“I’m afraid not, Klara.”
“It is no matter, I can lend you.” She glanced down ruefully at her large bosom, which overflowed the tabletop. “You never sleep before in a ... what is ein Zeltr?”
I laughed. “A tent, I believe.”
“Ach, yes—a large tent! But in the morning I will be going and buying you some nice things. You have not a coat even.”
At least I’d got my handbag, I thought thankfully, doing a quick estimate of my finances. The money had all come from Richard, but this wasn’t the time to worry about the ethics of using it. I could do that later.
“Thanks, Klara. It would help a lot if you could just buy me enough to keep me going. I ... I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get my own things back.”
When we went through the hall on our way to the spare bedroom, the two men were still standing at the front door, talking earnestly. Steve gave me an encouraging grin and a flip of the hand.
Getting undressed, I was dreading a restless night. But I went to sleep like a snuffed-out candle.
I didn’t wake until morning. It was already nine o’clock, as I discovered when Klara came to tell me that Steve was on the phone. I slipped into the jumbo-sized dressing gown she’d laid out for me, and went scurrying to the hall. There was a slight taste in my mouth, clean but bitter, evocative of my days in the hospital. Perhaps, with the coffee, Klara had made sure that I slept well.
“Hallo, love!” The sound of Steve’s steady voice sent my temperature climbing.
“Are you all right?” I asked him urgently. “They didn’t. . . ?”
He laughed. “That pretty car of theirs was still around when I got home. But when they saw I was alone, they departed.”
“Still, they might easily have someone keeping an eye on you. Do be careful, Steve!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care. And I’m going to make darned sure I shake off any tail before coming around to see you.”
“When will you be here?”
“Around noon. I’ve had an idea I want to talk to you about,”
“What is it?”
“No,” he said flatly, “not over the phone.”
So I had to hold in my impatience.
Klara, after seeing I had everything I wanted, set out for the shops armed with my sizes. Jotting them down, she had clucked her tongue with envy. I’d left it to her to get whatever she thought best, and was keeping my fingers crossed.
I spent a lot of that morning by the big window in the kitchen, staring out over the city. There was a soft autumn haze laid over everything like I’d never seen before. It was hard to realize that twelve months ago I’d not known Vienna at all.
Somewhere out there, lost in the gigantic jumble of buildings—ancient churches, baroque palaces, and stark modern tower buildings—were the people linked into my present life. There was Steve, probably at the office in Stubenring. And Bruno at the university. Klara would be shopping for me in one of the big stores in Mariahilfer Strasse. Then the Hellwegs, furious at my escape and planning my recapture— where were they? And Richard Wilson—the enigma?
I shivered and stepped back from the window. It was nonsense, of course, up here on the sixth floor, but I suddenly felt exposed, too much on view. I wanted to hide myself away.
Klara arrived home with a profusion of boxes and bags. She dumped the lot in the hall, laughing and breathless.
“Now you will be pretty again, Jessica. I have some nice things. I hope the shoes will fit you, but it is difficult to be sure.”
I unpacked the parcels at once with an eager birthdayish feeling. Klara looked on anxiously. She really had done well by me, and I knew it must have been an effort to put aside her own taste for feminine frillery. When Steve came I looked quite good.
There was a sort of jumpy excitement about him, and I knew he badly wanted to talk to me alone. Dear Klara made it easy for us.
“I must the lunch begin to make,” she insisted, and discreetly withdrew to her kitchen.
I took Steve into the big oblong sitting room that was full of Bruno’s beloved musical possessions—a huge grand piano, his cello, even a Spanish guitar.
Steve said at once, not sitting down, “Last night things began slotting into place. That holiday you had with Max—he’d mentioned nothing about it to me beforehand. Was it just a spur-of-the-moment thing?”
“Absolutely! He said the Hungarian trip had been a big success and that we ought to celebrate it.”
Steve frowned. “It wasn’t a success at all! Quite the reverse, because the Hungarians were fed up about late deliveries of some of our components. I had to go over there later to soothe them down.”
I was bewildered. “So what did Max mean?”
“Maybe he was talking about success in another direction. Maybe he really did bring those Kutani Scrolls back with him, hoping to sell them direct and pocket the cash.”
This was the sort of possibility I had to live with. I took a grip on myself. “But if that’s the case, where are they now?”
“It’s a question we’d all like answered—including, I wouldn’t mind betting, your friend Richard Wilson.” He gave me a straight look, then, in his typical way, shot off at a confusing tangent. “Since when did Max take up fishing?”
“Fishing? I don’t get you.”
