Pray for a Brave Heart (12 page)

Denning reached the row of pegs, and searched for his coat and hat. He pulled on his coat, half-turning to see if the waiter had delivered the wine list. But from the neighbouring table to Meyer’s another customer was now signalling, too. The waiter did his best, or perhaps he was colour blind. With a bow, he handed the list to the stranger, who was dressed in a bright-blue suit. He even explained that it was a joke, for he pointed to Denning at the door and laughed heartily. The customer looked more puzzled than amused. Denning made a bleak attempt to smile. The man in the blue suit smiled back politely, but he looked embarrassed. Then he turned to Max Meyer, his hands and shoulders raised as he expounded on incredible people, senseless jokes.

Denning’s smile became real as he entered the lobby, for the man in the bright-blue suit was showing Max the wine list, as
if he wanted to have his indignation shared. Denning thought, well, that’s the first time that a joke against me ever got turned to my account. He could almost feel his heart, descended into his stomach, returning left of centre in his breast.

Madame told him, “But you
ought
to have got the check from the waiter.” She shook her head over the impatience of customers, over her own stupidity at sending all the waitresses to serve upstairs tonight: they stuck to the rules and made out the checks properly “One brandy?” He was probably being accurate, she decided, he hadn’t been in the room very long. And she liked his face, she always liked men’s faces that were serious and sad if the eyes were not glum. She looked up from her money drawer to see him staring at the waiter in the telephone booth. “Poor Emil,” she explained, “he’s been trying to telephone the hospital and its line is engaged. Now that’s four, five, and ten makes fifteen, and five is twenty. His wife is having a baby.”

“He’ll pull through, probably,” Denning said with a last glance at the waiter. He remembered the telephoning that Keppler had begun as he left the pink room in No. 10 Henziplatz. Keppler was thorough, at least; and he must be taking Max seriously, too. Denning felt better for that. He handed over a tip for Emil. “A little extra,” he said quickly. “Good night.” He left Madame still talking.

There was a fan of yellow light spreading out from the Café Henzi’s doorway, bright and dangerous. But beyond, on either side, the arcade was dimly lighted, bleak, its doorways dark, its square pillars casting black bands of shadow over the gutter on to the cobblestones of the little Square. Denning walked along
the straight stretch of arcade at a normal pace, with no sign of hurry, no sign of alarm. Then, just before the arcade twisted to the right to form the north-west corner of the Henziplatz, he halted beside one of the pillars as if to light a cigarette. There was no one near him. The doorways he had passed had been empty. A short step took him into the pillar’s broad black shadow. He slipped his cigarettes back into his pocket, keeping close to the base of the arch. From here, he could see much. He took a deep breath and examined the Square.

A couple sauntered past the café, their arms linked, the woman’s high heels echoing under the arcade. Two men crossed the cobblestones. On the other side of the Square, a man walked briskly. Beyond the café, just south of the lighted doorway, a car was drawn up close to the arch of the arcade. That seemed all. Yet, his uneasiness grew. It was a long minute of waiting.

He heard a car coming from the northern part of the Henzigasse, moving slowly with excessive care. It entered the Henziplatz. He could see it now, gathering speed, bumping over the cobblestones, travelling past him towards the south end of the Square. With satisfaction, he watched its tail-lights vanishing down the south section of the narrow Henzigasse. And then his relief was wiped out. Why had it travelled so slowly through the northern part of the little street? It had been one of those little German Volkswagens, easy to manoeuvre. Why had it crawled its way into the Square?

There must be a car parked on that stretch of narrow street, Denning decided: a car parked to the north of the Square, as well as the car parked just south of the Café Henzi. Meaning… ? Yet people did park their cars in narrow alleys where—judging by the emptiness of the Henziplatz and the southern part of the
street which he could see clearly—parking was not encouraged. Motorists were very much alike in any language.

He straightened his spine as he saw Max Meyer appear at the doorway of the Café Henzi. With him was the man in the bright-blue suit, whose sense of humour was now restored for they were laughing together. The man said, “I go this way,” and he pointed south. “What about you?” Max must have nodded his agreement, for they turned south, walking away from Denning. Across the Square, a woman stepped out from the shadow of an arch, and signalled.

