As Time Goes By (29 page)

Laszlo took a deep breath. "Monsieur Blaine," he
began, "I told you in London that I would kill you my
self if I suspected the slightest disloyalty to our cause.
Let me reiterate that promise to you now. Like you, I
am a man of my word; it is the only thing the Nazis
have permitted me to keep. It is my stock in trade. I do
not expend it lightly or frivolously."

He took a deep, satisfying breath of the smoke and
exhaled elegantly. "Perhaps I am naive, but I expect
the same kind of behavior—the same ethics, as it
were—from you. You
have given me your word, and I
have accepted it. Whatever occurred in the past be
tween you and Mrs. Laszlo when I was hors de combat
is of absolutely no import to me. However, what occurs
in the days to come is very much my concern."

Laszlo stopped talking for a moment and collected
his thoughts. What he was about to say he had told no
one.

"The reason goes beyond my personal feelings about
Herr Heydrich," he began. "No, perhaps it doesn't." Suddenly the smooth, self-confident Victor Laszlo
seemed lost, vulnerable, confused.

"Monsieur Blaine," he said at last, "would it help
explain my hatred for Reinhard Heydrich if I told you
that he killed my father?"

Rick's head snapped up. "What?"

"My father grew up in Vienna in the last days of the
Dual Monarchy, and even after we moved to Prague, his work took him there often. He was a socialist and
an architect. When, after Heydrich is destroyed and
then Himmler is smashed and finally Hitler himself is annihilated, we ride in triumph through the streets of
Vienna together, I will be proud to point out to you the
buildings he designed.

"But after February 1934, when Dollfuss crushed the socialists, there was no more room in Austria for a man
of my father's political persuasion. There was no more room for socialists in Vienna, period." Laszlo lowered
his head. "With regret, he confined his practice to
Prague. You know what happened: four years later
came the Munich Pact, only this time instead of Dollfuss and his Fatherland Front there was Hitler and the
Nazis. I was lucky: I got out of Prague alive. My father
did not. Despite his experiences, he was one of those
people who never sees the light, even when it is shining
right in their eyes. Can you imagine?"

"Yes," said Rick under his breath.

Laszlo's voice was rising now. "Now I have this
fiend Heydrich, another kind of architect, in my grasp.
The man who more than any other except for Hitler
himself has brought me misery. He must and will be
stopped. Therefore I ask you once again, for the last
time: Are you with us or are you against us? I ask you
this time not in my name, but in the name of the woman
we both love. In Ilsa's."

Some choice. Rick looked at Victor. "You talked me
into it."

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
S
IX

The plan was for Rick to make immediate contact
with Ilsa in Prague, with Renault following him into
town a few hours later, by another route. Laszlo was to stay hidden at the house in Lidice, where he would be
safe and where, more important, the operation would
remain secure. His face was too well known in Prague
for him to be able to walk the streets with impunity. All it would take was one phone call from one in
former, and that would be the end.

Richard Blaine, however, was known to no man. The
last place the Nazis would be looking for the murderer
of Major Heinrich Strasser was right under the nose of
the most powerful and feared secret policeman of the
Reich. Armed with false papers proclaiming him to be
a citizen of the neutral country of Sweden, Rick would
be able to move about the city with relative freedom. The fact that he didn't look very Swedish didn't mean
much, because a lot of Swedes didn't look very Swed
ish, either.

He made his way into the city that morning and registered at the U T
ří
P
š
tros
ů
, right beside the Charles Bridge. It was one of the few decent hotels that hadn't
been entirely commandeered by the Nazis. His room
was small but pleasant, with a prospect of the Charles Bridge. He had insisted on a view, even though regis
tration had assured him that the rooms on the other side
were bigger and quieter.

He had Ilsa's address: Number 12 Sko
ř
epka, a short
little street located about halfway between Bethlehem
Chapel and St. Wenceslas Square. Before he went up
to his room he slipped a bellhop some dough. "I want flowers sent to this address, right away," he said. "No
card. She'll know who they're from." He ruffled the
kid's hair. The kid happily accepted both Rick's money
and his bad German and ran off to do his bidding.

