Delicate Ape (5 page)

Gordon said, “That’s right, you were in Intelligence, weren’t you?”

“Part of the time.” He turned. “Thanks for lunch. Tomorrow night then.”

“Sevenish. I’ll pick you up.”

“I’ll probably be out. I don’t like hotel rooms. Where can I meet you?”

“I’m at the Waldorf,” Gordon said with hidden pride. He hesitated. “I didn’t see any report of your dead man in the papers. Did you learn any details?”

“Only his name,” Piers said. “Johann Schmidt.” His eyes remained candid on Gordon’s as he spoke. There was no flicker of surprise or understanding visible. But brown eyes were opaque. They could hide what lighter pigments gave away.

He knew he was followed now. He stopped for a shoeshine. He bought a dress tie for which he had no use. He leaned against a Schrafft’s counter for limeade. He dallied at shop windows. Each time when he stopped, each time he set out, the same shadow dogged his steps. He was beginning to fill out the outline, a burly man, tall, in a dark shapeless suit, a shapeless fedora pulled not too far over his eyes. A chain, glinting in the sun, across a protruding vest. Some kind of charm dangling from it. Feet that walked heavily, the way the old sergeant’s had walked, as if they’d been used too long. This follower was not sly as last night’s had been. Nor inept. This man no matter how the game was played would follow, without imagination, under orders.

He must be eliminated before Piers turned back towards the Astor. Piers had nothing to do with his time. All that was necessary had been accomplished before he left Africa. His game now was a waiting one only. He could lead this heavy man as far as he desired. He followed Fifth Avenue as it led, the crowds growing more thin and more rich as he entered the upper Fifties. He turned left at 59th and headed for the Plaza. He passed the weathered stone fountain, entered the dignified portals.

Within the cool somberness of the lobby, he moved slowly, waiting to see if the man behind him would enter. He didn’t wait long. The bulk bought a newspaper and sat down in one of the old velvet chairs. The newspaper hid the sagging jowls, not the eyes. Under the hat brim these watched without seeming to watch.

Piers walked to the desk. He said, “I am Piers Hunt.” The clerk hadn’t been here long enough to be worn to the rich patina of the hotel. He hadn’t been here long enough to remember the young boy who had lived with his grandmother in that sky suite overlooking the park. Cornelia Piers who had died after Munich, before Dunquerque. This empty man didn’t know that the dark wood, the jeweled velvets were the nostalgia of home to Piers Hunt. He couldn’t know how the scent of velvet and polished wood had remained with Piers through blood and flame and thunder, and after, through the years of labor for peace.

Piers said it, “I am Piers Hunt,” and he smiled a little when the clerk’s impassive face expressed only impassivity. He said, “I should like a room here.” He made the arrangements, paying a week in advance. “My luggage will be around later. Will you arrange to have it unpacked, if you please?” He took the key, refusing to go up to the room. It would hold little resemblance to the exquisite tower where Cornelia Piers had lived and died. He signed the registration card, giving Berne as his address, his back a screen to the man in the chair near the entrance.

He would send a couple of bags around sometime today, order them and their contents from Abercrombie. He had no intention of using this room; it was no more than a number which Gordon could call. He would ring Gordon in the morning to report he had now registered under his own name. He smiled again realizing how much more acceptable a Piers Hunt at the Plaza would be to Gordon than one at the Astor. Without import as it seemed, Gordon’s snobbery had been of undeniable value to the man and to the cementing of his position in Washington. He wouldn’t call it snobbery; it would be the right thing, white, as against the wrong, black. One who acted from innate instincts alone could not conceive the importance these niceties assumed to men whose consciousness of the right thing was born out of study and decision, who had to fight to grasp the consciousness. Only those things for which a man could or would fight had any real importance. One must fight, or stand ready to fight, even for peace.

Piers walked to the doors, passing the newspaper and the chair. He paused long enough to observe the faint reflection of the man in the glass. He was folding the paper, watching Piers where he stood. Piers left the hotel. It was almost four o’clock, time to throw off the tracker if he was to see about Plaza luggage before returning to the Astor.

