They woke in the early evening and felt refreshed. Fenimore called the hospital. His cousins were doing well. Vlasta was resting comfortably and Anna was scheduled for release the next morning. But Ilsa’s comment about Marie and the zoo still nagged at him. He shared his concern with Jennifer.
“Why don’t you call Dad?” she said. “Maybe he knows something.”
He called.
“Nicholson’s Bookstore!” a childish voice with a faintly foreign accent sang out.
“Marie?”
“Ano. I mean, ‘Yes’?”
“Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
Fenimore’s laugh bordered on the hysterical.
“You want to buy a book, Uncle Andrew?” Marie chirped.
“No—no, thanks.” Choking back his laughter, he told Marie that her parents were okay, too, and she would see them soon. When he hung up, Jennifer looked bewildered.
“Everything’s okay,” he said, although he still had not located his elusive nurse, cum baby-sitter. But she was probably doing errands while Marie was at the bookstore, he decided. “What now?” He searched Jennifer’s face.
“Let’s go out on the town,” she suggested.
“You mean it?”
“Sure. We’ll get you that wonderful Czech dinner you’ve been longing for.”
His eyes lit up. “Honest?”
“Absolutely. But first let’s take a walk along the river, stop at a wine bar … . I love the city at twilight.”
Fenimore stared at her.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’ve forgiven me?”
“For what?”
“Ilsa.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugged. “You were seduced. It happens.”
“Was not.”
“Was.”
“Not.”
“Was.”
He came over to the bed and put his arms around her. “Wasn’t,” he murmured in her ear.
She drew back. “Do you prefer big women?”
Fenimore scratched his head. “Well, I’ve always wondered … .”
Jennifer began beating his chest with her fists.
Grabbing her hands, he silenced her.
CHAPTER 51
On her second call, Mrs. Doyle hit pay dirt. The hospital where Fenimore’s cousins were registered as patients was just a tram-ride away from her hotel. She hopped on a tram and for the first time relaxed and looked at the old city. “Old” was the feeling that pervaded her. Everywhere she looked were buildings, pitted and tarnished with age—like old silver. And, like old silver, they glowed with the luster, warmth, and dignity acquired by age. They absorbed their modern additions, such as a neon sign here or a bright awning there, with the ease of an old dowager donning a new hat or carrying a new purse. Even the occasional graffiti failed to disfigure them, blending with their ancient scars and stains. They had withstood the test of time. Next to them, Independence Hall, with its red bricks and white trim, seemed like a young upstart.
In the hospital lobby, Mrs. Doyle stopped at the front desk for a visitor’s card and took the elevator to Anna’s room, on the third floor. They would not let her see Vlasta who was in the ICU, because she wasn’t a relative. (Some things are the same the world over.)
Anna’s door was ajar. She tapped lightly and went in. The woman was dozing, but opened her eyes when Mrs. Doyle spoke. “Forgive me, I’m looking for Dr. Fenimore,” she said. “He’s a friend of mine.” She didn’t want to upset the woman with too many lengthy explanations.
“I’m sorry. He left about …” She frowned. “You lose track of time in here … . About two hours ago. Poor man. He was exhausted from looking after my husband and me.”
“Was there a woman with him?”
“Oh, yes. A lovely young woman. Jennifer.”
Mrs. Doyle’s legs felt wobbly. She sat down on the nearest chair. She hadn’t realized how great her fears had been until they were eliminated.
“Yes,” Anna said, “please sit down. You look worn-out.”
With her practiced nurse’s eye, Mrs. Doyle recognized that Anna was not seriously ill. Mrs. Doyle revealed her identity, and told Anna that she had been with her daughter just hours ago.
Anna’s eyes filled with tears as Mrs. Doyle recounted some of Marie’s recent antics in Philadelphia. But when she described Marie taking her teddy bear to the zoo, her mother laughed out loud. “That bear!” she said. “She takes him everywhere.”
