Frances noted that he looked strained and tired.
“What about a spot of food and some beer?” She smiled as she saw him brighten at the idea. She stood up and smoothed her skirt. “I’ll wash first. Where’s the bathroom?”
Richard grinned. “It’s absolutely unique, Frances. You’ll love it.” She knew from his tone that she wouldn’t.
“Where?” she asked philosophically.
“Straight along the corridor, past the staircase, to the back of the building. You’ll find it on the balcony there. It’s a square box to one side. You can wave to all the people sitting out on their balconies round the back courtyard. It’s really very matey.”
Frances said very slowly, “Richard, you are pulling my leg. I’ll see for myself.”
She walked quickly along the corridor. Apart from the additional local colour of two pairs of large black boots outside one quiet room—Richard had been surprisingly discreet about that—everything was exactly as he had described it.
As they went downstairs Richard was whistling softly to himself in a preoccupied way. Frances paid little attention; he often did that—but as they reached the desk she suddenly realised that the last few bars had taken shape into something she knew. O My Love’s Like a Red, Red Rose. Richard was laying their key on the desk, in front of the large, shapeless man. Without rising from his chair, he nodded his square head with its bristling hair, and grunted in reply to their good evening. He only looked for a moment at Frances’ hat.
When they came in he was still sitting there. He rose slowly and grudgingly to hand them their key. All his movements were those of a lethargic and not particularly amiable man.
This was all that happened for two days as they left or entered the hotel. The room which served as the restaurant was empty in the morning. The swing doors were propped open to air the place, the chairs were piled on the tables, and the two waitresses in old dresses were washing the floors. The tobacco smoke was gone, but the smell of beer still hung in the air. In the evening the swing doors were closed, shutting in the dull hum of voices, except when the hurrying waitresses, now dressed in their bright dirndls, elbowed them open. Then the wave of voices rose and fell. They were always men’s voices, thick and heavy. Frances wondered about the grass widows, deserted for the excitements of politics.
On Sunday morning the silent man startled them by asking if they were comfortable in their room. They said they were, and waited. But he only hooked their key on to the board behind him, moving so slowly, with his back turned to them, that they knew the conversation was over. They didn’t need to look back at the desk, as they took the first steps downstairs. He would be lowering himself slowly into his chair, folding his hands across his massive paunch, and settling his eyes on his favourite spot on the wall above their heads.
As they returned that evening, climbing slowly up the stairs to the rhythm of Frances’ high heels, they braced themselves to face the desk, but no one was there. Just as Richard was wondering if he should risk getting their room key without arousing the owner’s displeasure, Johann appeared. Herr Kronsteiner had just gone to have his supper, he explained, and moved round behind the desk. He had taken off his apron and had become a very dignified Johann. Well, anyway, thought Frances, that disposed of Richard’s theory that Herr Bristleneck did all his eating and sleeping at the desk. But Richard seemed in no way dismayed at having his theories confounded: on the contrary, he was in remarkably good humour as they climbed the rest of the stairs. He was whistling to himself again, softly, and absent-mindedly it seemed. But the wink he gave Frances as they walked down the corridor to their room was not at all absent-minded. Just as they reached the door, the whistling had slid into a recognisable tune. Richard opened the door quickly. He was not disappointed. Inside, standing at the window, looking at the street, was Herr Kronsteiner.
He stood just far enough behind the white curtain to see without being seen. He turned slowly round to face them as the door closed. Richard’s whistling stopped then.
Richard said quietly, “Good evening.” Frances noticed that Herr Kronsteiner also kept his voice low as he answered. He was smiling politely, his eyes fixed vaguely on the wall behind them.
“I came to leave your account in your room, and then I thought I heard you coming upstairs. So I took the opportunity of waiting, so that I could explain any details which might seem doubtful. Many of our foreign visitors find German figures puzzling. I shall be away tomorrow on a short journey, and I may not return before you leave.” For a man of Herr Kronsteiner’s lack of loquacity, it was quite a speech.
