Pray for a Brave Heart

  “You’ve got reasons?”

  “Facts,” Denning said briefly.

  Waysmith looked at him.

  “Our job right now is to find out just what shade of grey his guilt is.”

  “It couldn’t be slightly off-white?”

  Denning shook his head. “At best, he’s an accessory to kidnapping. The law isn’t going to excuse even that.”

  They had come into the narrow field, its grass close-cut, which served as the inn’s backyard and parking space. “Over there,” Waysmith said, leading the way towards a clump of birches where his car stood near the rough track that would lead them back to the street. Across the field, a battered jeep stood in solitary state under another cluster of trees; a wagon settled back on a white mass of daisies with its arms stretching to the sky; a small brewery truck was drawn up near the back door of the inn; two tethered goats turned their gentle eyes and thin Manchu beards towards the strangers. Beyond the scattered groups of trees, the other houses showed their sides and backs as if to manifest their independence, their white walls glowing pink, their red roofs bronzed by the warm light of the evening sun.

  Denning looked towards the west. The slopes of the nearest mountains were in shadows, their peaks black silhouettes against the sun which had already travelled over them. The Blümlisalp could scarcely be seen: it had lost all its bright colour and was only a grey streak amid dark grey forests. In these woods, dusk had already begun, cold and still.

  “I forgot that,” Denning said, half to himself, “I forgot how these mountains would cut out the sun. Come on, let’s hurry.”

  But he paused at the car’s door to look now at the brewery truck. It had a Bern licence plate, with its unmistakable emblem of a small black bear climbing a yellow ramp on a background of red.

  “Is this your idea of hurrying?” Waysmith asked. So Denning got into the car.

  They circled round the field, drove past the side of the inn, and halted carefully before they made the sharp right turn into the narrow street.

  “See that car?” Waysmith asked, after they had slowed down once more to let a black Lagonda ease past them. “It’s Broach’s little runabout.”

  “Who was that man in it?”

  “The secretary. Walters. Want to turn back?”

  “I’d just as soon see Broach by himself.” Denning looked back along the street. The Lagonda had stopped at the post office. “The quicker, the better. Take the first cut-off to the right.”

  “Seems to me as if there are more tourists around than when I entered the village,” Waysmith observed. “I hope they are friends of Inspector Bohren, that’s all.” But this was one time he was in no danger of being stopped for speeding. He pressed his foot on the accelerator, and waved to three tourists who had nothing better to do than study the premature sunset.

  In sharp contrast to the west side of the valley, the eastern slopes were bathed in warm light. At the top of this gentle hill, its green meadows now golden, its woods still alive with the evening song of birds, the house waited with flaming windows blazing back the sun’s brilliance as if they were diamonds. A radiance of diamonds.

  * * *

  Broach’s secretary halted the Lagonda in front of the post office. He stepped out in his neat quiet way, closed the door carefully, and walked briskly down the street for twenty yards or so before he crossed towards the inn. He held an envelope in his hand.

  He nodded pleasantly to a small group gathered round the bench at the front door. Inside, the room was half-filled, placid, with quiet people resting after a day of work or pleasure. He hesitated, glancing around the room in his short-sighted way. Frau Welti, he saw, was not in her office: she was sitting at the window-table, listening to the mountaineering bore. The Russian was talking to the American woman. Vivenzio was day-dreaming. Gregor had begun talking in his confidential tone, a low hoarse whisper shielded by his cupped hand. “I take care of Francesca,” he had said as if to answer Paula’s unspoken worries. Watching the affection in his eyes, the softening of his face, Paula wondered if she hadn’t found the reason why he stayed in Falken. She glanced at Francesca, who seemed lost in a world of her own ever since Andy and Bill had marched out of the room.

  “But you’re in danger here, Gregor,” Paula answered in a lowered voice. In greater danger than Francesca, she thought. He almost smiled.

  “If I am famous, I am in danger. However important I believe I am, I cannot say I am famous. Me”—his whisper became almost inaudible—“they do not kidnap. I have no value. Thousands like me escape. But only twenty, thirty like—” He wouldn’t say Andrássy’s name.

