Pray for a Brave Heart

  As they reached the hall, he added, “One thing I ask of you. Do as little as possible.

  “I’ll take it easy,” Denning said to reassure him. Keppler looked at him, and then grunted.

  “How can I reach you,” Denning asked, “in case I need— advice?”

  “Tourists mislay passports. Naturally they complain to the police.”

  “To Inspector Bohren?”

  “In your case, yes,” Keppler said. He glanced through a narrow slit of heavy glass, inserted at eye level in the massive front door, before he released the lock and the bolt. “But try not to mislay anything,” he added, as he swung the door open. “We’re taking action enough. In your own words—relax.” He smiled suddenly, gripped Denning’s shoulder for a moment, and nodded his goodbye.

  Another day had begun. Denning shivered at its cold touch as he followed his escort down the tree-shaded path to the narrow front gate. Behind him, the house, like all the other houses, seemed plunged in that last precious hour of deep sleep.

  12

  THE GAPS ARE FILLED IN

  It was almost six o’clock when Denning came to the Aarhof—a morning of pale gold promising a day of sun and blue sky. In the lobby there were a few early travellers, shivering from shortened sleep or the cold air which streamed through wide-opened doors and windows, while a small army of cleaners discreetly mopped and swept and polished. The night porter handed over the room key with a brief smile: he had his own worries this morning. Denning, in spite of his exhaustion, could sense the same subdued feeling of mixed excitement and concern from the clerks and the elevator boy. Had the news of Rauch’s arrest reached them? Probably. They all were too preoccupied with a shared problem to pay any attention to Denning. Not that he cared at this moment. Physically, emotionally, he was too tired.

  His room was cool and quiet. He drew the curtains, hung a don’t disturb sign on the outer door, and then pulled his clothes off. He was suddenly so listless that he could scarcely set his alarm clock. Three hours he’d give himself. Three hours… He fell into bed, already half-asleep.

  He was awakened by the telephone. (It must have been ringing for some time, for it stopped before he had gathered enough wits to reach for the receiver.) He didn’t feel too bad. He had a headache, a slight headache, but that was all. He could have felt worse. At least, the need for sleep was over.

  He looked at the clock on his way to the bathroom. It was eleven. He must have slept right through the alarm. Or had he set it badly? No, it was set fully. For nine o’clock. He cursed himself for an idiot.

  But after a shave and a bath, and then a breakfast tray which the boy Gustav brought up with a cheerful smile and a general air of suppressed excitement, he began to feel he hadn’t been too much of an idiot after all. Five hours of deep sleep had cleared his mind. The second cup of coffee had wakened him thoroughly, set his brain to working briskly. And somewhere, somehow, in those five hours of complete unconsciousness, a few ideas had been born. They gave their first small sign of life when he was reading the morning paper which Gustav left beside the coffeepot.

  “Who was this poor foolish buyer, anyway?” Keppler had asked when they were discussing the possible sale of the diamonds. And I said, “No interest,” Denning remembered; but now I am interested. Last night—or early morning—before I read Max’s report, the buyer was unidentifiable, beyond having a few certain characteristics. Anyone who bought the Herz diamonds must have promised to keep them secret for a considerable time—months certainly, perhaps even a year or two: he must have been someone who trusted the Communists completely. He probably was someone who thought it an honour to pay a fortune, without question, without haggling, to a fund started by his Communist friends.

  But did he know the purpose of this fund?

  I hope not, Denning thought. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. So there was his picture—a sympathiser with Communist causes, eager to serve, easily duped, wealthy… That’s all I had last night, until I read Max’s report.

  But Max had never done anything without a purpose. His reference to Richard Broach—the transfer of three million dollars from America, the new home in Falken—was not just some fantastic guess, a rumour dragged in to complete a page. It was there because Max must have had a strong suspicion. And when had Max’s suspicion become a certainty?

