it was impossible to play the piano without a human feeling for another human, even if it was a feeling of longing or of absence – while all this life rose and fell in chords around him, he was skulking in an alley.

  He had come to define himself by how much he could not exist: by not being seen, by running. He had come to seek the shadow and not the light. It was the wretchedness of the spy, and it was making him a non-person.

  He must act. He must be.

  He stepped to the side door, and knocked.

  A moment, and then footsteps inside.

  He realized he still had the fugitive’s hunch, and straightened himself. Clean shirt; buttonhole.

  The door was pulled open quickly, and a face emerged expectant and then confused.

  ‘Good evening. I wish to see the Marquis de Valfierno, please.’ Should have used the front door.

  Hesitation.

  ‘Bitte – bitte warten sie hier.’ And the door closed again.

  Valfierno’s name meant something.

  A few yards away down the alley, the glow of the conservatory. He moved towards it, moth to flame. Didn’t want to startle the girl; wouldn’t mind a look at her face.

  In the weeks out of place there had been glimpses of rightness. A woman calling herself Anna, hungry for lif
e and finding it in him. The glances of two handsome women crossing a Berlin square. A kiss in a train corridor, peaches and defiance.

  The piano notes in the air; he looked up. At the top of one of the buildings on the square, right at the corner where it glowed pale against the dying sky, a pilaster flared out under the eaves. A whimsy; an elegant way to take the vertical line of the pilaster and unite it with the projection of the roof edge. And a swan’s neck of a curve; something that could not be designed, something that could only be felt.

  A window lit up in the wall below the eaves, and a woman’s shoulders and head appeared in it, naked. Her? Of course not. But as the woman in the window looked upwards, neck stretching and skin warm as if he could feel it under his fingers, for an instant the curve of her throat under her chin matched exactly the curve of the moulding outside.

  An impossible, unrepeatable flash of harmony in the universe, an absolute beauty, and Duval felt a cold thrill.

  Hathaway

  The station clock struck six, and Hathaway thought: order.

  She said, ‘Oh, do stop reading the guide, Gerta.’

  The Teutonic approach. Gerta finished reciting about the fifty millions of imperial subjects and their great diversity, and obediently closed the book.

  But the clock, when Hathway glanced up at it, was an ornate queenly thing with tracery on the face. Austria was not Germany.

  The invitation had come from a university acquaintance of Gerta’s, forwarded by telegram to the Margaretenhof: too long since they’d seen each other; a series of lectures in Vienna on ‘Science and Art in the Age of the Machine’; the acquaintance would be busy a lot of the time, so if Gerta had any other friends she could visit, or any companion… A chance to get out of the Margaretenhof, out of Germany.

  A man stopped in front of her, and glanced back over his shoulder towards the platforms. Odd gesture. In a station, one was either going to the platforms or coming from them, and one could normally be pretty sure which. A high-buttoned jacket in the Austrian style; a narrow-brimmed hat with a glimpse of a feather in the band.