Brun said to Denning, his voice more friendly, even a real smile on his lips, “that anyone who listened to your conversation with Colonel Meyer was as baffled as I was.”
Denning reached for his coat and pulled it on.
Le Brun’s melancholy eyes watched him. “Keppler, look at this idiot,” he said quietly.
Keppler, waiting at the telephone, turned his head. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m just a tourist, walking back to his hotel.” Denning buttoned the coat up to his chin. There was a decisiveness in that last flick of his thumb that ended all argument.
“Stick to that story,” said Keppler. His blue eyes no longer looked blankly at Denning. They were not even making any attempt to disguise their worry.
“I’ll be all right,” Denning said, pulling on his hat.
“Are you armed?”
“No. I’m a tourist, remember? Good night.”
And as the door closed behind Denning, Le Brun said, “Amateurs have their uses, I suppose. But didn’t you take a chance letting him go?”
Keppler began making the first of a series of telephone calls. He dealt in turn with the Maartens registered at the Aarhof, with the chamber-maid and clerk who worked there, with the American called Taylor who seemed to be missing. “But first, attend to Maartens,” he ended his call, and then replaced the receiver. He looked at his watch. Denning ought to have reached the Café Henzi by this time.
Le Brun said restlessly, “And what do we do here? Wait for Meyer to turn up with a report?” A report of failure. Then they’d all argue and talk and argue. What went wrong? That would be the question. God, he thought wearily, how I hate these post-mortems: couldn’t we succeed, just once, with those Herz diamonds?
“We’ll wait,” Keppler said grimly. “That’s the major partof our job, isn’t it?” Then he thought, perhaps I ought to alert the police. I’d like to have some of them around in the Square. And yet, this wasn’t a matter for the police. Not yet… Perhaps it would never be…
Gloomily, he settled down by the telephone.
7
ASSIGNATION
In the Café Henzi, the singing had been going on for half an hour, singing and laughter and high soprano shrieks of enjoyment.
“Had enough?” Francesca asked. “It seems to be more hilarious tonight than usual.” She glanced at the ceiling above them. “There’s nothing like a convention for spoiling other people’s pleasure.”
“Oh, it’s still quite early,” Paula said.
“I thought you were anxious to go. You keep looking at the door.”
“Sorry.” Paula laughed. “I was only watching Colonel Meyer leave. I’m sure that man is Maxwell Meyer, even if he isn’t in uniform. What a peculiar thing, though!”
“Why peculiar? Lots of American and English officers come here in mufti, too.”
“I know, I know, but you see,” Paula was so honest, soearnest, “only recently Andy went through to Frankfurt to call on Colonel Meyer. You know how newspapermen often come across strange pieces of information. Andy had heard something or other that kind of worried him. So,” Paula took a deep breath, looked around, lowered her voice to the point of inaudibility, “so Andy decided to approach Colonel Meyer on the old-pal level. That’s how Americans really like to work.”
Francesca was perplexed.
Paula said patiently, “They like to see someone they know, or someone who’s a friend of a friend, and then they have a quiet talk. After that, if their problem seems important enough, they are shown the right door on which to knock. You see how useful the old-pal level can be? Cuts all kinds of delays.”
“And is Colonel Meyer a friend of Andy’s or—a friend of a friend?”
“He’s a friend of Bill Denning’s. Actually, we met him years ago when he was visiting Bill in Princeton.”
“Oh?” Francesca said, properly lost now, yet still trying to keep contact.
“Well, Andy did get to see Colonel Meyer. And they got on fine—Maxwell
Denning reached for his coat and pulled it on.
Le Brun’s melancholy eyes watched him. “Keppler, look at this idiot,” he said quietly.
Keppler, waiting at the telephone, turned his head. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m just a tourist, walking back to his hotel.” Denning buttoned the coat up to his chin. There was a decisiveness in that last flick of his thumb that ended all argument.
“Stick to that story,” said Keppler. His blue eyes no longer looked blankly at Denning. They were not even making any attempt to disguise their worry.
“I’ll be all right,” Denning said, pulling on his hat.
“Are you armed?”
“No. I’m a tourist, remember? Good night.”
And as the door closed behind Denning, Le Brun said, “Amateurs have their uses, I suppose. But didn’t you take a chance letting him go?”
Keppler began making the first of a series of telephone calls. He dealt in turn with the Maartens registered at the Aarhof, with the chamber-maid and clerk who worked there, with the American called Taylor who seemed to be missing. “But first, attend to Maartens,” he ended his call, and then replaced the receiver. He looked at his watch. Denning ought to have reached the Café Henzi by this time.
Le Brun said restlessly, “And what do we do here? Wait for Meyer to turn up with a report?” A report of failure. Then they’d all argue and talk and argue. What went wrong? That would be the question. God, he thought wearily, how I hate these post-mortems: couldn’t we succeed, just once, with those Herz diamonds?
“We’ll wait,” Keppler said grimly. “That’s the major partof our job, isn’t it?” Then he thought, perhaps I ought to alert the police. I’d like to have some of them around in the Square. And yet, this wasn’t a matter for the police. Not yet… Perhaps it would never be…
Gloomily, he settled down by the telephone.
7
ASSIGNATION
In the Café Henzi, the singing had been going on for half an hour, singing and laughter and high soprano shrieks of enjoyment.
“Had enough?” Francesca asked. “It seems to be more hilarious tonight than usual.” She glanced at the ceiling above them. “There’s nothing like a convention for spoiling other people’s pleasure.”
“Oh, it’s still quite early,” Paula said.
“I thought you were anxious to go. You keep looking at the door.”
“Sorry.” Paula laughed. “I was only watching Colonel Meyer leave. I’m sure that man is Maxwell Meyer, even if he isn’t in uniform. What a peculiar thing, though!”
“Why peculiar? Lots of American and English officers come here in mufti, too.”
“I know, I know, but you see,” Paula was so honest, soearnest, “only recently Andy went through to Frankfurt to call on Colonel Meyer. You know how newspapermen often come across strange pieces of information. Andy had heard something or other that kind of worried him. So,” Paula took a deep breath, looked around, lowered her voice to the point of inaudibility, “so Andy decided to approach Colonel Meyer on the old-pal level. That’s how Americans really like to work.”
Francesca was perplexed.
Paula said patiently, “They like to see someone they know, or someone who’s a friend of a friend, and then they have a quiet talk. After that, if their problem seems important enough, they are shown the right door on which to knock. You see how useful the old-pal level can be? Cuts all kinds of delays.”
“And is Colonel Meyer a friend of Andy’s or—a friend of a friend?”
“He’s a friend of Bill Denning’s. Actually, we met him years ago when he was visiting Bill in Princeton.”
“Oh?” Francesca said, properly lost now, yet still trying to keep contact.
“Well, Andy did get to see Colonel Meyer. And they got on fine—Maxwell
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