Pray for a Brave Heart

  They are trying to scare me, she thought suddenly. That was an old trick: frightening people into making a false move. She smiled suddenly, feeling the excitement coming back into her blood. An old hand didn’t scare so easily at old tricks. Why, she had known that one when she was sixteen. She and her brother had used it to frighten a Nazi informer into warning the leader of his pro-Nazi group. Am I supposed, now, to run to the head of the Committee with my alarms? Am I to lead them to him? Her smile broadened.

  “But I’m being serious,” Paula protested. “When it comes to deciding between living in the country and living in the city, I’m almost driven to schizophrenia. Just as I was talking about Paris, I suddenly remembered how good it was to wake up in the country and see fields and trees all around me. Yet in the country I’ll suddenly remember how a city looks with the lights coming on. What do you make of me? I’m not really a fickle kind of person.”

  “You are certainly devoted to watching that doorway.”

  Paula flushed. “I was just trying to help.” But she smiled, too. “Are you sure you don’t have to be worried?” Then she stared at the doorway again.

  “I’m sure,” Francesca said. That’s the Italian in me, she thought. Quickly, she added a touch of Swiss to balance it: “Reasonably sure.” How strange was that phrase, that calm phrase, reasonably sure: it always awakened equally reasonable doubt. “Don’t keep looking at that door, darling.”

  “But guess who has just arrived—Maxwell Meyer. Imagine! Look, he’s coming over here.” Paula was delighted with the smallness of the world.

  “And who’s Maxwell Meyer?”

  Paula, who had been about to wave, let the hand she had half-raised in welcome drop back on the table. “He didn’t see me,” she said. She lowered her voice. “He’s sitting just over there to your left.”

  “You seem to have picked a blind batch of male friends,” Francesca said teasingly, remembering Bill Denning.

  “Oh, he isn’t a friend: just a friend of a friend,” Paula said. She was a little hurt, though. Perhaps it wasn’t Maxwell Meyer after all, she thought. “What has happened to the singing?” she asked.

  “It will start soon,” Francesca said, glancing at her watch. “Any minute now.” It was almost eleven o’clock.

  6

  NO. 10 HENZIPLATZ

  The room of “Elizabeth” was small, square, warmly lighted by a pink-shaded lamp. Heavy red curtains covered the narrow windows, blotting out the rain which slanted through the darkness outside, and silencing the occasional noises of traffic from the Henziplatz. Highly coloured pictures of roses and unadorned nymphs were pinned on the wall. A double bed covered with cheap lace and pink silk took more than its share of floor space. A scrap of white fur rug lay before the bed, small cushions and a doll on a narrow red couch. A round table and two chairs waited near the screen which hid a sink and small cooking stove. There was another screen, too, probably hiding the bathroom.

  “I’m Keppler,” the man said, locking the door as Denning stepped into the room. He shook hands solemnly. He was a business-like man in a quiet brown suit: quick in word and movement; of medium height and solid build, with close-cropped grey hair above a tanned face, heavy eyebrows over blank blue eyes, a mouth that was pleasant enough, a well-defined nose and a long chin.

  He had been studying Denning too. “You should change your photographer, Captain Denning. He doesn’t flatter you. Have a chair.” He waved a hand towards the table.

  Denning shook his hat free of the rain and slipped off his sodden coat. Keppler’s unobtrusive scrutiny made him still more conscious of his anomalous position here. Suddenly, he stood quite still. A tall thin figure came silently out from behind the bathroom screen.

  “Le Brun—Denning,” Keppler said, now placing the emphasis on the civilian approach.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” Denning said, smiling at his own tenseness, as he shook hands with the Frenchman. Perhaps Le Brun’s nerves weren’t too good either, for his melancholy face was not at all amused, and his handshake was brief. Then he sat down on the red couch, pushed aside the doll with a frown, and leaned forward, his long arms resting on his knees, his sad brown eyes watching Denning intently.

  “I suppose we’ll speak in English?” he asked.