He washed up, soaking his head under the hot
shower and reflecting on how smoothly everything had
gone thus far. Aside from his inelegant introduction
to the country by the Royal Air Force, the safe house appeared to be really safe, his papers were very much
in order, and—so far, at least—his presence in Prague
had not attracted any undue attention. The next test, he
knew, would come tomorrow, when the registry re
cords of every hotel in the city would be examined by
police, as required by law.

Maybe the Nazis weren't so tough. Or maybe that's
just what they wanted you to think.

He had never met a German gangster before. Back
home there weren't any. Why was something of a mys
tery. There were plenty of Germans in New York, and
when they first got there they got dumped on like
everybody else. They were people who liked their beer
cold and their houses neat. They washed the windows twice a year, whether they needed it or not, and had
flowers planted in the windowboxes outside their tenements on April 1. They spent their Sundays strolling in
Central Park. They took their leisure en masse, hiring
steamers to take their church congregations up and down the East River. They worked hard and stayed
away from crime. They became bankers and business
men and doctors and lawyers and sometimes even
politicians. There were plenty of opportunities for chis
eling, but they didn't seem to take them. You could cheat the children out of their lunch money and not
have the father come looking for you with a rod in his
hand. They seemed too square to be for real. Still, Rick
knew it would be folly to underestimate them. When World War I finally sucked America in, the German New Yorkers volunteered in droves and went happily to France to shoot their relatives.

Rick dressed unobtrusively, in a dark blue double-
breasted suit and a matching blue fedora. He felt naked
without a heater in his waistband, but for safety's sake
he'd had to leave his favorite .45 behind in the farm
house.

He tapped his breast pocket once, to make sure he
had his papers with him; he was not about to let some snoops get the drop on him again, as they had in London. Once more, he recited his new name to himself:
Ekhard Lindquist, specialist in the oil importation busi
ness. British Intelligence had arranged for someone to
answer the telephone at a Goteborg number just in case
anyone called to check his bona fides. He took the
stairs instead of the lift, the better to get an idea of
the layout of the hotel. If the hit were going to come practically outside his window, it would behoove him to know the joint from top to bottom.

He was walking on the Charles Bridge, scoping the killing zone, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"But surely this is Mr. Rick Blaine?" said a vaguely
familiar voice in German-accented English. "Of the
Caf
é
Am
é
ricain in Casablanca? The walk is unmistak
able."

He wheeled around. There stood Hermann Heinze,
the former German consul in French Morocco. Heinze
was smiling, but he didn't appear glad to see him.

"There must be some mistake," said Rick. Unfortu
nately there was no mistaking the identity of the man
who stood before him.

Like many gangsters, and most of the Nazi top brass,
Hermann Heinze was a short man. Rick himself was
not very big: about five feet nine inches tall and weigh
ing about 155 pounds. Heinze stood nearly a head
shorter than he and probably outweighed him by
twenty pounds or so. He had a pale, round, moon face, a balding head, and rheumy little pig eyes, over which
he wore a pair of Coke-bottle spectacles. In civilian
life, Rick reflected as he looked at him, he would have
been lucky to be the third guy in a two-man office.
Under Hitler, though, his ignorance, his arrogance, his congenitally nasty disposition, and his bullying tem
perament had allowed him to rise quickly in the consular service. He was, in short, a born Nazi diplomat.

"I think not," his interlocutor assured him. "Would you be so kind as to come with me?" Heinze gestured
in the direction of a BMW coupe parked near the curb.
"I have always believed that unpleasantness should be
avoided in public places except when one is trying to make a point. Would you step into the car, please?"

Of all the rotten luck. What were the odds of his
running into anyone he knew from Casablanca—or,
worse, anyone who knew him? He would have put
them at several million to one. Yet his number had
come up. Well, that sometimes happened, even when
the roulette wheel wasn't fixed.

