him.
He had already summoned the elevator, so it was waiting for him. Its stately descent always reminded him of his maternal grandfather, the last Bruna to use that top-floor room when he wanted to stay overnight in the city. Crefeld had often wondered about the elevator: no heart weaknesses in the Bruna clan; possibly a lady visiting who found stairs hard to climb in her tight-corsetted waist. The days of whalebone, he thought, and was smiling broadly as he stepped into the dimly lit hall. Apart from a telephone operator at her switchboard, kept neatly out of sight, built under, the curved flight of staircase, the hall was empty. From the floor overhead came the sound of a typewriter clacking away, making good time before closing hours.
The hall wasn’t empty. A man was standing in one corner near the front door, leaning on his rolled umbrella, his neat dark suit blending into the mahogany wood panelling of the walls. His hair, cut short, was grey—prematurely grey, for his thin face was unlined. He smiled shyly. “No receptionist here?” he asked. “How do I get in touch with the accountant’s office?”
So he had just entered, wasn’t waiting as I first thought, Crefeld decided. His suspicion levelled off, but he still kept a distance from the stranger. “Try the telephone girl—you’ll find her just around that curve of staircase.”
“Thank you.” The stranger came forward, but he was giving Crefeld ample room to pass him.
“Not at all,” said Crefeld as he averted his face and made for the front door.
Suddenly, the stranger raised his umbrella, its ferrule pointed at Crefeld’s thigh.
Crefeld felt a sting, hot and sharp. He stared at the man, then at the umbrella. He raised his voice to shout and gave a strangled croak. He had no strength in his body at all. His legs were beginning to buckle. The man hit him sharply over his hand that held the briefcase. Crefeld’s grip was loosened; the briefcase was pulled away from his arm. He saw only a blur as the dark suit turned and hurried to the front entrance; he heard only a faint noise as the heavy door was closed.
Crefeld fell backwards to the ground, the attaché case clattering beside him on the wooden floor. He tried to shout again, knew it was useless. Only his brain seemed to be working. He made an effort to reach into his jacket pocket, take hold of the card he always kept there in case of emergency. He could feel it, even gripped it, but he couldn’t pull it out.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” It was the telephone girl, kneeling beside him, looking in horror at the man who lay staring up at her. She screamed and kept screaming until heels came running down the staircase.
“He’s alive,” a man’s voice said. “Get an ambulance.”
“I thought I heard the door close. Then I heard a crash.” The telephone girl pointed to the attaché case. “And another crash. Together almost. He’s trying to speak.” She lowered her ear to his lips.
“He’s Schlee, the book collector; Saw him one day—”
“Get an ambulance!” The telephone operator was yanked to her feet. “Call now!”
“What’s in his pocket?”
“His hand!”
“But why?”
Crefeld’s hand was pulled out gently.
“A card. Emergency, it says. A telephone number. A name: Jake. Here,” the man’s voice said, “call this number, too. First, the ambulance; then the card. Quick, quick!”
High heels retreated. “She’s always so damn slow,” said the man’s voice. “Hurry!” he yelled after her. Then, as an afterthought, “What did he say? Could he speak?”
“Didn’t make sense,” the girl called back. “Sounded like umbrella.”
“Stupid as well as slow,” the man told the rest of the small crowd. Umbrella. Schlee wasn’t carrying any umbrella. “Heart attack. Don’t move him. Keep back. Give him air.”
Sombrely, helplessly, they watched the man whose eyes stared up at the vaulted ceiling. His lips no longer moved.
8
By the time
He had already summoned the elevator, so it was waiting for him. Its stately descent always reminded him of his maternal grandfather, the last Bruna to use that top-floor room when he wanted to stay overnight in the city. Crefeld had often wondered about the elevator: no heart weaknesses in the Bruna clan; possibly a lady visiting who found stairs hard to climb in her tight-corsetted waist. The days of whalebone, he thought, and was smiling broadly as he stepped into the dimly lit hall. Apart from a telephone operator at her switchboard, kept neatly out of sight, built under, the curved flight of staircase, the hall was empty. From the floor overhead came the sound of a typewriter clacking away, making good time before closing hours.
The hall wasn’t empty. A man was standing in one corner near the front door, leaning on his rolled umbrella, his neat dark suit blending into the mahogany wood panelling of the walls. His hair, cut short, was grey—prematurely grey, for his thin face was unlined. He smiled shyly. “No receptionist here?” he asked. “How do I get in touch with the accountant’s office?”
So he had just entered, wasn’t waiting as I first thought, Crefeld decided. His suspicion levelled off, but he still kept a distance from the stranger. “Try the telephone girl—you’ll find her just around that curve of staircase.”
“Thank you.” The stranger came forward, but he was giving Crefeld ample room to pass him.
“Not at all,” said Crefeld as he averted his face and made for the front door.
Suddenly, the stranger raised his umbrella, its ferrule pointed at Crefeld’s thigh.
Crefeld felt a sting, hot and sharp. He stared at the man, then at the umbrella. He raised his voice to shout and gave a strangled croak. He had no strength in his body at all. His legs were beginning to buckle. The man hit him sharply over his hand that held the briefcase. Crefeld’s grip was loosened; the briefcase was pulled away from his arm. He saw only a blur as the dark suit turned and hurried to the front entrance; he heard only a faint noise as the heavy door was closed.
Crefeld fell backwards to the ground, the attaché case clattering beside him on the wooden floor. He tried to shout again, knew it was useless. Only his brain seemed to be working. He made an effort to reach into his jacket pocket, take hold of the card he always kept there in case of emergency. He could feel it, even gripped it, but he couldn’t pull it out.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” It was the telephone girl, kneeling beside him, looking in horror at the man who lay staring up at her. She screamed and kept screaming until heels came running down the staircase.
“He’s alive,” a man’s voice said. “Get an ambulance.”
“I thought I heard the door close. Then I heard a crash.” The telephone girl pointed to the attaché case. “And another crash. Together almost. He’s trying to speak.” She lowered her ear to his lips.
“He’s Schlee, the book collector; Saw him one day—”
“Get an ambulance!” The telephone operator was yanked to her feet. “Call now!”
“What’s in his pocket?”
“His hand!”
“But why?”
Crefeld’s hand was pulled out gently.
“A card. Emergency, it says. A telephone number. A name: Jake. Here,” the man’s voice said, “call this number, too. First, the ambulance; then the card. Quick, quick!”
High heels retreated. “She’s always so damn slow,” said the man’s voice. “Hurry!” he yelled after her. Then, as an afterthought, “What did he say? Could he speak?”
“Didn’t make sense,” the girl called back. “Sounded like umbrella.”
“Stupid as well as slow,” the man told the rest of the small crowd. Umbrella. Schlee wasn’t carrying any umbrella. “Heart attack. Don’t move him. Keep back. Give him air.”
Sombrely, helplessly, they watched the man whose eyes stared up at the vaulted ceiling. His lips no longer moved.
8
By the time
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