After a drive of only a few blocks, the driver pulled up in the center of a dimly lighted crosstown block and looked back curiously to ask his passenger, “This the place you want, Mac?”
Morgan Wayne nodded and pushed a dollar bill over the back of the seat and got out. A short flight of wooden stairs led up from the sidewalk to double oak doors that were closed and which bore only the numerals 41. Wide windows on each side of the doors were heavily curtained and showed no light.
Wayne turned the knob and opened the unlocked door onto a small, bare vestibule lighted only with a very dim bulb in the ceiling. He closed the outer door firmly before crossing the vestibule and opening the inner door onto a large, brilliantly lighted room that had the appearance of the lounge room of a private club, furnished with comfortable leather chairs and smoking stands and with damask-covered tables ranged around three sides that would accommodate half a hundred diners.
The fourth side of the room was occupied by a long serving bar with two white-jacketed bartenders serving up drinks for the half-dozen waiters attending the wants of the special customers who had lingered convivially to this early hour.
A beaming headwaiter in immaculate white tie and tails accosted Wayne as he entered. “Meestair Wayne. We 'ave wondered w'ere you are thees long time. Even tonight, Meestair Langdon he 'ave asked, 'Henri, 'ave you seen the Meestair Wayne thees days?' an' I 'ave tell heem—” He broke off with a slight bow as a chubby, florid-faced man in a brown, pin-striped business suit came toward them. “But 'ere ees Meestair Langdon now, to welcome you. One cognacfine, monsieur.”
“Bring the decanter, Henri,” Wayne said, and added speculatively, “Criozet Anniversaire?”
“Oui, monsieur. One decanter of Baccarat glass there ees set aside for your return.” The headwaiter scurried away as the proprietor came up with a quiet smile.
“Morgan Wayne. Where've you been hiding yourself?”
Wayne shook hands with Myron Langdon and asked, “Have there been inquiries?”
“Several phone calls from Washington about two weeks ago. And Vienna has been trying for you by transatlantic telephone since midnight. You are urgently requested to call Operator Seventeen the moment you show up, though I told them I didn't have the faintest idea whether you were in New York or Calcutta.”
Wayne nodded and said, “I'd better take that call in your office.” He followed Langdon to the rear and through a door into a small office, where the proprietor left him alone. Wayne got long-distance and asked for Overseas operator Seventeen, gave his name, and was told rather excitedly, “Please hold on, Mr. Wayne. A call is just coming through.”
Morgan Wayne held on, his face masklike, and presently, cutting through the clickings and ghostlike asides of disembodied voices, a familiar and incisive tone came clearly over the wire:
“Wayne? Are you there, Morg?”
“That you, Matt?” Wayne settled back with a grin. “I head you were top brass, but what's this Vienna deal?
“That'll take some telling. Where the devil have you been hiding, Morg? I got Washington on your trail two weeks ago, but no luck.”
“A little thing I got tied up with,” Wayne said carefully. “What's on your mind?”
“You. And the Balkans.”
Wayne said, “The Balkans, Matt?”
“There's a plane waiting at La Guardia,” the voice went on. “They've been standing by since midnight. I don't care what you're tied up with there...”
“I'm not,” Wayne said curtly. “Is this official?”
“Not after you reach Budapest. From that moment, you're on your own. If there's real trouble, you're just a millionaire nitwit with a yen for adventure. And if you pull it off, you'll never be named in official citations. Can we count on you, Morg?”
“If you doubted it,” said Wayne dryly, “you wouldn't be on the wire.”
There was the ghost of a chuckle over the wire. “This is a woman, my boy. A woman called Z. Do you still want it?”
Wayne's features tightened. “Zelia?” he asked sharply.
“Right. That plane is waiting, Morg. I'll contact La Guardia and tell them to expect you in half an hour.” There was an abrupt click and the transatlantic connection was broken.
Morgan Wayne got up slowly and went to the door. He moved across the room past the bar and shook his head firmly at Henri, who waited proudly with a decanter of Criozet Anniversaire on a tray with a large snifter of the same delicate Baccarat glass.
He said lightly, “Put it away, Henri. I'll be back before too long... from Budapest.” He touched Henri on the shoulder and went out of 41 to hail a taxi that would take him to the airplane awaiting him at the airport.
The End
Table of Contents
Beginning
Matthew Blood
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
The Avenger Page 17