“She must inherit that from the doctor. He still keeps his bear on the end of his bed.”
“No!”
Seeing that Anna was relaxed, Mrs. Doyle ventured to ask about her recent experience.
Slowly, Anna recounted the story of their kidnapping, imprisonment, and rescue.
“Mercy!” The word was inadequate to sum up Mrs. Doyle’s feelings. After a moment, she asked where the doctor and Jennifer were now.
Anna gave her the name and address of Jennifer’s hotel.
The danger past, Mrs. Doyle felt no urgency to rush there. She lingered to tell Anna more about her child, a subject a mother never grows tired of.
When she finally left the hospital, Mrs. Doyle was surprised to find it had grown dark. Unfamiliar with the crime-rate in Prague, she decided to splurge and take a cab to Jennifer’s hotel. As the cab drew up to the hotel entrance, she spied the doctor and Jennifer coming out. Walking hand in hand they looked so happy, she couldn’t bear to disturb them. Incurable romantic that she was, she decided to return to her own hotel and wait until morning to make her presence known. She was about to give the driver her address, when she noticed two figures step from the shadows of a doorway and follow her friends. She quickly paid the driver and got out of the cab.
CHAPTER 52
It was after nine when they left the hotel room. So much for twilight. But evening in Prague wasn’t so bad. For the first time since he arrived, Fenimore felt relaxed and happy. He was completely unaware of the two scruffy, tattooed youths a few yards behind them, and of course, of Mrs. Doyle. He was aware only of the pressure of Jennifer’s hand. He returned it. “Where to?” he asked.
“No plan,” she said dreamily. “Let’s just wander.”
And so they did, through the crooked gaslit streets, over the ancient cobblestones. Turning right, then left, and left again, completely unaware of the trouble they were causing the three people hot on their heels behind them.
“This looks nice.” Jennifer paused at an open doorway, from which melodious music wafted. Music was everywhere in Prague, Fenimore noticed. “The Queen of Music,’ Mozart called the city,” he told Jennifer. Inside were tables, each bearing a vase of fresh flowers and a flickering candle. They went in. They didn’t talk much, content to sip their wine, stare at the candle flame and, now and then, at each other. Fenimore recognized the music in the background—a piano concerto by Mozart. He roused himself to say, “Mozart was a favorite son of Praguers. It was here that Don Giovanni was first performed and acclaimed. Not Vienna.”
“To Don Giovanni!” Jennifer raised her glass. “Wait a minute.” She lowered her glass. “Wasn’t he that unscrupulous Casanova?”
“Umm.” Fenimore had the grace to blush.
After two glasses of wine, Fenimore said, “I’m hungry.”
“I read about a restaurant in my guidebook,” she said. “It’s across the Charles Bridge and known for its traditional Czech dinners.”
Visions of succulent schnitzel, dumplings, and palainky rose before him as he helped Jennifer on with her coat. Taking her arm he guided her out to the street and looked up and down. Which way was the Charles Bridge? he wondered. They had made so many turns he had lost his bearings. It took them a while to find the bridge, and their followers cursed them roundly. Even Mrs. Doyle resorted to a few swear words. “Where the hell are they going?” she muttered. “These damned cobblestones are killing my feet!” She blamed this verbal lapse on her recent close association with Horatio. To atone, she said a few Hai
l Marys.
The bridge was less crowded now. The vendors had left and the few strollers were taking their time, pausing to gaze at the river in the moonlight. The statues of heroes and saints cast shadows across their path.
They paused too, to look at the river.
“Was your mother ever homesick?” Jennifer asked, unexpectedly.
He remembered that night long ago, when he had observed his mother after the opera. “Yes,” he said, “I’m afraid she was.”
“It would be hard to leave a place like this—especially if it was your home.”
“True. But when your home is desecrated and under the rule of a ruthless foreign power, it makes it easier.”
“I suppose … .”
