but he had identified them clearly as they drove past. They were well away before the first police car arrived.
Krieger walked on. The disquiet in his mind was no longer vague. A talk with his friend in the police department was the proper idea. Except that he had little time left in Vienna. Better make time, he told himself sharply. That Czech refugee hadn’t fallen or jumped from the fourth-floor window; he had landed well beyond the sidewalk, on the street itself.
7
On Friday morning David Mennery came down into the hotel lobby with half an hour to spare. He had paid the bill and tipped every uniform nearby, making sure he wasn’t leaving the Sacher with any unfinished business behind him. That way, he’d be quickly forgotten. He dropped his bag as near the front door as possible. “Waiting for a friend,” he told the bellboys on duty there. “No taxi needed.” And now, at six minutes before ten, he began studying the playbills, notices of concerts, lists of exhibitions, which cluttered the notice-board near the porter’s main desk. He was dressed in his light tweed jacket, a grey striped shirt that travelled well, and the red tie. His raincoat was folded over his left arm; partly under the other, held securely by his hand, were his copies of Oggi and Le Monde . At two minutes to ten he checked the lobby clock. It agreed with his watch. Two minutes before the hour. Irina should be reaching the café.
It lay to his right as he faced the front entrance, near the lobby but separate, with a short passageway leading to a door which made entry convenient for hotel guests. He went back to studying the programme of an open-air concert at Schönbrunn. I’ll give Irina a few minutes to find a table, and sit down, he decided. She’s bound to find one free inside the café on a summer morning: most people will be sitting outside. She’ll be somewhere at the back of the room, he reminded himself again: a brown coat and a blue scarf. That should let his eye pick her out quickly, even if by some chance the inside tables were well filled. He knew the routine, but he was nervous. He lit a cigarette, dropped it a minute later into an ashtray. Once more, for the last time, he went over his own movements. He’d possibly have to change some details, improvise when necessary. You always had to be ready for that.
At five minutes past ten he walked towards the café, a man who looked—at least he hoped so—as though he had decided to see if his friend had got their meeting place slightly mixed. The bellboy, still lingering beside David’s bag, probably thought so. He traded the idea of a tip from David for a more certain prospect now arriving with three suitcases.
David paused at the café door, then entered slowly. More tables were filled than he had expected. He had a chilling shock to see, right in the centre of the room, a figure in brown with brassy blonde hair, delving into a thick slice of Gugelhupf . A mountain of Schlagobers was rising above her coffee cup. Irina? But there was no blue scarf. Thankfully, he halted just a few steps inside the doorway, his eyes searching the room. A waitress stopped at his elbow to ask, “Would you like a table, sir? There’s a nice one over there by the window.”
He shook his head, saying, “I was hoping to join a friend. A man with long dark hair and a beard.” Even as he spoke, he glimpsed the brown coat and the blue scarf in the corner just behind him. But at this moment he dared not look more closely.
“Haven’t seen him,” the waitress said, all interest lost.
And now he could look. Casually. The woman in the brown coat was sitting very still, her eyes looking straight ahead and unseeing. Her order had not yet been taken, and her hands rested on the table before her. They were tightly folded. It was Irina. No impostor. Definitely Irina. For a moment David was as paralysed as she was. Then he moved.
He turned, knocked against the table next to Irina’s, let the papers
Krieger walked on. The disquiet in his mind was no longer vague. A talk with his friend in the police department was the proper idea. Except that he had little time left in Vienna. Better make time, he told himself sharply. That Czech refugee hadn’t fallen or jumped from the fourth-floor window; he had landed well beyond the sidewalk, on the street itself.
7
On Friday morning David Mennery came down into the hotel lobby with half an hour to spare. He had paid the bill and tipped every uniform nearby, making sure he wasn’t leaving the Sacher with any unfinished business behind him. That way, he’d be quickly forgotten. He dropped his bag as near the front door as possible. “Waiting for a friend,” he told the bellboys on duty there. “No taxi needed.” And now, at six minutes before ten, he began studying the playbills, notices of concerts, lists of exhibitions, which cluttered the notice-board near the porter’s main desk. He was dressed in his light tweed jacket, a grey striped shirt that travelled well, and the red tie. His raincoat was folded over his left arm; partly under the other, held securely by his hand, were his copies of Oggi and Le Monde . At two minutes to ten he checked the lobby clock. It agreed with his watch. Two minutes before the hour. Irina should be reaching the café.
It lay to his right as he faced the front entrance, near the lobby but separate, with a short passageway leading to a door which made entry convenient for hotel guests. He went back to studying the programme of an open-air concert at Schönbrunn. I’ll give Irina a few minutes to find a table, and sit down, he decided. She’s bound to find one free inside the café on a summer morning: most people will be sitting outside. She’ll be somewhere at the back of the room, he reminded himself again: a brown coat and a blue scarf. That should let his eye pick her out quickly, even if by some chance the inside tables were well filled. He knew the routine, but he was nervous. He lit a cigarette, dropped it a minute later into an ashtray. Once more, for the last time, he went over his own movements. He’d possibly have to change some details, improvise when necessary. You always had to be ready for that.
At five minutes past ten he walked towards the café, a man who looked—at least he hoped so—as though he had decided to see if his friend had got their meeting place slightly mixed. The bellboy, still lingering beside David’s bag, probably thought so. He traded the idea of a tip from David for a more certain prospect now arriving with three suitcases.
David paused at the café door, then entered slowly. More tables were filled than he had expected. He had a chilling shock to see, right in the centre of the room, a figure in brown with brassy blonde hair, delving into a thick slice of Gugelhupf . A mountain of Schlagobers was rising above her coffee cup. Irina? But there was no blue scarf. Thankfully, he halted just a few steps inside the doorway, his eyes searching the room. A waitress stopped at his elbow to ask, “Would you like a table, sir? There’s a nice one over there by the window.”
He shook his head, saying, “I was hoping to join a friend. A man with long dark hair and a beard.” Even as he spoke, he glimpsed the brown coat and the blue scarf in the corner just behind him. But at this moment he dared not look more closely.
“Haven’t seen him,” the waitress said, all interest lost.
And now he could look. Casually. The woman in the brown coat was sitting very still, her eyes looking straight ahead and unseeing. Her order had not yet been taken, and her hands rested on the table before her. They were tightly folded. It was Irina. No impostor. Definitely Irina. For a moment David was as paralysed as she was. Then he moved.
He turned, knocked against the table next to Irina’s, let the papers
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