Pray for a Brave Heart

by Helen Macinnes

  She stopped at the desk to tell the clerk that Miss Vivenzio was not staying, after all.

  “Oh, dear,” the clerk sighed—he was a gentle soul—“then she won’t get the flowers.”

  “Flowers? When did they come?”

  “I understood they were being sent tomorrow morning first thing. A nice surprise for breakfast? The florist telephoned to say he had flowers for Fräulein Vivenzio, and he wanted to verify her room number.”

  “Are you sure they are for Fräulein Vivenzio?” Paula asked, certain in her own mind that the flowers were for her. Andy often sent flowers when she was alone.

  The clerk frowned. “I may have been mistaken,” he said, “but I thought they were for—”

  “Never mind,” Paula said. She was too tired to talk much more. “There will be a card with the flowers. Then we’ll know.”

  She walked slowly towards the elevator. If Andy was sending flowers, then he was apologising for being delayed in Bonn. That was entirely possible, she thought glumly. She ought to have stayed in Bonn with him, and prevented him from taking on some last-minute job. Then they would both have been on the plane tomorrow. Instead—why, she hadn’t even found an apartment.

  She felt not only very tired, but very lonely. Heavens, what a night it had been… Next time she was by herself, without Andy, she’d settle for a good book to take to bed.

  The corridor leading to her room was peaceful. There was a dim light, but no sound, from the door of the housekeeper’s quarters. Everyone was asleep. The thick carpet silenced her steps. She passed only a few pairs of shoes waiting outside their owners’ bedrooms to be collected and cleaned. The hotel was still half-empty. In another month it would be bustling with visitors. But now, its quiet emptiness made her feel still more lonely.

  The outer door to her bedroom was unfastened as usual, but the inner door opened too easily. Had the maid forgotten to lock it properly? Both beds had been neatly turned down, ash trays had been emptied, glasses cleared. Yes, all was in order. She walked over to the dressing-table, unclipping her earrings. “Ridiculous,” she said, thinking back to the flowers again, “he got it all mixed up. Why, Francesca—” She laughed. No one knew that Francesca had planned to spend the evening with her, except Aunt Louisa and Gregor. She stared at the looking-glass. She was no longer amused. She was troubled. Something was wrong, somewhere.

  She began unfastening her watch. It was then, at that moment of dropping it on to a white embroidered mat, that she sensed a movement behind her. She looked at the watch in its nest of carefully stitched daisies, afraid to turn. Abruptly, she swung round.

  Two men had stepped out from behind the bathroom door. They seemed as surprised as she was terrified. One was tall, heavy-shouldered in a massive black coat. The other was the quiet little man, with the weak chin and shifting eyes, who had watched Francesca at the Kursaal this evening.

  He looked round the room, then back at Paula. “Where is she?” he asked in German.

  Paula stared at him. “What?” she asked in English. At this moment she could scarcely think in her own language, far less speak a foreign one.

  The little man broke into English. “You were speaking to someone.”

  “Careful,” the large man told him in quick German. “If the girl is not here, then do not mention her.”

  “I know my job. Do yours! Look in the wardrobe, behind the curtains, look, look!” He turned back to Paula. His shifting eyes flickered like the tongue of a snake. He took a step towards her.

  “Nothing, nothing!” the tall man said in fury as he searched the room. “You’ve made a mess of this, a fine mess. Now what?”

  The little man advanced another step. His angry mouth was a sign of failure. So were the quick and now unintelligible words of the other as he finished his search.

  And suddenly, all Paula’s fear had gone and there was only the beginning of a cold rage she had never known before. “Get out! If you take one more step towards me, I’ll scream!” She snatched up a bottle of scent from the dressing-table. Her heart pounded, but now it was at least steady.

  He took another slow step towards her, smiling at her as he brought his hand out of his pocket, slowly, slowly. There was threat in every move.

  “I told you!” She opened her mouth wide and gave a piercing scream. Then another. And another.

