Tempting Fate (84 page)

He had drawn on a black silk dressing gown when Roger knocked once and entered the room. “Yes?” said Ragoczy without turning.

“You wish to bathe?” His voice was wholly neutral, but his blue eyes surveyed Ragoczy with care.

“It would be a good idea,” Ragoczy said in a remote way. “I probably stink of perfume. One of the women kept dousing the room with it.”

Roger was wise enough to inquire no further; he picked up the clothes Ragoczy had laid across the chaise.

“It was a gambling establishment, not a whorehouse,” Ragoczy said sardonically. “Not that there weren’t women available, but they were not the primary interest. I saw one man,” he went on dreamily, “with three women accompanying him. All of them were gorgeous creatures—very lean and glossy—and he paid them no more mind than he did the furniture until he had lost most of his money. Then he fell on them: he had his shirt off before they were quite out of the room. What, I wonder, would Doktor Freud make of that?”

Pausing in the act of hanging up the suit in the armoire, Roger said, “Were you lucky?”

“I didn’t play much. There’s no excitement in it for me anymore, and without the excitement”—he set aside his nail file—“what reason is there to risk money on the falling of a card or a ball?”

“You were out quite late,” Roger observed.

“Yes. Yes I was,” Ragoczy said, looking at his manservant. “Do you worry about me, old friend? It isn’t necessary.”

“Isn’t it?” Roger asked, without expecting an answer.

“I could visit every gambling hall in Wien and it would not matter, even if I lost every night. I won’t do it: losing bores me as much as winning does.” He wore a gold aviator’s watch on his left wrist, and now he removed it. “Do you remember Paris? The way Claudia’s husband strove to ruin himself at the tables? I never understood how he could keep at it as he did. That was devotion of no mean order. He truly worked at his ruin. Poor Gervaise.”

“Your bath will be ready in ten minutes,” Roger said from the door, not quite able to keep his tone even.

“Thank you, Roger,” Ragoczy told him. “But for the sake of all the forgotten gods, don’t treat me as if I were an invalid or slightly mad.”

“Of course not, my master,” Roger said quietly. Both men were speaking Latin now, and Roger added in that language, “It would do no good, in any case.”

“You know me too well.”

“And that is no advantage on occasions such as this,” Roger responded as he pulled the door closed. He had not intended to speak bitterly, for he felt no anger, only sorrow. Long ago he had realized that Ragoczy would never accustom himelf to the pain of loss, that no matter how often he saw death, he would never grow used to it, would never surrender to stoic indifference. Roger himself had learned a philosophic acceptance but had never been able to give it to Ragoczy: he had instead to watch while mourning ate its way through his master like slow poison. Roger hurried along the hall, not wishing to give himself the excuse to speak to Ragoczy again for a little while, until he was composed once more, and able to speak to him without increasing his master’s pain.

Before entering the bathroom, he stopped to collect two large, thick towels from the linen closet, then began the task of setting up the new electric heater Ragoczy had bought the week after he arrived in Wien. The little wire coils were soon glowing red and gave off the odor of burning dust. Roger disliked the thin, acrid smell, but Ragoczy ignored it, reminding Roger once that the streets of Rome had smelled far worse most of the time, As the bath filled with hot water, Roger set out brushes and soap and a razor, planning to shave Ragoczy as he bathed.

“Almost ready, I see,” Ragoczy said a few minutes later as he came through the door. He caught sight of the shaving gear. “You’re undoubtedly right.” His hand moved over his chin, feeling the stubble. “It grows slowly, but it does grow.”

Roger turned off the taps and stepped aside as Ragoczy got out of his dressing gown. “You will find soap, a sponge, and—”

“Yes, as always,” Ragoczy interrupted him, the affection he felt for his manservant robbing the words of any sting. The hot water rose around him as he stepped into the tub. “They haven’t really got the knack of this sort of thing yet. Rome was the best time for baths. My private bath at Villa Ragoczy was almost five meters on a side and over a meter deep, not like this cockleshell.” He leaned back in the hot water, self-consciously holding the sponge across the wide swath of white scars that crossed his abdomen. “Well, it is relaxing, just the same.”