“When I collected your belongings from the police after the smash, there was a full kit of angling gear in the car. I disposed of it, along with his other things, like you told me to. But it surprised me at the time—to my knowledge, Max was never the slightest bit interested in fishing.”
He’d brought that stuff home the day before we set out, bursting with the notion that fishing was an obvious tiling to do when holidaying in the Salzkam-mergut. Being Max, all the equipment was of super quality—a lovely American split-cane rod in a leather-trimmed carryall, and accessories. I’d been rather tickled and couldn’t help teasing him about it, but somehow Max hadn’t seen the joke.
I said slowly to Steve, “He thought it would be fun to try his hand.”
“And did he?”
“Well—a bit. He didn’t have much luck, though, and that disheartened him. But he went on carrying all the gear around with him, meaning to try again....” I trailed off, hating having to make excuses for Max.
Steve asked, “Did you ever take a good look at that equipment of his?”
“Well, of course I did! The night Max brought it home he showed me everything and explained what each bit was for.”
“And afterward, on your holiday—did you ever examine it then?”
“Why should I do that? I’d already seen it. For heaven’s sake, Steve, what’s this all about?”
He had turned away and was looking but the window. “It struck me that a fishing holdall would be tailor-made for hiding those scrolls if they were rolled up—the perfect way to carry around something valuable without arousing anyone’s suspicions. Not even yours.”
I stared at Steve’s back. “You mean ... ?”
He swung around to look at me again. “Unless Max unloaded those scrolls almost at once—and it’s unlikely he’d have a buyer lined up before he’d even got his hands on the things—I reckon they must have been carted around with you on that holiday.”
“But why? What would have been the point?”
He hesitated, then said quietly, “This is sheer guesswork, but it makes sense. Couldn’t it be that Max was looking for somewhere to stash the stuff away until the heat wore off?”
“But why go to all that trouble? He could have hidden it in Vienna, surely?”
“Where?” asked Steve shortly. “Where in Vienna would be safe if the Hellwegs suspected that he’d cheated them and decided to search? Your flat? The office? Where, Jessica?”
“But to go all that way! And why take me along too, making it that much more difficult for himself?”
Steve frowned again, drumming his fingers lightly on the polished surface of the piano. “It would have looked too susp
icious for Max to have shot off somewhere on his own. You made a good cover for him. What could look more innocent than a holiday with his wife?”
This was a knife stab to my heart. Was even our lovely holiday a fake, too? Were my very last memories of Max to be bruised and mutilated? But a sudden certainty took hold of me, a conviction I couldn’t begin to analyze.
“It fits, Steve,” I whispered wretchedly. “It all fits!”
Neither of us said anything more for quite a while. What Steve’s thoughts were just then, I couldn’t guess, but my own were one huge throbbing pain.
It seemed an age before Steve stirred. “We’ve got to try it, Jessica. We must at least have a go.”
I didn’t understand him.
“Don’t you see,” he went on slowly, “if we’re right about this, then those damn scrolls are hidden somewhere you and Max visited on your holiday. I’m afraid you won’t ever be properly safe until they’re found and it’s public knowledge that they’ve been handed over to the proper authorities.”
“So ... so we’ve got to go and look for them?”
“That’s right!”
I was staggered that Steve imagined it possible. The task would be enormous—searching for a needle in a gargantuan haystack.
He was saying, “You’ll have to think very hard to try to pinpoint likely places. If necessary, we’ll retrace the route you took every step of the way—every smallest diversion, every walk, everything you did.”
At least Steve’s plan promised action, and that was better than doing nothing. I was tempted. “Well, if you really think so.”
“I know so, Jessica! In fact, I’ve already cleared the decks at the office to let me get away for a bit. We’re leaving today.”
Chapter 17
It was dusk when Steve and I left Vienna. A light rain had begun to fall, making the cobbles of the road shine like lumps of smooth black glass.
To mislead any possible pursuit, Steve drove via Triester Strasse toward the southern autobahn. He wanted to skirt around the city, joining the westerly route well past Pressbaum and the Villa Imwald.
“Once we get well clear of Vienna, it’ll be okay. They aren’t going to search the whole of Austria for you.”
He had brought a spare suitcase in his car for my few clothes, the new things that Klara had bought for me only that morning. We’d left stealthily while Klara was out presiding at some charitable committee or other. I’d propped a note on the hall table.
A million thanks for all your kindness. Steve and I have a plan which could solve my problem. It’s better we tell you nothing now, but I will explain it all later.
It seemed mean, sneaking off like that, but knowing Klara and Bruno, we guessed they’d insist on taking a hand, and we wanted to protect them from their own generosity.
