Thomas Ochiltree (25 page)

Putzi’s armor, von Falkenburg realized, was even harder to pierce than he had feared it would be.

“I’m surprised you didn’t pick a more passive opponent, Putzi,” he said.

“Oh, I left the preliminary choice to a third party.”

“Von Lauderstein is hardly the most imaginative of men for such an assignment,” von Falkenburg said, going on the offensive. It was an offensive that failed utterly, for Putzi did not flinch in the slightest at the revelation that von Falkenburg knew the name of his accomplice.

Instead he simply said, “you could not be more correct, von Falkenburg. Would you believe the first choice of his – which I vetoed, of course – a Jew!”

“An Austrian Dreyfus affair with plenty of publicity and chances for the truth to come out?”

“Exactly. I’m sorry that I didn’t choose you as my henchman, von Falkenburg, for you are very perceptive.”

The casual tone with which Putzi used the term “henchman” indicated to von Falkenburg that he had no objections to admitting the criminal nature of his activities.

“I’m afraid I would have declined the offer, Putzi.”

“I know you would. We have very different perspectives on certain fundamental matters, von Falkenburg.”

If Putzi felt any curiosity as to the purpose of his visit, von Falkenburg realized, he was allowing none of it to show.

“It is that difference which in part prompted me to pay this visit,” von Falkenburg said. “I don’t recall ever meeting someone with such a perfect indifference to the fate of his country….”

“Or to someone else’s life?” Putzi cut in with a smile.

“That too.”

“Do I live up to your expectations, von Falkenburg?”

“Yes.”

“I’m genuinely glad to hear it, because you certainly live up to mine. Perfect example of the old-school aristocrat: loyal to the Emperor to the end. Willing to die for honor. The best kind of old-Austrian nobility. Brandy?”

“The Princes von Lipprecht are hardly a young family,” von Falkenburg countered.

“True,” Putzi said, handing von Falkenburg the brandy snifter he had just filled. “But I have risen above all that.”

“Indeed?” von Falkenburg said, sniffing at the exquisite aroma of the cognac. Regardless of whether it would do him any good, von Falkenburg was very eager to hear what Putzi would say next.

“I’m a man of the twentieth century, von Falkenburg. And it will be a very different century from the last one, I can assure you. I suppose if I wanted to justify my actions I could say that this new century is one with little place in it for Austria-Hungary, and that patriotism such as yours makes little sense. But that would be missing the point.”

“Which is?”

“The twentieth century will be an age of unbridled selfishness. An age of utter ruthlessness. An age in which the cynical and strong will survive….”

“And the weak will go to the wall?”

“That has always been the case, von Falkenburg. But in this century, the strong and honorable will
also
go to the wall. The weak have no relevance to our discussion, because in a different way we are both strong men. But I am strong without honor – strong having renounced honor – while you are strong with honor. Indeed, your strength and your honor are inseparable. If you ever sacrificed your honor, you would lose all your strength, and be nothing.”

It was, von Falkenburg realized, an extraordinarily perceptive observation.

“And that, von Falkenburg, is why I shall live, and you shall very shortly die. You notice that I have no doubt that you will ‘take the honorable way out,’ since it is the
only
course of action a man constructed the way you are can take.”

“Your determinism is interesting, Putzi, but you forget another possible way out for me: winning.”

“Indeed?”

“Don’t forget, I’ve already broken one hold you had on me: I’ve freed Princess von Rauffenstein.”

There it was! That flicker in the eyes, that momentary loss of self-mastery which lasted only an instant, but which told von Falkenburg what he needed to know: von Lauderstein had not dared to inform his master of his failure.

“That’s hardly a sufficient condition for victory, von Falkenburg.”

Putzi’s voice was
almost
completely unruffled as he said that.

“And, Putzi, I have learned what you and the young Archduke Karl-Maria are up to.”

Either Putzi was on his guard, or his own theories about the conspiracy were hopelessly off the mark. For not even the slightest trace of emotion showed on Putzi’s face at the mention of the Archduke Karl-Maria’s name.

