The Doctor Dines in Prague

by Robin Hathaway

  He rolled off the couch and stood up. “Ohh.” He headed for the bathroom and ran the cold water full-force. Grabbing a washcloth, he soaked it under the spigot and pressed it to his forehead. That woman sure had a head for liquor. She had matched his beers—two for one. With his free hand, he fumbled through the medicine cabinet, looking for aspirin. No luck. He must go to the store today and stock up. He staggered back to the couch and lay down again. A loud banging on the apartment door brought him upright. Quickly pulling his trousers on over his long johns, he went to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Super. Open up.”

  He finished fastening his belt and opened the door.

  “inže.” (“Rent.”) The surly man blurted the word.

  “But surely my cousins …”

  “Pro Brezen, ne Duben.” (“For March, not April.”)

  The man was probably within his rights—although it was only March 31! “Just a minute.” Fenimore went to the coffee table where he had dropped his wallet the night before. The super followed close behind. Fenimore skimmed through his foreign currency. “How much?”

  “Four thousand korunas.” (“Two hundred dollars.”)

  Fenimore counted out the bills and handed them over. The super pocketed them with a satisfied smirk. Tucking a much thinner wallet into his back pocket, Fenimore made a mental note to stop at American Express before going shopping. When the door closed, Fenimore was fully awake. The super’s visit had had the effect of a cold shower. But his head still hurt. He went back to the bathroom to check once more for aspirin, or an aspirin substitute. As he rummaged through the medicine cabinet, his eye fell on a bottle of nitroglycerin tablets. He was reminded of Vlasta’s cardiac condition. Sure enough—checking the patient’s name on the label, he read, VLASTA BOROVY. He opened the bottle. Three-quarters full. He rummaged further and found two other cardiac medicines. Because of the nature of his departure, Vlasta had left all his medicines behind.

  This time Fenimore took a real cold shower. Throughout the shower he berated himself. What the hell did he think he was doing? Going out on the town with some blonde when he should have been looking for his cousins! But he had thought the blonde might provide him with clues, he reminded himself. Be honest, Fenimore, you stopped looking for clues after the first beer. As he dressed, he caught sight of a shopping bag on the chair near the door. Puppets! Was he crazy? Buying toys when his cousins were in mortal danger!

  He went to the computer and booted up, taking brief satisfaction in the fact that two days ago, he didn’t know how to do that. When the e-mail screen appeared, he typed Jen’s address and a message: (His messages sounded like telegrams, because he wanted to limit his typing as much as possible.)

  Find shoebox in top of hall closet with letters from my cousin, Anna. Send them by fastest means possible. Cost no object! Love, F

  In those letters, Anna had described her husband’s condition. They were the reason Fenimore had suggested she bring Vlasta to Philadelphia for an evaluation. He wanted to go over her letters now, review Vlasta’s case, and make sure Fenimore had all the right medications with him when he found Vlasta (if he found Vlasta). He shut down the computer and prepared to go into town. The phone rang. Forgetting about possible wiretaps, he answered it.

  “Hi!” Ilsa said. “I have two tickets for the theater tonight. Would you care to join me?”

  Theater! Another time-waster, was his first reaction. Then he reconsidered. He still had questions for Ilsa. And, so far, she was his only contact. It was up to him to stay sober and keep his mind on his job. “Sounds great.”

  “Good. Meet me at …” She gave the address. “The program begins at eight o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.” He hung up. How am I going to sit through a play all in Czech? he wondered. Another thought struck him: How had Ilsa known his phone number? He didn’t remember giving it to her. Idiot! She is a great friend of Anna’s. Of course she would know her phone number. That also explained how she knew his address. Some detective he was. Maybe he should call in the police after all.

  The phone rang again. It must be Ilsa. He had instructed his friends at home to contact him only by e-mail. No one else knew he was here. Reluctantly, he raised the receiver.

  “What are you doing today?” Her tone was proprietary.

  “Except for getting some cash and food supplies, I haven’t decided.”