Roger filled the sink with water and put the bar of soap into it. While he busied himself with Working up a thick lather, he said, “There were two callers last night, while you were out.”

“Oh?” Ragoczy sank lower in the tub so that just his face protruded from the water. Distorted by the water and the confines of the tub, Roger’s voice, as he went on, sounded alien and sinister.

“Yes. They came about seven-thirty, in an automobile with Bavarian tags. Balas admitted them and explained that you were out for the evening. They then asked to see me. I spoke with them briefly.”

“What did they want, these men in a Bavarian auto?”

“Not what they said they wanted,” Roger replied with asperity. “They told me that they represented a firm that wished to purchase Schloss Saint-Germain. I explained that they would have to speak with you, but that I doubted it was possible you would sell.” He had enough lather now, and he worked the stiff-bristled brush into it. “If you would, my master, a little higher?”

“Of course,” Ragoczy said, accommodating him, chin tilted back. “There are a few times I truly miss being able to see my reflection. Whenever I’m forced to shave myself, I long for a glimpse of my jaw, to be certain I’ve done the job properly. What peculiar forms vanity takes.”

“You might grow a beard again,” Roger suggested as he lathered Ragoczy’s face.

“And worry about the trim of it? When beards are in fashion again, I might.” He fell silent as Roger’s finger touched his face.

“These men,” Roger went on as he took the first swipe with the razor, “did not believe me when I said you were out attending the opera. They waited in their automobile for nearly an hour after they left the house. They were clearly keeping watch on the place.”

“Interesting,” Ragoczy murmured.

“They promised to return today to speak with you. I did not tell them when they might expect to find you at home. One of them was reading the
Völkischer Beobachter,
and the other had an interesting lapel pin, with a swastika on it.” He wiped the foam from the razor’s edge against a hand towel draped over his knee.

“The Sturmalteilung, do you think, or the Thule Bruderschaft?”

“The Thule Bruderschaft, I suspect,” Roger said, resuming his expert shaving. “The SA would not be so subtle.”

“You’re undoubtedly right,” Ragoczy sighed when he could move his chin again. “So it isn’t just the men at the back of the tavern, then, but something more.”

“They might not have linked you to those deaths,” Roger said, but without much conviction.

“You don’t believe that any more than I do,” Ragoczy said, closing his eyes.

“They probably are not aware that you were the one who killed the men,” Roger said with some force. He concentrated on Ragoczy’s firm chin, taking care to pull the skin taut before grazing it with the razor.

“But they have associated me with the killing by now. The landlord could describe me, and it’s likely that the police have helped them.” His voice hardened. “You may be sure the SA will have help from the police; they’re all cut from the same cloth.”

Roger, sadly, could not and did not deny this. “If these men are Thule, they will be dangerous to you.”

“So they will. And I to them.” He turned his head so that Roger could work more easily, and the hot water swirled around his neck and chest.

“What precautions will you wish to take?” Roger inquired when he had finished shaving Ragoczy and was gathering up his equipment.

“I don’t know yet. Ask me in an hour.” He had reached for the soap and had begun to lather the sponge.

“They may have returned in an hour,” Roger reminded him.

“They may be watching us right now,” Ragoczy countered. “Whatever the situation, we have the advantage. We know that we are their target. They don’t see that as advantageous, but that’s all to the good.” He began to scrub himself vigorously.

“What clothes do you want me to lay out?” Roger asked from the door.

“I think I will rest for a while,” he answered, splashing the soap off his arms. “This afternoon, I will need a dinner jacket, but not the tails. I am attending an informal concert at Madame Ilse’s. Silk shirt, with the pin tucks, and the onyx cufflinks and studs, I think; the rubies are too flamboyant.” His smile was mocking. “I will want to be wakened at four.”

“At four,” Roger repeated, striving to conceal his despair.

“I will go out at six, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.” He slid back in the tub again, immersing himself once more.

“What about protection?” Roger asked, hoping that Ragoczy would not be so reckless as to leave the house unaccompanied.

“If these men are circumspect, they will not come after me at once,” Ragoczy said with unconcern. “And if they do, they will discover their folly.”

“My master—” Roger tried to protest.

