Tempting Fate (71 page)

Ragoczy made a short, polite comment as he looked out the window. In the street, two stories below, he saw four uniformed policemen go by on horseback.

“Our work is singularly complete, thanks to your thoroughness. I’m sure it will be received with enthusiasm even if it is not commercially promising.” He, too, wanted to bring their hour to a close. “I won’t deny that I will miss our association, Graf Ragoczy. If more men in our line of study took your degree of interest in the future, there would be little to worry about.”

Ragoczy came back from the window and shook hands with Isidore Riemen. “It is kind of you to say so, Professor. It is a great compliment coming from someone of your experience.” His attention was distracted by the sound of an alarm bell. His brows rose. “What is it? Fire, perhaps?”

Professor Riemen shrugged hugely and sighed. “No, for that there is a siren now. I would imagine it is another riot. They’re becoming monthly affairs. If it isn’t the Right, then it’s the Left. Sometimes they fight among themselves, sometimes they rush through the streets to no purpose. The police contain them in a small area, if they can, so that the damage is kept to a minimum. When everyone is exhausted, the leaders are arrested and the rest go home.”

“Riots?” Ragoczy asked. “How … unpleasant.”

“A nuisance, nothing more. A few cracked heads, broken windows, smeared paint. The police have learned the pattern and they know who most of the leaders are.” He picked up the report one last time. “Don’t be apprehensive about the riot. Most of the time they don’t get out of hand. This is what you should concern yourself with, this fine research. Leave the hooting to the madmen.”

Ragoczy hesitated. “It would be wise to be cautious, dealing with madmen.”

“Ach, ja.” Professor Riemen laughed, as if what Ragoczy had said was witty. “How amusing you are, Graf,” When Ragoczy said nothing more, Riemen was once again serious. “I wish you would change your mind about remaining here long enough to present this paper for academic meetings. There is a major gathering in Frankfurt in September, and that would be the ideal time—”

“That won’t be necessary, Professor. My work on the project is over and I find little interest in spending endless hours debating its use with others.” He also was reluctant to bring so much attention on himself, for he had a number of associates in the academic world who might recognize him from fifty or sixty years ago, which would, he told himself with little expression, be awkward.

“I will make every effort to have it clearly understood that this is as much your work as mine. You deserve the credit for developing the equipment and designing the actual process.” He said this last with less enthusiasm, already begrudging Ragoczy his share in the work.

There was a second alarm bell ringing now, and the two insistent sounds impinged on the cozy office and intellectual calm of the building.

“Do as you think best, Riemen.” Ragoczy was plainly preoccupied now. He thought of Laisha on her book-buying expedition as the alarm bells grew more demanding.

“Is something the matter, Graf?” Professor Riemen inquired, his tone becoming gruff.

“The bells. They concern me…”

“But why? The police will shortly have matters in hand.” He leaned back in his chair with a complacent smile on his face.

“Doubtless,” Ragoczy responded. “But I am concerned about my daugh … ward. She was planning to shop while we concluded our business.”

“Laisha Vlassevna? A delightful girl. Delightful. You must be very proud of her.” The Professor had a ruddy mouth and his tongue ran over it, making it redder still.

“I am,” Ragoczy said automatically. The bells were now three, and he felt impelled to leave. “Thank you for the time, Professor Riemen, but I fear I must excuse myself. If there is to be a riot, I would just as soon be out of München before it gets under way. And I would prefer that my … ward not be exposed to it.” He was already reaching for his empty briefcase and his light topcoat, both of which lay on the arm of an overstuffed chair.

“No doubt a sensible course, Herr Graf. If our political friends would only share your attitudes, and conduct their upheavals elsewhere, it might make matters easier for all of us.” He got up and came around his desk in an unhurried way, his light-gray eyes glittering as if made of ice. “Have a good journey, Herr Graf. I hope you will find London to your liking. I have never admired the British, but it may be different for you: the British are not overly-fond of Teutons.”

“They are somewhat insular,” Ragoczy agreed.

“Another witticism. How funny.” He made a snorting sound that was probably laughter.