  “I’ve been thinking. For your safety, I think you should play the tourist role to the hilt.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. People may be watching the apartment—and you. You should act like a typical American tourist.”

  “Please—not that!”

  She laughed. “You know what I mean.”

  “Okay. What should I do?”

  “Visit all the usual sites. The castle, the cathedral, the Astronomical Clock, and—” She paused. “—I will be your tour guide.”

  It was Fenimore’s turn to laugh.

  “What is so funny?”

  “What about your medieval manuscripts?”

  “They can wait. This is just a—as you say in America—coffee break.”

  “Mead break.”

  Her laugh warmed him. “Where should we meet?”

  They settled on a time and a place.

  CHAPTER 13

  Mrs. Doyle was frying eggs in the doctor’s kitchen. The town house on Spruce Street that served as Fenimore’s office and home had recently taken on the aura of a daycare center or youth hostel. And Mrs. Doyle had exchanged her customary role of nurse/office manager for cook/baby-sitter. The waiting room had become a recreation room. And the doctor’s bedroom had been transformed into Mrs. Doyle’s temporary boudoir. Marie and Jiri had taken over the guest room. And Horatio had traded his usual role of office assistant for second-string baby-sitter and stand-up comic. Since he was on spring break, he dropped by every afternoon (he never got up until after noon) to take care of Marie, for which Mrs. Doyle was very grateful. It gave her time to do the shopping and other errands. Every evening after the bookstore closed, Jennifer stopped by to check on them. She usually brought some delicious dessert such as cheesecake or chocolate brownies.

  “Look!” Marie burst into the kitchen, holding Sal against her chest.

  Mrs. Doyle looked. The cat’s furry, yellow face peered out from a frilly dolly’s bonnet. “Oh, my goodness.”

  “Doesn’t she look pretty?” Marie planted a big kiss on top of the cat’s head. In the process, she must have loosened her grip, because Sal leapt to the floor and vanished.

  “Shit!” said Marie.

  Mrs. Doyle looked aghast.

  “Rat says that all the time. Ohhh,” she moaned, “now she’ll go hide and I’ll never find her. Here puss, puss!”

  Mrs. Doyle made a note to speak to Horatio. With that one exception, Marie’s English had improved immensely since she had arrived. “She’ll turn up,” the nurse soothed, secretly glad the poor animal had escaped. Seeing Sal in a dolly cap was akin to witnessing child abuse. “Now, come eat your breakfast.” She placed the fried egg on a plate, between two neat triangles of toast, and poured a glass of orange juice.

  Marie sat down and began to eat with gusto. “Where are we going today?” she asked through a mouth full of egg and toast. Mrs. Doyle frowned. Her instinct was to tell the child not to talk with her mouth full, but she wasn’t sure if it was proper for her to correct her little guest’s manners. She let it pass. “I haven’t decided.” Mrs. Doyle’s feet tended to bunions and they were still recovering from yesterday’s trip to the park. “Maybe we’ll just stay home today and do jigsaw puzzles.”

  Marie looked out the window. “Puzzles are for rainy days,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Following her gaze, Mrs. Doyle noted the bright sunlight filtering into the alley next to the doctor’s house.

  The doorbell rang.

  Marie started to jump up, but Mrs. Doyle stopped her. “Finish your breakfast,” she ordered, and went to answer it.<
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  Horatio was slouched against the doorjamb, clad in his usual coordinated outfit—black leather jacket, black jeans, black sneakers. His black boom box was tucked under one arm.

  “You’re up early,” Mrs. Doyle said.

  He slid into the vestibule. “Marie here?”

  “Now, where else would she be?” Mrs. Doyle blocked his entrance to the hallway. “I want to speak to you,” she said in a stage whisper.

  “Huh?”

  “You watch your language around that young lady.”

  “What … ?”

  “This morning, when Sal jumped out of her arms, she said, ‘Shit.’”

  Horatio clapped a hand over his mouth, feigning shock.

  “It’s bad enough when you say it, but when it comes out of a little girl’s mouth … And what will her parents think, if we send her home spouting street talk?”