  The man stopped. In amazement, perhaps. And, as his companion made a dash for the corridor, he hesitated. Then he turned and ran, too. But Paula was behind him, the heavy crystal bottle still in her hand. She struck at the back of his neck as he reached the outer door. He staggered forward, and she hit again, and he dropped to the floor. He lay quite still.

  I’ve killed him, she thought, and her anger ended as suddenly as it had begun. She leaned against the wall. Blankly she stared at the figure lying face down over the threshold, and then at the tall man in pyjamas and dressing-gown who came rushing out of the next bedroom.

  “Knocked him out cold,” an English voice said, and the man in pyjamas looked at her right arm with some respect. “But you could stop screaming, you know.”

  Paula put a hand to her throat and took a long deep breath.

  “That’s better.”

  A lame, elderly porter hobbled from one of the stairways.

  “Telephone for the police,” the Englishman told him. He looked at Paula. “You agree, don’t you?”

  “Another man,” she said, and pointed along the corridor. But the other man had vanished. “He was tall. A long dark coat. Grey hat.”

  “There were two men?”

  She nodded.

  “Get the police,” the Englishman said to the porter, who was listening wide-eyed. “Use my phone. Quick.” He looked down at the man at his feet. “Do you want me to sit on his head until reinforcements arrive?”

  Paula nodded again.

  Her new friend sat squarely on the man’s back, and searched for cigarettes in his dressing-gown pocket. “Have one?”

  She shook her head. At the moment she felt more than slightly sick.

  “Nasty little type. How did he get in, anyway? Probably sneaked up some back stairs.” The Englishman suddenly saw the knife lying under the man’s hand. He picked it up. “Did you know about this?”

  Paula looked at it in horror. “I thought it was only a gun,” she said faintly.

  The Englishman searched quickly, now. In one of the man’s pockets he found a blackjack, in another a roll of adhesive tape. “Well,” he said in amazement, and resumed a firmer seat on the man’s back. “Peculiar little arsenal he carries about.” Then he sniffed the air. “Good lord! What did you launch him with?” Paula looked down at the heavy crystal bottle in her hand. Its stopper had been jerked loose with the blows she had struck, and now it was almost empty. “It was the very best perfume,” she said dejectedly.

  “Better than the very best butter, for this tea party,” said the Englishman consolingly. He had a bald head, an amused smile, and a broadly striped dressing-gown. “The crowd gathers,” he added warningly, and Paula got control of herself, and tried to ignore the two frightened maids who had come to stare, and the few guests who were approaching hesitantly.

  But then, the assistant manager arrived to take charge. The half-dressed guests were calmed and coaxed back into their own rooms with the magic word “safety”; the maids were sent scurrying to find the house detective; the lame porter, whose pride in his telephoning was slightly dashed by the assistant manager’s disapproving frown, was given the errand of alerting all the other employees about the missing man. “But it wasn’t really necessary to call the police to the hotel. Not to the hotel,” the assistant manager kept saying worriedly, unhappily.

  The Englishman stared at him. “On the contrary,” he said coldly. And so complete silence came to the corridor.

  The house detective appeared at last. He was a round-faced, round-bodied man, his round comfortable mind already producing explanations. He had been down in the basement— there had been
an alarm—an engineer had seen someone loitering in the boiler room next the laundry. “Probably him,” the detective ended, and looked at the man’s face. “Why, it’s Rauch!—worked here for two months—moved over to the Aarhof last week.” He felt better, seemingly, with that discovery.

  “Have you handcuffs?” Paula asked anxiously, as Rauch gave a groan and stirred.

  The detective looked unhappy again. “In my office—never needed to carry them.”

  “Of course not,” the assistant manager said stiffly. “This hotel has never required—”

  “Then I’d better keep a firm seat here,” the Englishman said resignedly.

  “We can deal with this,” the assistant manager said. “Now if you would—”

  Paula said quickly, “I am not leaving until the police arrive.” She raised the crystal bottle a little.

