Pray for a Brave Heart (9 page)

Le Brun looked at him quickly. He relaxed a little. “This town is too innocent,” he assured Denning. “That worries me very much.” He rubbed the long bridge of his nose, slowly. “Tell me,” he said suddenly, “you know Colonel Meyer well?” His fine brown eyes were watchful.

“For many years.”

“He is not a serious man?”

“He enjoys a joke. But,” Denning added quickly, “when it comes to work, then he’s more than serious.”

“Reliable?”

“Of course.”

“But enthusiastic, imaginative?”

“Yes. Why not? Don’t you need both enthusiasm and imagination for a difficult job of work?”

“What I am trying to say—it isn’t easy, I assure you—but do you believe Meyer’s story?”

Denning looked over at the quiet Keppler. “But don’t
you?”
He stared at both of them.

Keppler didn’t answer. Le Brun shook his head. Le Brun said softly, “So you do believe Meyer.”

“If I didn’t, do you think I’d be here?” Denning said angrily. “And why are you both taking the trouble to be here, if you think Meyer’s story is so fantastic?”

“I had hoped it was true,” Le Brun said stiffly. “One must explore every hope.”

“Isn’t that just what Meyer is doing?”

Keppler intervened tactfully, “Let us consider this truth: even the most fantastic stories have an element of possibility; we cannot ignore that element. That is why we have gathered here. That is why all Swiss officers on duty—may I speak in German? It is quicker for me. More accurate. Yes?”

Le Brun said in French, “Certainly. But what about Denning? Will he understand clearly?”

“I’ve been in Berlin for the last four years,” Denning said in his best German.

Le Brun half-smiled. “My apologies. It does not always follow that an Amer—that a man who works in Germany can speak German.”

True, Denning thought, but I can do as well as wild duck chase, I hope. What have I drawn here, anyway? One of those cross-eyed neutralists with their subconscious desire that all Americans may drop dead?

Keppler, the neutral who wasn’t neutralist, said in German, “We are not here to display our gift of tongues. It is enough if we understand the essential facts. Now to return to what I was saying so slowly in English—all our customs officers are conducting an intensive search of baggage both arriving and departing. If the Herz diamonds are already in Switzerland, then they will have little chance of getting out. In case they do”—he glanced at Le Brun—“the Italian authorities have been alerted, and Genoa is being strictly watched. Both American and Italian shipping and air lines have been warned. The general alarm has been given, discreetly, of course.”

“But isn’t it too general at this stage?” Denning asked. “After all, secrecy—”

Le Brun said, “Meyer wanted secrecy. But my government
has to make sure that the diamonds do not slip away from us while we sit waiting. We have no choice but to take all precautions possible.”

Keppler’s face was unreadable. He went on speaking in his even voice. “Well, that’s the general situation. Here in Bern, we’ve gone very cautiously. There are two men watching the street outside. I have placed one man inside the Café Henzi.”

“Only one man?”

“The same young man, Taylor, who came to see me in Munich,” Le Brun said. “It doesn’t seem as if Meyer had been given any reinforcements. Perhaps the Americans did not put too much trust in his story?”

“His job, here, is simply to get fuller information,” Denning reminded him. “After that, the Swiss will take all the adequate steps.” His anger burned into his chest. He turned to Keppler. “Right?”

“That is what we naturally prefer,” Keppler said. He added, somewhat wryly, “Switzerland is our country, after all.” He rose and went behind the kitchen screen. He returned with a bottle of brandy and three glasses. Le Brun was still sitting on the couch, brooding, over his own problems: what would his superiors say when he returned to them with the news that the general alarm has been a false one? Denning was studying the pink fringe of the lamp above the table. By God, he’s got a temper, Keppler thought. He may seem cool, confident, detached, but he’s got plenty of emotion hidden behind that quiet face. Where did he learn that control? When he first came into the room, I thought, so here’s Meyer’s friend—a self-contained young man who probably thinks this evening is an amusing interlude in his tour of museums, an intellectual dabbling in a little
present-day history and hoping for some vicarious excitement. But I was wrong. He knows what we’re up against, he knows what he is doing. He’s clever—those eyes don’t go with stupidity. Stubborn, too: not easily persuaded against his own judgment. And wary: what problem is he keeping to himself? Doesn’t he trust us? Good, very good. Better than I had hoped for. At this moment, he’s trying to weigh me up, to feel sure of me, just as I’ve been measuring him. And I don’t believe he’s any more interested in the Herz diamonds than I am. I begin to like this young man, thought Keppler.

