Pray for a Brave Heart (22 page)

“Less of an aftermath,” he agreed. “My love to Priscilla.
And
to Pimmy, bless his three stars.”

“And you won’t forget to send me postcards for my collection?”

“Emily!” said Mademoiselle Dupre. “You must not ask—”

“But I always send postcards,” Denning assured her, “the
most hideous postcards I can find—of sunsets having pink and purple fits.”

Emily giggled. And Mademoiselle Dupre finding everything unintelligible, was completely reassured: such goodbyes were normal among the unfortunate English-speakers, an uncouth language, it affected their minds; or perhaps, poor people, it was not given to all languages to perform with the precision, the clarity, the grace of a French epigram.

Denning bowed and watched Emily being led away. He began walking slowly along the arcade. Nicolas, he was thinking. Or was it Nicholas? Saint Nicholas with his presents on Christmas Eve? Had that been Emily’s conversational swirl? Talking to Emily made him understand Laocoon’s problems much more vividly. Nicholas…that was something, anyway.

Suddenly he thought, Nicholas… Nikolaides… It was odd how people could be superstitious about the sound of their names, or about their initials: so often when a man adopted a false name, it had the echo of other names he had used, a resemblance that seemed childish when the truth was discovered. But the truth was not discovered by resemblance. All that he found out, thanks to Emily, was that the fake Maartens lived at Cap d’Hercule, in a house called
Le Nid,
and was known as Monsieur Nicholas.

He looked at his watch: twelve minutes past one. He’d better turn tourist who had lost his passport. He searched for a telephone kiosk, and then called the police station.

But his luck did not hold. Inspector Bohren was not available; he was out of town. Inspector Bohren was not expected back at any definite time. Denning left his name as an indication that he needed contact. He stepped out into the sunny street, a man
with a piece of information which he couldn’t get rid of, a man who felt useless because his usefulness couldn’t be used.

He found a taxi and drove to the station. He was punctual, at least, although the rest of his schedule was all in pieces: he’d have to telephone the Waysmiths again, and apologise. When will you learn, he asked himself, to stop planning time so optimistically? How often have you arranged things so neatly, then found you only have one pair of feet?

At the entrance to the station, among a small group of four hotel porters, he saw an Aarhof-banded cap. The porter—a tall man, lugubrious-faced under the hard black peak of his hat, thin-shouldered under his dark-green jacket—was vaguely familiar. Yes, he was the man who had met Denning at the station yesterday morning. He had also been the man who had taken charge of Denning’s luggage, and then mislaid the smaller bag just long enough for it to be opened and have Denning’s credentials quietly verified. Was this Keppler’s man? Or not?

He was brusque, clear-voiced. “I checked everything in the baggage room. Was that all right, sir?” He held out the tickets. Now, lips scarcely moving, in quite a different tone, “Michel notified Elizabeth you were leaving. She sent you this message.” And as he passed over the baggage checks, the small slip of paper was neatly hidden among them. “Any reply?” A lip reader would have had no success with him.

Denning looked down at the checks, as if making sure of them. Was this Keppler’s man? The note was scrawled in pencil, in strange writing he hadn’t seen before, even if it was signed “Elizabeth”. He stared at the tickets. “Darling,” the note said. “Have a good trip, but
please
let me know your address.— Devotedly, Elizabeth.”

The man sensed his caution, perhaps even the blackness of his indecision. He said, “Elizabeth telephoned the message. I couldn’t imitate the signature. Normally, two curls and a dash.” It was an accurate description of Elizabeth’s final flourish.

“Good,” Denning said in a normal voice, “and where is this baggage room?” As the man pointed, he added quietly, “Memorise this: the Riviera address is
Le Nid,
Cap d’Hercule. The name is Nicholas. Nicholas, Cap d’Hercule.”

The porter, still pointing, nodded as he explained it was advisable to be there fifteen minutes before the gentleman’s train was due to leave.

“My address,” Denning added, “will be Falken.” Then he raised his voice to normal. “How much do I owe you?” He became busy with his wallet, putting away the checks, finding the money.

The man touched his cap, plodded away, and was already out of sight before Denning found a cab to take him to the Waysmiths’ hotel.

Where did he vanish so quickly? Denning wondered. Into one of those telephone booths round the corner? Was he now calling Keppler?

