“Must we?” she asked as pathetically as possible.
Richard nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
She lowered her voice. “Telephone book?”
“No good. I had a look at it when you were powdering your nose.”
“Nothing there at all?”
“Nothing.”
Frances resigned herself to the inevitable. “Well, let’s go now, and get it over.”
Richard finished his beer slowly. It was a good thing that one of them was having fun, thought Frances. Then she began to wonder. She had been in such a constant depression ever since they had arrived in Nümberg. It was as if Gibbon’s idea of the Middle Ages had interpreted itself here in the tortuous streets, the thick walls, the narrow crowding houses. A triumph of religion and barbarism.
“Well?” said Richard.
“I thought I liked Gothic.”
“You like it spiritual and aspiring, my sweet.”
“Perhaps it is that. Tell me, Richard, was Gibbon ever in Nümberg?”
Richard laughed suddenly. Curious faces turned to look at them. They waited until the interest had subsided, and then they left.
“We must take a No. 2 tram, but God knows in which direction,” said Richard.
“Going east or west? “
“Roughly east.”
“Then it’s this side.”
A tramcar was approaching; there was no time for any argument. He followed Frances aboard with some misgivings, and then watched her trying to appear oblivious as the conductor agreed that they would be driven along the Marienstrasse.
“On a moor, or a hill or some place like that,” said Richard, “but in a strange muddled-up town… It’s quite beyond me how you know these things.”
Frances relented. “I cannot tell a lie, darling. You saw the Lorenz Church?”
“Well, yes. We were just beside it.”
“Well, what way does a church point?”
“East, of course… Upon my Sam!” He grinned. “You know, Frances, just at the stage when a man thinks women have no brains they confound him by some low cunning like that. Go on, have your laugh. You deserve it.”
As they approached the Marientor, he pressed her hand.
“Keep your eyes open,” was all he said. Frances remembered the name he had told her last night. They sat in silence, watching the shops and business houses, as the lumbering tramcar clanked its slow way along the Marienstrasse. They were now in the newer part of the town: the street was broader and the names on the shops were less easy to see. Frances guessed that Richard had the idea that Fugger might be the name of some business; it was the one chance. For if there had been no Fugger of Marienstrasse in the telephone directory then the only other way to find Mr. Fugger was either to make inquiries at the post office, which would be dangerously stupid, or to explore the Marienstrasse themselves. There must be a name to see, somewhere, or else no one could possibly get in touch with the retiring Mr. Fugger.
The tram had come to the end of the Marienstrasse. They had seen nothing which could help them.
“We’ll have to walk. Sorry, Fran; you must be tired.” They got off at the next stop, and started back towards their street.
“We’ll try this side again,” said Richard, and took Frances’ arm. They walked slowly along, and covered two-thirds of the street. Then Frances suddenly felt Richard’s hand tighten. They stopped. as they had done at half a dozen other points in the street. It was a small bookseller’s shop with a narrow window space and doorway, completely overshadowed by the larger, more prosperous buildings on either side. They looked at the books displayed in the window. They were mostly curiosities with the title pages open to show the brown spots of age. There were also some music books. One, a collection of songs, was lying open.
“Very interesting,” Richard said, and they walked on. He hoped Frances wouldn’t look at the sign above the window. She didn’t. It was of no help, anyway. It merely said BUCHHANDLING in faded letters; but above the door had been small, neat white lettering: A. FUGGER.
8
A. FUGGER
Next morning they left their hotel at half-past nine, and began their search through the bookshops of Nürnberg. Richard wanted a certain collection of early German lyrics. The two bookshops which they first tried were very modern; they specialised in books with streamlined printing and magnificent photographs, or in imposing editions of carefully selected authors. In the second shop, the assistant shook his head decisively. The only place they would be likely to find such a book might be in the smaller second-hand dealers. They thanked him, and walked towards the Marienstrasse. It was just eleven o’clock as they reached the small bookshop with the brown-spotted title pages displayed in the window. Richard noted that the books had been changed since yesterday, except for the collection of old songs, and that it had been moved to another corner of the window.
Inside the shop, there was the sleepy, dusty feeling which its outside had promised. The bookshelves ran to ceiling height around the walls, and there were books overflowing on to the two large tables which crowded the narrow room.
At a corner of one table, a girl with glasses was working with scissors and paste. She had a white face and dull blue eyes, and her hair was tightened back so ruthlessly that it hurt Frances to look at it. She looked up expectantly as the door creaked shut behind them. Frances had the feeling that the girl was disappointed. She left her work reluctantly, and came forward with no smile on her pale lips. No, she didn’t think they had any such edition. She had never heard of it. As she recognised them as foreigners, she asserted her knowledge still more: she was sure, absolutely sure that such an edition did not exist. She neither offered to verify it from any catalogue, nor moved over to the poetry section to find anything else which might interest Richard. He exchanged glances with Frances, and then he searched in one of his pockets and brought out a small clipping. He handed it to the girl.