Rick got in the car, for he didn't see any point in
arguing or causing a scene that might blow everything.
Whatever had to be done would have to be done else
where.

He did catch one break: no one else was in the car,
no one hiding, waiting to take him for a ride. If this
were New York, Rick knew he would be as good as
dead already, with only the gunshot to the back of the
head and the dump job somewhere in the Jersey flats
remaining as a kind of formality.

"What's on your mind, Heinze?" he asked as idly as
he could, lighting a cigarette and tossing the match out
the window as the car started up.

"There are many unanswered questions surrounding
your rather sudden departure from Casablanca," said
Heinze, "but even more—in my mind, at least—
concerning your appearance here in Prague. Of course
you know our countries are now at war?"

"I've heard the rumors," replied Rick.

"Oh, they are more than rumors, I can assure you," Heinze observed as they crossed one of the bridges.
"They are very much the facts."

"Do tell."

"Yes," said Heinze. "And as an official of the Reich,
it is my duty to take you into custody at once." He
made a little grimace. "For your own protection. I'm
sure you understand."

"I'm sure I do," replied Rick.

"This is no time for the joking!" Heinze shouted.
"You are wanted the length and breadth of Europe. You
cannot escape. I don't know why you have chosen to
come to Prague, or under whose auspices, but believe
me, Mr. Blaine, you will not be leaving any time soon.
"Your papers, please!"

Rick made a pretense of fishing around in his jacket. He was not about to hand over his fake Swedish docu
ments. "I must have left them in my sock drawer." He shrugged. "In my country, a man doesn't have to carry
a piece of paper to tell him who he is."

They had crossed over an island in the Vltava and were now headed up a steep hill. Rick lit a cigarette.
"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere we can talk privately," replied Heinze.
"I thought it might amuse you to see the best view of
Prague from the top of Pet
ří
n Hill. I advise you to
enjoy it, since it might well be your last view of any
thing for some time."

"I get it," said Rick. "Somewhere that you and I
might be able to do a little business, cut a deal, eh,
Heinze?" Heinze's sideways glance told him he'd
struck home. "After all, I am a businessman."

The car reached the top of the hill. Heinze killed the engine, and they both got out. Nearby stood an old
monastery. Under Hitler, there probably wasn't much
call for its services these days, although Rick suspected
they were needed more than ever. It was very peaceful
up there. Although the weather was fine, very few peo
ple were about. Those who were studiously avoided
looking at them: two men in an official German car
could only be trouble.

This, Rick reflected, was what life would be like if
the Nazis won. Like Hitler's watercolors: all buildings and no people.

"It will go easier with you if you talk to me first,
before I take you to Prague Castle and let the Gestapo
have its way with you," said Heinze, lighting a ciga
rette. "I know you think you are—how do you Americans say—a tough guy, but believe me when I tell you
that you have not yet met a real tough guy. Before Herr Heydrich's men are through with you, you will be sing
ing the immolation song from
G
ö
tterd
ä
mmerung
—in
the original soprano."

"You can forget about that," said Rick. "I gave up
vaudeville when I was thirteen." He started to walk
around a bit, planning his next move. Heinze had made
a fatal mistake bringing him here, and he was about to
find out why.

"Let us stop playing about the bush, Mr. Blaine,"
said Heinze. "Unfortunately for you, Major Strasser lived long enough to gasp out the name of his mur
derer. Your name was on his lips when he died."

"I didn't know he cared," said Rick.

"Then you admit you killed an officer of the Third
Reich?" Heinze shouted.

"So what if I did?" Rick retorted. "You'd do the
same thing. It was him or me. He drew on me first.
The last time I looked, self-defense was legal, even in
Casablanca." He lit a cigarette. "Anyway, what was I supposed to do, take a bullet for Victor Laszlo? What
did he ever do for me?"