But once outside in the warm spring he was reluctant to return to shop windows. The park lay at hand; greenness of earth offered a respite from violence and unknown fear. He followed the winding path, moving into spring and forgetfulness. There was scent of budding tree, of grass roots pushing from the deeps of soil to sun and color. Children played on the slopes, their voices calling out in the very joy of sound and movement. There were lovers, two by two, silent in their joy and as heedless of their insecurity as were the children. The young, the old, those passing from young to old, none knew how false was their blithe acceptance of these peaceful hours. None knew that even now, in this very city, there were men plotting to threaten their peace, to plunge the world again into destruction and death. If they were told—if he stopped before that young mother to say, “There are in this city men who wish to tear your little son with molten iron. At this moment men are plotting to pump this spring air full of searing gas”—she would think him insane. She would commend him to the towering blue policeman up the path. Memory was that fleeting.

He sat down on the bench, took off his hat in order that the small wind might cool his burning head. Anger, the anger that flooded him whenever he thought of any man daring to threaten the continuation of peace, was no weapon. The weapons he should use were the weapons Gordon would employ, careful consideration of incidents, the right relationship with the right men, cerebral action, not that of spirit. Gordon could help him. Piers didn’t know why he was afraid to approach his associate when he needed help as badly as he did. He didn’t know for certain that Gordon was pledged to the viewpoint of Lord Evanhurst, that Gordon had been influenced without knowing it by the wily Schern or convinced by Brecklein’s weight. All he had for basis of his belief was that brief discussion with Anstruther the night before the old man was to return to Washington. Anstruther had said of his own convictions, “I don’t know. I don’t know what is the right thing.” Anstruther’s own belief in peace was too profound to believe that any nation would threaten it. And Anstruther had said, “I believe Gordon thinks we should withdraw.”

Even if that was Gordon’s opinion, Piers should have confidence in his own power to change it. Why then did he hesitate to speak? He didn’t like Gordon, had never liked him, but Gordon wouldn’t hesitate to use someone with whom he was not in sympathy to gain desired ends. That was why Gordon had importance.

He was afraid of Gordon’s help. Because Gordon in his youth was wise in the ancient ways of ape diplomacy. He must play it lone, knowing there was a small nucleus who would stand with him if he were allowed to speak.

He saw the burly man then, seated on the bench below him taking his ease. He didn’t like that man; he didn’t like the damp shapelessness of the oversized suit; he didn’t like the slack face and the peering eyes. He didn’t like being followed. It was time to do something about it.

The policeman was still there on the path, a young, strong guardian of the inherent rights of innocent man. Piers walked to him. The policeman turned a helpful face. Piers said, “That man—on the bench there—is following me. He’s followed me all afternoon. I don’t like being followed.”

The policeman’s face waded with doubt, alert doubt. Another crackpot, it said.

Piers insisted. “You don’t believe me. I’m going to leave the park now. I’ll walk past him. You watch. He’ll follow.”

“Why’s he following you?” A doubt had entered the officer’s doubt.

“I don’t know. You might ask him. And tell him please that I don’t like being followed. If he doesn’t stop, I’m going to do something about it.”

He moved leisurely, past the bench where the heavy man sat waiting. He was only a few paces past when he heard the altercation, heard the abused rumble, “Do I got to get a cop’s permission to leave Central Park when I wanta?”

Piers didn’t look back. He moved rapidly and he caught a cab just before reaching the mouth of the entrance. He rode to Abercrombie’s. No cab followed. He selected a large suitcase and a small one, good expensive leather; gave a list of shirts, socks, underwear, sleeping array, enough to fill the bags. He included toilet articles, everything necessary. He would present the luggage to Gordon when this was all over. He paid, gave his name and address, The Plaza, asked that they be sent around tomorrow. For reason of the outfitting, lest the clerk be suspicious and check with the hotel, he mentioned luggage overdue from the continent.

His spirits were light when he went back out on Madison. His trailer was lost; he was respectably housed for Gordon’s curiosity without losing his necessary anonymity. He took a cab to the Astor. The lobby was humming with conversation piece and the music of the cocktail hour. An iced drink before going to his room for a shower and change. There was no reason to hurry. He could dine when he pleased, go around later to a theater.

