As Time Goes By (11 page)

Rick read on. He learned that Heydrich had helped set up the series of concentration camps across Ger
many, Austria, and occupied Eastern Europe in which
Hitler was imprisoning and often murdering his enemies—a
list that seemed to be growing daily. He was
surprised to learn that like many of the top Nazis,
including Hitler, Heydrich feared he might be part Jew
ish. That his father, the founder of the Halle Conserva
tory of Music, might have been named Suss, which
could have been a Jewish name—or at least the Nazi
hierarchy saw it that way. That Heydrich, hoping to rise
high in the party, had his grandmother's name chipped off her tombstone because it was Sarah.

He also learned that Heydrich had been trained as a
violinist as a young man and then joined the army,
from which he had been cashiered for an affair with a teenage girl. Today, Heydrich was the head of something called the
Reichsicherheitshauptamt,
a typical
ten-dollar German word that meant the Nazi Party's
security service. In other words, the goon squad. Rick knew something about goon squads.

There was even a picture of him. He was an impres
sive specimen of German manhood: tall, lean, rangy.
He had a thin face with a touch of the hawk about the
features—a predator for sure. His nose was patrician,
his eyes clear and cold, his hair sandy. His hands were large, with wide palms and long fingers that tapered to
a set of elegant nails. His uniform was pressed, his shirt
collar immaculate, his shoes spit-polished. Rick knew that face. He had seen it before, on another man, back
home in New York: not so tall, perhaps, but just as
elegant and just as lethal.

Heydrich was also a thug and slugger who had
clawed his way to power the way sluggers always did,
by braining people. He was smart and he was nasty,
and some said Hitler was grooming Heydrich as his
successor. If and until that day ever came to pass, he
was in charge of Bohemia and Moravia, the Nazis'
term for what was left of Czechoslovakia after they had
gotten finished dismembering the place. Heydrich had
made his presence felt by a months-long campaign of
brutality against the Czechs that earned him the sobri
quet
der Henker,
or the Hangman, as he pacified the
populace. It had worked: in fine weather Heydrich
could ride through the streets of Prague in an open con
vertible with absolute impunity. That was either su
preme confidence or supreme stupidity.

The pieces were beginning to fall into place. Ilsa's
question mark after
Henker
in her note probably meant
she hadn't heard the word clearly or didn't understand
the reference.

But there he was: the Hangman of Prague. The man
who—indirectly, at least—had sent Victor Laszlo to a concentration camp and would be delighted to see him
back in one again. Could he be the target of a daring
and very dangerous British and Czech operation—an
operation headed by Victor Laszlo? If there was ever a candidate for assassination, Heydrich looked to be the
man.

It didn't seem that difficult As Rick had already
seen, the Germans were so cocksure of themselves that
they failed to take precautions even the dumbest gang
ster back in New York observed in his sleep. If Hey
drich was riding through the streets of Prague in an
open car, he was practically daring some poor bereaved
parent to avenge the death of a son with a pistol, rifle,
or bomb. Hell, anybody on the Lower East Side or
Hell's Kitchen could have told him he was crazy to
take a chance like that.

Right now Heydrich and the rest of the Master Race
considered themselves invulnerable and unbeatable,
and everything they had done since 1939 seemed to
prove them right. They had rolled through Poland,
folded up the French like a cheap suitcase, and
smashed deep into Russia. They hadn't had to tackle
the United States up to now, though.

The Germans and the Italians had declared war on
America four days after Pearl Harbor, three days after
Roosevelt declared war on Japan. That was just fine
with Rick Blaine. He had no use for either Germans or
Italians. Sitting in the chilly library, he let his mind
run back over the past, to the Italians whose paths had
crossed his: Ferrari, of course, and, in Ethiopia, the
forces of Mussolini. Back home there was Salucci. As for Germans, wasn't Major Strasser enough German to last a lifetime?

Looking down at the arrogant, aquiline face of Rein-
hard Tristan Eugen Heydrich, Rick decided that if he
was the man Laszlo might want to kill, then Victor
Laszlo had his blessing. "Come quickly," Ilsa had
written. Help was on its way.

Rick caught Fullerton's attention. "Say, I don't sup
pose you'd know something about this Spencer charac
ter, would you?" he asked.

"Sir Ernest Spencer is the Secretary for War."

"I know that," Rick said patiently. "What I mean is, where can I find him?"

"The Secretary for War ordinarily does not speak
with members of the general public, sir," Fullerton re
plied.

"Well, then, who does?"

"I'm quite sure I don't know, sir," answered Fuller
ton, turning his back on Rick.

Rick had lost patience with politesse. Time to take a
more direct route. "I came in here to get some informa
tion, not the high hat."

Something in Rick's tone warned Fullerton not to ignore him. "Perhaps his private secretary, Mr. Reginald Lumley," he suggested.

"That's more like it. Do you know where I can find him?"

"As it happens, I do," said Fullerton. "Mr. Lumley,
being a man of the theater, is a clubman at the Garrick."

"What's the Garrick Club?" asked Rick.

