Pray for a Brave Heart (10 page)

There was drifting laughter from the Café Henzi, silence inside the darkened room.

“You worry me, standing there,” Le Brun told Denning. “Either Maartens keeps his appointment, or—” He left the sentence suspended.

“Or the appointment was a hoax and Meyer a fool,” said Denning. “Is that what you think?”

“As you wish,” Le Brun said wearily. “But could we have some light? If we must wait, then let us wait in comfort.” He rose, swore with eloquence and imagination as he bumped heavily against the table, and pulled the light on. “I assure you,” he said, blinking under the sudden glare, “I’m as anxious as you are. I
want
Maartens to keep this appointment. I
want
Meyer to get all the information possible.” But his voice was heavy with pessimism. He went back to the couch. He picked up the doll and looked at it with disgust. “Where’s Meyer been all day, anyway? Even Taylor didn’t know where he was.”

Keppler frowned. “Did you see Taylor today?”

“With precautions—which proved needless, I may say. I had to know what had developed since he came to see me in Munich. But Meyer? He seems to have other business in Bern besides diamonds.”

“That may be of equal importance,” Keppler suggested.

Le Brun showed his anger at last. “One thing at a time! We are looking for diamonds. Let us concentrate on them.” He rose, throwing the doll back on top of a heart-shaped cushion. “We are not amateurs, plunging from extreme secrecy to wild action. I may say I totally disagree with the way the Americans have handled this entire situation.” He looked over at Denning, now. “Logic is what one needs in this kind of work, not a liking for cloaks and daggers and false excitements.”

“I know,” Denning said with dangerous quietness. “Americans are such an inexperienced people. Another world. A world of peace and popcorn.”

Keppler gave an unexpected grin, but his voice was most neutral. “Waiting is always unpleasant. But if it’s painful for us, how is it for Colonel Meyer over in the Café Henzi? Or for Captain Taylor, who’s watching him from another table? Or even for my poor waiter? He was to telephone me as soon as Meyer had made contact with Maartens.” He glanced again, quietly, at his watch. “But there’s no reason to get pessimistic. Maartens may have been delayed. That often happens.”

“Or the syndicate,” Denning couldn’t resist saying, “may have heard that Colonel Le Brun has taken a good deal of quiet action with customs officers and shipping lines. Logically, then, we may expect no more information.”

“We know how to take
quiet
action,” Le Brun said. He stood looking at Denning for a moment. Then he turned away.

“But can
action
ever be kept quiet?” Denning said. He felt better now. He was even speaking mildly, sympathetically. “The best secrets leak out. For instance, how did the maid and the clerk at the hotel come to be interested in me? Did one of Maartens’ friends follow Max Meyer to my apartment in Berlin? Yet Max was careful; he’s adept at avoiding people.”

“How many Americans are there left in Germany who worked originally with Meyer on Restitution of Property?” Keppler asked. “A handful?”

“Yes.”

“Someone could check their whereabouts easily?”

“I suppose so.” Denning was disconcerted. Max and I both slipped up there, he thought.

“And you were the only one of the handful to appear in Bern. Of course they’d be curious: was your visit casual, or was it arranged?”

“They must have a damned good intelligence service.”

“You are referring to the Nikolaides Syndicate?”

Something in Keppler’s voice kept Denning silent. Le Brun stopped pacing between the kitchen and the door, and he looked at Keppler too.

Keppler said, “The maid and the clerk at the Aarhof have no connection with the syndicate at all. They are known to us as political agents, who have been active on behalf of—well, a foreign government.” He chose a fresh cigar. “You see, Colonel Le Brun, there is something more than diamonds to worry about. I know that is your immediate concern. It has to be. You have been searching for the Herz collection for years. But, for Colonel Meyer and for me, there may be other considerations. We each have our own countries to protect, too.”

“I understand that,” Le Brun said. “But you understand my position?”

“Assuredly,” Keppler said in French.

“I can see it’s difficult,” said Denning, and hoped that his apology sounded adequate. It was as far as he could go, anyway. To Keppler he said, “You spoke of a foreign government which has been employing these two agents. Is that foreign government—well, is it in a position to be in control of the Herz diamonds?”