The bar was crowded. He took his place at the far end and ordered a daiquiri. He saw the lavender-haired girl as he waited. She was moving between the tables, hatless, in some sort of lavender afternoon dress. Her eyes were on Piers.

He sipped from the small cold glass and watched her. He was slightly disturbed when he realized she was moving to him. He stood waiting, still watching her until she was directly in front of him. He saw then, his eyes accustomed to the distortion of light, that her hair was flaxen and her dress white. He saw that she was very young.

Her voice was quiet. “Where is my father?”

Something changed in his eyes. It happened too quickly for him to be on guard. He said, “I believe you’ve mistaken me for someone.”

She said, “I am Bianca Anstruther,” and he didn’t speak. He didn’t move his eyes from her small graven face. She repeated, “Where is my father?”

He answered then. “I don’t know.”

He noticed her hands, the fingers clenched to paleness.

She said, “You were the last person to see my father. Witt told me last night. You say you put him aboard the plane.”

Witt must be Gordon. DeWitt Gordon.

Piers said, “I put him on the plane, yes. I don’t know where he is.” In heaven or hell or the place where lost souls linger.

“Where is he?”

He asked gravely, “Will you join me in a drink, Miss Anstruther? There’s a table. I’d like to talk with you.”

She said, “I’m with friends. There’s no need to talk. Simply answer my question—”

“I believe there is. If you can spare me a few moments.”

She glanced over her shoulder and his eyes followed. He saw the table. A round white hat, lavender now, marked her place. There was a young man, perhaps one of those who had been with her last night. And there was Hugo von Eynar.

For the moment he was stone, not breathing, not stirring. He hadn’t expected von Eynar. And yet he should have known. Now it was complete, the trinity. Brecklein to weigh with the financiers, Schern to scheme with the politicians; von Eynar, the slender golden aristocrat, to charm the recalcitrant. For a moment—only for that—he regretted the imposing of this appointment on himself. He regretted it while his eyes searched for the one who must be there with Hugo but who was not. Yet he knew even in that moment that if his eyes should find her, it could make no difference. It must not.

He moved again. “Do your friends know what you came to ask me?”

She shook her head slightly. “I said I wished to speak to an old friend.”

He took her arm then and moved her to a table. He stopped a waiter, asked, “Miss Anstruther?”

She shook her head.

“Two daiquiris.” He demanded of her, “Do you realize how carefully Gordon is guarding the secret of your father’s absence?”

She was scornful. “Certainly.”

“And why no one must know?”

Scorn continued to twist her mouth. “I understand how important my father’s work is. I’ve grown up under its importance. Do you think I would do anything to jeopardize it?” Her eyes burned into his. “But I want to know where he is.”

He answered slowly. “I would like to tell you. Believe me, I would like to tell you.”

“He left in a private plane?”

“Yes.”

“Who was with him?”

“He was alone. That wasn’t unusual, Miss Anstruther. You should know that. He flew all over the five continents alone.”

“He was to transfer in Lisbon to the Clipper?”

“Yes.”

“He never reached Lisbon.”

Piers said evenly, “No, he never reached Lisbon.”

The waiter set the frosted glasses. Piers said, “I’m not your enemy. You needn’t be afraid to drink with me.”

She lifted the glass by its thin stem. “I’m not afraid,” she said. “Not of you.” She drank and she asked, “What did you do after he left Alexandria?”

“I flew to Berne. My orders.”

“When? That same day?”

He spoke with care. “I had two days’ work before I could get away.”

There was pleading in her throat. “And you heard nothing? No report of a missing plane?”

“There was no report.” He spoke with finality.

She sipped again. “Who was his pilot?”

“As I told Gordon last night, I had never seen the pilot before.”

She seized avidly on this. “But that wasn’t usual. He never flew with a pilot unknown to him.”

“I know. But I didn’t know at the time that the pilot was unknown to Secretary Anstruther. I don’t know that yet. However, after the Secretary had taken off, when I realized I did not know the pilot, I made inquiries as to who he was.”

“Then you sensed something was wrong?”

“Perhaps,” he admitted.

“Who was he—the pilot?”