  Yesterday…

  He had found something yesterday to confirm suspicion and make it provable fact. He had found it too late for any addition to the report contained in that minute piece of film called a micro-dot. But the sign that he had found it and recognised its truth was in the way he had taken the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket—perhaps as he tried to run across the Square—and held it in his hand. “This is what is important,” he had been trying to say, “this I have verified, this I hand over to you.”

  Johann Keppler, of course, would have his own questions about Richard Broach; no doubt he had already started investigating the reasons behind Broach’s appearance at Falken. But any thorough investigation took time. And we have little time, Denning thought. I knew Max and how he worked. I was Max’s friend. There I have an edge over Keppler. If Max hadn’t found the evidence connecting Broach with the sale of the Herz diamonds, he would have ripped that pack of cigarettes open as he sat at his table in the Café Henzi. He would have burned the micro-dot with a match. Max never made a challenge without real proof. I know that Max was pointing a finger at Broach.

  If I’m right, Denning thought with growing excitement then one thing follows quite naturally. Wherever Broach is, there will we find some of Nikolaides’ single-minded men, discreetly waiting, their fingers itching. That’s definite. If I’m right.

  I feel I’m right, but how do I prove it?

  The quickest, and most final, proof could come from Nikolaides himself. But would he admit he knows who is the buyer of the diamonds? Or rather, why should he admit it?

  For Nikolaides and the men who work for him don’t suffer from a sense of moral obligation; they are purely self-interested characters: doing nothing, saying nothing, which doesn’t benefit them. Strictly quid pro quo types, with a loyalty applicable only to their own small group. Honour among thieves is definitely limited. Give evidence against someone in order to benefit the majority of citizens? Not they. For the laws are made by the majority, and Nikolaides is the lawbreaker. The citizens are his social enemy. He, and all the other professional thieves, never forget that, even if sometimes the ordinary innocent citizen does.

  That’s our mistake as well as our virtue: we, the ordinary citizens trying to live an honest life, like to think that all people—simply because we share the same ways of swallowing and digesting food, of taking air into our lungs, of propagating, of being born, of dying—must feel as we feel, must mean what we mean, must act as we would act.

  It’s all a very charming belief, does us credit. But it isn’t going to help us pin Nikolaides down; or the men who have murdered Max or abducted Burkhart, Kahn, and Hálek. Hálek, poor devil… What haven’t they put him through by this time?

  Denning rose abruptly. He could feel the hot blood rushing into his cheeks. He opened the windows wide. Anger, raging anger, wasn’t the way to deal with kidnappers and torturers. Cold, determined purpose; calculations as in a chess game. That was the way. And how did you calculate, forestall each move of the enemy, and win? By making your own thought follow the patterns in which your opponent’s mind worked. That was the lesson to learn, that was the way to checkmate.

  I’ll start with Nikolaides, Denning decided. He turned back to the table, picked up the newspaper, and studied once more the paragraph about the murders in the Henziplatz last night. It was skilfully written (was Keppler really a part-time journalist?), and although Max was not identified, the frightened little man was named quite clearly: Charles-Auguste Maartens. Nikolaides wouldn’t like that paragraph at all.

  Denning opened the bureau drawers to begin packing. But Gustav entered to clear away the breakfas
t tray.

  “You saw the newspaper?” he asked, with an excitement he couldn’t conceal in spite of all his efforts.

  “Yes.” Denning lit a cigarette and tried not to look impatiently at his watch.

  “It’s caused a lot of trouble down at the desk,” Gustav said. “Of course, the Victoria is trying to hush it all up. And we, too, aren’t supposed to talk about it. But there have been policemen everywhere. Did you see the detectives in the lobby when you came in?”

  “I didn’t pay much attention,” Denning said, but he reached for the newspaper again. It was another small paragraph, almost crushed out of its column by a description of the resistance of Chinese prisoners of war to interrogation by Communist officers in Korea. Feodor Rauch, a hotel clerk presently employed by the Aarhof, was arrested last night for illegal entry and disorderly conduct in the Hotel Victoria. That was all.