"The Garrick, sir. Never the Garrick Club. The Gar-rick is the foremost theatrical club in England. Really,
you must try to see
The Importance of Being Earnest
while you are in town, sir. The leading lady, Polly Nev
ins, is quite a special friend of Mr. Lumley's." He
looked at Rick. "I trust I have been helpful, sir?"

"Very."

Sam was waiting for him outside the door as he
emerged from the reading room.

"Did you get the dope, boss?"

"You might say that," replied Rick.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

Shortly after their arrival in London, Rick had had
some business cards printed up. They read:

THE SOLOMON HOROWITZ THEATRICAL AGENCY

145 W. 43rd Street, second floor

New York, New York

Richard Blaine, producer

Rick took one from his wallet and looked it over proudly. It would pass, he thought, and handsomely. The inside joke he would keep to himself. Sam was
right: time to stop brooding about the past and start
doing something about the present.

"Don't you want to take a cab, boss?" Sam asked.

"It's not far," said Rick. "Besides, you need the ex
ercise."

Sam shot him a look. "The only exercise you get
is lighting them cigarettes," he observed. "Boss, them
coffin nails goin' to kill you someday."

"If the drink doesn't get me first," said Rick.

The Garrick's doorman nodded his head in Rick's
direction as he and Sam approached. Rick looked pre
sentable, even if he was obviously an American. Gen
tlemen were becoming scarce in these parlous times;
someday they might even have to be rationed.

"Meet me back at the hotel in two hours," said Rick,
"and try to stay out of trouble."

"I don't see much trouble for me to get into," said
Sam. "I think maybe I'll go look for our kind of club. Somewhere nice and smoky for me to play the piano
in. Think they got any of those joints around here?"

"If they do, I'm sure you'll find them. Try Soho."

"Okay, boss," said Sam. "One of us better start
makin' some money, and I guess it might as well be
me."

"Some things never change, Sam."
     

Inside, the club was damp and cold, but Rick was
already getting used to the peculiar English notions of
central heating.

"Good afternoon, sir," said the club steward. "My name is Blackwell. How may I be of assistance?"

"The name is Blaine," Rick said. "Richard Blaine. To see Mr. Lumley, if he's in. Please tell him it's ur
gent." He fumbled for one of his business cards, scrib
bled something on the back, and proffered it to
Blackwell.

Blackwell studied the face of the card for a moment; whatever was written on the reverse was none of his
business. "Mr. Blaine of the Horowitz Agency in New York." Like most Englishmen, Blackwell accented the
"New" and the "York" equally—as if anyone were
likely to confuse the greatest city in the world with old
York. "I shall see if the gentleman is in, sir," he said.
"I shan't be a moment."

The Garrick, named after the great actor, was a
splendid old pile—not much to look at from the outside, but within well appointed and comfortable. The
walls were adorned with portraits of great figures of
the English stage. Rick's taste ran more to
Abie's Irish Rose
than Shakespeare, but he decided not to let on.

True to his word, Blackwell was back in a few min
utes. "Mr. Lumley is pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blaine, and begs your indulgence for a few minutes while he attends to some pressing business."
Blackwell's mien was apologetic. "This dreadful war,
you know. Please follow me, sir."

Rick followed Blackwell up a grand staircase and into one of the most magnificent club rooms he had
ever seen. The walls were hung with oil portraits and
medieval tapestries, the furniture was plush, the teak-wood tables polished to a fare-thee-well. This wasn't a
club as he understood the term; this was the Grand
Central Station of clubs.

Blackwell indicated an empty wing chair near a roar
ing fireplace. A companion chair stood empty across
the hearth. "If you wouldn't mind, sir," he said, and
departed.

Rick sank into the chair and looked around. He'd
never thought he would ever be in a place like this. When he was a kid, the notion of his even stepping across the threshold of the Players Club at Gramercy
Park was inconceivable.

The honorable members were scattered throughout
the big room in conversational groups of twos or
threes. They were spaced far enough away from each
other that no conversation could be overheard easily— not that any gentleman would ever knowingly eaves
drop on another. Most of the men were either middle-
aged or, more likely, getting on in years. Nobody
looked to be under forty. Rick remembered why—they
were all in the military.

He thumbed through a copy of the
Times.
The stories
were almost uniformly depressing. German advances
here and there. British ineffectuality everywhere. The Russians rolling back and, it seemed, rolling over.
Meanwhile, in America, the attack at Pearl Harbor still
rankled. How hard could it have been for the United States to have seen that one coming? Unfortunately,
warning signs, as he knew from bitter experience, were
not always heeded.

He decided to amuse himself with his surroundings
instead. He studied the portraits on the walls carefully
and at once realized that what he had assumed were
pictures of men in eighteenth-century dress were, in
fact, portraits of Garrick himself in his various theatri
cal roles. There was the great man as King Lear, striking a suitably worried pose; as a fearful, black-robed
Hamlet; as a dagger-drawn Macbeth.

