Just ahead of him, about to leave the bar where they had been having a leisurely drink, were two immaculately dressed men. Bankers obviously, from smooth hair to dark suits, striped ties, highly polished black shoes. English variety, perhaps. They were collecting their bowlers and navy-blue Chesterfields from a wooden rack near the door. One of them, pulling on his yellow gloves, stepped back as Mathison passed him at high speed, almost blocking his path. “Sorry.” That was all he said, scarcely glancing over his shoulder. Mathison stared briefly and with a “That’s all right” went on his way. Charles Nield. Charles Nield unmistakably, and a far change from the zippered jacket and flannel shirt of Acme Radio’s repair service.
So I know he is in Zürich, at least, thought Mathison as he came out on the broad flight of steps that would take him down to the sidewalk. But how long was he in the bar? Sitting there all the time I was with Elissa?
And there she was too, across the street, waiting on the broad esplanade. She had pretended to be watching the lunch-time sailors who were once more snatching an hour at the boat anchorage, but she must have been keeping at least one of her beautiful dark-grey eyes on the hotel’s entrance, for she waved at just the right moment to catch his attention. She came running towards him, disregarding the light traffic, not even noticing the discreetly interested looks from the men she passed. He went to meet her. Elissa was the kind of girl you couldn’t ignore; and besides, he was telling himself, you owe her an apology even if it will have to be unspoken. What would she say if she thought he had blamed her for his own carelessness? “Hello again. I thought you’d be half-way to Salzburg by this time.”
“I was waiting for you,” she said with disarming frankness. “I wanted to tell you why I had run off so quickly. I discovered I had lost one of my gloves. They were new, too.” She held out her hands to display the taupe suede gloves that matched her handbag. “I found it, looking so lonely and forlorn in the corridor downstairs just outside the elevator.”
“And I almost lost my address book.” In spite of himself, he was watching her carefully. “It was lying under the table where we were sitting.”
“I guess we were both a little upset, there. If we meet in Salzburg, perhaps we can begin all over again, forget today, pretend it never existed.”
“If we meet? We are bound to meet.”
“I may be out of town when you arrive. Travelling to the villages will be the first part of my job—just to get to know the local conditions before the snow comes and brings the skiers. When do you expect to be there?”
“Quite soon, I hope. But that depends—”
“On what?”
“The office here. It’s passing through a crisis. The man who was in charge of it—well, he has been killed.”
“Killed?” Her eyes widened; her lips parted in astonishment.
“Yes. His body is at the mortuary right now. That’s how I spent most of this morning. I went with his secretary to identify him—nasty business.”
“How was he killed?”
“In a boating accident.”
She said nothing. She looked out at the lake with its scattering of sails. “It looks safe enough, doesn’t it?” she asked at last. Then as her eyes came back to him, they saw something behind him, farther along the sidewalk. For a moment, they hardened. She said, “But I’m keeping you late again. Good-bye, Bill.” She reached up, kissed him full on the lips. With a last gentle touch on his arm, she turned and ran up the steps into the hotel.
That was a quick retreat, he thought with some relief. And Nield and his banking buddy had seen it, too, even if they were engrossed in saying good-bye on the top step. Mathison turned and started walking towards the Eden au Lac. Lynn Conway and Miss Freytag were standing together on the sidewalk, both looking in his direction. They must have had a front-view of Elissa’s farewell, he thought as he glanced at his watch. He was several minutes late, after all. And what’s more, he was thinking now, we’ll be three for lunch; I know it, I know it, that’s my kind of luck today. But he was wrong about that. Miss Freytag was shaking hands with Lynn, ignoring him completely. Before he reached polite hailing distance, she had left for the nearest corner.
“I really am sorry,” he told Lynn Conway. If there was anything he hated it was to keep putting himself in a position where he had to apologise. He was usually punctual—and with women that meant being a few minutes early—but today seemed to be one of complete disintegration. What was this calm and cool Mrs. Conway going to think of him? And it was important somehow that she didn’t think of him as a philandering dawdler who hadn’t enough politeness to keep an eye on his watch. “Everything got very complicated,” he admitted lamely. “I haven’t even telephoned for a taxi to get us into town. I thought of lunch at the Veltiner Keller.” And hang the expense. This would be one way of giving that anaemic word “sorry” some real vitality.
“I’d love that another time. But now, wouldn’t it be easier to eat right here? There’s a pleasant dining-room, and the food is good. So Miss Freytag tells me.”
“If that’s all right with you.” It certainly was the simplest solution. The fact that you had always to phone for a cab was a slight tax on patience, although that kind of arrangement did hold down traffic on the streets. “I thought we were going to have Miss Freytag right on top of us for the next couple of hours.”
“To tell you the truth, I had a feeling that was going to happen, too. We were waiting in the lobby, and she started talking about the dining-room. Somehow I could just see the three of us drifting in there. So I decided I wanted to look at the lake.”
