Forever (32 page)

'If you need a car and chauffeur during your
stay, I would be delighted to be of service,' Rolf told her as he
surrendered her luggage to a hotel porter. 'Just ask for me. Rolf.'
Glancing around, he lowered his voice discreetly. 'And if you . . .
er . . . need anything . . . anything at all ... ' He grinned
knowingly, leaving the hint dangling.

'Thank you, I'll keep that in mind.' Then,
dismissing him with a chilly smile, she swept out of his life and
into the hotel.

It was as though she'd stepped back in time
- or had mistakenly wandered onstage during the production of an
operetta. All that was missing was the singing. For not only did
the lobby look like a stage set, but the staff even dressed
accordingly - costumed entirely in local loden. The overall
atmosphere was, however, charming and luxurious, without being
cloyingly sweet or hopelessly provincial.

The desk clerk took one look at her and fell
over himself to be helpful. Within minutes, Stephanie was ensconced
in the privacy of her suite.

The first thing she did after taking off the
Mad Hatter's hat, kicking off her shoes and unpacking was to place
a local telephone call. That done, she rang the front desk. 'This
is Miss Fischer,' she began, 'in suite -'

'Ja, gnadiges Fraulein?
the concierge
enquired smoothly. 'I hope everything is in order?'

'Oh, yes,' Stephanie assured him. 'But I
need your help. I'd like a car and driver to take me to St Wolfgang
tomorrow.' She paused and added: 'I'm to see Herr Detlef von
Ohlendorf.'

There was a gasp of awe, a momentary
silence, and then a gush of spontaneous enthusiasm.
'Certainly,
gnadiges Fraulein!
We are honoured to be of service to anyone
who visits our esteemed Maestro! Honoured. Honoured!'

'You had a marvellous driver pick me up from
the airport this afternoon. Rolf, I believe his name was?'

'Rolf Schalk.
Ja
. You would like him
again,
, gnadiges Fraulein
?' 'Well. . . n-nooooo,' Stephanie
said slowly.

'Was there a problem?'

'On the contrary. I was quite impressed with
him. It's just that I won't be here for very long, so I'd like to
take the opportunity to meet all the Austrians I can.'

'A wise decision, to be sure! I quite
understand,
gnadiges Fraulein
.When would you like the
car?'

'I am sorry, sir,' sniffed the assistant
manager of the Gellert Hotel in Budapest, it is absolutely
forbidden to give out the information you request. Our guests
demand the strictest confidentiality.'

'But this is a special circumstance!' the
new arrival insisted.

'I am sorry. I cannot make any exceptions.'
The assistant manager buried his nose in the guest book.

'In that case,' the young man said, 'I would
like to speak to the manager, please.' The words were polite and
softly spoken, but there was no mistaking the threatening
undertone.

The assistant manager sighed and shut the
ledger. 'As you wish.' He sniffed disdainfully and glided off.

The new arrival waited, a twitching muscle
in his eyelid the sole indication of his impatience. After some
minutes, the assistant manager appeared with an older man. He was a
sleek, middle-aged Hungarian with a balding pate and a subdued,
self-important presence. He had on a hand-sewn English suit,
red-and-black silk tie, and black Italian shoes. They were so
spit-shined that he might have used them as shaving mirrors.

'I am the managing director.' The man's
manner was deferential but not unctuous. 'How may I be of
assistance?'

'I'm supposed to meet a friend here, and
I've been told she checked out.'

'Ah.' The manager clasped his hands in front
of him. 'And who, sir,' he enquired concernedly, 'might that
be?'

'A Ms Smith. Ms Amanda Smith?'

'A lovely young lady!'

'Then you remember her?'

The manager bristled. 'A guest as beautiful
and polite as Ms Smith is always fondly remembered,' he declared
staunchly. 'We would treasure her as a regular guest.'

'Good. Then I take it you can help me?'

The manager eyed the questioner warily.
'That, sir,' he said carefully, 'would depend upon the . . . ah . .
. kind of help you require.'

'I'd like to know where Ms Smith went after
she checked out. You see, she was supposed to meet me here. Surely
she must have left me a letter? Or at least a note?'

'I am sorry to say that she has left
neither. Perhaps she forgot?'

'Then it's imperative I find her.'

The manager sighed painfully. 'Regrettably,
our policy does not allow us to give out that kind of
information.'