Richard’s expression was unchanged. “Of course. It is just as well to be quite sure and to have all the details perfectly clear.”
Frances glanced at him. There was just a shade of emphasis, a slowness in the phrasing of the words, which gave them a double meaning to anyone who looked for it; but if Herr Kronsteiner perceived it, he gave no sign. He held two envelopes in his hands; he chose one of them carefully and handed it to Richard. He waited. Richard ripped the envelope open and extracted a sheet of paper. Frances, still watching him, saw a shade of disappointment pass over his face. The envelope had contained a bill, just an ordinary hotel bill. The name of the hotel headed the piece of paper, followed by the name of the proprietor. It was Rudolf Kronsteiner. He saw Fugger’s head against the row of dusty books, saw the scarcely moving lips… “The owner is call Hans… He will help you…”
“Thank you. I think everything is quite clear.” Richard spoke abstractedly. Would he risk it? It was now or never, he felt. On what he said or did depended everything, everything, including Frances’ safety. At least the man had come to their room, with a very elaborate excuse. That had been the first step, either for or against them. The next step was his. He was amazed at the calmness of his own voice. “Except, of course, one silly idea I had. I thought you were the proprietor.”
“I am,” the man answered gravely, but his interest seemed aroused for the first time.
“Really? Then it’s my mistake completely. I thought the owner’s name was Hans, not Rudolf.”
Herr Kronsteiner smiled. “Everyone knows that it is Rudolf.” He looked at the envelope which he still held in his hand.
“God in heaven, how could I have made such a mistake? I gave you the wrong bill. My apologies, Herr Professor.” His calm smile belied the amazement of his words.
To Frances, sitting on the edge of the bed, her hat with its red rose lying beside her, it seemed as if here were not only a maddening man, but also one who either enjoyed his own mystery, or—and that was a disturbing thought—believed in precaution even within those thick walls. Thank heavens, Richard and she had made only general conversation here, except when they had lain close together in bed. Could their low voices, deadened by the soft feather pillow, have possibly been heard, even if this room was wired for sound? Richard’s precaution, which from the very beginning she had been inclined to deplore secretly, now lost all its theatrical appearance and began to look like wisdom.
Richard was smiling too, as he read the second bill very carefully. He was memorising something.
“Everything is quite clear now,” he said. “Would you like the bill paid this evening, or will tomorrow do?”
“That does not matter very much, but we have a rule in this hotel that all accounts must be paid each Monday. Tonight or tomorrow, it does not matter. One more thing. I must trouble you about. All the rooms in the hotel have been reserved for a political conference this week. It begins on Wednesday.”
“Oh, we intended in any case to leave Innsbruck either tomorrow or Tuesday.” Did we indeed? thought Frances. The reply had pleased Kronsteiner. He had given his warning; and Richard had taken it. He positively beamed, although his voice was as impersonal as ever.
“In that case, I am glad I saw you this evening, for I may be away when you leave. I hope you have enjoyed your visit here.”
“Very much indeed.” It was Frances now who spoke. It
seemed to her that it was quite time she said something. Herr Kronsteiner bowed and moved with surprising quickness to the door. He paused before he opened it, slowly, cautiously. Without looking back, he suddenly slipped out. They couldn’t hear his footsteps in the corridor. For a large, heavy man he could walk with surprising lightness.
Frances felt that someone ought to say something. “Was the bill high?”
“No, it was rather reasonable. Now what shoes did you want to wear?”
Frances looked at the bed… But if Richard wanted to go out again, there would be a reason. Any suggestion he made had its purpose. She knew that by this time. She changed her shoes and washed her hands and face in cold water. She felt the better for fresh powder and lipstick. She wound a white-chiffon scarf as a turban round her head; she was beginning to hate the sight of the red rose, anyway. As she finished tucking the ends of the scarf in place, she saw Richard watching her in the mirror. He was smoking his pipe, and in the ashtray beside him were the crumbled ashes of the paper which he had used as a lighter. His Baedeker was open on his knees.
