The Colossus (11 page)

Max lightly knocked on the door of the room directly below hers. Julian opened it, looking scrumptious in dark blue jeans, a pale pink button-down shirt, and smart, new-looking suede shoes.

She threw herself into his arms. “Thank you for coming,” she said into his chest.

He patted her head as if she were a puppy or a small child.

“There, there,” he said.

“Someone was probably following Lars and me,” Max said. “The German.”

“Have you seen anyone?”

“No,” she said, peeling away from him, “but isn’t that the point? Anyway, I figured if these people—Berliner—want the papers, I’m the next lead. Since Lars died, I haven’t had the courage to leave this hotel. It’s been two days. Staying here is driving me crazy. I’m about ready to jump into the Thames.”

She leaned against Julian’s bed and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “It’s probably safer for you if no one knows you are with me.”

“Okay,” he said. “So what do we do now?” He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes.

“You rest a bit,” she said. “Then we can see about retrieving the papers. I have the locker key and the name of the bank.” She didn’t feel half as confident as she was trying to sound. And poor Julian was suppressing yawn after yawn, looking exhausted. She shouldn’t have called him. It would have been best if she had just returned to
Chicago. With Lars dead, the whole business had become a minefield, no place to turn without risking an explosion. Besides, what might she accomplish even if she had the papers? She’d just be a sitting duck for the Germans. Julian would be, too.

She turned to him, her guard slipping away. “Actually, I’m not at all sure what to do. I called you because I was frightened and still am. I’m sorry to have taken such a liberty—it was wrong of me.”

“It’s fine,” Julian said, suppressing yet another yawn. “I did offer to help, didn’t I?” There was an awkwardness about him now. Julian was keeping a respectable distance and his eyes averted, Max thought.

“This is a dangerous situation,” Max said. “That sounds almost lame said in broad daylight. But it is.”

Julian folded his hands. “Let’s focus on the task at hand. We can always worry later.”

Max tried to smile. She handed him a mustache and a hat. “I asked the hotel receptionist to give me the number of a costume shop. Luckily they deliver.”

The ice seemed to have broken, for Julian let out a laugh. He took them from her and tried them on in front of a mirror. “I look ridiculous,” he said. But Max was pleased.

Julian was looking at the bed fondly now.

“Crazy business, isn’t it?” Max said. “Get some rest.” And she left the room.

Two hours later, Max and Julian were in the hotel lobby.

“Lars’s bank,” Julian said, “is the Co-Operative Trust Bank, right? It’s the bank of many minor members of the royal family—and of men hiding money from their wives. Beautiful building. Twenty-two Curzon Street. It’s easiest to take the Tube. We can walk to London Bridge station. It’s about a mile from here.”

“I don’t see the point of going there,” Max said.

“What else is there to do? Perhaps we can talk to someone there.”

“Hmm…okay. I’ll find my way to the train station,” Max said. “It’s best if we go separately. Where will you wait for me?”

“By the ticket counter,” he said. Giving her hand a tight squeeze, Julian left the lobby.

Max took a few deep breaths. She opened her purse to look for the locker key. She rummaged through it for a while as panic rose within her. It wasn’t there. She pulled out receipts and papers until she was staring at the bottom of the purse. No key. Damn.

Perhaps she could simply tell the truth at the bank. Sad thing was, the truth was seldom appreciated or believed. She didn’t know what they were going to do. She hoped Julian might have a plan. This dependence that she had developed on him almost as soon as he had arrived in London was typical of her. She always depended on whoever was available. Wasn’t that another reason she hadn’t gotten Uncle Ernst involved?

She went through her purse once more. Wait a second. She had given the key to Julian. Safer that way, they had decided. Exhaling with relief, she began putting the scraps of paper away. One of them caught her eye. It was the credit card receipt Lars had handed her for her room. A germ of an idea formed in her mind.

Max rushed out of the hotel and started walking along the river toward the Tube, keeping an eye out for anyone who walked too close.

Outside the bank, Max showed Julian the credit card receipt with Lars’s signature on it. She asked him to practice copying it a few times.

“I think you have it,” Max said. “Now, lets go over what we are going to do one more time.”

At the bank, Max stayed in the waiting area. Julian went over to the lockers. A few minutes later, he returned.

“The person at the lockers is an old timer,” Julian whispered. “He knows Lars. We cannot risk this with him. But his shift changes in ten minutes. David takes over then.” Julian pointed discreetly across the room. “Him.”

David weighed about two hundred pounds, sported a face sprinkled with pimples, and had greasy, curly hair. He looked young, oafish, and uncomfortable with himself.

“He is perfect,” Julian said. With eyes on David, he put his hands on Max’s blouse and undid the first two buttons.

“Hey!” Max cried. Her cleavage showed now. Julian patted her collar down, stepped back, and gave her an admiring grin. She wished she could give him a sultry smile. One of her advantages was a nice cleavage. But at this moment when she could show off something she was proud of, she knew her face bore not a seductive look, but schoolgirl gawkiness. She squirmed.