'Look, it's very important. I really do have
to find her!'

'Presumably it is a matter of life and
death,' the manager said with a little smile.

'As a matter of fact, yes. It is. Her father
is very ill, and I didn't want to send a cable or have to tell her
over the telephone.'

The manager's smile disappeared and he
sucked in his cheeks. 'I see,' he said gravely, in that case, sir,
I think I can make an exception. But I am not sure it will help
you.'

'I'd appreciate anything.'

'Very well. She said she was checking out to
stay with some friends here in Budapest.'

'Friends? Here? Did she say who?'

A sad shake of the balding head.
'Unfortunately, sir,' she did not. She did, however, ask us to
arrange an airline reservation for another friend of hers.'

'Oh?' And he thought wryly: Amanda Smith
seems to have no end of friends. 'You wouldn't happen to remember
his name, by any chance? Perhaps if I can catch up with him -'

'It is not a he, sir, but a she. Perhaps you
even know her. A Miss Holly Fischer, I believe her name was.'

'Holly . . . Holly ... oh, I know! She and
Amanda went to school together. And where did Miss . . . er . . .
Holly wish to fly?'

'To Salzburg, sir. I hope this information
will be of some assistance?'

'Undoubtedly it will. I can't thank you
enough.'

'I'm glad to have been of help. Is there
anything else I can do?'

He hesitated. 'Well, if it wouldn't be too
much trouble

'Yes?'

'I'll need a reservation on the next
available flight to Salzburg.'

'Consider it done! I shall see to it
personally! If you'll step this way, sir, please . . . '

Two-and-a-half hours later, he was on board
a Malem jet for the hop to Vienna, where he'd catch a connecting
flight to Salzburg.

Not surprisingly, he was in an uncommonly
good mood. And why shouldn't I be? he asked himself. For all her
efforts, she's leaving a trail a blind man could follow.

Which, he thought smugly, was exactly the
way he liked to track somebody. Nice and easy . . .

EIGHT

Austria:

Salzburg • St Wolfgang, The
Salzkammergut

In the morning, she was jarred awake by the
simultaneous ringing of the travel alarm clock and the telephone.
Stephanie punched off the alarm and covered her head with a
pillow.

'Go 'way,' she mumbled.

The telephone persisted.

'Oh, all right,'' she said grumpily,
reaching blindly around on the nightstand until she found the
receiver. She fumbled with it and pulled it under the pillow.'
'Lo?' she mumbled sleepily.

'Really, Girlie.' It was Sammy Kafka. 'It's
all I can do to keep up with these aliases of yours -'

'Uncle Sammy! Do you realise what time it
is?'

'Nine o'clock Central European, three a.m.
Eastern Standard.' He chuckled. 'Rise 'n' shine, Fraulein
Fischer!'

'How can anyone be cheerful at this ungodly
hour?' she growled.

'If you like, I can call you back? Give you
time to order from room service?'

'No. No,' she sighed. 'Fraulein's awake
now.' She tossed the pillow away and sat up groggily.

'So tell me, Girlie. How did things go on
the Eastern Front?'

Instantly she flashed back to Madame Balasz,
the cats, and the strange conversation on the balcony overlooking
the Danube.

'Would you believe, strangely?'

'Mm. Yes, as a matter of fact, I would.'

'But here's the kicker, Uncle Sammy.
Assuming that Lili Schneider really is alive, according to Madame
Balasz we may - and I stress the word may - not be looking for an
old lady.'

'Say that again?'

'According to the Madwoman of Budapest, Lili
found the fountain of youth sometime back in the forties.'

There was silence on the other end.

'Uncle Sammy? Are you still there?'

'I'm still here, Girlie.'

'Also,' Stephanie said, 'Balasz hates Lili
with a passion for not sharing the formula with her.' She paused
and added quietly, 'You know, she really had me believing it
exists.'

'And now? What do you think now?'

'To tell you the truth, I don't know what to
think.'

'Let things fall into place. Try to keep an
open mind,' he suggested.

'Believe me, I'm trying.'

'By the way, you know how I never finish
reading the newspaper, and when I finally get to it, I always read
last week's news - or the week's before?'

'Y-yes?' she asked cautiously.

'Remember that woman you told me about,
Vinette Jones? The one who called you?'

'What about her?'