“The edition does exist,” he said, as politely as he could. “Teubner printed it in Leipzig in 1836.”
The girl took the sheet of paper and held it without looking at it. The truth is, thought Frances, she doesn’t want us here at all.
Richard raised his voice.
“Is there anyone here, then, who does know about German lyric poetry?” The girl’s face was still expressionless, but her eyes shifted for one moment to a door in the back wall of the shop.
“We haven’t got it,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Richard. Frances knew by the cold edge in his voice that he was angry. She moved over to the pile of books on the nearest table and lifted a volume. If it came to a test of endurance, she was determined to outlast the girl.
“Music here,” she said with charming surprise. She kept her voice as lighthearted as she could, and gave the silent girl a dazzling smile.
“You don’t mind if I look through these? Thank you so much.” Without waiting for an answer, Frances proceeded to blacken her white gloves on the dusty covers.
The door at the back of the shop opened. A short, stout man entered. He was in his shirtsleeves, and he mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He had shut the door behind him, but not before Richard had smelled something singeing, something burning. Paper could it be?
The small man looked at the girl in some irritation as he said, “I thought I heard customers.” He turned his back on her abruptly and listened to Richard’s questions. The girl picked up her scissors again, and went on with her work, but Frances noticed that she made only a pretence of being busy.
The bookseller was interested. “That was a very fine collection,” he said. “I had a copy at one time, but I believe it was bought. Over here I have some of the older editions of lyrics; I’ve so many books I sometimes forget what I have.” He pointed to the farthest bookshelves. His eyes were fixed for a few moments on the red rose of Frances’ hat.
She said, “I am very interested in some of these old song collections.” She waved her hand towards the music
table. The bookseller looked at her gloves in dismay.
“But the books are filthy,” he cried. “Ottilie, where is the duster?” Ottilie mumbled something about the next room.
“Get it then,” he said sharply. Ottilie went reluctantly towards the back door.
“Helpful creature,” said Richard, more to himself than to the others. Frances had already picked up a large green volume, which she had noted particularly. “Songs of All Nations” read the fading gold letters in German. She turned quickly to the page which the index had numbered. She smiled to the bookseller.
“You are very kind,” she said, and smoothed down the page with the back of her hand. She held the book flat on the table so that both men could see the song title clearly. The bookseller’s eyes flickered as they read “O My Love’s Like a Red, Red Rose (translated from the English).” And then he smiled gently, his round fat face creasing with genial puckers. He mopped his brow again, and Frances closed the book carefully. She had just replaced it exactly when Ottilie was with them again. She had come back very quickly indeed, for such a slow-moving person. She shook her head disapprovingly over the soiled gloves.
She actually spoke. “It would have been better to take off your gloves,” she said.
“But my hands would have become dirty.”
“It is easier to wash hands than gloves.”
“But I couldn’t put my gloves on again, over dirty hands,” explained Frances gently. Ottilie shrugged her shoulders, and then suddenly became aware that the two men had gone to the far corner of the room. Frances hardheartedly pointed out a book to dust. It was a curiosity on early Church music.
“Do you like to sing?”
The girl said, “Sometimes.” She looked as if she were going to follow the men.
“Do you like Mozart or do you prefer Wagner?” Frances continued relentlessly.
“Wagner.” If eyes could poison, I am already writhing on the ground, thought Frances.
At that moment, the bookseller was shaking his head sadly. His voice was clearer. “No, I am afraid it’s gone. Ottilie, do you remember a small book bound in red calf which I bought from Professor Wirt?” Ottilie shook her head too; she made a movement as if to go over to where the men stood.
“Have you got any editions of Lieder for a soprano voice?” cut in Frances with her disarming smile. Ottilie threw one last glance at the bookseller. The words “edition”, “Leipzig”, “difficulty” reached them. It sounded the usual business talk. Ottilie searched for the songs. Despite the foreigner’s smile there was a certain firmness in her tone of voice. Ottilie knew that type of customer. The quickest way to get rid of them was to find what they asked for; they knew what they wanted. If only she had recognised the type when they entered the shop they would have been away by this time. But they had seemed easy to deal with, judging from their appearances. She found two editions, and watched Frances look through the contents with interest. Her last suspicion melted as the men came back to the table.
Richard addressed Frances. He spoke in English, carefully, noting the sudden gleam of concentration in Ottilie’s eyes. He chose simple words, which would be understood by anyone who had had English at school.
“He cannot find the book. He must order it from Leipzig. Perhaps it may not be there. It may take time to find it elsewhere. It is a pity.”
Frances recovered herself, and said gravely and just as clearly, “I am sorry. Perhaps we should go to another bookshop.” She was enjoying herself immensely.
Richard returned to German. “My wife suggests another shop. Would you be so good as to advise us?” The bookseller smiled benignly. He dictated two addresses to Ottilie, who wrote them down, and Richard put the slip of paper in his pocket.