“Use all your charm.” Julian’s hands hadn’t quite left her blouse yet. He fiddled with her collar.

“Yes,” she said with a wry grin, “that is what we Americans are known for. Our charm.”

Julian laughed, pulling his hands away.

“Ready?” Max asked.

“I have an idea. Just in case.” Julian casually walked around the bank, then approached the desk of a stern-looking woman. Her nameplate said
Manager
. Max made herself comfortable on a sofa close by and watched David.

When David’s eyes glanced toward Julian and the woman, Julian began to speak. Max couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the woman seemed quite taken by him. She invited him to sit and started chatting freely.

David watched them for a while before turning away. He started descending the spiral stairs to take his place at the lockers. Max signaled as much by standing up and smoothing her shirt.

Julian quickly finished his conversion and went over to Max.

They waited until David was out of sight. Max started down the stairs, with Julian close behind. They approached the desk in front of the locker area as if in a great hurry, ran into each other, and apologized. With formal graciousness, each acted as if they ought to let the other go first.

“Please go ahead,” Julian said with a wave of his arm and looked at his watch.

Max thanked him. David, who was sorting a lot of papers on his desk, stood up. Max leaned forward. David glanced at her face first
and dropped his eyes to her breasts that were almost spilling out of her blouse.

“Hello,” she said in a low, throaty, Lauren Bacall voice, attempting to sound sultry.

“Hello,” he said, still looking at her chest.

Max touched her clavicle, a last minute inspiration from
The English Patient
. If Ralph Fiennes had found Kristin Scott Thomas’s clavicle attractive enough to obsess over for years, surely hers was attractive enough to distract this boy-man for a few seconds.

David’s eyes sought her hands. He licked his lips and swallowed.

“My grandfather owns a locker here,” she said. “Can I open it?”

“Are you listed as a signatory?” David said mechanically. This time he looked at her face.

Max turned down her lips and brought a hand to her face. “Well, I have the key. My grandfather has had an account here for years,” she said. “He was English. I’m American. He died recently. Now I want to open a locker in my name, but first I need to take some documents from his locker. It’s such a bother.” She wrung her hands.

“I see,” he said. “You can open it if you’re a signatory.”

Max glanced at Julian.

“Please,” Julian said to David, “I would like to access my locker. How long is this going to take?”

“Just a moment sir, let me help this young lady first,” David said.

Max moved closer and began to stammer. “My grandfather died yesterday.” Genuine grief for Lars brought tears to her eyes. She held out her arms, as if looking for comfort.

Max could tell that David had softened considerably. He had compassion written all over his face. The kid was probably a product of an all-boys school.

Julian threw up his hands. “Maybe I should see the manager. Some of us have work to do—”

“Or better yet, I’ll go see her.” Max glared at Julian.

Julian shrugged.

David looked at Julian. Quickly he said, “One moment, madam. I’ll be with you shortly. Sir,” he said to Julian, all business-like, “perhaps you’d like to sign here.”

Julian huffed, shook his head, and grunted, grumbling all the while about being in a hurry. He signed the book, distractedly checking his phone at the same time. David opened a drawer and took out the signature card box. He pulled out the one for Lars Lindstrom and stared at the two signatures.

Max started sobbing even louder. “Maybe I should go to the manager right now,” she said. “It’s obvious you don’t have the power to do anything.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “This had to happen to me today of all days! I insist that you help me now.” He slammed a fist on the table. A few papers flew down to the floor.

“Have some pity,” David said angrily, bending down to retrieve the strewn papers. “She has just lost her grandfather. I’m trying to help her without breaking the rules.” To Max he said, “Madam, one moment while I help this…this
gentleman.
” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Can I get to my locker now?” Julian said. He dialed someone, went to a corner, and began speaking in urgent tones.

“Yes,” David hissed, almost putting an arm around Max. “I tell you,” he murmured into her ear. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that man.”

Max nodded in agreement.

David went on, “Such men give Englishmen a bad name. He sounds Scottish, though, despite his name. He’s insensitive and brusque. But we’re all not like that. You please sit.” He indicated a sofa away from the main desk. “I’ll find a way to help you, I promise.”

“No, I’d rather wait here.” Max dabbed her eyes with a hanky and continued to sob.

Julian returned to the desk. Max stood close to both men, so they were all crowded around the tiny desk.

David glanced once more at the two signatures.

Julian was threatening to call the manager now. He insisted that she was an old family friend.

David bit his lip. His eyes showed fear. “I’ll, uh, need to see some identification,” he stammered.

At that moment, Max pushed her ample bosom at David and began to sob. David was startled, but immensely pleased.