'If it's the same Vinette Jones, she died
the same night she called you.'

'What!' Stephanie was sitting up straight
now. 'What happened?'

'An apparent drug overdose.'

'Oh, Jesus. She sounded straight as an arrow
to me.'

'Well, I'm just telling you what the
newspapers reported. I called the police and they said the same
thing.'

Stephanie had a sudden flash of deja vu.
'Tell me something, Uncle Sammy. They wouldn't be calling it
suicide,' she asked softly, 'would they?'

'Well, not exactly. "Accidental overdose"
seems to be the verdict.'

She felt ripples of fear, like a chill
breeze, crawling up and down her spine. Her voice was shaky and
hushed. 'Uncle Sammy? Do you think it's possible that someone shot
her up? Purposely? To kill her, I mean?'

He remained silent.

'Because I remember - while I was holding?
She . . . she cried out! And then, before the phone on her end was
hung up, I could swear somebody different was on the line. The ...
the breathing just didn't sound like hers!'

Sammy sighed. 'Who knows, Girlie, who knows?
All I can say is: be careful. Very careful.'

'You know, Uncle Sammy, I was thinking.'

'And what were you thinking, my
darling?'

'Vinette Jones told me she met Grandpa at
the D.C. branch of CRY - you know, Children's Relief Year-Round?
The one with the godparents programme?'

'Y-yes ?'

'Well, Ms Jones said his research had
brought him there, just as her missing baby had brought her. And
yet, there's nothing in Grandpa's manuscript about CRY, nor is
there a mention of it in his notes. Believe me, I would have caught
it. But if his research took him down there, there's nothing to
indicate why.'

'Perhaps,' said Sammy, 'his visit there had
nothing to do with the Schneider biography.'

'It had to have. You know what a one-track
mind he had.' She paused. 'Ms Jones mentioned someone who works at
the New York CRY headquarters. What is his name? Something like
that title of that opera.'

'Klinghoffer?'

'No. Kleinfelder. Could you give him a call
and find out what he knows?'

'With pleasure, Girlie. Sherlock here will
get on to it right away,' he promised.

'Well,' she said, 'I'd better get up and
start making movements. At noon's my interview with the musical
Fiihrer of the Third Reich.'

'Von Ohlendorf?' Sammy asked.

'The one and only,' she said.

'Say "heil" to him for me.'

'Get off the phone,' she said gently, and
hung up.

The three-storey, steep-roofed chalet
commanded a scenic hilltop above the picturesque village of St
Wolfgang and the Wolfgang See, the placid, deep-blue Alpine lake.
The chalet's enviable location aside, it seemed to have been
positioned expressly to flaunt its superiority, as though rising
above all else. There were four cars parked in the gravel driveway
- two dark-blue Mercedes sedans, a black BMW, and a white Opel
station wagon. The air was fragrant with pine and freshly mown
grass. Red geraniums were everywhere.

As she ducked out of her hired car,
Stephanie couldn't help but show her surprise. The house, while
large, was surprisingly modest for a man whose recordings sold in
the hundred of millions of copies, and who enjoyed a ballpark
income of six to seven million dollars a year from record sales and
conducting fees. She had expected something far grander - something
more along the lines of a renovated Schloss. Instead, Detlef von
Ohlendorfs chalet, with its geranium-laden window-boxes and two
tiers of wooden fretwork balconies, was quaintly beautiful.

'Yodel-oh-hee-hee,' Stephanie said under hef
breath as she clipped smartly along the geranium-lined flagstones
to the front door.

Everything about her was brisk and efficient
- she had dressed to convey the businesslike air of a stylish but
successful magazine writer, and was wearing a nubby, wide-lapelled
colourful tweed suit, ochre silk blouse, and a pair of half-glasses
on the tip of her nose. Her hair was pulled back in a kind of
Bavarian twist - a bow to the locale - and she carried a serious
brown leather briefcase and a notebook.

The unsmiling, unblinking woman who answered
the door had a long face and hard blue eyes. A mass of writhing
blonde coils was wrapped around her head like thick sausages - or
well-fed snakes. She had ai jutting chin with a large mole on it,
from which sprouted a single long hair, and she wore a dirndl with
a lace-edged sweetheart neckline and a tight, red-patterned bodice
which pushed up her breasts into mighty mounds. The requisite
apron, in this case yellow, completed the outfit.