  “Hey, man, can I help it if she’s a parrot?”

  “You can help by watching your mouth.”

  “All right, already. Can I go now?”

  Mrs. Doyle stepped aside.

  “Hi, Rat!” Marie greeted him with a big smile.

  “I brought you something.” He tossed a small, red object at her.

  She caught it.

  “Way to go!” He was impressed.

  “What is it?” Marie turned the object over in her hand.

  “Ain’t you ever seen one?” He took it from her and began to demonstrate yo-yo technique. He made it “rock,” he made it “loop,” he swung it up and out and around his head, pulled it down, and made it “sleep.”

  Marie’s eyes were wide. “Teach me.”

  “Now, just a minute.” Mrs. Doyle did her best to maintain discipline in her day care center. “No yo-yoing until you’ve finished your breakfast.”

  Marie gobbled down the remains of her toast and egg, her eyes fixed on Horatio as he performed “Rock the Baby” and “Over the Falls” with great skill.

  “Before you came, we were trying to decide what to do today. Do you have any ideas?” Mrs. Doyle began putting the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.

  The boy let his yo-yo dangle. “How ’bout the Franklin Institute?”

  “That’s an idea.”

  “What’s an in-sti-tute?” asked Marie.

  “Uh …” Horatio scratched his head.

  “In this case it’s like a museum,” said the nurse. “A science museum.”

  Marie wrinkled her nose.

  “There’s the ‘Please Touch’ Museum,” offered Horatio.

  “What about the Poe House?” Jennifer appeared in the kitchen doorway. She had her own key.

  They looked at her skeptically.

  “What’s the Poe House?” asked Horatio.

  “Edgar Allan Poe was one of our first mystery writers and he lived on Spring Garden Street.” Jennifer disappeared into the combination living/dining room, where a huge bookcase dominated one wall. She came back with a small black volume in her hand. Sitting down, she flipped it open. “‘The Tell-Tale Heart,’ ‘The Pit and the Pendulum,’ ‘The Black Cat’ …” she read from the table of contents. “Which one shall I read?”

  “‘The Black Cat’” cried Marie.

  Horatio shrugged.

  Mrs. Doyle continued putting the kitchen in order, and wondered why Jennifer had come by so early.

  “For the most wild yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief … .” Jennifer paused. “Is Sal around?”

  “No,” Marie said, with a sorrowful expression.

  “Good,” said Jennifer. “I don’t think she’d approve of this story.” She continued to read.

  While the others got ready to go to the Poe House, Jennifer stood on a chair and pulled the shoebox from the top of the hall closet. She had it under her arm and the chair replaced by the time the little group began to congregate in the hall.

  “What’s that?” asked the ever-observant Horatio.

  “Some letters Dr. Fenimore asked me to mail to him.”

  “Letters? What letters?” Mrs. Doyle was not to be caught napping.

  “From his cousins. He …” She stopped as Marie came running down the hall.

  “All set?” Jennifer asked.

  They nodded.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t come with you. I have an important errand to run.”

  They looked disappointed.

  “Give my love to ‘The Raven,’” she called as they trooped out the front door. Jennifer had offered to give them a lift, but Mrs. Doyle had promised to take Marie on the bus.

  As soon as they were gone, Jennifer drew a sheet of paper from Mrs. Doyle’s desk and wrote a brief note. She anchored it with the sugar bowl. When the door closed behind her, Sal crept out from under the radiator. Listening to the silence of the empty house, she found a spot of sun and stretched luxuriantly.

  It would be weeks before Fenimore found the gray and dusty dolly cap under the radiator and wondered how it got there.

  CHAPTER 14

  Because things were cheaper in the Czech Republic than in the United States, Fenimore discovered that he had enough money left over after paying the rent to buy his necessities: milk, eggs, coffee, sugar, bread, and aspirin. The little grocery store down the street where he had gone before had been able to supply all his needs—even a bottle of wine. Such a thing was unheard of in Philadelphia. There had been only one embarrassing moment. When he had asked for eggs (“vejce”), the lady behind the counter had looked puzzled, then smiled and brought him a wooden spoon (“vaeka”). Fenimore shook his head and clucked like a chicken. With a laugh, the woman had produced the eggs. After that everything had gone smoothly.