Ragoczy knew that good manners called upon him now to say something very flattering of München and the whole of Deutschland, but with the alarm bells ringing, nothing came to mind. He twitched the corners of his mouth once in what might pass for a smile. “But I have been in London before, Herr Professor. I have a house there.” It had been more than twenty years since his last visit, but he did not add this.

“Then you know what to expect. The food is bad, all of it. The beer is tolerable.” These pronouncements were given as if they were absolute laws.

“I doubt that will bother me,” Ragoczy said sardonically.

“So!” Professor Riemen glowered at him, feeling insulted.

“Let me wish you every success with the presentation of the papers and with selling the process. The terms of our sharing of profits, if any, are in the contract, are they not?” He said this quickly as he hurried toward the door. “Do keep me informed of your progress, Riemen. It has been … instructive, working with you.” He wondered if he had imagined it, or if there was more noise filtering in from the streets. His bow was a swift ducking of his head as he slipped out the door, leaving Professor Riemen standing alone in his office, his face darkening as the enormity of Ragoczy’s boorishness enveloped him in fury.

The elevator was in use, so Ragoczy ran down the two double flights of stairs to the entrance and the street. He glanced about once in the hope that he would see the silver-blue Isotta-Fraschini waiting for him, Laisha in the backseat reading. It was a vain wish, and he knew it before his eyes told him that Nikolai had not yet returned for him. He knew that his chauffeur was a realistic man and would not expose himself or Laisha to unnecessary hazard. If the riot were anywhere near them, Nikolai would find Laisha and remove her from danger. It was entirely likely that they were caught in the traffic snarls that were building up in the area as the police closed off streets in an effort to contain the riot. He pictured his automobile inching along with the others on Sendlinger Strasse or Sonnen Strasse, and tried to comfort himself with the thought. As he hastened down the street, four more policemen on motorcycles roared by. At the corner they turned left, toward the south. Ragoczy watched them, then began to follow them, moving as fast as he dared. As he threaded his way through the crowded streets, he attempted to convince himself that Laisha must be safe and that it was quixotic to go into a riot area. The police had doubtless got those who were bystanders out of the rioters’ path if Nikolai had not. Oppression settled on him darkly and he increased his pace again. He was capable of much greater speed and had stamina no unchanged human could match, but for centuries he had schooled himself to reserve his swiftest run for the night and hidden places, where it would not be noticed; as it was, though he was still walking, he was moving faster than many men could run.

The sound of angry voices raised in one howling chorus that was punctuated by the breaking of glass marked the fringes of the riot area, where a dozen policemen had formed a human barrier against the milling mass of men behind them. A brute-faced Sergeant was shouting to the others to hold firm.

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” Ragoczy said as he came to a halt at the line of policemen. “Sergeant?”

The man turned, and his little eyes took in the stranger who had addressed him: obviously foreign, obviously wealthy. “What is it, Mein Herr?”

“I have reason to believe that my automobile and my chauffeur and my daughter are in the area you’re cordoning. May I pass, please?” He took his most commanding attitude without making himself appear threatening. The Sergeant was nearly a head taller than Ragoczy and had the look of a bully.

“I can’t allow that, Mein Herr.” From the expression he wore, he enjoyed the exercise of power.

“But you can, you know,” Ragoczy said in his most reasonable tone while his impatience seethed through him. “I am able to fend for myself.”

The stare the Sergeant gave him indicated that the man doubted it. “Sorry, Mein Herr. These are my orders: no one is to pass. Otherwise we’d have to let more of the rioters in, as well.”

Ragoczy took a step back. “Very well. Thank you.” He took a few steps back and dropped his coat and briefcase; then he sprinted away at half his possible speed, toward a restaurant down the street, the kitchen of which, he knew, opened onto an alley that gave access to the blocked streets.

“Herr Graf!” the headwaiter said as Ragoczy burst into the restaurant. “We have been ordered to close.” He did not attempt to stop Ragoczy, however, for he knew this was the owner’s patron and accorded special privileges.