  Paula nodded to show she understood.

  “But thank you. Your worry is a”—he searched for the word—“compliment.” He studied her face. “Simpatichny,” he said with great gentleness.

  “Yes,” Francesca said unexpectedly. “That’s Paula.” Then she relapsed into silence again, thinking now—as she had thought during every space of peace in the last eighteen hours—of Andrássy. How did they find out about him? she wondered for the thousandth time. Had they an informer in the village, who had recognised the humble waiter called Schmid? And no one here in the village would inform against Gregor’s friend—and that was all they knew about Schmid. Even Anna Welti only thought of Schmid as someone who was once in a German prison camp with Gregor. The people in Bern with whom he had stayed, or who had employed him, knew only his false name, his false history. That was the rule the Committee had always followed. We’ve been so careful, almost ludicrously careful, Francesca. How did the Communists find out about Andrássy?

  Was it my fault?

  She took a deep breath. From the very beginning ever since the idea of the Committee had been formed, she had retreated from normal relationships. The cold, reserved Francesca. The only real friend she had allowed herself for all these months was Gregor. And even Gregor couldn’t share all she knew about the Committee’s work. Couldn’t, because he wouldn’t: he had always believed that when the Communists learned about the Committee, they would guess that he was its leader. “The less I know, the less they force out of me,” he had said. They had certainly forced information out of Andrássy about her. But who had told, or been forced to give information, about Andrássy? Hálek? He had known Andrássy, and they had met in Bern before Hálek left. Hálek? But he was safe in England, about to begin his lectures in London. Dear Hálek, she thought with gratitude, the gentlest man she had ever met. The work of the Committee had been hard, even grim; but its reward was learning to know such men as Hálek.

  Keppler’s quiet voice said, “And here’s Mr. Walters coming to pay us a visit.”

  Francesca looked up. Indeed it was the little secretary. He walked across the room with his short-paced step, halted with a polite little bow, gave his timid smile. He held out an envelope to her. She took it.

  “We tried to reach you by telephone,” Walters said. “But we couldn’t.”

  “My aunt is in bed. Ill.” Francesca opened the envelope.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Walters said in distress. “I hope the telephone bell didn’t annoy her.”

  It was a friendly little note inside the envelope:

  Dear Miss Vivenzio

  What will you think of me? When I got back here, I found I couldn’t postpone another engagement I had already made for tonight. I’ve been trying to reach you by phone. Believe me, I am disappointed. If Walters can find you with this note, will you telephone me at 8-14-57? I’d like to talk to you for a moment about the Italian lessons I need before I leave in July to visit Italy. Could they begin on Monday? Afternoons are best for me.

  Thank you for tonight’s invitation. It pleased me more than you can guess.

  Sincerely, Richard van Meeren Broach

  Francesca smoothed the note out on the table and frowned down at its questions. It was impossible for her to give any lessons on Monday. Tuesday afternoons were already booked each week for English lessons with the French doctor at
Schlossfalken-Bad. In fact, afternoons weren’t good at all for the next few weeks. If I am alive to teach, she added to that.

  Mr. Walters was still waiting, as if he expected a reply.

  “Tell Mr. Broach—” she began, then stopped. It was all too involved. She rose. “May I use your telephone, Frau Welti?”

  “What’s wrong?” Paula asked.

  “Nothing that two sentences won’t straighten out.” As she moved towards the passageway that led to the back of the inn where Frau Welti’s little office served as a useful telephone booth, she smiled and said to Gregor, “He can’t come to your party. Do we start unarguing ourselves again?”

  Mr. Walters still waited beside the table.

  “Perhaps Mr. Walters will come to the party?” Keppler asked, propping his elbow on the note in his bumbling way so that Mr. Walters, about to pick it up, decided not to make the attempt. Mr. Walters smiled, bulged his eyes with his earnest politeness: no, indeed, it was impossible, but how disappointing for him as well as for Mr. Broach. He talked on. And on. There was no end to the stream of affability once it had been tapped.

