Pray for a Brave Heart (4 page)

“Excuse me, sir.” She didn’t retreat, but left the doors tactfully open as she hurried over to the bathroom. “Would you like me to run your bath?”

“Don’t bother,” Denning said. “I think I’ve still got strength enough left for that.”

“Please?”

But just then, he heard an angry voice outside his room. A small procession passed along the corridor. First, a dapper little figure in a silver-grey suit, who was talking peremptorily over his shoulder to two boys laden with luggage, followed by a polite, persevering, but breathless Gustav. “It’s all mine, I tell you, such stupidity, it’s all mine,” the man’s precise voice was saying with increasing annoyance as he hurried his short steps.

Denning moved swiftly into the corridor. “Just a minute,” he told one of the green-aproned boys, “I think you’ve got my bag mixed up with that stuff.”

The procession halted.

Gustav, red-faced and still breathing heavily from all the running he had done, said, “The hall porter told me it must be—”

But the little man broke in with, “What’s this? What’s this?” He gave Denning’s naked chest a withering glance.

“I think,” said Denning, his face expressionless, “I think this is my bag.” He pointed to one of the smaller grips.

“Are you sure?” The man had realised Denning was right, but he wouldn’t admit his mistake too quickly. He looked at the label on Denning’s bag. “Let me see…”

“Yes, let us see,” Denning said shortly and flipped over a label on one of the other small bags.
Charles A. Maartens,
he read. The man looked at him angrily.

Denning could only hope that neither surprise nor confusion had shown on his face. He glanced along the corridor where two stray schoolgirls had halted, wide-eyed, surprised into a giggling match. He stepped quickly back into the shelter of his room. From there, he heard Mr. Charles A. Maartens’ high-pitched voice say, “Idiot! Take this bag away. Why don’t you pay attention?”

Gustav, his face red once more—but this time not from running—brought the offending bag into Denning’s room.

“That’s fine,” Denning said, “and don’t worry, Gustav. It wasn’t your mistake.”

The boy wasn’t much comforted. “He doesn’t know German very well.” Gustav was trying to excuse his hotel’s new guest. “That’s why the gentleman did not understand me at first.”

“I’ve run the bath, sir,” the chamber-maid said with conscious virtue, coming out of the bathroom. “If there’s
anything you need—” She frowned at Gustav and fluttered her hand, which had been pointing to the bell, angrily towards the corridor. They both left, and the woman—now speaking in a quick rush of Bernese German—was asking Gustav if he didn’t know everyone was arriving today, everyone, and there was so much to do, if he had time to waste then he’d better help her count pillowcases and hand-towels.

Denning looked at his bag. That possessive little character in the pearl-grey suit had almost set him doubting. But it was his bag, all right. It wasn’t locked, though. He searched quickly through it. The contents were all in order. Seemingly. Except that Peggy’s photograph had shifted, and now lay under, instead of over, his handkerchiefs. Someone had been checking on him. A friend?

He looked round the room, thinking of Meyer again. It was an efficient, comfortable, and antiseptic box. Quiet, restrained to the point of anonymity. That polished brass bed with its white starched cover had welcomed more schoolteachers, business-men, curious tourists, nervous honeymooners, than jewel thieves and crooks. This hotel was hardly promising territory for Maartens. Or perhaps that was what he wanted at the moment—an unobtrusive place to hang his pearl-grey suit until this evening. But why—if it was complete anonymity he wanted—why use his name so openly? That of course, could be part of his present stage setting: the innocent visitor with a few days to spend in Bern. Denning, too, was concealing nothing about himself, beyond the fact that Max Meyer had enlisted his sympathies and brought him into the game. And yet—and yet—Denning wasn’t
in
this game, the way Charlie-for-Short was involved. Charlie-for-Short… Not a particularly happy
nickname. Charles-the-Bold would have been better. Perhaps, he thought as he half-opened the long narrow windows and looked down into the street over two green window-boxes with red geraniums, perhaps Max is slipping a little. Once, when Max labelled anyone, the name stuck just because its aptness had a glue that didn’t flake off.