  Denning looked at Keppler, but he was choosing a cigar from the case. Americans don’t speak French, Denning remembered. “That’s all right with me,” he said, keeping his voice friendly. I’m the unwanted stepchild, he thought.

  “Did you have any trouble in reaching here?” Le Brun asked.

  “I had a lot of walking. But no trouble.” Denning glanced at Keppler again. Who was in charge, anyway? But Keppler seemed content to let Le Brun lead the discussion. Colonel Le Brun, Denning suddenly remembered. But, as Le Brun asked him some searching questions, about Berlin, his journey to Bern, his connections with Meyer, he became sure that it wasn’t only his first joking remark that had nettled a colonel. And it wasn’t just the fact that Le Brun’s pride was probably hurt: it had every reason to bridle over Charlie-for-Short’s preference for the Americans. Nor was it simply a matter of feeling obliged to the Swiss, although there were some people who never felt at ease in the role of guest, preferring to give favours rather than receive them.

  Some of these emotions no doubt were mixed up in the basis of Le Brun’s growing impatience. But the real clue to his present temper came when he said, suddenly throwing up his hands in despair, “So you know as little as Keppler does about this whole business? As little as I do? Perhaps even less! My God!” Then he let his arms fall and his lips droop. He didn’t need to say anything more.

  Keppler studied the end of his cigar. He said, “Le Brun is pessimistic about tonight.”

  “It is too rash, too quick,” Le Brun said. “This will probably be a wild duck chase. That is all it will be.”

  “Then we’ll have discovered it was a wild duck we were chasing,” Keppler said placidly. “That at least is something to know. What do you think, Denning?”

  “Denning,” Le Brun cut in, “is as worried as I am, I can see that.”

  But not about the same things, thought Denning.

  “I came here yesterday,” Le Brun said. “The whole place is placid, quiet. I might have been one of these stupid tourists. Not a single attempt to follow me, to note what I was doing. No interest whatever.”

  “Are you sure?” Denning asked.

  “Of course I am sure. I am not an amateur in this business.”

  But I am, Denning thought. Is this what is annoying Le Brun? He said, “I gathered you were strictly professional.”

  Le Brun looked at him quickly. He relaxed a little. “This town is too innocent,” he assured Denning. “That worries me very much.” He rubbed the long bridge of his nose, slowly. “Tell me,” he said suddenly, “you know Colonel Meyer well?” His fine brown eyes were watchful.

  “For many years.”

  “He is not a serious man?”

  “He enjoys a joke. But,” Denning added quickly, “when it comes to work, then he’s more than serious.”

  “Reliable?”

  “Of course.”

  “But enthusiastic, imaginative?”

  “Yes. Why not? Don’t you need both enthusiasm and imagination for a difficult job of work?”

  “What I am trying to say—it isn’t easy, I assure you—but do you believe Meyer’s story?”

  Denning looked over at the quiet Keppler. “But don’t you?” He stared at both of them.

  Keppler didn’t answer. Le Brun shook his head. Le Brun said softly, “So you do believe Meyer.”

  “If I didn’t, do you think I’d be here?” Denning said angrily. “And why are you both taking the trouble to be here, if you think Meyer’s story is so fantastic?”

  “I had hoped it was true,” Le Brun said stiffly. “One must explore every hope.”

  “Isn’t that just what Meyer is doing?”

  Keppler intervened tactfully, “Let us co
nsider this truth: even the most fantastic stories have an element of possibility; we cannot ignore that element. That is why we have gathered here. That is why all Swiss officers on duty—may I speak in German? It is quicker for me. More accurate. Yes?”

  Le Brun said in French, “Certainly. But what about Denning? Will he understand clearly?”

  “I’ve been in Berlin for the last four years,” Denning said in his best German.

  Le Brun half-smiled. “My apologies. It does not always follow that an Amer—that a man who works in Germany can speak German.”

  True, Denning thought, but I can do as well as wild duck chase, I hope. What have I drawn here, anyway? One of those cross-eyed neutralists with their subconscious desire that all Americans may drop dead?

