Meyer was interested as all hell’s burning. I’m quoting Andy.”
Francesca said, “And so Andy was helped to knock on the right door?”
“That’s all I was told. But Maxwell Meyer never mentioned he was coming to Bern. That I do know. And that’s why it seems so peculiar.”
“Perhaps it was a late decision,” Francesca said.
“Perhaps.” Then Paula was very still. “Why, he didn’tleave here, after all! He must have been just telephoning, or something.”
This time, Francesca looked. She saw a dark-haired man, with a prominent nose and chin, sitting down not far from them, seemingly nonchalant and yet carefully facing the door. He wore a dark-green corduroy jacket, a loose red tweed tie. She would have taken him for a graduate student or an instructor at the University. He had a long glass of light lager in front of him, and he was making it last. He didn’t seem to be bored, he didn’t seem to be waiting. And yet—
“He’s looking this way,” Paula said. She smiled and bowed towards Max Meyer. “Well—” she said in some embarrassment.
“He didn’t recognise you,” Francesca said. What, she wondered worriedly, is so interesting in the Café Henzi to an American officer?
“He doesn’t remember me at all,” Paula said. “I feel about six inches high.” She looked down at the tablecloth. “I think we should get back to the hotel, don’t you?”
But Francesca, watching the man in whom Andy had put so much trust, didn’t reply. He was only three tables away. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, for their voices were low, but he must have marked Paula’s American voice. For, without turning his head, he was looking at them. Yes, he was verifying Paula. But he made no move. He took another drink of beer. And then, on the table in front of him, Francesca noticed a pack of cigarettes lying squared off with a box of matches. Yet he didn’t touch them. He wasn’t even smoking.
Paula had been searching for her gloves. “I think I’ve got everything now,” she said. “Ready?” She looked round for their waiter, and then her eyes widened. “Of all things!”
Bill Denning stood at the doorway, taking off his coat and hat. He shook them before he hung them on a peg, and then made his way to one of the last empty tables on the other side of the room.
“This,” said Paula in a faint voice, “this is ridiculous.” Look at them, she thought, sitting in the same room: two friends, two Americans in a foreign city, neither knowing the other is here.
Francesca laid a quiet hand on her arm, and Paula’s pretty face—round, ingenuous, wide-eyed—looked almost comical in its disbelief. Did Francesca mean that Bill and Maxwell had seen each other?
“Smile,” Francesca said. “Smile and tell me all about that apartment you’re looking for.”
“But I’ve told you,” said Paula. “And look, where did you develop that grip of yours? I bet you were good with a machine-gun.” She began to laugh.
Francesca, smiling, said, “That’s better. I just want you to stop looking like a stuffed Sphinx.”
“I don’t see how a Sphinx could possibly be stuffed.”
“If we say it is, at this moment, then it is stuffed. Go on talking, I’d like to stay here just a little longer.”
“Why don’t you do the talking?” Paula asked.
“Frankly, I can’t think of anything to say.” And I’m too busy watching the door, Francesca thought.
“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”
“Original.”
“Then you try. Must we talk, anyway?”
“Oh!” said Francesca suddenly. Her handbag seemed to spill open, and she bent quickly to search for its scattered contents. Paula picked up a small comb. Francesca was searching underthe table, now, for her compact and cigarettes. And then Paula noticed that a woman had entered and was walking across to their side of the room. She was a middle-aged woman, plainly dressed in a black coat and a black felt hat bulging sideways over the
Francesca said, “And so Andy was helped to knock on the right door?”
“That’s all I was told. But Maxwell Meyer never mentioned he was coming to Bern. That I do know. And that’s why it seems so peculiar.”
“Perhaps it was a late decision,” Francesca said.
“Perhaps.” Then Paula was very still. “Why, he didn’tleave here, after all! He must have been just telephoning, or something.”
This time, Francesca looked. She saw a dark-haired man, with a prominent nose and chin, sitting down not far from them, seemingly nonchalant and yet carefully facing the door. He wore a dark-green corduroy jacket, a loose red tweed tie. She would have taken him for a graduate student or an instructor at the University. He had a long glass of light lager in front of him, and he was making it last. He didn’t seem to be bored, he didn’t seem to be waiting. And yet—
“He’s looking this way,” Paula said. She smiled and bowed towards Max Meyer. “Well—” she said in some embarrassment.
“He didn’t recognise you,” Francesca said. What, she wondered worriedly, is so interesting in the Café Henzi to an American officer?
“He doesn’t remember me at all,” Paula said. “I feel about six inches high.” She looked down at the tablecloth. “I think we should get back to the hotel, don’t you?”
But Francesca, watching the man in whom Andy had put so much trust, didn’t reply. He was only three tables away. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, for their voices were low, but he must have marked Paula’s American voice. For, without turning his head, he was looking at them. Yes, he was verifying Paula. But he made no move. He took another drink of beer. And then, on the table in front of him, Francesca noticed a pack of cigarettes lying squared off with a box of matches. Yet he didn’t touch them. He wasn’t even smoking.
Paula had been searching for her gloves. “I think I’ve got everything now,” she said. “Ready?” She looked round for their waiter, and then her eyes widened. “Of all things!”
Bill Denning stood at the doorway, taking off his coat and hat. He shook them before he hung them on a peg, and then made his way to one of the last empty tables on the other side of the room.
“This,” said Paula in a faint voice, “this is ridiculous.” Look at them, she thought, sitting in the same room: two friends, two Americans in a foreign city, neither knowing the other is here.
Francesca laid a quiet hand on her arm, and Paula’s pretty face—round, ingenuous, wide-eyed—looked almost comical in its disbelief. Did Francesca mean that Bill and Maxwell had seen each other?
“Smile,” Francesca said. “Smile and tell me all about that apartment you’re looking for.”
“But I’ve told you,” said Paula. “And look, where did you develop that grip of yours? I bet you were good with a machine-gun.” She began to laugh.
Francesca, smiling, said, “That’s better. I just want you to stop looking like a stuffed Sphinx.”
“I don’t see how a Sphinx could possibly be stuffed.”
“If we say it is, at this moment, then it is stuffed. Go on talking, I’d like to stay here just a little longer.”
“Why don’t you do the talking?” Paula asked.
“Frankly, I can’t think of anything to say.” And I’m too busy watching the door, Francesca thought.
“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”
“Original.”
“Then you try. Must we talk, anyway?”
“Oh!” said Francesca suddenly. Her handbag seemed to spill open, and she bent quickly to search for its scattered contents. Paula picked up a small comb. Francesca was searching underthe table, now, for her compact and cigarettes. And then Paula noticed that a woman had entered and was walking across to their side of the room. She was a middle-aged woman, plainly dressed in a black coat and a black felt hat bulging sideways over the
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