Pray for a Brave Heart (13 page)

The hurrying man didn’t hear the sharp call to halt, seemingly. Yet his pace quickened. And then, abruptly, as he reached the dark street, he broke into a run. A car, standing near the ambulance, switched on its full headlights and shot forward towards the Henzigasse.

He can’t escape now, Denning thought, turning away. Strangely, he felt no triumph. Only a sense of chill and emptiness. Only exhaustion.

But the inspector was back again, taking charge, calming new speculation from the curious crowd. There was a look of brisk satisfaction on his face. “Are you the doctor?” he asked Denning. “You’re wanted over at the ambulance, right away.” And then he turned to the others. “Routine, routine,” he said, dispersing them with both his calm tone of voice and his casual wave of the hand.

“Wonder what they want you for?” the heavy blonde said, clattering along behind Denning in her loose slippers. But the inspector caught up with her. “This way,
gnädiges Fräulein,”
he
said, guiding her towards a policeman with a note-book. “Your name and address as a witness.” That scared her homeward. It scared most of the others too.

People were straggling over the Square as Denning approached the ambulance. It seemed to him as if it were about to leave. He hesitated, wondering what he was supposed to do anyway. “In here!” a voice said from the small blue car he was passing. Its door was open. He saw Keppler lean forward for a moment. “Quick!” He got into the back seat beside Keppler. A man sitting beside the driver closed the door as the car started forward. They moved slowly through the Square, following the ambulance. Keppler’s hand pressed gently on his arm, persuading him to sit well back in his corner. He obeyed. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shut out even the last glimpse of the Henziplatz.

“I have a lot to tell you,” he said, searching his memory. “A lot…”

“Later,” said Keppler. “Relax, relax.” He had seen this too often: waiting and worrying; sudden action, quick and violent; personal loss and a sense of failure; then—once the strain was all over—the nerves snapped and there was nothing but blankness and despair.

“Now!”
Denning insisted. “There was a black car parked near the Café Henzi. It moved away, down here.” For they were now travelling through the south part of the Henzigasse. “Its number—” But he couldn’t remember the number.

“It was observed,” Keppler said soothingly. “The car stopped and picked up a passenger.”

“The man who drove the car that killed—that killed—” He couldn’t say “Max Meyer”. And, fantastically, he now
remembered the number of the car.

“You saw him?”

“Yes—as he slipped out of the driver’s seat and ran for the south arcade.”

Keppler sat quite still for a second. Then he leaned over to the front seat and tapped the shoulder of the man sitting beside the driver. “Did you hear all of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep listening.” Keppler turned to Denning. “What else?”

“That red-haired man with the long black coat—he was waiting outside the café near the parked car. He and another man. Together.”

“And after the murder, he joined the crowd?”

Denning nodded. “He searched Meyer’s pocket. Inside. Over the heart.”

“The police caught him,” said Keppler with grim satisfaction. “Now, we’ll—”

“And there was a woman,” Denning went on, his voice flat and unemotional, “who gave the signal when—when Meyer stepped out of the café.”

“She could identify Meyer?” Keppler was astounded.

“It was that maid—Eva. Eva. Yes, she made contact with Max in the café. Then she came out. And gave the signal.”

“Have you got all that?” Keppler asked the man in the front seat again. “Then we’ll drop you off at the police station.”

“There’s something else,” Denning said. He closed his eyes again, he tightened his hands with the effort to remember. The car was stopping. The man in the front seat was leaving them.

“Easy now, take it easy now,” Keppler said. “You can tell me all the rest when we reach my place.” Then he looked down in
surprise at the pack of cigarettes which Denning held out in the palm of his hand.

“Something else,” Denning said with sudden bitterness and he dropped the cigarettes as though they were burning him.

Keppler stared at the packet in his lap. It was unopened. An ordinary pack of American cigarettes.

“They were in Meyer’s hand,” Denning told him.

To the driver, Keppler gave quick instructions, seemingly a change in direction, for the car swung suddenly away from the entrance to the Kirchenfeld Bridge and travelled farther west to pass the Federal Palace and the wide, open squares that lay around it. “We’ll go to my place later,” Keppler was saying. “And there you can tell me everything, exactly as it happened. But now”—and he pocketed the cigarettes—“first things first.”