There was a good deal of bustle, now, down in the street. Low gears, sudden brakings of cars; footsteps echoing because of the arcades; a trolley with its high-powered purr; a mixture of creaks and screeches and voices and hard heels mingled together and rose to his window in an ebb and flow as constant as the rhythm of a restless sea. Remember that image, he told himself, and perhaps you’ll get some sleep tonight. Then he shivered. Chilly out there, even if it was the end of May. He shut the windows, ending the cold draught, and brought some peace back into the room.

He picked up his shaving kit from his bag and went into the bathroom. The outsize bath on its elaborate dais was nicely full of water turned cold. He cursed all over-helpful women, and let the bath run out. Majestically slow, he noted. He’d have plenty of time to shave. But then he heard his bedroom door being opened, and Gustav’s voice was saying, “Breakfast, Herr Denning.” So it would be a choice of either hot bath or hot coffee. He took the bath cold, shallow, and quick. This is one hell of a way to begin a vacation, he thought savagely. And when there was a knock at his door, he wasn’t surprised to see it open before he even could swallow a mouthful of roll and clear his throat to yell, “Stay out!”

The man who entered probably wouldn’t have stayed out in any case. He went straight to the window, carrying two pots
of geraniums and a gardening trowel, and wearing an air of dedication.

“Look here,” said Denning, “whatever you are about to do, don’t! Just leave me in peace with my second cup of coffee. What’s the idea anyway?” He drew the bath towel closely around him as the man opened the windows wide. I like fresh air, Denning thought, but this isn’t air, it’s a howling tornado.

“The geraniums,” the man said, a solid-looking type who would make sure of enjoying his own breakfast.

“What about them?”

The man examined the window-boxes with an expert eye. He shook his head sadly and muttered to himself in disapproval.

“Couldn’t you do them later in the day?” Then Denning looked at the bed where he had thought he might catch up on some sleep. Later in the day might not be such a good idea, after all.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the man, paying no attention to him as he neatly trowelled the offending plants out of the box and replaced them with the geraniums he had brought. He was a good workman, Denning had to admit, neat and quick; but he had a tuneless way of quietly whistling between his teeth. Denning, drinking his coffee with more determination now than enjoyment, wondered what the man was whistling—just the same eight bars or so, over and over and over again. His musical range was limited. The whistling stopped suddenly, so suddenly that Denning found himself mentally completing the last bars. “Yankee Doodle Dandy”, that was all it had been. Another sample of insidious American imperialism like the boy Gustav’s “Sure” and “Plenty.” Denning almost smiled.

The man closed the windows, and passed near the table
to reach the door. He held out the two discarded plants for inspection, as if to justify himself.

To Denning, they looked as fresh as the geraniums which had been carried in. “Yes,” he said gravely, “they certainly would have ruined the hotel.”

The man nodded, and continued quietly on his way. He opened the door with surprising swiftness. The second door lay wide open, and the maid who liked to run baths ahead of time was just outside. The bedroom door closed firmly.

Denning stared at it, frowning. There had been nothing wrong with the geraniums. He was suddenly sure of that. Warned, he looked down at the table where the man had halted. A neatly folded note lay beside his pack of cigarettes. He laid his hand over them both as the door opened once again.

“Didn’t you learn to knock before entering?” he asked the maid sharply. “What is it now?”

“I did knock, sir,” the maid said most politely. “I was just checking up. Michel makes such a mess.” She bustled to the window.

“Then clear it up later,” Denning said. He jammed the small note inside the half-empty pack of cigarettes.

“Yes, sir.” But she had checked on the window-boxes and the signs of planting. She glanced at the table as she turned back to face the room. Denning was lighting a cigarette. He didn’t look at her. He said angrily, “Shut that door. And keep it shut. Both doors. Can you remember that?”

“Yes, sir.” She was nervous now, and impressed: he was not only angry, but honestly indignant. “Shall I remove the table now, sir, so that Gustav won’t bother you with that?”

Denning nodded and rose, throwing one edge of the bath
towel carelessly over his shoulder. “What did the Romans use for pockets?” he wondered aloud.

