Pray for a Brave Heart (30 page)

“You’re still worried,” Keppler said reprovingly.

“Not worried. Puzzled. About Broach and the Herz diamonds.”

“We’ll give him a chance to explain where he stands. Fair enough? And I think Waysmith may be the right contact to use there. A man like Broach is always impressed by an interview— self-justification, all that.”

“But how did this business of ‘liberated’ diamonds ever get mixed up with hard politics? A secret conspiracy like this one must have plenty of funds.”

“For clandestine operations, yes,” Keppler agreed sadly. “They always have plenty of money.”

“Then why all this trouble they’ve taken over three million
dollars? That’s nothing, in their terms.”

“In their terms, three millions mean Broach. With the Herz diamonds, they’ve got him. Right there.” Keppler cupped the palm of his large strong hand. “Right there,” he repeated softly. “He’s their prize exhibit—the American millionaire who denounces the myth of America. And now he’s their puppet for the rest of his life, to nod, to shake his head, to open and shut his mouth, as the strings are pulled. One sign of revolt, and he will be threatened with exposure—a receiver of stolen diamonds, a financier of kidnapping. They’ve got him completely.”

Denning said slowly, “Yes, they’ve got him all right. Every way.”

“You sound less happy about it than I had expected.”

Denning said nothing.

Keppler looked at his watch. “Almost six o’clock. Why don’t you slip over to the inn and get invited to the party? I’ll follow you. Remember, you know only the Waysmiths—no one else. Just let things play along. Waysmith may want your help, by the way. He’s been told to interview Broach. He made a good try, this afternoon, but Francesca spoiled it.” Keppler frowned slightly. “How much do you know about women?” he asked suddenly.

“The more I know them, the less I understand.”

Keppler nodded. “They’re as unpredictable as a horse. Ever tried riding? Don’t. Unless you can keep your ears, eyes, and all your senses constantly on the alert. The minute you take a horse for granted, you can end up in a ditch with your back broken.”

“Francesca? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Keppler said, almost angrily. “The girl’s
completely honest. What’s more, she knows all the political facts of life.”

“And yet—?”

“Just keep an eye on her tonight, will you? Talk to her. She may need a lot of—”

“Oh, hell, no!” Denning cut in with disgust. “I wondered why you were sticking me into Gauch’s house when you’ve got all these policemen around. But as nursemaid? No, thanks.”

“You didn’t do so badly with Emily.”

“Emily? I happen to like Emily.”

“So.” Keppler looked amused.

Denning said abruptly, “I’m going to wash and change,” and he moved towards his suitcase.

“Wash, but don’t waste time changing. You’re pretty enough.”

Denning laughed, then. And as Keppler moved quietly towards the door, he asked, “By the way, what name are you using?”

Keppler’s heavy eyebrows rose politely.

“Aren’t you using an assumed name in Falken?” Denning asked in amazement.

“But of course.” Keppler’s blue eyes were politely blank. He paused at the door, listening.

“Then what is it?”

There was a fleeting smile, a gleam of amusement on the solemn face. “Keppler,” he said. He half-opened the door, waited for a moment, and then he slipped out into the empty corridor.

It was fantastic that Francesca should come into the inn looking so radiant. She had changed her blouse and skirt for a pretty dress of cool sprigged cotton, she had brushed and dressed her lovely hair, she had even discarded her sensible moccasins for red shoes with saucy heels.

“Don’t tell me you walked from your house on these things,” Waysmith said, looking at the shoes with amusement and some speculation. “Where’s the party?”

“Here.” Francesca pulled Gregor forward to join the Waysmiths at the window table. Frau Welti was with them, in presence if not in mind: her anxious eyes would flicker over the other guests, note that a glass needed refilling, and give a silent signal to Minna, happily and tearfully returned from her new nephew’s christening. But Emil and Willy were still on the Blümlisalp: that was Emil’s call which had set Heinz Gauch and his rescue team up to that steep slope. And because Frau Welti was worried about Willy and Emil, worried about what they had discovered in the alpine hut on the high meadow to set them calling for help, she frowned now at Francesca’s dress and her cool, carefree smile. Besides, she owed Fräulein Francesca a frown for that lie she had inspired: imagine Herr Broach, quiet pleasant gentleman that he was, saying that Francesca had never spoken to him before, nor he to her. As if Frau Welti hadn’t seen them talking. Briefly, yes. A word here, a word there. But still talking when they had been here and thought they had the place to themselves. He was in love with Francesca, and only a fool wouldn’t see it, including himself. And Francesca? She was a strange one: you could know her for years and yet not know her at all.