Fenimore did not want to be reminded of his mother just now. She would not have approved of his conduct since he had arrived in Prague. He blushed to think what she would have had to say about it. “But I did save the crown!” he reminded his mother’s reproving ghost.
To reach the restaurant, they had to go down some steps and take a path that wound through the trees along the river. The air was full of the smell of growing things and the moon danced through the branches, lighting their way. At one point, Jennifer made Fenimore climb over some old, creosoted logs and onto a wharf, to get a better view of the Charles Bridge from the river. The statues were silhouetted in the soft glow of the lamps and a fine mist was rising from the water. Fenimore chose this moment to turn her face toward his and … . fall into the river.
Jennifer quickly followed.
But they didn’t fall; they were pushed. And when they came spluttering to the surface, the pushers were poised on the wharf, oars raised, ready to whack them over their heads—which they did.
That was the last Jennifer and Fenimore remembered.
Their assailants melted into the trees. The riverbank was empty except for one lone jogger. Breathing hard, the overweight, middle-aged woman thumped down the path toward the river.
Mrs. Doyle put her handbag down on the bank and removed her shoes. She stared intently at the water. First Fenimore, then Jennifer bobbed to the surface. Their eyes were closed and they disappeared immediately. One more chance, she told herself, and jumped into the river. After the first shock of cold water, she pulled one of the nearby logs in after her. When Fenimore popped up this time, she yelled, “Doctor!” and shoved the log under him. His eyelids fluttered open and he grabbed it. Treading water, Mrs. Doyle waited for Jennifer. When she surfaced, the nurse yelled her name and shoved another log under her. Shaking the water out of her eyes, Jennifer grabbed it. Mrs. Doyle, teeth chattering, maneuvered herself behind her two friends. Placing one hand on each of their bottoms, she kicked furiously, pushing them toward shore. They lay like two miniature whales, flopping and gasping, while Mrs. Doyle crawled out and joined them. If it hadn’t been for her karate training, she never could have done this.
She didn’t know how long they lay there, but when she opened her eyes, the lights on the bridge were no longer glowing, there was a streak of pink in the sky, and she was numb with cold. She glanced at her companions. Neither was stirring. She forced herself to her feet and began to rouse them.
When Fenimore opened his eyes and saw Mrs. Doyle bending over him, he felt like Noah when he first saw the dove with the olive branch, or Balboa when he first glimpsed the Pacific, or Lindbergh when he first sighted Paris.
“How did you get here?” he asked, drinking her in.
“Angel’s wings.”
“I believe it,” he said reverently.
CHAPTER 53
Back at the hotel, Fenimore showered, shaved, dressed, and realized that his problems were far from over. How could he leave his cousins in Prague, with their enemies still at large? It would be several weeks before Vlasta would be strong enough to come to the States for his evaluation. Fenimore’s recent experience with the police had not increased his confidence in them. Whom could he turn to for help?
He glanced at the newspaper Jennifer had handed him along with a cup of steaming coffee from the lobby. The Prague Times. The only English-Czech paper, it was distributed to hotel lobbies free, primarily for the benefit of American tourists. There, on the front page, was a picture of the one person he could trust. The one person in Prague he knew was incorruptible. But he had no way to gain his ear. He had no contacts, no influence, no clout. Fenimore could hardly walk into the president’s office at Prague Castle and say: “Hi! I’m an American, but my mother was Czech, and I’ve read all your plays. How ’bout helping me with this problem … ?”
He shook his head and turned the page. A headline leapt out at him:
TRYST ENDS IN DEATH OF TWO
Three photos accompanied the article: Ema, pretty, in a dewy, unformed way; Redik, resembling one of the lesser Roman emperors; and Ilsa—looking like a rose in full bloom—the way she had looked that first day in the coffeehouse.
According to the story, Ilsa had discovered Ema and Redik in his dressing room, in a compromising position, and stabbed them to death.
Fenimore felt dizzy. He heard Ema’s shrill voice defending the puppets. He saw Redik’s mad dance on the tower. He felt the tingle of Ilsa’s touch … .