Max had only taken a few paces along the west arcade. He must have been alert for danger. As two men, tall powerful figures in dark coats, suddenly appeared from the car which was parked so peacefully south of the café, he veered from the sidewalk and started across the Square, leaving his companion to stand and stare after him.

And then a car, empty except for the driver, entered the Square from the northern Henzigasse, its engine roaring with its sudden acceleration. Meyer glanced over his shoulder and began to run. He almost reached the east arcade ahead of him, but the car swerved as it travelled so recklessly through the Square, and it struck him with all the weight of its speed. There was a wild high scream of brakes. The car skidded towards the arcade, swivelling completely round to a sudden halt almost against the arches themselves. And there it stood, motionless, pointing its headlights at the man it had murdered.

In the pink-shaded room of No. 10 Henziplatz, Le Brun started to his feet. “My God, what was that?” he asked, and he raced
for the window. Keppler picked up the telephone. I knew it, I knew it, he thought bitterly, his anger rising against himself, as he dialled Detective Inspector Bohren’s private number. I knew it… Why didn’t I trust my own instincts, why, why?

That was always the question—afterwards.

For a moment of helplessness, Denning stood still, his shout of warning frozen in his throat. Then, from the car that pointed towards Meyer’s crushed body, the driver slipped out, quickly, quietly, and dashed into the arcade near at hand.

Denning began running. As others were running: the couple who had been sauntering round the Square, the man in the bright-blue suit, two or three men from the shadows of the arcades. To run, to see what had happened, to help, that was the first impulse.

From the Café Henzi came Madame, a coat thrown over her shoulders; a waiter with a napkin still folded over his arm; one or two startled patrons, then three or four, then others to group at the doorway and stare across the Square. Upstairs, the singing and laughter had stopped. The only sound in the Square was the clatter of running feet. But from the parked car near the café, Denning heard the gentle sound of an engine being skilfully
moved into low gear. The car started quietly forward, creeping slowly along the arcade towards the southern Henzigasse.

In his increasing sense of helplessness, Denning tried to shout a warning to one of Keppler’s men who must be somewhere in the Square. But his shout was only a gasp, the cobblestones had turned into a heavy bog sucking down his feet, and for a moment’s despair he thought he would never reach the group that had begun to gather round Max Meyer. At least, he thought as he joined them and stood regaining his breath, I have the escaping car’s number, for whatever that’s worth, I have its number.

But where was the man who had driven into Max? Was he hiding over in that arcade? Yet nothing moved there. Or he could have made for the street which led southward away from the Square—the street where the car that had withdrawn so tactfully could have picked him up. Or, foolhardy as it might seem, he could now be mingling with this little crowd. And yet that hardly seemed credible; except that someone would certainly stay here to verify their success. Who, then? Sharpened by failure, his eyes searched the gathering group.

“But what
happened?”
a woman kept saying. “Didn’t he
see
the car?”

“It must have skidded—”

“Out of control—the driver was going too fast.”

“Was he drunk?”

“Don’t move the poor fellow!” That was Madame protesting.

“That’s right,” Denning said harshly, and pushed aside a man who was about to bend over the body. “Are you a doctor? Stand back, then. This is my job.” His voice was grotesque to his own ears, angry, curt, hoarse with emotion. But it had an
effect. The man looked up, startled.

“Let this doctor have a look,” Madame said quickly, taking Denning’s side—she had pride in her patrons—and she pulled the stranger away from the dead man.

Denning knelt, and raised Meyer’s eyelids gently, felt for a pulse that no longer beat, bent his head over a silent heart. Max stared back at him with unseeing eyes, one hand folded purposefully. Denning felt the pulse of that wrist, too. The hand was hiding a pack of cigarettes. Then Denning looked up at the questioning faces around him. Only the man who wanted to be helpful had no question in his eyes: they watched Denning coldly. Denning shook his head. “What about the car?” he demanded, and even the watching man’s eyes turned towards the headlights for a moment. Denning rose to his feet, the pack of cigarettes now hidden in his own hand.