  “Please don’t worry, Frau Waysmith. This is certainly most unusual, but you can rely on us to—”

  “But this man is too unusual,” she said angrily.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This man is not an ordinary—” Then she bit her lip. Who would listen to her? Or, listening, would believe? Had she believed Francesca and Gregor tonight? She looked quickly to the Englishman for help, but he, too, was watching her with some amazement—or even embarrassment. “I’m all right,” she told him sharply, “all I want is an intelligent policeman.”

  The elevator door rattled open, and the assistant manager said, “The police, thank heaven.” But it wasn’t the police. It was a tall man with close-cropped fair hair, horn-rimmed glasses, a snap-brim hat tilted slightly to one side, a light-coloured tweed coat around his shoulders. He had a load of several newspapers and a tightly packed briefcase. Behind him, a night porter carried two cowhide suitcases.

  “Andy!” Paula cried, pushing the assistant manager aside, and ran to meet him. “Oh, Andy, make them get me an intelligent policeman.” She threw her arms around him.

  “Of course,” Andrew Waysmith said with a grin and kissed her.

  “How wonderful! You caught an early plane,” Paula said, suddenly welcoming him properly. “Oh, Andy—” But she didn’t have time to explain. Andy had seen the group at the opened door, and his wide smile vanished. He looked at Rauch, feebly stirring, then he verified the number of the room. His face, deceptively mild behind his thin horn-rimmed glasses, tightened to show a jaw that could be aggressive and a mouth that could close like a steel trap. Too quietly for anyone’s comfort, he asked, “And just what is going on here, anyway?” He dropped the briefcase, newspapers, and coat. “What’s been happening to my wife?”

  “Exhibit One,” the Englishman said, rising from Rauch’s shoulders, and stepping back as Waysmith reached down to take a firm grip of the man’s arms and jerk him to his feet. “Exhibit Two,” the Englishman added, handing over the knife and blackjack and adhesive tape to the assistant manager, who flinched but took them awkwardly. “Exhibit Three.” He pointed to the bottle in Paula’s right hand. “That’s all we really know,” he added suavely. “There was another man, your wife says. He was gone before I reached here. But this specimen overstayed his welcome.”

  “He ran. And I hit him,” Paula said. “Oh, Andy, I’m so glad you’re here.” Then she noticed the Englishman moving discreetly towards his room. “And that gentleman—”

  “Not at all,” he said, turning, half-pausing, to give a small bow. “Any time you need help, just—well, scream, perhaps?”

  “Thank you,” said Paula, with an answering smile.

  Andy glanced after the broad-striped dressing-gown. “And what was that last crack?”

  “He’s a friend indeed. He answers screams most efficiently,” Paula said. But the elevator door rattled again, and this time two policemen stepped into the corridor.

  “Intelligent enough?” Andy asked his wife grimly, as he watched the handcuffs being quickly produced, and listened to the assistant manager’s brief explanation. “Now just come into our room and tell me exactly what happened and how and why.” To the assistant manager, he said, “Do you think you could arrange for some peace? And some Scotch and ice, and a sandwich?”

  “Certainly, Herr Waysmith.” The assistant manager was grateful for such a request. Peace was all he wanted, too. He frowned nervously along the corridor, quiet now; the bedroom doors had closed. But tomorrow—what explanations, what calmings of fears, what diplomacy he’d need. He frowned now at Paula, transferring some of his worry into annoyance. These pretty young women always caused trouble: if only hotel guests could all be old and plain, how simple life would be. Even now Frau Waysmith was creating more complications. She didn’t want the man to be handcuffed to one of the policemen—not yet. She wanted, no less, both policemen to go into the bedroom to hear her story. As if he hadn’t given them all the necessary particulars. She was suggesting that this pitiful little clerk should be handcuffed, meanwhile, to the house detective, who would “make quite a good anchor”. What phrases Americans used…

  “And of course you’ll keep watch, won’t you?” Paula ended, turning to the assistant manager who was now completely speechless.

  Andy Waysmith looked at his wife. Then he said, with the philosophic air of the happily married man, “All right, all right. Let’s get this over with. And then we can all go to bed.”