Empty streets, empty squares, Denning was thinking. Quiet squares, without murder or violence. He stared at them blankly. Then he looked quickly back.

“Yes?” asked Keppler, noticing Denning’s sudden interest, and he too looked back at the Victoria Hotel. He saw three people walking smartly towards a battered little Renault, which looked somewhat forlorn against such a background of grandeur. Two women, young. A man, tall and bearded.

“Paula Waysmith,” Denning said, and he shook his head in wonder. “She was there, in the Café Henzi, tonight, with that other girl. Francesca.”

“Who’s the man?”

“A stranger to me.” A tall powerful man, with a beard. I wish to God Andy would turn up soon and tie that wife of his to a nice hot stove. Or a good soft bed, he thought. Women always had a naive sense for adventure, a kind of innocent trust
that nothing would turn ugly, a kind of schoolgirl approach to—“Which reminds me,” he said, interrupting his thoughts. “I must tell you about Emily. Don’t let me forget about Emily.” His face relaxed. He almost smiled.

“Of course not.” But Keppler looked at him anxiously.

“I’m all right now,” Denning said irritably, and he lit a cigarette. “I’m not even asking annoying questions about where we’re going,” he added, and tried to smile, as the car entered a large courtyard and drew up at one side which lay deep in shadows.

They entered a grubby little room, barely furnished, partitioned off from a larger room.

“I call this my office whenever I visit Bern,” Keppler said as they entered. “But of course you understand that my work as a freelance reporter keeps me moving around a good deal.”

“A reporter?” Denning nodded. It was a cover that was common enough.

“Yes, a crime reporter.”

“That’s a bit more original.”

“Helpful, too. My relations with Inspector Bohren are most amicable. You saw him down at the Henziplatz, I think. A capable man. And a good friend.”

“The police are now on the job, then?”

“As far as tonight’s car smash is concerned, certainly. It was a clever murder in some ways—no guns, no knives, nothing to alarm the quiet town of Bern. just a simple accident with a drunken driver. You smelled the gin in that car?”

“Too decidedly.”

“Yes. One small splash of spilled gin goes quite far in effect. They forgot that. They forgot several things. Tonight’s murder was worse than a crime: it was a blunder.” As he talked, Keppler had been clearing the desk, adjusting the lights, producing a sharp knife and a powerful magnifying glass. “Now!” he said, placing the pack of cigarettes on the table, and taking a chair. Then he looked up at Denning. “This is always the moment when I feel sick with nervousness. I always hope for so much. And too often I am disappointed. See how I’m wasting time, talking, talking… Subconsciously, I don’t want to open the pack of cigarettes. In case I find nothing.”

He picked up the pack and examined it. His powerful hands became light and delicate. “If it isn’t too important a message,” he was saying, “we’ll find something simple, like a piece of paper stuck inside. Perhaps microfilm. Or a message in a special ink.” He began easing the folds of the pack open, top and bottom. “You see,” he went on, “before I start having some scientific friends awakened at this early hour of the morning, I want to know just what expert help we may need. We’ll open the pack—so—” He slit its sides gently and the pack became a flat piece of paper. Carefully, he kept the twenty cigarettes still in their triple row of seven, six, seven.

“But there’s nothing there,” Denning said. “Nothing.”

Keppler pursed his lips. “Careful now,” he said, lifting the foil lining and the cigarettes about an inch away from the outside paper cover. “Anything between?”

“Nothing.”

Keppler replaced the lining exactly as it had been. He paused, biting his lip. “Then we were too hasty, perhaps. Let us begin all over again.” Slowly he folded the pack into its
original shape, and pressed the blue stamp back into position over the top folds. Something caught his eye. “This stamp— it’s the same size and colour as the Swiss tax-stamp used on American cigarettes, but its design is different. It’s an American stamp, isn’t it?”

Denning looked. He nodded.

“Then Meyer did not buy these cigarettes in Switzerland. Or in Frankfurt?”

“Plenty of Americans arrive in Frankfurt with packs of cigarettes stamped like that.”

“Then he prepared this pack in Frankfurt, perhaps. And there, he’d have the necessary equipment to make a really careful message. And the more careful it is, the more important.” Keppler’s excitement grew. “Now, let us peel off the stamp completely this time. Sometimes you find—” He paused again. “No. No. Here is something else to consider. Look at the stamp to which our attention has been so carefully directed. Isn’t it very much to one side? Is that usual?”