“You’re a diligent man, von Falkenburg, to have learned so much in so short a time. But knowing something and being able to prove it are, of course, two different things. Besides, how do I know that you have really found out anything?”

He said that in a tone which could hardly have been more indifferent if he had been talking about the weather. But, von Falkenburg noted, he had not been able to resist the temptation to seek more information from him.

“Suppose I tell you?”

“Why don’t you? I curious to know how well my quarry performed.”

“Useful information for next time, Putzi?”

“Not really. Next time I’m unlikely to have the privilege of having someone like you for an opponent. Besides, there may not be a next time.”

“True. If it hadn’t been for von Lauderstein, there would not even have had to be a this time.” That was guesswork on his part, but the lack of an amused sneer on Putzi’s face suggested he had guessed right.

“Don’t forget, von Falkenburg, you’ve provided me with good sport.”

“Yes, Putzi. But that’s purely secondary. Sport is something a man like you would hardly allow to get in the way of a more serious venture.”

“True enough, von Falkenburg. Do you feel like telling me what this venture is? I’m perfectly sincere in saying that I’m curious as to how well you’ve done. And since you’ll be dead the morning of day after tomorrow, I’d better ask you now.”

“Tell me, Putzi, would you have wanted a formal title in Budapest, or would you have been content with being the power behind the throne?’

There. He had shot his bolt. If he had guessed right, he still had a chance. If not, then it was all over.

“Where do you get these wild ideas, von Falkenburg?”

Von Falkenburg realized he had conjectured correctly. For all of Putzi’s pose of indifference, something about the tone of his voice suggested he wanted an answer to his question.

“It’s a great mistake for a man like yourself to surround himself with incompetents, Putzi.”

“You mean von Lauderstein, I suppose?” Putzi said. The note of negligent disinterest was not completely convincing.

“I don’t feel comfortable revealing my sources,” von Falkenburg said. “So why not talk instead about the possibility of a deal.”

“When you lay your proofs before me – proofs which would stand up in court against certain documents with which we are both familiar – I suppose it might be worth listening to you, von Falkenburg. But I cannot for the life of me imagine where you might get such proofs.”

“You’re a strong man, Putzi, but you lack subtlety if you judge the strength of others by your own. You would be surprised at the things a weak person – I think we both know whom I am talking about – can find it in himself to do.”

“Von Falkenburg, I have never underestimated anything in my life. But I’m afraid I’m not interested in making any deals with you. You have far too many principles for it to be safe to associate with you.”

“As you wish, Putzi. Thank you, by the way, for the brandy and the cigar. They were both excellent, but of course I expected nothing less. Good day.”

“Good day, von Falkenburg. Incidentally, would you like me to come to your funeral?”

“Why not?” von Falkenburg said. He gave a slight bow and left the room.

As he stepped into the street, von Falkenburg gave a sigh of relief. Matching Putzi blow for blow was hard work.

But he was sure that some of his strokes had told. Or to put it another way, he was sure he had managed to sow richly the seeds of mistrust.

Whether that would be sufficient for his purposes remained to be seen. For now, he knew, his slender hopes rested quite literally on something as unpredictable as the turn of a card.

Von Falkenburg belonged to the Jockey Club largely because his father and grandfather had. Personally, he had always found the all-male air of the place rather dreary, but he realized now how lucky he was to have kept up his membership. For von Lauderstein was also a member, and according to von Falkenburg’s friend Wroclinski, this was where he came to play cards.

How had Wroclinski described von Lauderstein? “One of those fellows who combines a total lack of card sense with a real mania for gambling.” Von Falkenburg hoped that Wroclinski was right, because a great deal was going to depend either on his own skill with cards, or von Lauderstein’s lack of the same.

A footman took his cape as he strode through the massive portals of the club and into the atmosphere of wealth and refinement to be found within.

Would von Lauderstein even be present?

Von Falkenburg walked through the elegant salons full of high-ranking officers and opulent civilians, who sat reading newspapers or stood in small groups smoking cigars and drinking brandy.

Even if von Lauderstein followed his custom and showed up to play cards, von Falkenburg realized, success was far from assured. He knew he would have had little to worry about if von Lauderstein had been a skat player, for in skat the player with no card sense simply has no chance of winning.