  Keppler listened with a smile. But he was thinking of Frau Welti’s small room where two of Bohren’s men, acting as communications officer and special messenger, had been in charge of the telephone all day. No further calls had come in from Bohren: he must be on his way back from Waldesruhe now, bringing Nikolaides for a tender recognition scene with his Mr. James who worked at Broach’s place. That’s one meeting I hope I don’t miss, Keppler said to himself.

  Gregor had his own troubles. He half-rose as if to follow Francesca. And then he sat down again, remembering that he couldn’t interrupt a telephone call between Francesca and Broach without looking as though he were curious, spiteful, jealous. So he stared balefully at the hapless secretary who didn’t seem to know how to disentangle himself politely from this unenthusiastic company. Perhaps Frau Welti’s clicking needles had mesmerised him.

  This, thought Paula, is really tedious. She closed her ears. She tried not to worry about the way Francesca had sat at the table, lost in thoughts of Broach and herself. Francesca must like Broach a good deal more than she had admitted yesterday; perhaps even more than she was admitting to herself now. Who was he, anyway? An ex-American who obviously didn’t approve of his own country. If Francesca had been an American, she might have wondered why. But Francesca was a European, and knew as little about America as Paula knew about Italy. There were plenty of Europeans who liked individual Americans, but criticised the America they had never seen. Broach wouldn’t seem strange to them. They would accept him at his own face value. I wish I could, Paula thought, and half sighed.

  Suddenly, Gregor rose. He looked towards the silent passage that led to Frau Welti’s room. “I think I go.” He hesitated, though. His face was a study in divided emotions: the instinct to go; the dislike of interfering, of being the friend who was turning jailer.

  At that moment, Mr. Walters’s hand discovered several letters in his jacket pocket. “Why, I nearly forgot! I must post these. And my car is waiting in the street, blocking all traffic. I shall be arrested!” He laughed, bowed to each and everyone, and walked unhurriedly towards the inn’s front door.

  Keppler’s amusement had faded. Quickly, he glanced out of the window. The Lagonda was parked in front of the post office, surrounded by curious children, obviously empty, seemingly innocent. Yet his sudden suspicion increased. Walters, now stopping to speak to a couple of villagers, was a man who had established an alibi.

  He rose, pocketing Francesca’s note, and hurried towards Frau Welti’s room. Gregor followed him. In the passageway they began to run.

  The back door to the inn stood open. The office itself was empty, except for one policeman stretched out unconscious on the floor.

  18

  THE HOUSE ON THE HILL

  The brilliant windows had lost their fire. They had become blank squares, flanked by green shutters, underlined with petunias in white window-boxes, as empty and unresponsive as the house itself on its lonely hill.

  “Four and a half minutes,” Waysmith said, timing the Citroën’s climb from the village. “Not bad.”

  Denning nodded, as he stepped out onto the sharp gravel bed of the driveway. So this is where Broach lives, he thought. He looked around him.

  The trees, beginning so abruptly at the edge of the cleared land, seemed to reach across the circle of well-kept grass and pull the house itself into their deep silence. The driveway had brought them to the flight of wooden steps which led up to the wide balcony that encircled the house, but it didn’t end there now. Recently, judging from the newly gravelled surface, it had been continued, in a curve away from the front door, to disappear among the trees on some private business of its own.

  “Where’s that dog?” Waysmith asked, with a smile.

  “Everything’s too quiet,” Denning admitted.

  “Peaceful is evening in the shrine garden.”

  Denning took a deep breath of the resin-scented air which came in warm waves from the pine trees. You could hear a needle drop, he thought. “Too quiet,” he repeated. And then, sharply, “Is anyone here?” Where had they gone, anyway?

  “We can find out.” But Waysmith didn’t take any step towards the placid house. He stood by the car, searched for a cigarette, and looked at Falken down in the valley. “Or shall we just go back?”

  “Lost interest in the interview?”

  “Lost my enthusiasm when I failed the first time.” Or perhaps, Waysmith thought moodily, I lost it when I heard that Broach might not be what he seems: how badly would this report hurt Francesca? It was about time that girl found some real happiness in life.