  “He wasn’t much liked,” Gustav said, “but it does seem unfair that he was arrested. After all, it wasn’t such a fault.”

  “What wasn’t?”

  “He just went to see a friend of his, and she suddenly got angry and yelled. Of course,” Gustav added sagely, “he shouldn’t have made friends with any guest. That’s against all rules. No wonder the Hotel Victoria is hushing it all up.” He suddenly realised that Denning was staring at him. He reddened.

  “I’ve annoyed you, gnädiger Herrf.”

  Denning restrained himself. He even smiled. “Where on earth did you get all that information?”

  “Downstairs. We’re all talking about the disgrace of it.”

  “But who spread the story about Rauch’s visit to a woman friend? Who is responsible for that?”

  Gustav looked uncomfortable. “Everyone’s saying it.”

  “But who said it first? The rest of you are just repeating the story. Don’t you see?”

  Gustav picked up the tray. He didn’t look happy: his mind was divided between what his friends were saying, what the police had done, and the amused disbelief on the American’s face.

  Denning relented. He said seriously, reassuringly, “Rauch would be free now if the police didn’t think he was a suspicious character. He isn’t being unjustly—”

  “He wasn’t a thief,” Gustav said quickly. “We are sure of that.”

  “He wouldn’t announce his plans to you, would he?” How easy it would have been to prove to Gustav that the whole story was definitely a lie, that Paula Waysmith had only arrived in Bern, that Rauch couldn’t have been in the habit of visiting her. How simple it would have been to pass on Keppler’s information: “Rauch has tricked all of you. His job here was simply a cover. He is an agent working for a foreign government.” But the truth couldn’t be told, and the story-spreader had relied on that. “Where’s the maid, by the way?”

  “She’s gone,” Gustav said. “She was Rauch’s wife, so of course she couldn’t face all this disgrace.”

  “I thought you didn’t like her.”

  “Not much.”

  “But now you’re sorry for her?” Denning smiled. “You’ve got the right impulses, Gustav,” he said quietly, sincerely.

  The boy looked happier.

  “But,” Denning added, “don’t let anyone abuse your impulses.”

  “Please?”

  “Had Rauch any special friend here?”

  Gustav shook his head.

  “Had his wife?”

  Gustav glanced at him sharply. Then he moved hurriedly towards the door. These questions bothered him.

  “Now I wonder if that friend made up the story about Rauch visiting a lady?”

  “I didn’t mean to trouble you with all this,” Gustav said, almost with annoyance. “Excuse me, sir.”

  Anyone criticising a member of the staff was criticising Gustav—was that it? Denning shook his head in wonder. Nowadays, hell was also paved with justifications.

  “It’s a small matter,” Gustav added, and all his natural politeness surged back to rout his annoyance.

  “I guess so. Except to the lady at the Victoria who is being falsely accused.”

  “Accused?”

  “By Frau Rauch’s helpful friend.”

  It was obvious that Gustav hadn’t got around to that stage of deduction as yet. He looked back at Denning, now with alarm, as he went out.

  But Denning, seeing a stiff-starched blue uniform passing along the corridor, said quickly, “Is that the helpful friend?”

  Gustav, in spite of his slow thought processes, found the phrase amusing, for he grinned and nodded.

  “And she’s going to look after my room?” Denning asked. Now that really was being helpful. He took the don’t disturb card and hung it outside once again. “I’m tired,” he told Gustav with a broad smile.

  He locked the inner door, and began packing. What was the best way to get to Falken?

  The telephone rang. It was Andrew Waysmith.

  “And where the hell have you been?” was the first question.

  “Now that’s what I call the real friendly approach,” Denning answered. “How are you, Andy? When did you arrive?”

  “Around one o’clock this morning. Just in time for a pretty picnic. Can I see you?”

  “Any time.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “Wait a minute—I’ll come over and see you. That’s better.”