He placed the bottle and the glasses on the table. “I’ve washed these thoroughly,” he assured Le Brun.

“My dear Keppler, I was only having doubts about the brandy.”

“Shall we risk ruining our palate? Denning needs a drink.” Keppler almost smiled. “He got chilled by the rain.”

“Or something,” Denning said. His eyes met Keppler’s.

Keppler raised his glass and said in English, “Don’t tread on me!”

Denning grinned. “That’s as good a toast as any.” He watched Keppler for a long moment, still deciding whether or not to trust him.

“Well—” Keppler said, sitting down. It could have been a question.

Denning studied the brandy, glowing even through the tumbler. “I am only a sort of observer in this game. Amateur status, I’m afraid.” He restrained himself from glancing at Le Brun.

“But I happen to be partial to amateurs,” Keppler said. “What have you sort of observed?”

“There’s a chamber-maid, who calls herself Eva, at the Aarhof. She distrusts your gardening friend. Profoundly.”

“You had proof of that? Definitely?”

“Most definitely.”

“We weren’t quite sure,” Keppler said slowly. “Thank you. Anything else you’ve observed about Eva?”

“She’s curious about me. I’d say she was interested rather than suspicious. So far.”

“Interested in
you?”

“That may only have been the result of the gardener’s visit. But she is not the only one who is interested. There’s a clerk at the desk in the lobby who sorts the mail. He tried to pass on a bogus message—just to see if I know that Meyer is in Bern.”

“Indeed?” Keppler’s voice was level, but his eyes were thoughtful.

Encouraged with two small successes, Denning spoke with growing confidence, “And Mr. Charles-Auguste Maartens arrived in Bern this morning with a quantity of excess luggage. He’s at the Aarhof.”

Keppler was silent for a moment. Was he embarrassed? “I heard he had registered there. Surprising. The Aarhof is a most respectable hotel.”

Le Brun said, “We’ve also heard that Mr. Maartens lunched with two friends who seemed to know him well at the Bellevue Palace; spent the afternoon in the Bern Historical Museum; had tea at Keppler’s—no relation to our Mr. Keppler—” He bowed in the right direction.

“Maartens may have a sense of humour,” Keppler suggested.

“That is what I am afraid of,” Le Brun replied. “When last heard of, he had gone out to the Kursaal for a leisurely
evening in plain view of several hundred people. There, at twenty minutes past ten o’clock tonight, he had gone into the casino, along with another friend, comfortably settling down to a pleasant hour at the tables.”

Denning looked at Keppler, who nodded confirmation and pointed to the telephone near the bed. “The report came just before you arrived.”

“Perhaps you understand now why you found my enthusiasm slightly cooled,” Le Brun said. “Mr. Maartens obviously does not intend to keep his appointment for eleven o’clock. He is still at the casino, or we should have heard. And now,” he glanced at his watch, “he couldn’t reach here in time.”

Denning’s lips tightened. “This Maartens could be a fake—a cover for the real one.”

“Yet the friend he met tonight greeted him with his name.”

“You can hire someone to spend an evening with you, you can pay him to call you by your first name.” I should have kept quiet, Denning thought, as he watched the other two exchange glances. The professionals being amused over the amateur’s naive suggestions, no doubt. But Keppler didn’t smile.

Keppler said, “Have you ever seen the Maartens who arranged this meeting with Colonel Meyer?”

“No.”

“None of us has,” broke in Le Brun. “Except Colonel Meyer.”

“Then how do you know the man out at the casino is a fake?” Keppler asked Denning.

“My suspicions would seem ridiculous to Colonel Le Brun,” Denning said. And what, indeed, would they sound like? This man’s clothes are expensive, the kind that the real Charles Maartens—as imitated by Max Meyer—couldn’t quite reach. This man’s manner is wrong—he gives orders, he doesn’t take them: no one could send him as an informant: he’d go of his own accord. This man’s German is poor, or out of practice—so Gustav, the boy at the Aarhof, noticed. And there’s a schoolgirl called Emily who seems to recognise this man: she may know his real name, and she has certainly placed him on the Riviera. Yes, how would all that sound?