“Ready?” Frances nodded. She picked up a clean pair of white gloves and a fresh handkerchief. Richard had risen and replaced the guide-book in its drawer. He emptied his pipe into the ashtray, and stirred the ashes with his penknife until he was satisfied that no piece of charred grey paper could be seen. The bill which had been handed to him first by Kronsteiner he left lying on the little table beside the flowers.
Downstairs, Johann was still at the desk. He interrupted his conversation with two men, whom Richard recognised as belonging to the uniforms which had practically marched over him on the evening of their arrival, to wish them much enjoyment. He could recommend the film at the cinema in the Maria-Theresien-Strasse. His friendly brown eyes followed Frances downstairs, along with the open, non-committal stare of his companions. One of them said something, the other laughed. Frances took Richard’s arm, and pressed it. Her quietening touch, she called it. They heard Johann’s voice raised in their defence.
“But the English are a truly German race.”
“Which is probably the highest praise one could have from a German,” said Richard bitterly, as they closed the heavy front door. “I wish,” he added, “that we could afford the luxury of a scene. Just once.”
Perhaps Richard had been infected by Herr Kronsteiner’s super-caution. Anyway, he had varied his technique tonight. As they crossed the square towards the Maria-Theresien-Strasse, he chose the moments of isolation to tell Frances they would leave tomorrow for Pertisau am Achensee.
“It looks a decent sort of place on the map,” he said with some pleasure.
“Are we near the end?”
“We’ll know when we meet him.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll go to Ragusa, and post back the letter of credit.”
“And if we don’t find him this time? We haven’t many days left, have we?”
“We’ll have to try again, and perhaps again. After that, if there are no results, I’ll wire Geneva, and we’ll get back to London. We were given a month. It’s now the sixteenth of July. I think we’ll manage it in time.”
“Then you have a suspicion this may be the last stop?”
Richard only smiled as an answer. They had reached the pavement, and, surrounded once more by Sunday-evening crowds, they walked in silence towards the cinema. Outside its doors Frances paused to look at the stills.
“I think I’d rather have a drink,” she said.
“You’ve got sense,” an American voice said behind them. They both turned in amazement. Yet, it was; it was Henry van Cortlandt, sardonic grin and all. He shook their hands as if he really were pleased to see them.
“It was your wife’s hat sort of thing which caught my eye. It’s pretty smooth; not the kind of headgear a good Hausfrau wears. I’ve just been in there, and I came out half-way through. I’ve been wondering what to do until it’s time to go to bed. And now you are here in answer to my prayers. The drinks are on me. We’ll catch up on local colour. I know a place where we’ll get plenty.”
As they walked towards the restaurant, there were explanations. Van Cortlandt had finished his assignment in Germany, and was now heading through the Tyrol to Vienna. He tactfully did not ask them where they had been, or where they were going. Frances filled in the gaps with what she always called girlish gossip. Tonight it served its purpose well enough.
As they sat at a table in the beerhouse they all relaxed and prepared to enjoy themselves. Both Richard and van Cortlandt had stories to tell, and there was no need to worry about the conversation. It was pleasant, thought Frances, to lean on a table, to watch the curling cigarette smoke, to listen to laughter and voices raised in friendly argument. There was one thing about living under this kind of government—every moment of enjoyment was treasured. You appreciated any moments without fear or restrictions, and when they came your way you made the most of them. There was a kind of pathetic determination to have a good time in the faces around her. It had touched even her. When they had sat down at this table tonight, she had made up her mind that she was going to enjoy herself. She was going to forget everything except that they were on holiday.
The men ordered their second large steins of beer. Frances left the conversation to watch the people around them. She noticed a young man sitting alone at a small table and making the best of his splendid isolation. He was vaguely familiar. He looked suddenly towards them, and his eyes met hers. He hesitated. Frances felt that he knew her, and that he was waiting for her to smile. When she didn’t he looked away quickly and became absorbed in a large family party in front of him. Richard became aware of her look of concentration. He stopped what he was saying to van Cortlandt to ask, “Anything wrong, Frances?”