“Gregor gave me a lift in his cart, he and his woodcutting friends,” Francesca was explaining gaily. “So I’m here earlier than I thought. Sorry for rushing away this afternoon, Paula. I had some shopping to take home for Aunt Louisa. She’s in bed with a cold, but she hopes to be better tomorrow. And will you come to tea then?”

“Delighted,” said Paula, but she wished she were as light-hearted as Francesca. And the apology was a politeness accepted between friends because truth was sometimes more embarrassing than necessary. She could guess Andy’s thoughts, too: he enjoyed the casual, but there was a certain point beyond which the charm of casualness ended very abruptly. We’re all pretending like mad, Paula reminded herself, so Francesca’s brittle gaiety is only her way of covering her real emotions. She’s worried, Paula thought, and she’s nervous and excited: that, I would expect; but what has she got to be happy about, at this moment? “And when
is
this party?” Paula asked, noting
that Gregor was carrying Francesca’s coat as though they were expecting to stay here until evening came. “Now, or later?”

“Later. Around eight. It’s for Gregor’s birthday. I decided he simply had to have some celebration.” Francesca gave the silent Gregor a smile to encourage him to sit down and enjoy himself. He did sit down. “But,” Francesca went on, watching him anxiously, “there’s no reason why we shouldn’t start celebrating now. Gregor never thinks a party is real unless it lasts at least seven hours.”

Gregor was watching her as he might have looked at a favourite child, performing before company, whose pretty little ways were going to mean a couple of well-earned slaps once the visitors had gone.

“Well, I hope we’re invited,” said Waysmith, conscious of his heavy humour and annoyed that it had been forced out of him. But someone had to say something. So far, Gregor’s small talk had amounted to a few noncommittal grunts, hardly a type of conversation to contribute much to the general gaiety.

“But of course!” Francesca said. “Everyone’s invited.”

What eyes she has, Waysmith thought: blue sea, blue sky, a sunlit pool, idiot.

“Even these amiable gentlemen who are just leaving?” Paula wanted to know, watching the heavy stride of two men— visitors, certainly—who had become bored with the room after studying its occupants for the last half-hour.

“Why not?” Gregor said angrily. “She asks everyone. Even the man Broach.”

“What?” Paula and her husband exchanged quick glances.

Francesca said, “We met in the post office. He said he was sorry if he annoyed me. What could I say? I was the one who
had been rude.”

“So you invited him, to show you were sorry,” Waysmith said shaking his head.

“No,” Francesca said indignantly, “I invited him because he said everyone avoided him. I told him he never gave people a chance to know him. Why didn’t he come down some evening to the inn when we were all there?”

“And so she invites him,” Gregor said gloomily. “A man I contempt. She invites him. To my party.”

“I’m sorry for him,” said Francesca. “He’s so—so terribly unhappy.”

“Oh, not that!” Paula said involuntarily.

Waysmith, who had been watching the door, suddenly looked relieved. “Hallo, Bill. Good to see you. When did you get here?”

“Earlier in the day,” Denning said, crossing over to the window-table. “I’ve been out for a walk.”

“Just a country-lover at heart?”

“That’s right. Have you had time to see the blue butterflies yet?”

Waysmith stared.

“The size of your thumbnail. Look like a bed of gentians until you walk through them.”

“Introductions,” Paula reminded her husband anxiously, but Bill Denning was bowing gravely to Francesca as if he had never heard of her. He didn’t even show surprise when Andy introduced him as a specialist in birds, bees, and flowers. The only problem on his mind seemed to be a glass of beer. “We’re discussing a party,” Paula told him as he sat down beside her. He lit a cigarette, relaxed. His easy smile seemed to include all
of them. But his eyes were studying Francesca. And why not? Paula thought: Francesca’s face is worth looking at.

But Francesca was still engrossed with her own problem. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t invite Richard Broach,” she said defensively. “Look, Gregor, you believe people should be free to live where they want to live.”

“Honest people,” Gregor amended, quickly coming to life as an argument lifted its Janus head. “A man must earn the right to choose. Yes?”

