Return to Vienna (15 page)

“The Third Reich?” I whispered. “Hitler . . . !”

Glaring at me, Leopold proclaimed like a man possessed, “
Der
Fiihrer!
A new
Fuhrer
for a reunited Germany!”

I shut my eyes, pressing the lids tight to try to hold back my tears. I knew now that Max had been unfaithful to me, that his conception of right and wrong was completely distorted, that even in that final letter he had lied to me. These things alone were nearly beyond bearing. But to learn that he had worked for people such as this—mass murderers who had looted the art treasures of countries they had overrun.

I could take just so much and even think up excuses for Max, but now I had reached the very end of the road. I felt drained and empty, not caring about anything anymore. Then, through my desolation, I remembered Richard Wilson.

Who was he? What did he want? Had he known all along what he was sending me into?

I was the Hellwegs’ prisoner now, locked in a small servant’s bedroom on the third floor. But there was no intention, Ilse remarked sarcastically, of putting me to any more inconvenience than was necessary. A maid would be around, the hefty girl who’d attended to me before, and if I needed anything, I was to ring the small handbell they gave me.

In a desperate playing for time I had made them a wild, hopeless promise. I’d agreed that tomorrow I would take them to where the Kutani Scrolls were hidden.

Slumped in a small basketwork chair, staring around despondently, I wondered how I could have been so completely out of my mind. I knew nothing whatever about these scrolls, and hadn’t the least idea where they might be hidden, if indeed they were hidden at all. It was a painful twist of irony that my apparent eagerness to bargain with the Hellwegs had convinced them of Max’s treachery. They now believed that, contrary to what he’d told them, he had been successful in smuggling these valuable manuscripts out of Hungary, from a wartime cache of the Nazis.

According to Leopold, when Max returned from his last trip behind the Iron Curtain he reported that he had failed in his mission and would have to try again. The Hellwegs accepted this, since the plan was difficult and highly dangerous, and Max’s death soon afterward had seemed to end the episode. Then, when I’d arrived on the scene, dropping obvious hints that I wanted to pick up where Max had left off, they concluded that he had lied to them, and that my intention was to extort as big a price as possible before handing the scrolls over.

“And we are willing to pay you, Jessica, for this reason,” Ilse had told me. “When you have accepted our money, you will be just as deeply involved as we are. That will safely curb any desire you may have to talk about the matter.”

The trouble was, every word I had spoken since meeting the Hellwegs only two days ago helped to hammer in the nail of their certainty. They would never believe, now, that I’d not been in Max’s confidence, that I’d not known anything at all about what he was doing.

I felt so alone, so miserably isolated. And now I’d even lost Steve’s friendship. Hadn’t I given my promise, a firm solid promise, to ring him today? When five-thirty came with no phone call, he would write me off as totally unreliable. I couldn’t blame him for deciding I wasn’t worth bothering about anymore.

I had plenty of time to think on that long black Monday. I lay on the bed or paced aimlessly back and forth or stared out of the high attic window which overlooked rising ground at the back of the house. The little room with its sloping ceiling was cold. No sun reached here.

My thoughts were in a hopeless muddle. The more I tried to get them in order, the more confused they became. I tried to believe that Max must have been a double agent, pretending to work for the Hellwegs in order to smash their plans. Could he have appeared to go along with them to learn their secrets? Had he in reality smuggled the looted treasure from Hungary in order to return it to its rightful owners, whoever they might be?

But if that was the case, where was the stuff now?

And what was Richard Wilson’s part in all this? What was his purpose in bringing me to Vienna? Had he known all along that Max was in the Hellwegs’ pay?

One thing I was sure of, and the knowledge was a torture. Max and Ilse—that had been true! He had been Ilse Hellweg’s lover, right up to the end. . . .

What sort of intelligence work was it that demanded a man being unfaithful to his wife? That led him, willingly, into the bed of another woman—a coldly scheming woman who believed she was seducing him for her own ends?

Before he married me—and after! Ilse even claimed that he had gotten married only because they said so, to provide a background of solid respectability.

I didn’t believe that. I couldn’t believe that. Max and I had been in love. Deeply in love.