“She certainly took the hint.” He was remembering Miss Freytag’s straight back and high head, not even glancing around to give him a friendly wave as she turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
“It was really so odd,” Lynn said reflectively. They had climbed the hotel steps and were now in a small almost private lobby. They could have drinks, he noted, in one of a series of pleasant sitting rooms.
“Here?” he asked, looking at the nearest room. “Or are we so late that we’d better have drinks at the table?” Again he felt that unpleasant feeling of inadequacy; his fault entirely that there wasn’t enough time for the usual ritual.
She looked at him, wondered what he really preferred. “Let’s find a quiet table.”
He insisted on one in a small bright room near a window, where they could look out over the esplanade at the lake. And he began to feel more at ease. Lynn Conway might not be quite so warm and friendly as when he had left her this morning, but she wasn’t harbouring any resentment about being kept waiting on the sidewalk. “What was so odd about Miss Freytag?” he asked, once the drinks were ordered.
She frowned at the sailboats on the lake. They were few in number now; most were returning to the small anchorage across the street. “Eric Yates used to keep his boat over there, did you know?
Mathison shook his head.
“That’s what Miss Freytag was talking about as we came out of the lobby. She was perfectly all right. A little sad as she spoke of Yates, but perfectly all right. And then—well, she saw the girl across the street. Miss Freytag froze. Her eyes actually bulged.”
“But why? Did she say?”
“She was about to speak. But the girl was running to meet someone seemingly, and as we came down the steps on to the sidewalk we saw it was you. This time, Miss Freytag froze completely. She kept staring. She forgot everything else. It was really rather embarrassing.”
“But why—” began Mathison, and stopped. The whole thing was ludicrous.
“I wished I were right back inside the lobby again,” Lynn said, trying to laugh. “Poor old Miss Freytag. Has she some complex about kissable girls?” She looked down at her Martini. One complex I won’t develop, she told herself sharply. But it was sad; every time she met a man whom she liked right from the start, she’d always find out that he was either married or about to be married or someone else’s property. Not for me, she tho
ught angrily. I’m damned if I do unto other women what they did to me; two years married to Todd Conway and the pretty little secretaries and eager-eyed career girls were already considering him fair game. It would have taken more willpower than Todd ever had to steer clear of them. Even his death had proved that: a car smashed up and that bright new starlet with her body ruined for life, all to show how well Todd could handle his shining new Jaguar at ninety miles an hour.
“Freytag had a thing about Yates. Quite innocent, I’m sure. She’s just one of those far-worshippers. But she is no fool in other matters. Didn’t she say anything at all?” She must have, he thought. What could it have been that brought that strange look to Lynn’s face? The light had gone out of it.
“Is it important?” She picked up the menu and brought her thoughts back to the present.
“She is full of surprises.”
“Miss Freytag? I thought she was dismally predictable. Except for those few odd seconds. But I’m sure they made good sense to her.” And I wish I hadn’t been so simple-minded as to mention them in the first place. Freytag’s words embarrassed me then, and they are embarrassing me now. It’s no business of mine who kisses whom or where or how or why. Lynn Conway concentrated on the menu. “Too much choice. It defeats me,” she said. “I’ll have lamb chops, and a salad, and coffee afterwards.”
“I’ll join you in that.” Mathison’s appetite had got lost somewhere among his worries. Miss Freytag as a subject of conversation was obviously dead. Yet, when someone who kept her emotions under such tight control as she did suddenly let loose, it was worth-while listening to her. He had found that out this morning. “Let’s add smoked salmon as a starter, and some wine. Got to keep up your strength for those thousand questions you are going to ask.” He had won a natural smile, at least.
“I’ll fall asleep,” she warned him.
“And miss my answers? Not you,” he predicted. And that was a real laugh from her, too. He looked at the spill of dark-auburn hair, gleaming in the rays of sun that struck obliquely through the window. It matched the soft copper of the leaves on the trees outside. He almost blurted out the compliment; a mistake, though, at this moment. So he ordered the food and wine, kept everything businesslike and friendly, let her relax into the natural kind of talk they had enjoyed that morning. And he was relaxing, too. The hard edge of worry was softened; problems seemed less threatening, more soluble. She was easy to be with, this girl. She matched his moods without suiting herself to them. She could surprise without bewildering him; she didn’t jangle his nerves, set his teeth on edge. She said nothing stupid and didn’t try to seem clever. All that and beauty, too, he thought. Mathison, You’re sunk. If ever you’d risk marriage again—no, no, be careful. This one is real danger. Others come and others go, but this is the kind of girl that stays with you in memory. So keep everything businesslike and friendly, no more than that. Because either you marry this girl or you spend the rest of your life regretting you didn’t. Marriage? No, you’ve had it; you certainly have. You’re inoculated for good.
Or aren’t you?
He listened to her soft voice and watched her expressive eyes. “What?” he had to ask, jolted out of his wandering thoughts. “The office is going to be closed down?”
“Until Tuesday. That is what your friend the policeman suggested when he telephoned.”
“Inspector Keller?”
“Yes. He seemed quite determined about it. A matter of security. He is putting on a guard, day and night. And he wants to close off the stairway, block the elevator door for our floor, and let his men get their job finished with Yates’s files as soon as possible.”