You worry too much, he told himself. And yet, in this kind of work, one small mistake, and there was no chance to say you were sorry: one small mistake, and you were dead, and so were several other people, too.

This, thought Denning as he entered the Hotel Victoria and asked for the Waysmiths’ room, might be called an unnecessary delay in his journey to Falken. (Le Brun would certainly disapprove of it.) Yet he was worried about Paula. Somehow, in spite of all his precautions yesterday, he had drawn her into his circle of danger. Why else would Rauch, the temporary mail clerk at the Aarhof who had startled him yesterday with that bogus message from Max, enter Paula’s room to search it that night? In his own mind he felt that he was responsible for that. Now, he had to warn Waysmith to keep Paula out of Bern until all trouble with Rauch and his friends was settled. One way or another, he added grimly.

But he managed to look cheerful, even confident, when Andy welcomed him into the Waysmiths’ white and gold bedroom. Their suitcases were packed and locked, Paula was wearing her hat, their coats were lying on a bed, the remains of lunch were
on a small table drawn up at the French windows.

“Hallo,” Andy said. He was in a bad temper. He shook hands, and gave Denning a careful look.

“Hallo, Bill!” Paula came forward, her smile wide and gentle. “We had almost given up hope. But I’m so glad you could manage.” She held out her hand, and looked over at Andy pleadingly.

Denning said, “I owe you two apologies.” He took her by the shoulders and kissed each cheek. “There they are. For yesterday, Paula.” He smiled into her blue eyes.

“But for what?” It was a sweet pretence, telling him he was forgiven.

“Brushing you off at lunchtime and cutting you dead at supper.” He looked at Andy and grinned. “It takes really good friends to be able to endure that treatment. Sorry for being late today, Andy. I had some business to clear up before I could see you.”

Waysmith had softened a bit. “Well, you don’t have to kiss me to prove it.” He was smiling more naturally now.

“Don’t I?” Denning dropped his hat on the bed. He looked at Andy. He put out his hand again. This time, they shook hands warmly.

“Have you had lunch?” Paula asked. “We were too hungry to wait. But I left some sandwiches for you.” She pointed to the table.

Denning looked embarrassed. “To tell the truth, I’ve just had a couple of ice-cream sodas. Couldn’t face food for the next ten hours.”

“What on earth have you been doing?” Waysmith asked. “Entertaining your second childhood? Have a seat, anyway.”

“I think I’ll walk around and try to digest.”

“Did you really give the little schoolgirl a lunch of ice-cream sodas?” Paula asked delightedly.

Denning’s walk was cut short for a moment. “Where did you see her?”

“With you. I was hurrying back here after interviewing all the house agents in Bern. You seemed to be concentrating hard, so I didn’t stop.”

“She’s English,” Denning said briefly. “In addition, she has a turn of phrase all her own. You have to concentrate with Emily.”

“Titian-red hair and the largest dark eyes in town,” Paula told her husband.

“Carrot head and braced teeth,” said Denning.

“In three years, no man will even remember having thought that,” Paula predicted.

Andy glanced at his watch. “Cut it out, both of you. We have to leave here within the next fifteen minutes.” He looked at his wife.
“If
you mean to keep your promise to Francesca.” Then he turned to Denning. “We had a bit of an upset here last night. A man broke in, two men to be precise—”

“Two?”

“The newspapers were very poor about it,” Paula said. “Not that
I
wanted publicity. But the whole report of last night’s incident was played down almost to nothing.”

“Perhaps the newspapers were very good,” Denning said quietly. “As they were in the report of Max’s death.” They stared at him, then at each other. Waysmith reached quickly for a newspaper. Denning told him, “Page three, column five.”

“In the Henziplatz?” Waysmith asked.

Denning nodded.

“Was it that car smash?” Paula asked, crossing quickly over to her husband. She read the brief paragraph again “Oh, Bill…” she said. And why, oh why, had she used the words “car smash”? Must she always remind Bill of Peggy’s death? He never talked about it, never even mentioned Peggy. But his silence keeps her alive, Paula thought, and I wish—for Bill’s own sake—that wasn’t so.

“It wasn’t an accident,” Denning said. “It was murder. But keep that quiet meanwhile. Will you, Andy?”

Waysmith looked at him. “Why tell me at all?”

