Delicate Ape (17 page)

Cassidy mumbled, and added ill-at-ease, “No drink for me. I’m on duty.” He lumbered away.

“He doesn’t like the company I choose.” Piers spoke lightly and the bitterness in Bianca’s face was only a shadow of the bitterness enveloping him. “None the less I choose my own company. Morgen, the maid of Adlon; Morgen, the fay; Morgen, the—”

Bianca spoke sharply. “Hugo, take me home.” Disgust blanched her face.

“You mustn’t mind me,” Piers said gently. He drained his glass watching Bianca and Hugo confer in undertone. He said, “No. I’m leaving. I might say too much if I remained here.” He spoke softly:
“There is now no man alive to whom I dare speak my heart. I know, in truth, that it is a noble thing for man to fetter his feelings, to guard his tongue, whatever he may think.”

Morgen’s hair was against his cheek. His words were for her ear alone. “Tomorrow noon, the Plaza. Alone. Important.”

She shook her head.

“There are some things you’d like to know—” He looked into her eyes, her candid, sea-blue eyes.

She gave unwilling assent, fearing the trap. She herself had set too many.

“Good night.” He lounged to the door, catching a glimpse of their huddle as he left the room. Swine and one small misguided pearl. He marched blindly to the news counter and stepped on a pair of tired black shoes.

Cassidy said, “I didn’t think you’d be drinking with Heinies.” His face sweated disgust.

Piers just looked at him. “We’re all one big happy family. Haven’t you heard of peace?”

“That’s not what you were saying this morning.”

He took the papers. “Skip it. I’m not the spokesman for peace any more.” He went up wearily to his room. David wasn’t there. The neon lights blinked patches on the floor. He took off the dirty suit, kicked it in a heap on the rug. He didn’t want to see it again. He probably wouldn’t, not for a long time. He doubted if he’d be here much longer. As soon as Gordon could unwind some red tape.

He wondered if Gordon had cabled Nickerson. There wasn’t anything worth sending for; Piers didn’t keep important notes in the office. He showered, shaved, laid out his things for morning. His room had been searched again. It didn’t matter. He’d have to be at the Plaza before noon. He didn’t know what would come next; he only knew it wouldn’t be good. The main thing was to remain out of custody. The main thing was to keep alive. They wouldn’t kill him—yet.

He read the papers for an hour or more before turning to sleep. It was as he knew it would be when the light was out and Broadway flickered now dark, now bright against his eyes. The old sickness again, the linger of her arm against his forefinger, the odor of her yellow hair, the promise of her voice. He had to play it this way. It was his only hope of breaking Gordon.

He left the hotel before eleven, followed by Cassidy and a moon-faced man who read license plates. And doubtless somewhere beyond them by a dark man of the bush. He lost the first two in Times Square, the old last-man-on-the-subway trick. It took time but it was worth it. He didn’t know if he’d lost the bush tracker. He rode as far as 72nd for safety, took a downtown train to Columbus Circle and walked across town to the Plaza. He wouldn’t go up to his room; he must not be closeted with her. That agony could be avoided. He went to the desk, asked that he be paged on a call. When he turned she was just entering the lobby. She was in navy with ruff of white, and when she saw him her face lighted as if some flame leaped within her. He set his guts against her. He wouldn’t be the victim this time.

He said, “I’m a little surprised that you came.”

“You asked me to come.” Her eyes were dark as sapphire.

He put his hand under her arm. “We won’t lunch here. I’ve just avoided my bulldog and the mongrel at his heels. I don’t want them around us.” He steered her out of the hotel and into a cab. She sat there quiet, waiting. He said, “You are the loveliest thing I ever saw.”

“That isn’t why you asked me to come.”

He leaned to the driver. “When there’s no cab following get us to Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam. But be certain.”

The cabbie saw a horned husband. He winked in his mirror.

“There’s an old hotel, an aunt of mine once lived there. It’ll be quiet at this hour.”

She said nothing.

The cab ran a couple of red lights on Columbus. After that it cruised to the directed corner. “You’re safe, Mister.”

Piers matched the face and identification. Another Pole, Willie something. Could be Nick Pulaski’s brother-in-law. He added an extra bill to the charge. “If you’re around here in a couple of hours, we don’t want to walk downtown.”