“Please?” But she had noted his hands were as empty as the slipping folds of his towel. He lifted cigarettes and lighter as she wheeled the table away, and tossed them carelessly on top of the dressing-table. He was opening his suitcase, shaking out a tweed jacket and flannels with one hand, holding the towel in place with the other, as the door closed. There was no key in the lock, he noticed. He went on unpacking, letting the towel have its own way now, and there was a good deal of opening of drawers, of moving around, of snatches of whistling. Dressed at last, he found the missing key lying inconspicuously beside the lamp on the bed table. It turned in the lock with a most reassuring click.

At least, now, he had some peace. And he could open the windows without inviting pleurisy.

He picked up the half-empty pack of cigarettes, and extracted the small note from its emergency hiding place. For a moment all this excessive caution embarrassed him. And yet, whoever had sent the note hadn’t shown marked trust in either mail clerk or chamber-maid.

He smoothed out the many folds of the thin sheet of paper. The handwriting was excited, but the invitation was clear, and the signature, Elizabeth, was ended with rather a schoolgirl flourish. Johann Keppler had enjoyed his invention.

Bill dearest,

I can hardly wait to see you again.
As
soon as possible. Tonight? I’ve found a new room
—
you’ll like it much better than the one we had last time. It’s on the little
Henziplatz, quiet, very romantic. No. 10, one flight up. I’ve got to have dinner with the family this evening (groan!) but I can slip away about ten-thirty. Darling, darling. Isn’t it lovely that spring is here?

Ever, Elizabeth

First, Denning thought, Keppler isn’t wasting much time in getting us together. Are we to assemble there—Keppler, Le Brun, and myself—right on the Henziplatz, while Max is meeting Charlie-for-Short over at the Café Henzi itself?

Next, Denning thought, Max makes a few detours and then doubles back to join us once the café meeting is over. Audacious but unexpected. I’d vote Keppler as the man most likely to succeed, this or any year.

And then, as he struck his lighter and watched the orange flame curl over the note towards his thumb and forefinger, Denning thought, too bad that the note isn’t real. It must be kind of nice to get a hurried letter like that. In the spring. He dropped the burned note into the ash tray.

Then he glanced over at Peggy’s photograph on the dressing-table. “The thought only slipped out,” he told her, smiling broadly.

He was still amused by himself as he carried the ash tray into the bathroom and flushed the black ashes of the little love note down the toilet.

He was excited. He was restless. I’ll get some exercise, he decided. A walk through the old streets of the Lower Town, a quiet inspection of the Henziplatz, a visit to the neighbouring cheese market or the Minster nearby would combine business
with—this feeling of spring. He picked up his brown felt hat; but, after years of wearing an army cap, he looked all wrong. He threw the hat on a chair and went out bareheaded.

The bagpiper on top of his fountain was blowing his silent tune. The large round clock, high on the square tower at the end of the street, was red-faced too. Who wants sleep? Denning asked himself, and began looking at the gay shop windows and the pretty girls.

The cobbled street widened suddenly for about fifty yards, and then contracted again into an alley. That bit of extra breadth was the Henziplatz, edged by narrow-faced houses in an endless row, with their jutting eaves shadowing the top floors, their sharply pointed roofs broken by dormer windows and covered chimneys. The sun found its way into the Square, but the arcades were shadowed and cool. No shops here. A few Cafés and small restaurants, many of them climbing upstairs to invade the second floors. A swinging sign or two, carefully lettered. A window-box here and there. A good deal of foot traffic flowing from the busy Kramgasse which bounded the north of the little street. And above the steep red-tiled roofs rose the tall spire of the Minster, a massive background in the sky.

The Café Henzi was no more remarkable than any of the other eating places in the Square. The only remarkable thing, amusing perhaps, was the fact that the house marked No. 10 lay
almost opposite. For tonight’s performance, Denning thought as he walked through the Henziplatz, we shall practically have box seats.

His pace was steady, unhurried; he resisted the temptation to enter the Café Henzi and have lunch there. This leisurely tour of inspection was enough. Tonight, he’d reach the Square easily. And these arcades would be useful to shelter his approach. His confidence grew. But so did his sense of trouble ahead. Why had Johann Keppler chosen a room almost opposite the café? Did he expect the need for immediate action? Or was that the only room for rent on the Square? Or had Keppler—

“Bill!” It was a woman’s voice. “Bill!—Bill Denning!”