“If you cannot find it,” the bookseller said, “then come and see us again. If I am not here, then Ottilie will take the order.” He was looking speculatively over Frances’ shoulder, out into the street. “Good day,” he added suddenly, and walked with quick short steps to the back room.
The abrupt ending startled Richard. He saw a look of warning in his wife’s eye. She had either noticed or felt something. As Ottilie wrapped one of the song-books for Frances they made their way to a bookcase near the door. Richard observed that the girl was glancing at her wristwatch, that she was taking little interest in tying up the parcel. As Richard handed her the money, she seemed as if she were not even counting it… And then the front door swung open. It opened with such terrific violence that the hinges shrieked a protest which made Frances jump.
Three large men strode in, almost upsetting Ottilie. Richard could have sworn that there was almost an approach to a smile on her face. She gestured quietly towards the back door. The three men strode on. Their boots hypnotised Frances. They moved as if they belonged to the same body. They drew their revolvers. The leader turned the handle of the door, and then kicked it open. But there were no shots, no voices. Frances found herself breathing again.
She looked with just sufficient amazement at the girl. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Burglars?” The girl gave her first real smile. Frances watched its contempt and was satisfied.
The men filed out of the back room. Their self-assurance was replaced by bad temper.
“Where is he?” the leader snapped. The girl’s smile faded. Contempt gave way to fear.
“He went in there.” She pointed to the back room. “There is no way out.
“There is a window, fool. Who are these?” He nodded towards Frances and Richard.
“Customers.” The girl was sullen in her disappointment.
“What is your name? What do you want here?” He fired questions at Richard.
Richard looked surprised, and then let the right tone of slight annoyance creep into his voice as he answered. Frances registered appropriate amazement but she left everything to Richard. This was his show, and he was doing remarkably well as the innocent bystander. He was explaining at some length that they had tried two other bookshops and had failed in their search for this book; that they had been directed to the smaller second-hand dealers; that the book was still unfound; that the assistant in this shop had been good enough to write down the names of two other shops where… He at last found the slip of paper with Ottilie’s sharply pointed script, and handed it to the leader of the men. Ottilie, on the verge of tears, verified the statement. It suddenly dawned on Frances that A. Fugger was gaining some very valuable minutes. It seemed to dawn on the leader too, or perhaps his first suspicions were fading. He impatiently interrupted Richard’s description of the book.
“I shall leave this man with you to get further particulars. I have work to do.” He stepped back, brought his heels sharply together, and raised his arm. He barked out his war cry. Now we’re sunk, thought Frances. She saw Richard stiffen slightly, and then relax again as he gave an inclination of his head and said, “Good day.”
The German trooper raised his voice. “I gave you our German greeting!”
“And I gave you our English one.” Richard’s voice was very quiet. “That is only politeness.”
At the word “politeness,” the German looked searchingly at Richard, and then at Frances. They held their expressions, and returned look for look. There was a moment’s tension, and then the two uniforms had marched away, leaving the third to produce a note-book and pencil. It was a good sign that they hadn’t been taken to some kind of police station, thought Frances, and touched the wooden table.
It was all over in ten minutes. The Nazi snapped his book shut. They all made such business-like gestures, thought Richard irritably. Did it really prove greater efficiency to walk with a resounding tread, to open doors by practically throwing them off their hinges, to shut an insignificant note-book with an imitation thunder-clap? Probably not at all, but—and here was the value of it—it made you look, and therefore feel, more efficient. The appearance of efficiency could terrify others into thinking you were dynamic and powerful—but strip you of all the melodrama of uniforms and
gestures, and detailed regime worked out to the nth degree of supervision and parrot phrases and party cliches, and then real efficiency could be properly judged. It would be judged by your self-discipline, your individual intelligence, your mental and emotional balance, your grasp of the true essentials based on your breadth of mind and depth of thought. Richard studied the young man opposite him. Viewed dispassionately, he was tall and thin; he was already going bald; his chin was weak despite the posed pout of the lips; but whatever strength his chin lacked, his eyes with their intense stare sought to gain. It was a pity the effect was so like that of a goldfish.
“That is all,” the Nazi said. “We shall find you at the hotel if there is anything else we need to know.”
Frances leaned over the table and fixed him with wide-open, innocent eyes. “Why?” she asked gently.
“Why?”
“Yes. Why? We are English visitors, we visit your bookshops; we buy a book, and then you ask us questions and questions because the man who owned this shop was a burglar.”
“A burglar?”
“Well, don’t tell me he was a murderer!” Frances was shocked. The trooper looked perplexed.
“I mean,” explained Frances as if to a child, “in England the police come to arrest a man if he is suspected of a crime like theft or murder.”
The man exchanged a look of amusement with Ottilie. Then he said stiffly, “This is not England, thank God.”
“Quite,” said Richard.
Frances was keeping her jaw clenched. Keep me from laughing out loud, she prayed, especially when it comes. It came. The arm shot out, the heels clicked, the magic words were invoked. The Myleses bowed and said “Good day,” gravely.
Above Suspicion Page 7