But according to Wroclinzi, von Lauderstein’s ruling passion in cards was baccarat
à deux panneaux.

That, von Falkenburg knew, was by no means the straight game of chance that some people – usually the losers – maintained it to be. Particularly here at the Jockey Club, where house rules gave complete latitude in deciding whether to draw or stand, the player with good card sense had a distinct advantage.

Von Falkenburg had a natural flair for card games. He was not a mathematical player – he had never been able to get through the copy of Badoureau’s
Étude mathématique sur le jeu de baccarat
that a friend had once lent him – but he had an instinct that often served him well. He also had a good memory for which cards were played, which as the shoe depleted itself could give a decisive advantage over those players too excited to bother to keep track.

Still, he had lost money to incompetent players on more occasions than he cared to remember, and tonight it was far more than money which was at stake.

Von Falkenburg passed through a leather-covered door into the game room. It was relatively empty, for some reason. He scanned the tables and saw Wroclinski sitting at one of them in a corner.

And sitting opposite him was an army officer wearing the bottle-green tunic of the Staff. An officer with a fleshy, red face and a body that looked like it was crammed into a corset.

Von Lauderstein.

Von Falkenburg walked up to the table. The third player was a civilian whom von Falkenburg did not know, who was wearing an impeccable evening suit that showed a perfectly dazzling expanse of shirtfront.

Von Falkenburg glanced at the bank. There were many fifty-crown gold pieces lying in it. This was clearly a high-stakes game, which was what he wanted. Money was no problem tonight, for Helena had given him a large sum to play for her.

Wroclinski had the bank. Von Lauderstein and the civilian were the
Pointeurs
betting against him – another of those absurd Austrian would-be-French words, von Falkenburg reflected, like
chambre séparée
(as opposed to
cabinet particulier
) for a private dining room. In France the people who played against the bank were called
pontes.

There were no subsidiary betters standing behind von Lauderstein and the civilian. Von Falkenburg walked up just as Wroclinski was about to say,
“Rien ne va plus.”

Von Falkenburg negligently placed a fifty-crown piece
à cheval
– that’s to say, betting that both
Pointeurs
would win against the bank . Wroclinski uttered the time-honored French phrase to indicate that no more bets could be placed, and dealt the hand – two cards face down for each of the
Pointeurs
and for himself.

“Carte,”
von Lauderstein said, and Wroclinski dealt him another card, this time face up.

“Content,”
said the civilian, thus indicating that he felt his hand was already close enough to the winning number nine or nineteen that he did not wish to take a card for fear of an overrun.

Wroclinski dealt himself another card.

The three hands were turned face up.

Wroclinski had cards with a total value of fifteen while those of the civilian totaled seven, and of von Lauderstein, eighteen.

“Small natural,” von Lauderstein said triumphantly as the coins were shoveled in his direction. He had come closer to nineteen than Wroclinski had, or than the civilian had to the equivalent nine.

Von Falkenburg knew that it was important at this stage of the game for psychological reasons for von Lauderstein to win. But he certainly hoped that von Lauderstein’s luck would not hold.

“Hullo there, von Falkenburg,” Wroclinski said to his friend. Even though he had just lost a fair amount of money, Wroclinski’s face wore the same expression of languid indifference it always did. “Colonel von Lauderstein, Baron von Plugge,” he went on, “I would like to have the honor of introducing my friend Captain Baron von Falkenburg of the Deutschmeister Regiment.”

Baron von Plugge, the civilian, gave a gracious inclination of his head and said, “honored, to be sure.”

Von Lauderstein visibly struggled to maintain his composure on finding himself in the presence of a man he had sought to destroy and who at this very moment, for all he knew, was holding his mistress hostage.

“Delighted,” he finally managed to mumble, his face redder than ever. On planning this evening’s offensive, von Falkenburg had instantly rejected the idea of appearing before von Lauderstein under a false name. Not merely would his honor not permit such a maneuver – and it certainly would not – but his identity could be a priceless psychological weapon in his game with von Lauderstein.