“You, on the other hand,” Ragoczy continued over him, “will have to be fairly cautious. I want you to go to the rail station around noon.”

“For any particular purpose?” Roger inquired resignedly.

“You will purchase tickets: we are leaving for Praha tomorrow. I want to be on the first train out.” He gave Roger an ironic smile. “No matter how I feel, old friend, I will not endanger you—you should know that after so many years.”

“I am not thinking of my safety, my master,” Roger said quietly just before he closed the door.

Ragoczy let his breath out slowly as he lay back in the hot water. The worst of it, he told himself, was that Roger was right; he was being careless, taking chances that were foolish. Did he believe he could continue to do so with impunity? His nearly four thousand years taught him that he could not. He exposed himself for no reason other than he might be discovered. What was he doing but tempting fate, pushing his luck to the extreme? He shook his head. Was it only that he could not surrender his pride long enough to die the true death, and so he sought it at the hands of others? Or was it more complicated than that? Did he want someone to pull him back from the brink? “I don’t know,” he said aloud, and the tiled bathroom echoed his perplexity. The night before, he had gone to the bed of a drunken woman in the vain hope that he would imbibe her inebriation as they made love. He had known it was not possible, and the encounter had gone badly, for there had been neither the ephemeral satisfaction of desire nor the oblivion of alcohol. Ragoczy put his hand to his head, astonished afresh at his own absurdity. Why, after so long, did he think that he would be able to share that woman’s—or anyone else’s—stupor? It was another example of his enchantment with risk. At least he had sense enough to know that he must leave Wien, though he doubted that Praha would be much of an improvement. And from there, where would he go? He laughed silently, jeeringly. Perhaps he would go to Berlin, try the ultimate hazard. Then he would be too caught up in his own danger to think any more of Laisha.

Once out of the tub, he wrapped himself in the larger towel, then bent over the sink to shampoo his hair. As he rubbed most of the moisture from the loose, dark curls that would be groomed into neat waves as current fashion demanded, he stared at the empty mirror, thinking that the movement of the towel would startle anyone who saw it hanging in vacant air, buffing at nothing. It had taken many centuries for him to be able to look into reflecting surfaces, and considerable time after that not to suffer from vertigo when he did. Now he regarded the whole thing as unimportant—a phenomenon that offered a private amusement, though there were no mirrors in his private chambers.

His bed, in its austere alcove, was high and hard; a thin mattress laid over a chest containing his native earth. Ragoczy did not remove his dressing gown, but pulled it more tightly around him before leaning back, drawing up the thin black coverlet, and releasing himself to sleep.

“My master,” Roger said again as he touched Ragoczy’s shoulder.

“What time is it?” Ragoczy asked as he came abruptly awake. The curious, almost frightening dream shattered and fled, leaving Ragoczy with nothing more than an underlying disquiet he could not account for.

“Ten minutes after four. The two men were here at one and have promised to be back by five.” He did not emphasize anything he said, but the warning was clear.

“Then I will have to be away before then. What did you tell them?” He was already rising, running one hand through his hair, his thoughts turning gratefully to the two hostile men from Bavaria.

“That you needed time to recover from last night’s adventures, and that you were not civil when disturbed.” Roger took the dressing gown Ragoczy held out to him.

“Very wise. And the tickets?” He began to dress in the clothes Roger had set out for him.

“To Praha? The train leaves at six in the morning.” He thought for a moment, then added, “I don’t know if I completely succeeded in eluding them. I think I did, but if they ask any questions at the rail station, they will discover where we are bound.”

“That would be a risk in any case,” Ragoczy said unconcernedly as he set the studs in his shirt.

“I have made no reservations in Praha…” he went on, hoping Ragoczy would tell him what he wished.

“Good, for we are not going there.” He smiled at Roger’s hastily-concealed confusion. “We are continuing on to Berlin.”

“Berlin?” Roger looked at Ragoczy in disbelief. “There are two men from Germany who are attempting to find you, and they do not mean you good. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Ragoczy said, his fine brows raising. “I would rather settle the matter.”

“Then why not go back to München?” But even as he asked the question, he realized Ragoczy’s reason, and wished he had not spoken.