“Yes,” said Keppler. “But then, so far, the two agents have been used only in minor capacities. There is nothing to connect their activities, even today, with the diamonds. The most we can do
so far
is to make an intelligent guess. Would you risk one?”

“Of course he could,” Le Brun said. “The Herz diamonds were in East Germany. Therefore it must be the Communists who are to blame. Isn’t that the popular fashion with Americans, nowadays? A Communist under every bed?” He was amused, highly.

And that’s exactly the reason why I didn’t make any kind of guess in front of any damned neutralist, Denning thought. “It could be either the Communists or the ex-Nazis,” he said quietly. “They are the only people I know who extend their power by conspiracy.”

“You amaze me,” Le Brun said. “You actually mention Nazis.”

“You aren’t the only one who has fought them,” Denning said.

Le Brun at least dropped the sarcasm. He actually gave a little bow. His voice became more friendly. “It could very well be the resurgent Nazis who had an interest in selling diamonds for their own benefit. After all, why this trouble in smuggling
diamonds, why this secrecy—if Communists are doing it? Wouldn’t it be simpler for Russia—I suppose you really mean Russia when you talk so vaguely of Communists—wouldn’t it be simpler for her to donate a large sum of money towards any secret fund?”

“Yes,” Denning said. “And it would also have been far easier to use a diplomatic pouch for the actual smuggling.”

“Doesn’t all that point towards ex-Nazis, then? They have neither government money nor a diplomatic pouch—at present, anyway.”

“Yes,” Denning admitted again. “It could be that. Or it could be—” He hesitated.

Keppler said, “Or it could be what our faceless enemy
wants
us to believe?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Clever if true. Until now—as far as I’m concerned—this faceless enemy has made only one mistake: he has chosen to smuggle the Herz diamonds through Switzerland. My neutrality is not unlimited when I see a conspiracy directed against other people’s innocence.”

“But aren’t we conspirators, too?” Le Brun said. “Who are we to judge men doing the same kind of work as our own?” He looked at the Swiss and the American, thinking sadly that simple people found simple judgments.

“I must have expressed myself badly,” Keppler said very quietly. “But as far as I know, my country is not conspiring to destroy the freedom of any innocent person. My work has never sunk so low as that.”

“Now you misunderstand me,” Le Brun said quietly. “What I intended to imply was—”

The harsh purr of the telephone cut him short. Le Brun stretched out his hand, then stopped. With grave politeness,
he stood aside to let Keppler answer the call. Denning too had risen to his feet.

“I see,” Keppler was saying quietly in English, “I see.” But there was a look of bewilderment on his face, immediately followed by anxiety. “One moment.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand, turning to the others. “It’s Meyer. At the Café Henzi. The informant has not turned up. Neither has Taylor.”

Then Meyer’s alone over there, alone, Denning thought; and the cold feeling of alarm gripped him. Le Brun was looking shocked—perhaps Meyer’s ’phone call was too unorthodox.

Keppler held out the telephone. “Talk to him about Maartens,” he said to Denning. “Find out if your suspicions are ridiculous or not.”

Denning looked at Le Brun’s startled eyes, then at Keppler’s frown. He took the receiver. He said, “Hallo, there! So the girl-friend didn’t turn up?… Well, come out to my house and have a drink.”

Max laughed. “I’ll give her another ten minutes, if the waiters don’t sweep me into the streets. You know women.” He sounded worried, though, in spite of his amusement.

“Yes, I know Shorty.”

There was a pause. “And when did you see Shorty?”

“We arrived together at the Aarhof.”

“That’s funny,” Max said. Then he altered it a little. “That’s quite a joke. On me.”

“Very smartly turned out,” Denning went on.

“Très snob, très chic
again?”

“And
tout a fait cad
this time. It’s the money that does it. I’d say the suit cost at least a couple of hundred dollars. No
imitations for Shorty today.”

“This gets funnier and funnier,” Max said. “Hilarious. Are you sure it was Shorty?”

“Two inches under medium height and twenty pounds overweight. Wrinkles round the eyes, skin too sallow, not a grey hair showing. Pity about the snub nose, but that’s your taste, isn’t it?”

“That’s my Shorty,” Meyer said, laughing again.

“What I really admired was the neat little hands,” Denning went on. “Neat little hands to match neat little feet.”

“Be serious!”

“I don’t sound serious?”