“I think it’s generally somewhere near the centre.”

“Then we shan’t waste valuable time on peeling off a stamp. Let us take it as an indication showing the side which must be opened first. In an emergency. If, for instance, you had to prevent a message from being found, wouldn’t you light the cigarette which contained the message? Now, pretend you have opened that pack of cigarettes. See, the stamp is at this end, slanting. Which cigarette does it point to? Which cigarette would you take?”

“This one.”

“Good.” Keppler lifted it carefully. “Very, very good,” he said. “See?” he pointed to a black dot on the cigarette’s paper,
no larger than a heavy fleck. “That, I believe, is what we call a micro-dot,” he said. “You’ve heard of such things?”

“Yes, but I’ve never seen one. Are you sure?”

“I think I’m sure,” Keppler said, examining the dot through his magnifying glass. “Yes. It’s square, or rather rectangular. Look at that little beauty—just look at her?”

Denning studied it curiously: on a printed page, it could have been a period at the end of a sentence. It could have marked the end of an address on an envelope. It could have been a flaw on a piece of cigarette paper. “And this micro-dot can be enlarged into a full-size page?”

“Provided you have the necessary equipment. And I know where I can find that.” Keppler took the cigarette, slipped it into an envelope and placed it in his breast pocket, giving it a couple of affectionate pats. Then he reached for a telephone. “Now I know who has got to be pulled out of bed,” he said with a really happy smile. As he waited for his call to be answered, he glanced at his watch. “Either we sit here and wait for this little bit of magic to develop, or I can take you home where we can wait in comfort.” He studied Denning’s face. The American looked completely exhausted now, drained of energy and decision; and as someone walked along the corridor outside, he looked nervously around, then tried to smile at his foolishness and failed, standing there, not knowing what to do. “An office is a dreary place at one in the morning,” Keppler said. And there was still a lot to be discussed. The American’s mind had to work clearly. Each small detail he had noticed tonight might have its place in this jig-saw puzzle. Time was precious, yes; but so was accuracy, so was clarity. “My car is still waiting,” he said. “We can be
at my sister’s house in ten minutes. Less.”

Then he jiggled the telephone impatiently. “What’s wrong with these people?” he demanded angrily. “Never there when you want them… ” But someone answered, and he became persuasive, calm, and unrefusable.

The distance from the Café Henzi to Paula’s hotel was not far, but measured by Francesca’s silence it seemed an endless journey. In all the years she had known Francesca, Paula had never seen her like this.

“Look,” Paula had tried to say, as they left the café and Francesca suddenly started walking northward, “we’re taking the long way round, it’s eas—”

“I know,” Francesca had said, “I know.” Her low voice was intense with worry. Or fear. Or both. Her hand on Paula’s arm was tight, urging a quick brisk pace.

It was only when they saw the Hotel Victoria comfortably near that Francesca’s haste slackened. And then she spoke, too. “Sorry. But I didn’t like that car parked just south of the café.”

“Was there one?” Paula felt a little stupid. And then she felt annoyed. Francesca didn’t have to be so dramatic. “I suppose
a car has got to wait some place,” she said coldly. And hadn’t they passed other cars, too?

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t like it.” Or the two men standing beside it. She shivered. “Don’t ask me why. I can give no reason. You think I’m crazy, don’t you? Poor Paula, you look so uncomfortable!”

“I just didn’t notice the car,” Paula said crossly. “That’s all. But I wish you’d stop disliking people without a reason. That woman who sat down at Maxwell Meyer’s table, for instance—”

“There, I had a reason. She followed me on Tuesday. Wherever I went, she followed!”

“Followed you—actually
followed?”

Francesca nodded.

“What about today, has she been following us again?”

“No. If she had been, do you think I’d have taken you to the Café Henzi for lunch?”

Paula, startled, began revising some judgments: and I thought she took all that business of Schmid the waiter, who was Andrássy the violinist, so coolly. Even the way Francesca had talked about the Committee seemed so matter-of-fact and even casual, under-playing all risk and danger. “I’m sorry,” she said suddenly.