“Now, now, I’m always interested,” Le Brun said, but his eyebrows went up, and his voice sounded, hurt.

Denning said, “One thing’s important—have you no files on Charles A. Maartens?”

“The man exists,” Le Brun said. “He evaded arrest in Lyons, two years ago, after a very neat jewel robbery.”

“Then it isn’t likely he lives in the south of France?”

“That would be improbable, and highly injudicious.”

“Where has he been working? Or did he travel around?”

Keppler said, “After the trouble at Lyons, he seems to have kept out of France. He is known to have been living in the Rhineland. He has never been arrested, at least not under the name of Maartens. And there is no photograph in any available police file under that name. As for his passport— the man registered at the Aarhof has the only one we know of. But Maartens was either Dutch or Flemish, so we have checked with the passport people in Holland and in Belgium. We should hear soon. Tonight, I hope.” Keppler paused. “Have I said something to make your suspicions less ridiculous?” Or, perhaps, he thought as he noticed the American’s tightened lips, perhaps something to make your suspicions more worrying.

“Didn’t Max give you any kind of description of Maartens?”

“Yes. And I had a drawing made from Meyer’s description. Not a particularly distinguished face—it could pass through a crowd without being noticed very much or remembered at all.”

“He was a very frightened little man,” Denning said, quoting Max Meyer.

“But that could have been a temporary mood,” Le Brun pointed out, accurately enough.

Denning rose abruptly, his chair grating on the wooden floor, and crossed over to the window. “Would you put out that light?”

“And let any watcher in the Square see a suddenly darkened window?” Le Brun asked.

“The lady of this room may like it dark occasionally,” Denning said savagely.

Keppler laughed. He reached up, his strong square hand closed over the beaded cord of the pink-shaded lamp, and the light went out. “Don’t blame this room on my sense of humour,” he said, his voice coming softly through the darkness. “It was the most practical place I could find on such short notice—with the help of my good friends in the police department.”

“Careful,” Le Brun warned as Denning parted the heavy curtains.

“I’m careful,” Denning said grimly.

“You still think Maartens will keep the appointment?”

“The real Maartens will,” Denning insisted. Or else, he thought as he stared across the Square at the Café Henzi, or else Max Meyer would be completely discredited and the story about the smuggling of the diamonds would be considered a silly American scare. Then he thought: was
that
the whole purpose of this impersonation of Charlie-for-Short? Was the story to be smothered, quickly, completely, in Bern? And by whom?

“Anything to be seen?” asked Keppler.

“No.”

Down in the Square the rain had stopped. There was nothing except the street lights glimmering coldly over wet cobblestones. The shadows were deep. The street was silent. Most of the restaurants had already closed, and the apartments above them were darkened. Only the Café Henzi was still alive. From its entrance; hidden by the arcade, a warm glow fanned out between the curved arches. Its upper floor blazed with light, turning the boxed geraniums outside its opened windows into stiff pieces of cardboard, stage properties like the motionless sign with its gilded script.

Suddenly a zither began to play. There was the distant sound of voices, joining together in the chorus, and then laughter rising as the song faded away.

“Ah, night life!” Le Brun said. “Did I not say this was an innocent town?”

Down in the Square, a man and a woman walked arm in arm. A dog sniffed at an arch. Two men strolled. A car drove carefully over the wet stones. Another song began, each verse ending with the same refrain.

“It may be the darkness, for it surely isn’t the brandy,” Le Brun went on, “but I feel a certain envy.”

“Momentary, I’m sure,” Keppler’s quiet voice said. He began to hum the tune to which they listened:
“…mein schönes Alpenland.”

“But simplicity
is
to be envied. You Swiss are essentially a simple people, healthy and moral. Why? Because you are blessed with perpendicular countryside. No invading armies. No wars. No troubles. A world of peace and milk chocolate.”

Down in the Square, three young men argued mildly. Two began to laugh as they stepped into the arcade. The third followed them. Hollow footsteps and echoing laughter, retreating into distance, lessening into silence. Then the bells from the clock tower sounded over the pointed roofs.

“Another world,” Le Brun said softly, “a world of comfortable burghers falling asleep in feather beds. Eleven o’clock and all is well. The doors are locked, the lights are out, the children safe until morning at least, the wives already dreaming of tomorrow’s bargains at the cheese market.”