“That sounds reasonable.” After all, the man who had impersonated the janitor must have had some purpose behind his masquerade. Such as slipping into Yates’s office after dark, once all the nice unsuspecting people had put their trust in locks and gone off to supper and bed?
She looked astonished. “Frankly, I thought it was highly unreasonable. But don’t worry—I listened calmly and agreed politely. I had the feeling that argument would get me nowhere.” She watched his face, added quietly, “I’m rather glad I did. He knows the facts and I don’t. You know them, too, don’t you, Bill?”
“A few of them,” he admitted. And here come the questions, he thought, and braced himself. He began to understand the vague manner of Frank O’Donnell as he avoided talk about highly enriched uranium in Newhart’s office, or the offhand style of Charles Nield facing him across a coffee table in his apartment; and he now could sympathise with their predicaments. He glanced around the little dining-room with its constant hover of waiters, and wished that he needn’t answer any questions at all. Not here, at least. “What about a stroll down the lakeside?” he tried.
“I’m really awfully tired. I scarcely slept last night, and I keep feeling I’ve lost five hours of my life. Do you remember the story of the mob in London when the calendar had to be reformed? The government passed a law making September third become September fourteenth. So of course there was a vast crowd screaming ‘Give us back our eleven days.’ The only time that story didn’t seem so amusing was this morning. Give me back my five hours, and I’d feel happier right now. You know what? I think I’d like another pot of black, black coffee. There’s that telephone call to Jimmy Newhart we have to make. I suppose we’d better take it in my room upstairs? Two waifs, thrown on the street, locked out of their office.”
“Sad,” he agreed, smiling too. “What did Miss Freytag think of the shut-down?”
“She thought it was very correct—a mark of respect for such a wonderful man as Mr. Yates.” She watched the smile disappear from his face. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“Less and less.”
“But why?” Could he be as jealous of Yates as all this? From what Miss Freytag had blurted out, it could be possible. And yet, she thought, studying Bill Mathison’s face, he doesn’t seem the type to be jealous of a dead man.
He gave it to her straight. “It’s a matter of espionage,” he said quietly.
She was motionless. She didn’t exclaim, didn’t look startled after that one moment of complete shock. “Perhaps we ought to have that pot of coffee in my room,” she said. She noticed the obvious relief on his face. “Why didn’t you suggest it? Did you think I’d start getting the wrong ideas about you?” So he wasn’t as self-confident about women as she had thought, and that discovery pleased her somehow.
“I thought you might already have them.”
Did that really matter to him? And why had it mattered to her? She said nothing at all but let the usual interruptions of check-paying and table-leaving act as an excuse for her silence.
She let him do the placing of the call to New York. And it was only as they went up to her room in the empty self-service elevator that she asked, “So Yates was an agent?”
Mathison nodded.
“For or against us?”
“Against.”
“And Miss Freytag didn’t know all this?”
He shook his head.
“Then why should anything she said about Yates be of any importance?”
“It could help fill in the outlines. God knows we started with practically a blank page.”
She fell silent again as they left the elevator and walked the short distance to her room. “I’ve changed my mind about asking questions,” she told him as she dropped her coat on the bed and walked to the window. “I’ll leave it to you, Bill. Tell me whatever you think I need to know. Fair enough?”
“More than fair.”
“And as for Miss Freytag this morning—she hurried away because she couldn’t face you. She was absolutely aghast that she had been so rude about your friend; she would never have said those things against the girl if she had only known.”
“Known what?” Mathison asked sharply.
“She wasn’t explicit. I suppose she meant she hadn’t known you were on kissing terms.”
“That’s only Elissa’s way
,” Mathison said angrily. “I bet she made straight for the first man she saw on the day she came out of her cradle.”
“Elissa?” Lynn Conway relaxed.
“Elissa Lang.”
“Then Miss Freytag got it all wrong. She mistook your friend for Yates’s girl.”
“Eva Langenheim?” he asked, incredulous. Miss Freytag wouldn’t mistake Yates’s girl for anyone else, any place, any time.
“That was the name she blurted out.” Lynn looked at him with surprise. His lips had tightened; his eyes had narrowed.
He pulled out his address book, leafed through it quickly. Yes, the page with Elissa’s number had been neatly removed. So, he thought angrily, I was right with my first hunch: she did filch the book out of my pocket when my jacket hung over the chair. And she made an excuse for leaving the room, and cut out the page, and—hell, what did it matter how she managed to drop the book under the table where we had been sitting in the bar? What mattered now was the accuracy of his memory. That number must be of some importance if she’d risk so much to destroy it.
He found his pen, sat down at a small desk, started jotting down the figures, making sure they ended with thirty-five, as they had done originally. Or was it thirty-five? Not fifty-three? She had done a good job of muddling there. Clever, clever little Elissa: try one thing and then another and leave them guessing. He studied the number as he completed it. Yes, that was how he remembered it... And then, from the back of his memory, there came a small warning signal. He had seen that number somewhere else. Where?