  Keppler, the neutral who wasn’t neutralist, said in German, “We are not here to display our gift of tongues. It is enough if we understand the essential facts. Now to return to what I was saying so slowly in English—all our customs officers are conducting an intensive search of baggage both arriving and departing. If the Herz diamonds are already in Switzerland, then they will have little chance of getting out. In case they do”—he glanced at Le Brun—“the Italian authorities have been alerted, and Genoa is being strictly watched. Both American and Italian shipping and air lines have been warned. The general alarm has been given, discreetly, of course.”

  “But isn’t it too general at this stage?” Denning asked. “After all, secrecy—”

  Le Brun said, “Meyer wanted secrecy. But my government has to make sure that the diamonds do not slip away from us while we sit waiting. We have no choice but to take all precautions possible.”

  Keppler’s face was unreadable. He went on speaking in his even voice. “Well, that’s the general situation. Here in Bern, we’ve gone very cautiously. There are two men watching the street outside. I have placed one man inside the Café Henzi.”

  “Only one man?”

  “The same young man, Taylor, who came to see me in Munich,” Le Brun said. “It doesn’t seem as if Meyer had been given any reinforcements. Perhaps the Americans did not put too much trust in his story?”

  “His job, here, is simply to get fuller information,” Denning reminded him. “After that, the Swiss will take all the adequate steps.” His anger burned into his chest. He turned to Keppler. “Right?”

  “That is what we naturally prefer,” Keppler said. He added, somewhat wryly, “Switzerland is our country, after all.” He rose and went behind the kitchen screen. He returned with a bottle of brandy and three glasses. Le Brun was still sitting on the couch, brooding, over his own problems: what would his superiors say when he returned to them with the news that the general alarm has been a false one? Denning was studying the pink fringe of the lamp above the table. By God, he’s got a temper, Keppler thought. He may seem cool, confident, detached, but he’s got plenty of emotion hidden behind that quiet face. Where did he learn that control? When he first came into the room, I thought, so here’s Meyer’s friend—a self-contained young man who probably thinks this evening is an amusing interlude in his tour of museums, an intellectual dabbling in a little present-day history and hoping for some vicarious excitement. But I was wrong. He knows what we’re up against, he knows what he is doing. He’s clever—those eyes don’t go with stupidity. Stubborn, too: not easily persuaded against his own judgment. And wary: what problem is he keeping to himself? Doesn’t he trust us? Good, very good. Better than I had hoped for. At this moment, he’s trying to weigh me up, to feel sure of me, just as I’ve been measuring him. And I don’t believe he’s any more interested in the Herz diamonds than I am. I begin to like this young man, thought Keppler.

  He placed the bottle and the glasses on the table. “I’ve washed these thoroughly,” he assured Le Brun.

  “My dear Keppler, I was only having doubts about the brandy.”

  “Shall we risk ruining our palate? Denning needs a drink.” Keppler almost smiled. “He got chilled by the rain.”

  “Or something,” Denning said. His eyes met Keppler’s.

  Keppler raised his glass and said in English, “Don’t tread on me!”

  Denning grinned. “That’s as good a toast as any.” He watched Keppler for a long moment, still deciding whether or not to trust him.

  “Well—” Keppler said, sitting down. It could have been a question.

  Denning studied the brandy, glowing even through the tumbler. “I am only a sort of observer in this game. Amateur status, I’m afraid.” He restrained himself from glancing at Le Brun.

  “But I happen to be partial to amateurs,” Keppler said. “What have you sort of observed?”

  “There’s a chamber-maid, who calls herself Eva, at the Aarhof. She distrusts your gardening friend. Profoundly.”

  “You had proof of that? Definitely?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “We weren’t quite sure,” Keppler said slowly. “Thank you. Anything else you’ve observed about Eva?”

  “She’s curious about me. I’d say she was interested rather than suspicious. So far.”

  “Interested in you?”

  “That may only have been the result of the gardener’s visit. But she is not the only one who is interested. There’s a clerk at the desk in the lobby who sorts the mail. He tried to pass on a bogus message—just to see if I know that Meyer is in Bern.”

  “Indeed?” Keppler’s voice was level, but his eyes were thoughtful.