  Denning said, “Don’t let a woman discourage you.”

  Waysmith lit his cigarette. “Francesca?” he asked, as if he hadn’t been thinking about her. “I must say she picked a fine time to be sorry for people. Hasn’t she enough to worry about?”

  “That may be the trouble. Too much pressure, too much strain.”

  “Perhaps she’s become a professional champion of the underdog.”

  “If this is being an underdog,” Denning looked at the house and its quiet display of wealth, “then I’ll join the ranks any day. Come on, Andy. Let’s get this over with.” He took a step towards the balcony and waited.

  “Of course, she could be flattered. Who is there to pay attention to her around Falken? He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. You didn’t see—”

  “I can imagine,” Denning said dryly. “She’s easy to look at.”

  “How deep, do you think, is she in—”

  “Once it was families, Capulets and Montagues, who kept people apart. Now it’s politics. Romantic enough for you? For God’s sake, Andy, if you don’t stop brooding, we’ll never get this job done.”

  Waysmith ground out the half-smoked cigarette under his heel. “Nice sunset,” he said, turning away from the view of Falken with its background of mountains. He wished it was as easy to turn away from his worries about Francesca.

  The door on the balcony opened.

  Is this Broach? Denning wondered. He saw a dark-haired man, fairly tall, thin, with a pale set face, a rigid jaw that could mean nervousness. Then the man spoke, and his voice was recognisably American. “Hallo,” he was saying, in surprise, perhaps even with relief. “I heard a car stop and wondered—” He looked down at the rifle in his hands. “Just cleaning one of my guns,” he reassured them.

  “Thought you had joined the reservists,” Waysmith said, climbing the steps. “This is Bill Denning, by the way. Another newspaperman. May we come in?”

  “Why?”

  “I thought you might like to discuss that interview.”

  “I have no interest in any interview, frankly.”

  “What about an article, then? Giving your point of view?”

  “Am I so important?” Broach smiled then.

  Denning said quietly, “You became important yesterday.”


  Broach looked at him quickly.

  Denning sat down on the top step. “This will do,” he said to Waysmith. “We can talk here. Suits me.”

  “Not a bad place for an exchange of ideas,” Waysmith agreed. “Nice sunsets you keep around here, Broach.”

  But Broach was looking towards that part of the driveway which circled into the woods. “It’s all right!” he called out. “It’s all right. Go back!” And the man who held the dog on its leash turned and went back.

  There must be a house in the woods, Denning thought, a house or a shack, a cabin, something.

  Then Broach looked towards the empty road that led from Falken to the house. “Come in,” he said suddenly. He held open the door. “Come in.”

  “It’s all right out here,” Denning assured him. He liked this fresh air. He could almost forget the smell of Brie cheese and Nikolaides’s hair pomade in Waldesruhe’s airless room. He had become allergic, perhaps, to closed spaces in strange houses whose owners just happened to be cleaning rifles.

  “Come in!”

  Waysmith grinned and said, “Sure. Can’t stay long, though. We’ve a party tonight. You’re coming, aren’t you?” He followed Broach. Denning followed him. Waysmith’s grin widened as he saw that Denning still carried the stick with him. But Broach didn’t even seem to notice. Was he worried about something? The word “yesterday”, for example?

  The house was the opposite of Waldesruhe. And the large airy room into which Broach led them held only the scent of roses from the smoke crystal bowl on the walnut coffee table. “My secretary’s work,” Broach said with his quick, sad smile, pointing to the flowers. “Have a comfortable seat,” and he gestured to the low couch of silver-grey tweed. He laid down the rifle on a table of Carrara marble near his own high-backed armchair of dark-red velvet. “We’ve had prowlers around here,” he said as he went towards a portable bar with its crystal decanters and silver ice bowl. “What will you have?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” Denning said. Waysmith merely shook his head. “Strange…” Denning glanced around the room. Silk tweed curtains, rich carpeting, no books worth mentioning, no pictures, an oversized radio, filed magazines, a gramophone and a few records.