He looked down at Max Meyer for a brief last moment— that was all the time Max would have allowed him. And the feeling of the cigarettes in his hand was no comfort at all, even though Max would have approved of it. He restrained the impulse to slip his hands into his pockets at once. Instead, he turned away, his hands by his side for anyone to see.

Someone tugged at his sleeve. “Better take a look at this one, too. The driver looks dead, but you never can tell. Proper smash-up, wasn’t it?”

“The driver?” Denning asked, startled for a moment.

Behind him, Madame said crossly, “Oh, can’t you leave that poor fellow alone? The doctor said it was hopeless.”

Denning looked back to see the same man who had bent over Max now kneeling beside him. “But he didn’t feel the heart properly,” the man was saying in hard flat German, as he
slipped his hand inside Max’s jacket.

Denning walked away towards the murder car, grim-faced, his jaw set, his fist clenched. If Max could speak, he’d be saying, with his sardonic smile, “That’s right, you ghoul, search all the other pockets too.”

He reached the car and stared down at the man who had been pulled into the driver’s seat, a little man in a cheap smart suit with an evil gash across his forehead. A cheap grey suit, too tight for him, wrinkled over his heavy body. His shoes were elaborate, with pointed toes dangling from short stiff legs. His satin tie hung loose from a striped silk shirt. Even in death, he was a very frightened little man.

The police had arrived, with three cars and an ambulance.

“Weren’t they
quick?”
someone said with native pride.

Denning stood aside, listening to the questioning voice of authority. In any language, it sounded the same. And the other voices eager to answer it were the same everywhere— voices explaining, recounting, conscious of taking a small, but fortunately safe, part in a passing tragedy. He was still disguising the pack of cigarettes in his hand. Somehow, at this moment, he distrusted pockets. And he was still watching, from a little distance, the man who liked to feel hearts properly: a tall powerful man with reddish hair closely cut under a dark felt hat. His coat was dark, too, broad in the shoulders with a military look, and long-skirted. The kind of coat worn by the two men who had advanced on Max under the arcade. So one of them had driven away; and the other had come running along with the innocent people. Yes, even
from this distance, the silhouette became recognisable.

Denning moved over to the group that was giving information to a tall, solemn man in uniform. A strange little group: the man in the bright-blue suit, pink-faced with importance; the woman of the sauntering couple, whose tongue clacked as loudly as her high heels under the arcade; a heavy blonde in a dressing-gown, suddenly conscious of her hair curlers; a man with striped pyjamas under his raincoat; some of the customers of the Café Henzi. Near them was Madame herself, trying to get back to her cash desk—if the police had any questions to ask, they’d find her there. Facing her stood another obvious policeman, even if he was in ordinary clothes, a man of some authority, trying to pacify Madame. What was he—a detective, an inspector?

Denning said clearly, “This lady did not see the actual accident. I can vouch for that.”

“Thank you, doctor,” said Madame, and with several bows all around fluttered back to her café.

“Did you see it?” the inspector demanded.

Denning pointed to the northern Henzigasse, as if he were explaining. “I was up there—” he began. Then he dropped his voice, “Get that tall man in the dark coat who’s walking south. He went through the dead man’s pockets.”

The inspector looked southward. “Yes, yes,” he said to Denning, then moved away as if to supervise the police photographers.

“I suppose no one can tell very much,” the man in pyjamas said. “Happened too quickly. Must have been drunk, both of them.”

“I feel terrible about it,” said the heavy blonde. “Right under
my window it was.” She giggled nervously. “I do look a fright, don’t I?” She covered her curlers with her hands.

“The gentleman who was killed was certainly not drunk,” the man in the bright-blue suit joined in righteously. “Most certainly not. Let me tell you exactly how it all happened.” And so he began his story, for the seventh time at least.

As Denning stood with the listening group, he watched the south end of the Square. The man hurrying through the shadows had almost reached the entrance to the Henzigasse. I’ve failed, Denning thought, he’s vanishing into the darkness. We’ll never find him there. but even as his fear was becoming a certainty, a policeman set out running. Now was the test.