Charles IV’s curse, it seems, was still intact. And Fenimore was not entirely glad.
He stared at the three photos again.
When Jennifer emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel, he showed her the article. She sat on the edge of the bed, biting her lip. “Why do I feel so bad?”
Fenimore didn’t answer.
“For her, I guess.” Jennifer indicated Ema’s picture. “And I never even met her.”
“I met her,” he said slowly, refolding the paper. “Redik’s marionettes have lost a friend.”
Anna was to be released that morning. When Fenimore arrived at the hospital, he went to check Vlasta first. His condition was steadily improving. Fenimore felt confident he could safely leave his cousin and return to the States. But it would be several weeks before Vlasta could travel by plane and come to Philadelphia for his cardiac evaluation. Anna, of course, would stay with her husband in Prague. But what about Marie? Fenimore would like to keep her in Philadelphia until her parents arrived. But, by then, school would be in session … .
These thoughts flitted through his mind, on one level, as he made his way along the corridor to Anna’s room. On another, deeper level, lay the news of Ilsa—like a coiled snake. He had known double-murderers before, but not quite in the same way. He was still numb from the shock. When the numbness wore off and the snake uncoiled, he wasn’t sure what his reaction would be. With effort, he concentrated on his family problems.
When Fenimore entered Anna’s room, she was sitting on the bed, fully dressed, speaking animatedly in Czech on the phone. Mrs. Doyle was sitting nearby, leafing through a magazine. She looked up, pointed to the phone, and mouthed, Marie.
Fenimore smiled. This was not the time to tell her about the murders.
After consulting with Anna, it was decided that Marie should stay in Philadelphia until her parents arrived. Anna would have to tolerate this further separation from her child, and Marie could make up what she had missed at school. She was very clever, and third grade was not that difficult, after all.
Fenimore accompanied Anna home in a cab. During the ride, he showed her the newspaper article. It didn’t have the impact Fenimore had expected. After her recent experiences, Anna was impervious to shock. The human psyche can absorb only so much; Anna’s had reached the saturation point. Scanning the article, she returned the paper to Fenimore with a mere shake of the head.
When Anna entered her apartment, she walked from room to room taking everything in; touching a book here, a lamp there—to make sure they were real. “I thought I would never be here again,” she explained. “Yet, here I am … thanks to you and Jennifer.”
Fenimore quietly went about collecting his things. He had decided to spend the rest of his stay with Jennifer, at her hotel, and leave his c
ousin to enjoy her homecoming in peace. He had told her that he had retrieved the manuscript. And there it sat, snugly in the bookcase, where he had stowed it. Before he left, Fenimore told Anna that he had paid the April rent.
“What?” She was dismayed. “I already paid for April. We always pay a month in advance.” She shook her head in disgust as she wrote him a check. “That horrible man. He sneaks around here, eavesdropping. And I think he runs some illegal business from the basement. Black market, smuggling, or—”
“Marie is afraid of him,” Fenimore interrupted.
“She is?”
“I think he may have hurt her once.”
“No!” Her ability to react was returning.
Fenimore described Marie’s strange behavior on the day they were to leave for the airport.
Anna’s eyes narrowed and her fists clenched. “I’ll take care of him,” she said.
And Fenimore knew she would.
“By the way,” he said in parting, “be sure to order some pizza now and then. Milo is a good friend.”
Anna looked after his retreating back with a bewildered expression.
Fenimore returned to the hotel to find Jennifer packing.
“I’ve made our plane reservations,” she said. “Mrs. Doyle’s, too. Our flight leaves tomorrow morning at eleven-thirty.”
He nodded, preoccupied.
“Is that too soon?” She was afraid she had been officious.
“What?”
“Would you rather leave later?”
“No.” He wandered over to the window and looked out. “There’s that picture of Kafka’s house that I have to take for Larry … .”
The Doctor Dines in Prague Page 15