“Keep your eyes open.” The cabbie winked again.

Piers opened the street door into the cool, fumed oak tap-room, unchanged in the years upon years. There were two aging women in one booth with a coal-colored French poodle. The poodle had his own plate. A casual was at the bar. Piers sat across from Morgen in a sheltered corner, suggested from the menu, gave the orders. They sat in silence, measuring each other until the food was placed.

She spoke slowly, “What was the meaning of your act last night?”

He said, “It wasn’t an act.”

Her eyes would haunt him always. She’d learned to put sadness into them. “It wasn’t real. The other night, your hatred, that was real.”

He had to play it carefully. She was wise, as wise as she was beautiful, as beautiful as bad. “Yes, that was real,” he admitted. “I hate your guts.” He watched her flinch and he savored it. “But there’s the reverse side of it. You know that one too, don’t you? I thought I was finished with you twelve years ago. I’ve spent twelve years making certain I was through. And then you came. A man can hate—and want.”

“You want me?”

“More than anything in the world.” It rang true; it was true. That the denial of that want was stronger, she wouldn’t know. Not yet.

Her lashes curved like shadows. “I am married to Caesar.”

“And there’s Gordon,” he said.

She was alert. “He is a friend of Hugo’s. And of mine. We met him at Rio, several years ago.”

“You and Hugo?”

She was defensive. “Ernst was there on business. Hugo helped me pass the time.” Her words came with difficulty. “Why didn’t you return that night?”

“The war is long ago,” he jeered.

“I waited for you.”

“In Hugo’s arms.”

Her hand touched her cheek as if he had struck her.

“I came too soon.” His voice was ugly. “I was headstrong that way. You remember?”

She was guarding her face but her sadness looked out of it. “When did you come?”

“That afternoon. I’d made a frightening discovery. I’d learned that your Brother Hugo wasn’t one of us, that he was only posing as one. He belonged to Schern’s inner secret circle.” He shrugged. “I thought he was the key that you and I had been seeking.”

She didn’t move.

“I came rushing to tell you, to save you.”

She said, “Yes.”

He didn’t have to go on; it was flagellation. “Yes. Hugo was with you. You didn’t dream I’d take the chance of coming by day. You’d warned me so starkly of the risks. Risk didn’t matter when it came to saving you. Hugo was with you. And he wasn’t your brother. You were laughing.” His ears were tortured again by the intimacy of laughter. “You were speaking without fear. I’d found what I was after.”

She began to fork her food again. “Afterwards—why didn’t you give me over to the International Court to be tried for war guilt?”

He waited long until she looked at him. “Because I couldn’t bear that you should die.”

She met his face now. “I loved you. That was why you didn’t die.”

“I didn’t die because I got out fast. In a way that even you and Schern hadn’t heard about.” He began to eat as if eating mattered.

“You were to have been executed long before that. We didn’t need you. We had your information. I created delays. While you were listening, while I was lying to Hugo, I was plotting your escape. I was going with you as we had planned.” That terrible honesty in which there was nothing but lies. “You don’t believe that, Piers.”

He said, “Let’s remember it’s all over, long ago. You’re here. I’m here. There’s no war. We disagree as to what the Peace Conclave should decide but it doesn’t matter much.”

She cried, “You must believe me. I’ve willed that you should know. After the war I waited for you to speak—or to return—”

“Then you married Brecklein. I thought it would be Schern. More important. But then he was imprisoned for five years, wasn’t he? And Brecklein’s a millionaire.”

Pallor darkened her eyes. “I married Ernst only three years ago.”

He didn’t apologize. He said, “You shouldn’t waste your time on me. I’m not important. You know now why Gordon stayed on in Washington.”

She hesitated. Her hand moved. “Yes. He called me, after I returned to the hotel last night. Secretary Anstruther is missing.” She added quickly, “No one is to know.”

“I don’t think it was news to you. You have Gordon. He’ll stand up. You don’t have to be nice to me. But you can answer one question. How important is Gordon to you?”

The surprise of the question lifted her face. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t like Gordon.” His eyes were blank. “I don’t like him at all. I don’t like him inheriting the position. It should have been mine.”

“Yes. It should have been yours.” She searched his face for cause, for treachery, for honesty. She saw only the shell of a face; nothing else was there. “What is it you want?”