  He had agreed to meet Ilsa at the coffee shop where they had met the previous day. “A ‘coffee break’ should begin with coffee,” she had told him.

  It was a dull, overcast day and the coffeehouse was darker than he had remembered it. The only bright thing was Ilsa’s head bending over something at a table in the back. As he came near he saw she was looking at a street map of Prague. He took the seat opposite.

  She glanced up with a smile. “I’m planning our day.”

  Fenimore felt a flutter of anticipation. Concentrate, you ass, he admonished himself. Remember your mission. A waiter came for his order. “Espresso,” Fenimore said.

  “You are becoming a native.” Ilsa nodded her approval.

  He didn’t confess to his hangover. “What have you planned?”

  “We will begin with the Astronomical Clock in Old Town Square. Cross the bridge …” (When you say “the bridge” in Prague, everyone assumes you mean the Charles Bridge, even though there are many bridges over the Vlatava.) She traced their route with her finger on the map. “We’ll work our way up the hill to Prague Castle and the Cathedral of St. Vitus. Stroll through Golden Alley. On the way back, we will visit the Strahov Library and I will show you my manuscripts. Dinner at a Czech restaurant. The theater. And afterwards, an aperitif at Café Slávia.” She smiled, inordinately pleased with herself.

  And after that? thought Fenimore, and instantly reproved himself. He swallowed his espresso in two gulps. “Let’s go!” He stood up.

  She folded the map and stuffed it into her huge tote bag. Fenimore paid the bill. Plenty of time to ask questions as they walked, he told himself. A whole day and evening lay before them. As they left the coffeehouse, the sun burst from behind a cloud as if conferring a blessing on them.

  While they waited for the light to change at Vaclavske Namesti, two scruffy youths brushed past them, almost knocking them off the curb. Ilsa dropped her tote bag and the contents spilled out on the sidewalk.

  “Pozor!” shouted Ilsa. (“Look out!”)

  Ignoring her, they mounted their motorcycles parked nearby, and roared off.

  Fenimore helped pick up her things. Among them was the crumpled fortune-cookie slip, from dinner the night before. He put it in his pocket, intending to throw it in the first trash can.


  “Thugs!” she said indignantly. “Dregs of the Communist era.”

  A chill shot through Fenimore. Those youths fit Marie’s description of the kidnappers. “Are there many like that?” he asked.

  “Too many. Always looking for trouble. If you pay them, they will do anything for you. No matter how dirty.”

  “Kidnap?”

  She paused in her stride.

  “The thugs who took Anna and Vlasta looked like that, and they came on motorcycles.”

  “They kidnapped them on motorcycles?” She looked incredulous.

  Fenimore had to admit it would be difficult. “Maybe they arrived at the apartment on motorcycles, then handed them over to someone in a waiting car when they got outside.”

  “That sounds more logical,” said Ilsa. “Oh, poor Anna … .”

  They were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, oblivious to the pedestrians trying to make their way around them.

  “I’m sorry,” Ilsa said. “I wish I could be of more help.”

  They began walking again.

  “What would Anna and Vlasta have that someone else would want?” Fenimore said, almost to himself.

  “Not money.” Ilsa shook her head. “Believe me, the salaries of professors in Prague are pitiful.” She smiled ruefully.

  Fenimore racked his brain for some other reason. Jewelry? Unlikely. His mother was the eldest sister and she had inherited most of the valuable family pieces. Their value was largely sentimental anyway. And, if jewelry was the motive, why not just steal it, and not go to the trouble of heisting its owners! … What else? The only other possessions his cousins seemed to have in abundance were books. But who ever heard of kidnapping someone for their books! One particular rare book? Again, why not just steal the book?

  Fenimore stopped in his tracks. Books begin as manuscripts. Could that manuscript on the history of Prague’s architecture contain some valuable information? “Knowledge,” he said aloud.