“But Richard Broach isn’t a criminal. He just doesn’t want to live in America any more. What’s wrong with that?” she looked at Denning suddenly. “And you disapprove.”

“Why should I?”

“You are an American.”

Denning laughed. “To be quite frank, I agree with Gregor: people should have freedom of choice.”

Gregor leaned forward. He nodded slowly. His serious eyes watched Denning intently. But the frown on his broad brow was no longer sullen.

“Freedom of choice,” he repeated. “That is the whole question.” He smiled, and now his face was filled with new interest, almost a delighted expectation, as though he had suddenly recognised a friend.

Is he so lonely? Paula wondered. Do most of us, when he meets us, seem just polite shadows?

Francesca was saying, “You grant Broach freedom of choice, yes. But you disapprove of that choice.”

“Broach can live at the South Pole for all I care.”

“You dislike him,” Francesca insisted.

Denning looked round the table. “Persevering girl, isn’t
she?” His tone was amused, friendly, but his eyes were hard. “I’ve never even met the man,” he told Francesca.

Oh, Francesca, Paula thought in dismay, why do you antagonise Bill and hurt Gregor, all for a weak unimportant man like Broach? She said aloud in disgust, “I give up.”

But Francesca didn’t. “Yet,” she said softly to Denning, “you recognised his name when you heard it, and you reacted just like Gregor. You haven’t given him a chance, either of you.”

He sat still. “My mistake,” he said at last. And he looked at Francesca in a new way, polite, guarded.

“You see, I am an exile too. I always feel sorry for exiles.” She spoke pleadingly.

Gregor said, “Feel sorry? I feel happy for them. Because they are free. They escape. They are free. That is what matters. Not money, clothes—” He broke off, looking down at his worn jacket. He began to laugh with honest amusement.

Denning said quietly, still watching Francesca, “You still feel an exile here, where you have so many friends?”

Her cheeks coloured, and the pink flush spread down her slender white neck. Her eyes widened for a moment, and then she looked away.

“Now we’re all even,” Waysmith said. “What’s the next contest? Hair-pulling or eye-gouging?” He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock. If Keppler didn’t appear in the next five minutes, then the interview with Broach was off. Inspector Bohren could have picked a more business-like errand boy, Waysmith thought: Keppler was pleasant enough, transparently honest, no doubt a solid reliable sort but thick-headed. Recalling Keppler’s brief visit to the Waysmiths’ room only an hour ago, he could only worry now whether the man had forgotten his own message.

“I’m sorry,” Francesca said. She spoke to Denning again, gently. “But you know I don’t really think you understand my point of view. I wasn’t good at putting it into words, I’m afraid.”

“That,” said Paula, “is what women always say when they don’t convince anyone. Not even themselves. Why,” she added with relief, “here’s Mr. Keppler!”

Waysmith rose to his feet. “Care to join us, sir? And here’s a possible mountain climber.” He introduced Denning, but he didn’t sit down again even when Keppler had taken a chair. “By the way, did Broach accept your invitation to the party?” he asked Francesca. Would Keppler catch on, he wondered, or would he have to underline this piece of news?

“Yes,” said Francesca. “I think he was touched by it.” She looked sideways at Denning.

“Perhaps you’ve touched him into giving an interview,” Waysmith said, watching Keppler’s benign smile. He glanced openly at his watch. “I’ve just got time before all the festivities begin. Like to come along, Bill?”

“Sure.”

Keppler said to Paula. “And you’ll keep me company here? It isn’t often that I have such a pleasant hour given to me. Two delightful young ladies.”

Francesca was troubled. “Now?” she asked Waysmith. “Are you sure this is a good time for an interview?”

“Don’t worry,” Denning said, “I shan’t spoil it. I’ll give your friend every chance.” He saw Keppler’s eyes gleam.

“He isn’t my friend,” Francesca said indignantly, “he’s just—”

But Denning was moving away.

“Bill,” Paula called after him, “look at the sign outside over the door, will you? And tell me what amuses Andy so much.”

Frau Welti’s knitting needles slowed down.

“Did you ever see two stags without their antlers locked?” Denning asked, with a grin.

Waysmith waited impatiently for the moment it took Denning to lift a stick from the stand beside the door. In the room behind them, the knitting needles had stopped completely. Paula was laughing, and then Francesca.