“So that you’ll listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Will you get Paula out of Bern? Not just for a week-end. Keep her away from here until Rauch’s friends lose interest. They aren’t gentle people.”

“We’re just leaving Bern,” Paula said, too quickly. She glanced nervously at Andy.

“We’re going to Falken.” Waysmith’s voice was sharp again, with the anger which springs from concealed worry.

Denning stood very still. “Take Paula to Interlaken, Grindelwald, Zurich—plenty of places to choose from.” He moved around the room, glanced out of the window, kept his expression as casual as his voice.

“I’m supposed to be working in Bern,” Waysmith reminded him. “And—” He halted and shrugged his shoulders.

Quickly, Paula said, “And Falken is so near… We are going to take a house there, and Andy can commute.”

Denning pulled out his pack of cigarettes. Even a small gesture like that reminded him of Max. “I’d leave Falken
alone, Andy,” he said.

“No,” said Paula. “We’ve decided all that. Bill, I’m in no danger from people like Rauch. It’s Francesca. That’s why we’re going to Falken. She lives there. Perhaps we can help her. Perhaps we can’t. But we’re going.” She looked at Andy, defying him to change her mind.

“Sure,” Andy said, “we’re going there, armed with a pea-shooter and a slingshot. Paula—”

“No,” Paula said again. “We’ve argued enough, Andy. We’re going. You want to go, anyway. You know that.”

Andy shrugged his shoulders. “You see?” he said to Denning.

“Not altogether. What danger is Francesca in?”

Paula looked a little uncomfortable. She glanced over at Andy, but he was pulling on his coat and gathering some magazines and newspapers together. Paula said, “She tried to help some people. And that started some complications.”

Andy said, “Complications? Is that what you call having our lives twisted, knotted, and thrown around?” He began opening and closing drawers, giving a last check-up to the room as he talked. “I’ve had one hell of a day, Bill. Kept phoning you until four in the morning. Then I didn’t sleep till nearly six, and was wakened at eight. Called you again. No answer. Argued with Paula all through breakfast. Got the police to come round and take fingerprints off that wardrobe door handle, and made the mistake of telling them we were leaving for Falken. So we got a summons to the police station, and had a nice friendly talk with an Inspector Bohren. Then I rented a car while Paula went house-hunting. Called you again and got through at last. Packed. Waited. Did some business by telephone. Waited. Waited for Paula. Waited for you. Well—now I’m going. The
bill is paid, the car’s parked outside. Can we give you a lift back to your hotel?”

“You can give me a lift to Falken.”

Waysmith closed the last drawer with a bang. “Is this a sudden whim?”

“No.”

“Why are you going?”

“I’ve told you as much as I can. At the moment. Later, I’ll—”

“All I want to know is this: are you on a mission?”

“Nothing official.”

“Just what do you mean by that?”

“Well, you’re on a mission of your own, aren’t you?”

“We’re just helping a friend.”

“So am I.” Max may be dead, but now he needed help more than ever.

Waysmith had been watching him closely. “Sorry if I sounded too suspicious. But when I’m giving a lift to anyone, with my wife in the car, I’m damned if he’s going to be a professional agent on a mission.”

“And you’d be right,” Denning answered. He meant that too.

“Let’s get the bags downstairs,” said Waysmith. “We’re wasting time here.” He moved to the telephone and called for a porter.

Denning was just as quick. He lifted his hat on his way to the door. “I’ll taxi to the station and pick up my things from the cloakroom. Meet me there. Main entrance. A quarter past two?”

“You’re all packed?” Paula asked in amazement. You see, her eyes said to Andy: Falken wasn’t such a sudden whim after all.

Denning looked at them both. “It’s good to see you again,”
he said unexpectedly, almost with a touch of emotion. Then he was gone.

Paula began packing the sandwiches in some spare Kleenex. “He’ll be hungry before we even reach Falken. Ice-cream sodas are only lethal in the first hour.” She laughed softly. “Bill—with an ice-cream soda! He always loathed them. And how did his English Emily come into the picture, anyway? For that matter, how did Bill?”

“You
ask me that?” Andy wanted to know, as he finished counting the suitcases in spite of distractions.

“And what about you?” she countered. “Weren’t you the man who rushed off to Frankfurt to see Max Meyer?”

He was silent for a moment, thinking of Max Meyer. His lips tightened. Then he looked down at her.