Rick was still educating himself in the history of En
glish theater when he became aware of a man standing
beside him. "Damned if he ain't the spitting image of my mother-in-law!" exclaimed the man. "Especially with that dagger in his hand."

"Mr. Lumley, I presume," Rick said, jumping to his feet. He had no clear idea what to call him. What if, in private life, he was Lord Somebody, as every third upper-crust Englishman seemed to be?

"No presumption at all, sir," remarked the man.
"Reginald Lumley at your service, Mr. Blaine."

They shook hands. Rick liked him immediately, and liked him even better when, moments later, his host waved his hand in the air and Blackwell materialized
with two drinks.

"I do hope you have a taste for Scotch whiskey at
this hour," said Lumley, raising his glass.

"It's after noon, isn't it?" replied Rick, savoring the warmth of the amber liquid as it slid down his throat. It wasn't Kentucky bourbon, but it would do nicely.
One thing you could say about the British weather: it
always called for a stiff drink.

The pair drained their glasses more or less simultaneously. "Damned fine stuff, that!" said Lumley.
"Blackwell, would you be so kind?"

"Very good, sir," said Blackwell, and toddled off.

Rick sized up his companion. Lumley was a short,
slight man with dark wavy hair that splashed across his
forehead. He was wearing a well-cut blue suit, a
starched white shirt, and a floral tie. He looked like a banker who was considering you for a loan and hadn't
made up his mind yet.

"Mr. Horowitz sends his compliments . . . ," Rick
began.

"Beastly business last night, what?" interjected
Lumley. "Pity I'm not over there this go-round. Show
the damned Jerrys a thing or two, I daresay. Eh?" In
one smooth motion he scooped up his drink at the same
instant Blackwell laid it down. "Ever catch a whiff of the grapeshot yourself, Blaine?" he asked.

"Can't say that I have," replied Rick. "Except from the critics."

Lumley chuckled. "Know what you mean, sir, know
what you mean. Myself, I took a swing or two at
brother Boche in France back in eighteen, and I daresay
I sent more than a few of the damned
Kameraden
to
hell." He tossed back his drink and swallowed half of
it. "Wouldn't mind adding a few more to the tally.
Wouldn't mind it at all."

Lumley produced Rick's card and peered at it. "Sol
omon Horowitz, eh?" he said. "Mr. Horowitz would
be a Jewish fellow, I should expect. I gather, half the
people in New York are Jewish these days."

"The trick is telling which half," said Rick.

"Lucky for you they're not Irish," said Lumley. "Neutral, in a war like this one! Can you believe it?"

"After all you've done for them, too," said Rick.

Lumley perked up. "Who needs them?" he asked
brightly. "Not with you Yanks in the fray. Damned
glad to have you aboard."

"Mr. Horowitz ...," Rick prompted.

"Ah, yes, Horowitz. Never met the man. But that's
not the name you want to talk about, is it, Mr. Blaine?"

On the back of his phony business card, Rick had
written a series of names: Polly Nevins. Victor Laszlo.
Ilsa Lund. Reinhard Heydrich. At least one of them
seemed to have gotten results.

"I'm particularly interested in Miss Nevins—
professionally speaking," Rick ventured, continuing
the game. "I gamer that her performance as Gwendo
lyn is the talk of the town. My employer would be
greatly interested in having her star in one of his own
productions—when the war is over, of course, and once
it is safe to travel."

"Yes, Miss Nevins," Lumley said. "A woman of
whom one can truly say not so much that her beauty
becomes her as that she elevates the very notion of
beauty. Especially on the stage, where she is quite the
loveliest creature one has ever had the pleasure to be
hold." He took a reflective sip of his whiskey and stud
ied the back of Rick's business card. "We are all of us helpless prey in the face of beautiful women, are we
not?" He shook his head. "The things we do for
them . . .
  
"

"The things we want to do for them," Rick corrected
softly. "I hope I have the chance to make her acquain
tance while I'm in London."

"Just how long might that be, Mr. Blaine?" inquired
Lumley.

"Indefinitely, for the time being."

"I shall make certain the two of you meet at the earliest possible opportunity." Lumley's next words took him by surprise. "What about tomorrow evening? Are
you free for dinner?"

"If you're buying, I'm eating."

"It's settled, then," said Lumley. "Tomorrow at
eight o'clock. I'll send my driver round for you. Where
are you staying?"

"Brown's."

"Splendid. I live in South Kensington. It's not far.
We'll all have a splendid natter."

Things were moving fast. "If it's more convenient, I'll be happy to find my way to you," Rick said.

"Oh, no bother at all," exclaimed Lumley. "Damn!
Look at the time. I've completely forgot all about an
appointment at Whitehall. That's what I get for having a beaker or two in the afternoon. I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Mr. Blaine. In the meantime, may I suggest that you enjoy the hospitality of the Garrick with my compliments."

Lumley waved for Blackwell, who materialized immediately. "I say, Blackwell, would you mind terribly
bringing Mr. Blaine a selection of the club's papers,
there's a good fellow. Mr. Blaine is free to remain here
as long as he likes this afternoon as my guest."