  “Now then—” the senior policeman began in German, with a quick glance round the white and gold bedroom, and he opened his note-book. “The lady wishes to make a statement?”

  “I want your help,” Paula said. She was feeling better with every passing minute. The two neat blue-grey uniforms with sane reliable faces above their stiff collars were very comforting. But most comforting of all was Andy, sitting quietly in the background, watching her. Oh, Andy, she thought, what a difference you make to everything. She gave him a special smile.

  “This is your husband?” the policeman asked, looking at Andy. “American?”

  “Both American.” Andy handed a card to the younger policeman, who passed it over. “That’s how we spell our name.”

  “I understand you arrived after Rauch had entered this room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your wife spent the evening by herself?”

  “Look,” Paula said quickly. “This is so urgent. We’ll give you all details about ourselves tomorrow, or whenever it suits you. But now I need help. I really do.”

  The three men turned to look at her.

  She rushed on, “Have you got a police captain, or an inspector, someone important who can take quick action, someone who is also very clever?”

  Andy sat up and stared at her with almost horror on his normally placid face. The policemen stared at each other.

  “Someone,” Paula went on, feeling now that she could have expressed herself more tactfully, “who knows about political criminals?”

  The policeman with the note-book—he was a grey-haired serious man—stopped writing.

  “Andy, do they understand me? I’m so anxious I can’t remember my German.”

  Andy looked as if he understood nothing at all, either. But he said, “You’re doing fine. If you get stuck, speak English and I’ll translate.”

  Paula went on. “That man you’ve arrested—he came here to find Fräulein Francesca Vivenzio. He thought she was spending the night with me.”

  Now, the policeman was waiting. “Fräulein Vivenzio is Italian? And this man, is he a friend of Fräulein Vivenzio?”

  “She doesn’t know him, at all. He was watching her tonight—out at the Kursaal.”

  “He is infatuated, perhaps?”

  “No, no, no! This is something political.”

  Andy was sitting forward on the edge of his chair: his eyes watched her worriedly.

  “Believe me,” said Paula, as the policeman’s pencil hesitated and he exchanged glances with his younger colleague, “Fräulein Vivenzio is in danger.”

  “What kind of danger, gnädige Frau?”

  Paula took a deep
breath. She flushed slightly. “It’s political,” she said. “It’s all because of politics.” She began to feel incoherent. The policeman was looking at her curiously. She thought of Andrássy. “Doesn’t anyone ever disappear? Because of politics?”

  “Paula—” Andy began.

  “Look,” she rushed on, “the man had a knife. He wasn’t a murderer or he would have killed me. He was just trying to scare me. He wanted Francesca. And the other man who was here with him—” She broke off to ask, “You are searching for him?”

  The policeman nodded. “He was reported to be tall, wearing a dark coat and hat.”

  “A grey hat. And a long dark coat.” Suddenly, she felt it was all useless. The man must have escaped completely by this time. And if Rauch denied there had been any other man—if Rauch insisted he was only a thief, who would believe her? She said, despairingly, “They both came here to get Francesca. She is in danger.”

  “Then,” the policeman said reassuringly, “we shall warn her. Her address?”

  “She lives with her aunt, Fräulein Louisa Lüthi—”

  “Swiss?” He was, at least, taking notes once more.

  “—who lives in Falken,” Paula said. “Falken.” She began spelling it.

  “I have heard of it,” the policeman said, with a polite smile. “I go skiing there each winter. A quiet little village.”

  “Falken,” Andy repeated. Suddenly he was on his feet, moving towards the door. “Better make your report as quickly as possible; gentlemen. And as quietly as possible, too. If this is political law-breaking, then you will have to alert the proper authorities.”

  The two policemen looked at each other. Until this minute, there had been a feeling of alliance in this room—three men trying to calm a pretty young woman who had been through a frightening experience and was best soothed by being humoured. But now, Herr Waysmith had suddenly been persuaded there was some truth in this vaguely defined danger. At least he was standing near the door, trying to hurry them away. The policeman looked down at his note-book.