He said, “What price Gordon?”

She took her time, silent while he lighted her cigarette and his own. She said then, “The Anstruther papers.”

He broke the match in his fingers. She had said what he willed her to say; she had spoken. He began gently, “You know me better than that, Morgen.”

“You asked that I bid.” Her eyes were upon him, unflinching, unmoving.

He shook his head. “Without the papers, what would the Secretaryship avail me?”

Her voice whipped. “Have you that little faith in your own power? Why would you need the papers if you were Secretary?”

He spoke after pause. “I’ve never sold out to an enemy.”

Her voice was quiet. “It is better to have a price, than to die.”

He set each half of the broken match carefully on the oaken shield that lay between the woman and himself. The words came slowly. “You believe I am to die?”

She was silent.

“Like Anstruther.” The smile hurt his mouth. “You are not the only ones who want the papers, you know. Gordon needs them badly.” He kept smiling. “I know, if he doesn’t, that he’ll never lay eyes on them if his dear friends get in first. His price might be better. All of your heads. That might be as good as his head.” He touched the table. “And he isn’t the only one. Fabian wants those papers. I daresay Evanhurst would like them. Even the New York Police Department wants them.”

She said with certainty, “But not one other can give you Anstruther’s place. The position you should have had, that you intended to have.”

He set his face. “What proof can you give me? Unless I see Gordon’s head on the platter I wouldn’t close any deal with you and your friends. I’d have to know it was certain.”

Her lips moved with something like scorn. “You will sell out for that?”

“‘O, Opportunity, thy guilt is great!’” he repeated softly. “Every man has his price just as every woman makes mouths in a glass. That was said long ago. And I tried to tell it to you on Sunday night.”

She was rigid. “It is well for you that you lowered the price.”

“Gordon might think I’d upped it.” His eyebrows slanted. “I want a meeting with all of you, Gordon present. I want confirmation before I sell.”

“I’ll tell Schern.”

“And Hugo.”

She gathered her gloves, her navy purse. “I shall tell Hugo.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday.”

She understood. “Tonight. The Waldorf. Late, say midnight.”

“The witching hour.” His lips curved without mirth. “A trap won’t work. Cassidy will be behind me, you know. There’s no good Schern thinking he’ll take the papers without paying my price. No matter how many fat-bellied men and small rats with decayed teeth he sends after me. And you might mention, if I die, no one of you, nor Gordon, will ever lay hands on those papers.”

They met face to face, each leaving the opposite oaken bench. He said, “Morgen—” and he put his arms around her and his mouth on hers. They held each other and no one cared. The old women cared only for the black poodle, the man at the bar only for his glass, the attendants only to be at rest. They held each other as alone, as undisturbed, as once they had been in the burning fragments of Berlin. They parted as simply as they had come together.

She pushed the hair from her cheek. “Don’t play at love, Piers.”

“I’m not playing that it’s love.” He moved at her side. “I may have to go underground at any time. If I do I’ll somehow manage to get to you.” He opened the door and they left the old and cool room for the heat of the pavement. “There’s our driver.”

The cabbie was parked outside, his head on his shoulder, the radio singing. He opened the door for them. “Where to?”

Piers turned to her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. She had wrapped a dream about her. “The Metropolitan,” she decided.

“Museum?” The driver’s nose puzzled.

“Please.”

Piers nodded. He didn’t touch her. He knew too well how this could all be part of the evil charm.

He laughed. “I’m glad you came today, Morgen.”

She spoke under her breath. “Why?”

His jaw was set. “Gordon’s out to get me. I’m going to get him first.”

The driver took the transverse across the park, circled to the Museum. He had muted his radio as if he sensed a wrongness in song at this time. Piers helped her to the walk. They didn’t touch hands.

She said, “When you were young I knew ruthlessness was a part of you. Peace hasn’t changed that. You must be careful. There are others as ruthless as you and more desperate.”

He threw back his head and laughed out loud. “I’m not afraid.” And the sun on his bared head turned chill as he watched the music of her walk up the steps, through the tall doors. He watched her vanish and the chill encompassed him. He knew with a sudden prescience what had escaped him until now. His price would be met. It wasn’t too high. After he was dead, Gordon would automatically be restored to power. Either way, with or without the papers, he was marked for death before sundown tomorrow.