  “But—”

  “It’s much better,” Denning insisted.

  “All right. Meanwhile, give me Meyer’s address. I phoned you half of the night, and then again this morning.”

  “At eleven? Yes, you wakened me.”

  “Where can I reach Meyer?”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “He has left?” There was a short pause. Then Waysmith said, “This is urgent, you know.”

  “I know.”

  There was another pause from Waysmith. “When will I see you?”

  “As soon as I can make it.”

  “No sooner?”

  “Andy, calm down. I shan’t waste time getting my shoes polished.”

  “Well, don’t be too late. I’ve rented a car, and we’re driving into the country early this afternoon.”

  “I’ll see you before you leave,” Denning said reassuringly, and hung up.

  At the desk in the lobby, Denning asked for his bill.

  “Immediately, sir,” said the clerk politely. It was the clerk who knew so much about geraniums. Denning waited, looked round the lobby. It was almost twelve o’clock, but there wasn’t a sign of a uniformed schoolgirl. Where was Emily? Didn’t schoolgirls eat lunch? Outside the dining-room, some thrifty visitors were already gathering. Surely Emily’s teacher believed in the little economy of board combined with lodging? The three pink-cheeked clergymen were loitering quietly. So were the English business-man and his wife. So were the young French couple, and several Swiss visitors. But where was Emily?

  Denning saw Michel, the gardening expert, doing one of his transplanting jobs on the central table of geraniums. “By the way,” he said, “you’d better tell the gardener that one of the geraniums in my window-box looks pretty ill. He might want to change it before a new guest arrives.”

  “Thank you, sir, that’s very helpful of you.” The clerk was delighted at such appreciation of his flowers. He beckoned to Michel; then began to explain the bill. “We’re only charging you for one day. It would,” he added sadly, “have been much cheaper for you if you had stayed three days. Pension terms, you see. So: room with bath—sixteen francs. Two breakfasts— five francs. Conveyance from station to the hotel, transport of luggage, heating last night (that was one-and-a-half francs) and tips—for a one-day stay, that is fifteen per cent. Then there’s the tax—”

  “Yes, yes,” Denning said. “It’s all clear.” He counted out the money quickly as Michel approached. Then he leaned over to the porter’s desk and dropped his key. “Checking out,” he said clearly as Michel passed by. “Have someone meet me at the station with my luggage at half-past one.”
>
  “He isn’t allowed on the platform, I’m afraid.”

  So much the better. “Then I’ll meet him at the entrance,” Denning said. He turned away, reasonably sure that Michel had heard enough, and strolled towards the door. He paused there, lighting a cigarette, and looked along the arcade with its handsome shops. This was a very different kind of arcade from the one which edged the Henziplatz. Here, at night, there would be few shadows from these bright lamps overhead. Here, the trolley cars… And then he saw the platoon of schoolgirls, walking two by two, with Mademoiselle Dupre leading them at a brisk trot. Run, ma’mselle, run: luncheon, pension-price, waits for no man, not even for a harassed lady with fourteen hungry mouths to fill.

  She stood at the side of the doorway, urging her charges to hurry and wash their hands and be down-stairs in the dining-room in five minutes. “Five minutes,” she kept saying in her beautiful French (did she come from Tours?), and she gently pushed the girls through the door. (Perhaps she was counting them.) She gave Denning a quick look, in between two polite pushes. He bowed and raised his hat.

  “Quite a responsibility, Mademoiselle Dupre. May I congratulate you?”

  Mademoiselle looked at him in astonishment, and forgot to count. And there was Emily, the last of all, quickening her dragging pace as she saw Denning.

  “Emily!” he said, taking hold of her hand and shaking it violently. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Your mother would have been so disappointed if I hadn’t seen you. And how are you? Mademoiselle Dupre, may Emily come to lunch with me?”

  Mademoiselle first shoved the flock of curious girls inside. “Five minutes,” she warned them, and sent them scattering.