“I’m just thinking, darling.”
“It looks rather painful.” Both men regarded her with some amusement.
“I’ve got it…the young man in the train.”
Richard didn’t look any the wiser.
“The beautiful young man in the train to Paris. Your friends’ brother, Richard, you know the one. He’s here,”
“Young Thornley. Good lord. Where?”
“Over there.”
Richard looked. “You’re quite right, Frances. It is.”
“He looks rather lonely.”
“Well, we’re not nursemaids.” Richard was annoyed.
Van Cortlandt laughed at Richard’s expression.
“Why do the English abroad avoid the English abroad?” he asked.
“Well, you know what we call a holiday… a change. But actually he may not want to join us, and might only do it out of politeness.”
Van Cortlandt looked surprised. He wasn’t convinced. “Now who would think up that reason?” They all laughed.
“He might be waiting for someone, but I think he looks too bored for that. He is not annoyed; he is just bored.” It was Frances again.
The young man decided everything by looking towards their table, and smiling wholeheartedly in his embarrassment at finding three pairs of eyes focused on him. Richard gave a wave of his hand, and the young man rose and came towards them.
“I hope you don’t mind my butting in,” he said, “but I’ve got very tired of laughing by myself.” The American looked at Thornley in just the same way he had looked at Richard and Frances when he had met them in the Five-cornered Tower. It was a quiet summing up, disconcerting in its frankness, but Thornley, like the Myleses, pretended to be unaware of it. He sat down beside them, and started to talk. He was amusing, and seemingly lighthearted. Frances watched van Cortlandt make up his mind; after he had had half an hour of Thornley, she felt the judgment was mainly favourable. She sighed with relief; she felt responsible for Thornley. Van Cortlandt had decided, she could guess, that Thornley was a nice, amusing individual with a lot of charm—and not much else. It would depend on how much he got to know Thornley before he could revise that estimate. Frances guessed also that van C
ortlandt hadn’t thought any revision would be necessary.
“Where’s your friend?” asked Richard, when the rush of conversation offered its first pause.
“Tony? Oh, he should be here any day, I hope. That’s why I’m hanging about Innsbruck. We went to Prague, you know, and didn’t find ourselves very welcome by the—authorities. Things were a little difficult, really. It seemed easier if we split up, and if I came here to let him get his job done.”
The mention of Prague had interested van Cortlandt.
“Did you run into trouble?” he asked.
Thornley nodded. “A little.” He saw that they were all waiting for him to explain. He could hardly ignore the interest in all their eyes.
“Is Tony in danger?” asked Frances. At least that would give him the chance to say no, and to turn the conversation.
“Actually, he is looking for a girl.”
Van Cortlandt and Richard exchanged glances.
“What’s wrong with that?” asked the American with a smile.
“Nice healthy pursuit,” agreed Richard.
“Usually,” said Thornley. “But in this case she is the daughter of a professor who wasn’t exactly popular with the new regime.”
“Don’t tell us unless you want to,” said Frances suddenly.
“Probably I’d be better confiding in someone. You’ve no idea how miserable you begin to feel inside when you can’t talk to anyone. I’ve been waiting here just like that for two weeks… The story is simple and innocent enough, heaven knows. Tony began worrying about this girl when he heard her father had been removed. He had met her in England last summer, and since May he has become determined to get to Prague to see if she were all right. He had the idea of marrying her and getting her out of the country as a British citizen. Well, we got to Prague. It wasn’t particularly pleasant for us, being English.” He paused reflectively. “It became obvious that I was inclined to get involved in things, and there was no sign of Tony’s girl. In the end he thought it was better for him to do the job alone. He can control his temper better than I can. So I came on here, and I’m waiting for Tony and his girl to arrive. I said I would wait until the end of July.”