I remembered my office pals and my new friends here in Vienna remarking enviously how much Max must love me. I remembered his urgent desire for me, which had grown, not lessened, as time went by, reaching in that last holiday fortnight a peak I’d never dreamed possible.

Max had married me because he loved me, and Ilse had been lying. She’d been lying about that, at any rate.

But not about the other thing she’d flung at me. Ilse’s words alone would never have convinced me that Max had been her lover, but seeing the compassion in Leopold’s eyes, I knew it was true. This man, a fanatical Nazi, who allowed his wife to sleep with other men to further their cause, had been moved to pity me.

Right up to the end!

They sent me lunch on a tray, the stout Jakob waiting on me as courteously as ever. He brought me an English magazine, a three-year-old copy of
Vogue
that he had unearthed from somewhere. And he inquired if I would care to have the electric heater on.

Leopold Hellweg had tried to prevent his wife causing me unnecessary pain. And now his servant, one of his henchmen, was trying to be kind. There was some good in everyone, it seemed.

In the long, hushed afternoon I came to a decision. It would be senseless to wait until tomorrow. Better tackle the Hellwegs today and try to make them understand that I couldn’t possibly lead them to these Kutani Scrolls. I’d tell them that Max had been a British agent, that somehow I’d discovered this after his death, and had come back.  What reason could I give them, though? How could I explain my return to Vienna?

Perhaps I would even have to tell them about Richard Wilson. Not naming names, not identifying him in any way. Just saying that I’d been approached by one of Max’s colleagues in British intelligence to come here and . . .

In the end I managed to persuade myself that I’d have to tell them the simple truth, no less. After all, Richard Wilson had let me walk straight into this mess, and I didn’t see how he was going to get me out of it. Even if he wanted to. Perhaps he thought I was expendable. Perhaps, to his way of thinking, all people were expendable.

When my dinner tray came up at eight, I said with dignity that I’d like to see Herr and Frau Hellweg as soon as possible.

Jakob looked apologetic. “Alas,
gnadige Frau,
they are not here.”

“Not at home, you mean?”

He nodded. “They were called away urgently. I do not know how long they will be.”

“Very well,” I said unhappily. “Will you please tell them I want to talk to them when they return?”

“Jawohl.”
Gravely he glanced around the room, asking if I was warm enough. Would I like an extra blanket on the bed for the night? I told him there was nothing I wanted.

I toyed with the dinner. Good food—a steak and french-fried potatoes, some rich chocolate-and-almond gateau, a carafe of wine. I drank the coffee that came later.

Then I sat and waited.

The house was silent—deathly silent as this house could be. Once I heard the padding footsteps of the maid. She paused outside my room to listen, and then went back along the corridor.

I leafed through the copy of Vogue, seeing a parade of aloofly smiling models in clothes of an age ago, way back to a time when I hadn’t even known that Max Varley existed. Restlessly, I tossed the magazine down on the bed and went over to the window. Outside it was very dark—no moon, and the stars clouded over. Shivering, I drew the curtains across.

I sat down again in the small curved chair and cradled my arms. I had finished with thinking, it only brought pain. I stared blindly, trying to make my mind as blank as the cream-painted wall opposite.

And then suddenly the lights went out. The two radiant bars of the electric heater died a swift death, through bright cherry red to duller crimson. Finally there was nothing. The room was blacker than the night outside.

Foolishly I hurried to the door and tried the handle. It was still locked, of course. From far off downstairs I heard voices calling. The maid came along, cautiously groping her way. I called out to her, and she muttered something about the power having failed. So the whole house was affected!

Well, there was nothing I could do about it, and no cause for me to be concerned. As I stumbled back across the room, I banged into a beam of the low-sloping ceiling. I flopped down on the bed and rubbed my head ruefully. I wished the wretched lights would come on again.

But the minutes dragged, and nothing happened. I heard the maid come by once more, and seeing a flicker under the door, I guessed she had found herself a candle. But she didn’t offer it to me. I called out again, and she merely said not to worry.