  Encouraged with two small successes, Denning spoke with growing confidence, “And Mr. Charles-Auguste Maartens arrived in Bern this morning with a quantity of excess luggage. He’s at the Aarhof.”

  Keppler was silent for a moment. Was he embarrassed? “I heard he had registered there. Surprising. The Aarhof is a most respectable hotel.”

  Le Brun said, “We’ve also heard that Mr. Maartens lunched with two friends who seemed to know him well at the Bellevue Palace; spent the afternoon in the Bern Historical Museum; had tea at Keppler’s—no relation to our Mr. Keppler—” He bowed in the right direction.

  “Maartens may have a sense of humour,” Keppler suggested.

  “That is what I am afraid of,” Le Brun replied. “When last heard of, he had gone out to the Kursaal for a leisurely evening in plain view of several hundred people. There, at twenty minutes past ten o’clock tonight, he had gone into the casino, along with another friend, comfortably settling down to a pleasant hour at the tables.”

  Denning looked at Keppler, who nodded confirmation and pointed to the telephone near the bed. “The report came just before you arrived.”

  “Perhaps you understand now why you found my enthusiasm slightly cooled,” Le Brun said. “Mr. Maartens obviously does not intend to keep his appointment for eleven o’clock. He is still at the casino, or we should have heard. And now,” he glanced at his watch, “he couldn’t reach here in time.”

  Denning’s lips tightened. “This Maartens could be a fake—a cover for the real one.”

  “Yet the friend he met tonight greeted him with his name.”

  “You can hire someone to spend an evening with you, you can pay him to call you by your first name.” I should have kept quiet, Denning thought, as he watched the other two exchange glances. The professionals being amused over the amateur’s naive suggestions, no doubt. But Keppler didn’t smile.

  Keppler said, “Have you ever seen the Maartens who arranged this meeting with Colonel Meyer?”

  “No.”

  “None of us has,” broke in Le Brun. “Except Colonel Meyer.”

  “Then how do you know the man out at the casino is a fake?” Keppler asked Denning.

  “My suspicions would seem ridiculous to Colonel Le Brun,” Denning said. And what, indeed, would they sound like? This man’s clothes are expensive, the kind that the real Charles Maartens—as imitated by Max Meyer—couldn’t quite reach. This man’s manner is wrong—he gives orders, he doesn’t take them: no one could send him as an informant: he’d go of his o
wn accord. This man’s German is poor, or out of practice—so Gustav, the boy at the Aarhof, noticed. And there’s a schoolgirl called Emily who seems to recognise this man: she may know his real name, and she has certainly placed him on the Riviera. Yes, how would all that sound?

  “Now, now, I’m always interested,” Le Brun said, but his eyebrows went up, and his voice sounded, hurt.

  Denning said, “One thing’s important—have you no files on Charles A. Maartens?”

  “The man exists,” Le Brun said. “He evaded arrest in Lyons, two years ago, after a very neat jewel robbery.”

  “Then it isn’t likely he lives in the south of France?”

  “That would be improbable, and highly injudicious.”

  “Where has he been working? Or did he travel around?”

  Keppler said, “After the trouble at Lyons, he seems to have kept out of France. He is known to have been living in the Rhineland. He has never been arrested, at least not under the name of Maartens. And there is no photograph in any available police file under that name. As for his passport— the man registered at the Aarhof has the only one we know of. But Maartens was either Dutch or Flemish, so we have checked with the passport people in Holland and in Belgium. We should hear soon. Tonight, I hope.” Keppler paused. “Have I said something to make your suspicions less ridiculous?” Or, perhaps, he thought as he noticed the American’s tightened lips, perhaps something to make your suspicions more worrying.

  “Didn’t Max give you any kind of description of Maartens?”

  “Yes. And I had a drawing made from Meyer’s description. Not a particularly distinguished face—it could pass through a crowd without being noticed very much or remembered at all.”

  “He was a very frightened little man,” Denning said, quoting Max Meyer.

  “But that could have been a temporary mood,” Le Brun pointed out, accurately enough.