The chef, an enormous man with a starched cap atop his bald head, looked about in astonishment as Ragoczy ran through the kitchen and out the back door. He had not thought that the Graf had any interest in politics, but there he was, and there was a riot half a street away. He reluctantly put his freshly-cut vegetables into a huge crockery bowl and covered them. If he could not serve them tonight, he decided, he would add them to the soup tomorrow.

At the opening of the alley, Ragoczy could see a large number of men in brown shirts with swastika armbands shoving and shouting. Several of them were smiling in their excitement, and there were at least two with rifles. As Ragoczy watched, a group of five men approached the mob. They were also dressed in the SA uniform, but these were obviously men of some importance. When the oldest of these men—a lean, tall fellow of about fifty—began to speak, those around him grew quiet and gave him their attention.

“It is senseless to oppose the police,” this man said in a penetrating tone that was doubtless learned on the battlefield. He was silent while the others roared out their disappointment. “There are cattle enough within the cordon. The Spartacists have their meeting place two blocks away, you will recall. It is time they learned who speaks for the Vaterland. Not they!” he bellowed to be heard over the sudden wave of noise that burst from his followers. “They are wed to Russia, to those causes and destructive doctrines that have once already threatened to ruin this city!”

This time there was no quieting them. The officers stood aside as the men swept back from the police barrier toward the narrow streets where others waited.

Ragoczy saw the five officers draw apart for a murmured conversation, and while they were so occupied, he raced out of the alley and away toward the street where the booksellers brought their stalls. He went rapidly now, not running yet, but at a pace that could easily outdistance most athletes. His speed was deceptive, for he moved with singular ease and grace, fluid as a shadow. Once he almost caught up with the body of brown-shirted men, some of whom had paused to smash the windows of a grocery and to throw the produce into the street. He had to get ahead of the men, he knew that, but so far he had been given no opportunity. Finally he ducked into a narrow side street which led to the Steuerplatz where the bookstalls were often drawn up. There was a small church near the end of the street, an ancient building with high, oval windows of colored glass. As he rounded the end of the church, he could see that he was ahead of the mob at last.

Large numbers of men were milling here, and there were occasional tussles between the brown-shirted group and others not in the same color. One bookseller was trapped, his heavily-laden wagon unwieldy and his old horse sidling nervously as more and more men pressed around him.

Ragoczy made his way through the crowd to this unfortunate. He reached the side of the bookstall and started to climb.

“Nein!” the driver shouted, and while his horse made an attempt to bolt, the driver lashed out at Ragoczy with his whip.

“Stop! I won’t hurt you!” Ragoczy shouted as he caught the whip and pulled it from the driver’s hands.

The driver belatedly realized that his horse was plunging and snorting, his flanks dark with sweat. He strove to gain control of the animal, and as he did, Ragoczy moved closer to him.

“Where were you selling today, my friend?” he shouted in the driver’s ear in order to be heard.

At first the driver did not respond: he was busy with his horse, and terror had stopped his throat.

“I need your help!” Ragoczy shouted at him. By now the crowd around the bookstall was so dense that the horse was unable to move and the high-balanced wagon was beginning to rock as the little square filled with struggling men.

“What?” The driver was white-faced and shaken, unable to move and unutterably frightened by his own inactivity.

“My daughter is here somewhere!” Ragoczy yelled at the driver, and cursed as the man shrank back from him. “Where were your stalls today?” he demanded, the full force of his dark eyes commanding attention.

The driver pointed off to the right and he wagged his hand helplessly. “There. A block up, maybe two.” He turned, shocked, as he saw his horse fall, the harness shafts splintering as he went down.

Ragoczy did not stay to see the rest of the old driver’s plight: at the far end of the platz he could see the brownshirts from the barricade coming. They were in orderly form now, marching in neat ranks, shouting as they marched that Spartacists were Jewish swine and traitors to Deutschland.

Many of those in the platz took up the shouting, while others threw themselves on those who offered such insults. On the far side of the square the first of the battles were joined. As the first blows fell, a small number of the brownshirts broke away and started down the adjoining streets. Not long after, another group did the same.