Julian looked at his watch. “Unbelievable, this circus you people run here,” he shouted. “Thanks to you, I have just missed an important meeting. The papers I need are in that locker. If I lose this multi-million-dollar contract, it’ll be your fault, young man! I’ll have you fired. As for ID, mine has been on your desk for ages now.” David looked down and began searching through the scattered papers. Julian let out a groan. “Great, now where did it go?” He started shuffling through the papers, dropping some, moving others, and generally making an enormous mess.

Max turned toward the stairs. “Should I go see the manager?” she said.

“One more minute,” David said to her in a pleading voice. “Sir, let me look please.”

Julian grunted with displeasure.

“You’re so nice,” Max said to David.

David’s expression was one of pure delight. He turned to Julian and said in clipped tones, “Do you have your key?”

“Yes,” Julian snapped. “And you better find my driver’s license.”

David meekly led Julian towards the lockers, returned to his desk and resumed his search for Julian’s ID. Max persuaded him to go and fetch her some coffee. On her way out of the locker area, she saw David silently debating whether or not to add sugar and milk to a steaming cup.

She stepped out of the bank. A few minutes later, Julian met her at the entrance. “I tiptoed past the poor kid. He’s still looking for my ID! “He handed her a backpack. “Got them,” he whispered.

Max pulled the backpack over her shoulders and gave Julian a high five. She then took out her cell phone.

“I thought you said it was tapped,” Julian said.

“Lars was sure it was. I’ve tried not to use it. But sometimes it just seems like paranoia. Besides, looking for a payphone and change all the time can be very tedious!”

“All right.” Julian pointed at her phone. “So what’s going on?”

“I am going to call as many people as I can and tell them we have the papers,” Max said. “The more people I tell, the safer we are.”

“Brilliant!”

Max first told Uncle Ernst that she now had the papers and asked him to keep the Chicago police informed, for what it was worth. After, she called Kim.

If anything happened to her, it was most definitely connected to her father’s work, she told them both. And therefore, to Berliner. Furthermore, they must look out for a bleached blond, heavy-set man, most likely Berliner’s henchman. Peter Schultz’s man.

Concealed behind the dark windows of his sedan, Hans watched Max and Julian, who were standing across the street and a few doors down.

He had followed Max to the Tube earlier. He had kept an eye out for the intruder from Lars’s patisserie, but there had been no sign of him.

Max had approached a young man wearing a hat and false mustache at the ticket counter at the Tube. Hans had gathered that their destination was the Co-Operative Trust Bank.

Now, they were standing outside the bank making phone calls. So Lars had kept the papers in a safe there, most likely.

Neither Max nor her new friend had noticed Hans so far.

Max probably had the papers with her now.

Hans looked at his phone. He had several text messages informing him that Max was calling people from her mobile. She had seldom used her mobile until now.

He dialed a number and listened back to the calls she had made. He heard one she made to Ernst Frank. She was telling him that she had the papers. And to call the police. She mentioned Berliner, Peter Schultz, and Hans himself. Bleached blond indeed!

Hans put his phone away.
Smart girl
, he thought grudgingly. The good news, though, was that she now had what was probably the only remaining set of Hiram’s papers.

He watched Max and her friend walk down the street. He started to follow them, wondering where he should confront her and relieve her of the papers, when he saw the thief from Lars’s bakery approach Max.

The cheeky rat. So he was more than just a common thief.

Hans realized the thief was much closer to Max than he was. And he was an artist. Hans could only watch—half-helplessly, half-admiringly—as the thief waited until a small crowd formed around Max. He slid in, approached Max, and managed to neatly slice the backpack off her back.

The thief took a few slow strides away from Max then broke into a run. Max let out a scream. Her companion started to chase after the thief. Hans wondered if he should chase the thief on foot, but decided not to. He wasn’t much of a runner. He started his car and wove through traffic, making sure he kept the thief within sight.

Hans managed to keep an eye on his target, who was now walking at a relaxed pace among the throngs of people on the busy Piccadilly Street. He had taken off his baseball cap and jacket and was barely recognizable. The backpack was hidden under the jacket. He looked like a student on his way to class.

The thief stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. On the opposite side of the street, Hans parked his car and waited. The thief crossed the street. He was walking toward Hans.

Hans stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” the thief said politely, not noticing Hans. Hans pulled out his .357 Magnum and stuck it at his waist.

“What the—”

Hans nudged the gun harder. “Turn around and get into that car.”

The thief turned around with one frantic movement. He looked at Hans, and his expression changed from fear to recognition and utter terror.

“If it isn’t the kid that murdered the old man in the bakery,” Hans said calmly.

“I didn’t kill him,” the thief managed to say.

Hans shook his head and rolled his eyes.

The thief was stammering now. “He was already dying by the time my bag hit him. I…I’m not even sure my bag struck him.”

“But it did, my friend. There was a trickle of blood running down his head.” Hans indicated where by touching the boy’s head with a forefinger. He clucked his tongue. “Very sad. The good neighborhood baker killed by a passing tourist. I even gave the police your description. American-looking tourist type left the area right around the time of the murder, I told them. Young, with greasy hair. Very suspicious.”