“Not to me,” Meyer said grimly.

“Okay, okay,” said Denning. “I get you. I’ll never laugh at Shorty again.”

“Don’t!” Meyer said warningly. “Have a good vacation.” And he hung up.

Denning turned to face Le Brun and Keppler.

“Well?” Keppler asked.

“The man at the Aarhof isn’t Maartens. There’s one thing that can’t be disguised, and that’s small hands and feet.”

“I think,” Keppler said slowly, his face so serious now that Denning’s feeling of small triumph turned into something very close to fear, “I think I shall have Mr. Maartens detained for questioning about his passport.” He picked up the telephone again.

“I hope,” Le Brun said to Denning, his voice more friendly, even a real smile on his lips, “that anyone who listened to your conversation with Colonel Meyer was as baffled as I was.”

Denning reached for his coat and pulled it on.

Le Brun’s melancholy eyes watched him. “Keppler, look at this idiot,” he said quietly.

Keppler, waiting at the telephone, turned his head. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m just a tourist, walking back to his hotel.” Denning buttoned the coat up to his chin. There was a decisiveness in that last flick of his thumb that ended all argument.

“Stick to that story,” said Keppler. His blue eyes no longer looked blankly at Denning. They were not even making any attempt to disguise their worry.

“I’ll be all right,” Denning said, pulling on his hat.

“Are you armed?”

“No. I’m a tourist, remember? Good night.”

And as the door closed behind Denning, Le Brun said, “Amateurs have their uses, I suppose. But didn’t you take a chance letting him go?”

Keppler began making the first of a series of telephone calls. He dealt in turn with the Maartens registered at the Aarhof, with the chamber-maid and clerk who worked there, with the American called Taylor who seemed to be missing. “But first, attend to Maartens,” he ended his call, and then replaced the receiver. He looked at his watch. Denning ought to have reached the Café Henzi by this time.

Le Brun said restlessly, “And what do we do here? Wait for Meyer to turn up with a report?” A report of failure. Then they’d all argue and talk and argue. What went wrong? That would be the question. God, he thought wearily, how I hate these post-mortems: couldn’t we succeed, just once, with those Herz diamonds?

“We’ll wait,” Keppler said grimly. “That’s the major part
of our job, isn’t it?” Then he thought, perhaps I ought to alert the police. I’d like to have some of them around in the Square. And yet, this wasn’t a matter for the police. Not yet… Perhaps it would never be…

Gloomily, he settled down by the telephone.

In the Café Henzi, the singing had been going on for half an hour, singing and laughter and high soprano shrieks of enjoyment.

“Had enough?” Francesca asked. “It seems to be more hilarious tonight than usual.” She glanced at the ceiling above them. “There’s nothing like a convention for spoiling other people’s pleasure.”

“Oh, it’s still quite early,” Paula said.

“I thought you were anxious to go. You keep looking at the door.”

“Sorry.” Paula laughed. “I was only watching Colonel Meyer leave. I’m sure that man
is
Maxwell Meyer, even if he isn’t in uniform. What a peculiar thing, though!”

“Why peculiar? Lots of American and English officers come here in mufti, too.”

“I know, I know, but you see,” Paula was so honest, so
earnest, “only recently Andy went through to Frankfurt to call on Colonel Meyer. You know how newspapermen often come across strange pieces of information. Andy had heard something or other that kind of worried him. So,” Paula took a deep breath, looked around, lowered her voice to the point of inaudibility, “so Andy decided to approach Colonel Meyer on the old-pal level. That’s how Americans really like to work.”

Francesca was perplexed.

Paula said patiently, “They like to see someone they know, or someone who’s a friend of a friend, and then they have a quiet talk. After that, if their problem seems important enough, they are shown the right door on which to knock. You see how useful the old-pal level can be? Cuts all kinds of delays.”

“And is Colonel Meyer a friend of Andy’s or—a friend of a friend?”

“He’s a friend of Bill Denning’s. Actually, we met him years ago when he was visiting Bill in Princeton.”

“Oh?” Francesca said, properly lost now, yet still trying to keep contact.

“Well, Andy did get to see Colonel Meyer. And they got on fine—Maxwell Meyer was interested as all hell’s burning. I’m quoting Andy.”

Francesca said, “And so Andy was helped to knock on the right door?”