It seemed cold here in the dark, and I started to pull the bedcover around my shoulders. Then I sat up, listening alertly. There was a faint finger tapping on the door.

With the remnants of my held-in breath I whispered:
“Wer ist das?”

There was a pause; then I heard the handle turning stealthily, and the key coaxing the bolt to slide back. I felt a draft of cooler air as the door was opened.

“Wer ist das?”
I whispered again.

“Ssh! It’s me—Steve. Are you all right?”

“Steve!”

With a leap of joy I bounded across the room in the darkness and flung myself at him. He held me for just a brief moment.

“Come on,” he said, groping for my hand. “We’d better get out of here, pronto.”

“My handbag,” I gasped, and ran back to the bed, feeling around feverishly. “There’s all my money and my passport in it.”

Steve retorted with three crisp words, and one of them was vulgar. My fingers closed around the leather strap of my bag as he grabbed me again. The next second we were tiptoeing along the dark corridor, with me trusting blindly to Steve. He said nothing, just his fingers pressing mine. There was a mumble of voices coming from the floor below us. Candlelight flickered briefly, giving us a snatched glimpse of the narrow attic stairwell.

“Thanks, matey,” murmured Steve, soft as a breath.

We went down cautiously, stair by stair, Steve leading the way. A slight tightening of his grip gave me warning of the turn, and we started down the second short flight. At the foot of the staircase he paused momentarily, and we were moving again, thick carpet helping us to keep quiet now. A patch of gray in the blackness showed where a window was.

Another pause for listening. Another squeeze, this time for reassurance. Then we slipped through an opening that was a doorway. Steve’s hand let go of mine, and I heard him close the door behind us. I heard his breathing, steady and deep, close beside me.

“It’s a lucky thing,” he muttered as he found my hand again, “that I happen to like carrots.”

“Carrots . . . ?”

“To see in the dark.”

We went over to the window and out to a balcony very like the one in the bedroom I’d had. Perhaps it was even the same room.

“Have you ever shinnied down a drainpipe hand over hand?”

I shuddered. “No.”

“Well, you’re going to now. But after me, if you don’t mind,”

“Steve, I’ll never be able to…”

He was over the balcony’s edge already. “I’m not going to argue about it, love. I’ll drag you by the hair if necessary.”

Actually, it was a lot easier than I’d imagined, with Steve right there below me, almost cradling my body with his own. I felt I could have let go and come to no harm. There were plenty of footholds in the stonework, and the iron pipe was stout and solidly fixed to the wall.

All the same, it was good to touch ground at last. Steve didn’t stop to allow me a breather, but got going again at once in a sort of cautious half-run. We covered the length of the terrace and rounded the corner of the house fairly easily. Here outside it was possible to see a little, just the vague shape of things—the marble urns, the stone balustrade, the whiter line of a pathway running down through the terraced garden toward the woods.

But we hadn’t yet reached the path, and another vague shape was coming at us from the house, moving fast. A man.

“Hi,” he shouted.
“Kommen Sie hier!”

“Not on your bloody life, chum,” Steve called back. “If you want us, you can come and get us.”

He came straight on, blundering heavily, and I recognized the outline of Jakob’s plump figure.

The scuffle was short and sharp. Steve had a good three inches on him, and a lot less fat. There was a sudden wild yelp, followed at once by a great splash.

“A cold plunge should nip his enthusiasm in the bud,” Steve laughed as we started running again like mad.

A hysterical giggle rose in my throat. “But the swimming pool’s heated!” And I was glad, really. Poor Jakob had done his best to make me comfortable.

Steve had his Mercedes parked close to the spot where the path ran out to a lane. It was well hidden, backed right into some tall bushes. We scrambled in, and he drove straight off, headlights blazing, as if all hell were on our tail.

As we went hurtling back toward Vienna, I said very simply: “Thanks a lot, Steve. . . .”

He shook his head, and I remembered that Steve would never accept gratitude from me.

“How did you guess?” I asked him.

“That you were in trouble?” He flicked me a glance. “Don’t forget that I know you pretty well, Jessica. When I met you at the airport the other day, I saw straight away that something was wrong. It was obvious.”