We’d decided to make a start at Salzburg, where Max and I spent the first night, and Steve had phoned the same hotel to make a reservation for us.
“I know it’s going to hurt like hell, Jessica, but we’ve got to make this trip as near as possible identical with that holiday of yours.”
I nodded without speaking. I knew it was going to hurt, but not quite as much as Steve imagined. His own quiet self-assurance somehow came through to me, giving me an added strength. I felt that as long as Steve was there I’d be able to face the truth about Max without breaking down.
Dusk turned quickly to darkness, and the rain fell more heavily, spiking back into the beam of our headlamps. Steve drove hard, not talking much. Somewhere about the halfway mark we stopped at a cafe for coffee and a couple of sausages, meaty and filling. Steve eyed me across the glass-topped table.
“Dreading it?”
“No, not now. As a matter of fact, I’m even beginning to believe it might work.”
He grinned. “Good girl! I’ve got a hunch that we’re really on to something.”
When we ran into Salzburg it was late enough and wet enough for the streets to be quiet. Our hotel was a new international-style tower building, smart and very expensive. It had attentive service, good food, luxurious rooms—and not a sign anywhere of genuine Austrian charm.
At the reception desk the clerk murmured with the faintest whiff of a question in his voice “Adjoining rooms, sir?”
“Good,” said Steve absently. “That’s fine.”
Our bedrooms were on the second floor. With Max it had been a main suite right at the top. I was thankful for even this small difference. Yet wasn’t the aim and object of this trip to play back the record, to hear it all again, and help me remember?
It was only as I slipped off the cream duster coat that Klara had chosen for me that I thought of money. It hit me for the first time that this reenactment of a holiday was going to cost quite a lot. What I now had left in my handbag wouldn’t much more than cover the cost of one night.
Hastily I unlocked the communicating door and stepped through into the next room.
“Steve, I’ve suddenly realized ...” I stopped, embarrassed. He was changing, peeling off his shirt. “I’m awfully sorry. I just didn’t think....”
He grinned. “Don’t worry!”
He tossed the shirt onto the bed and came walking over to where I stood dithering in the doorway. His arms went around me, and he held me; not hard, but close enough to feel the warmth of his body, the hardness of his chest. He looked down at me with concern.
“You seem to be upset, darling. What’s the matter?”
“Steve, I don’t think I can do this, after all.”
For a second he went on gazing seriously at my face. Then, bending his head slowly, he kissed me on the lips. A firm kiss—not asking, just taking.
It was wonderful. And it was much too disturbing. I tried to pull away, but his arms held me pinned there.
“No, Steve....” I breathed faintly. “No!”
“I’m not going to apologize. I’ve quit saying I’m sorry all the time.”
“Please let me go, Steve. I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Well, talk, then. I’m listening.” He didn’t slacken his hold on me.
I gave up and tried to relax. “I’ve just realized that I’ve got no money, Steve. Hardly any at all.”
“So what?”
“Well, this trip’s going to cost quite a bit. I can’t just let you . . .”
“I don’t see why not. We can sort it out later on.” He kissed me again, just a friendly peck on the nose. “Now, get yourself changed. Then we’ll go down and have something to eat.”
“But, Steve ...”
“Let’s go, girl!”
Later that night I tossed restlessly in bed, wide awake. Since Max had died this wasn’t a new experience for me. I’d often been sleepless, remembering. Max had taught me to want him, and my body couldn’t forget.
But Max was dead. And now, through disillusionment, my love for him was dead, too. And yet...
Tonight, who was it I longed for? A man lay in the bedroom next to mine, an unlocked door between us. Steve’s love for me was pledged and affirmed in every glance he gave me, every word. And I knew now that I was in love with him.
Was Max, the memory of Max as a lover, to come between us always?
* * * *
In the morning we took the road to St. Gilgen. With Max it had been sunshine all the way, and I’d been happy. With Steve the rain persisted, and the green mountain scenery was blanked out by haze. Another man, another world.
Steve said, “We won’t take it too fast. Think back and try to fix the first stop you made, whatever the reason.”
“It wasn’t just yet.” I unfolded a tourist map and traced out the road with my finger. “Here, a few miles farther on by the Fuschlsee. I remember getting out of the car on the road above the lake, and looking down. There’s a castle, I think.”
“Uhuh! And after that?”
“We went to Wolfgangsee, and on to the White Horse Inn. We had lunch there. Then we came back around the lake to St. Gilgen and stayed the night.”
At Fuschlsee the rain seemed heavier. I directed Steve to the little promontory where Max and I had stopped one bright and shining morning long ages ago. We walked back a few -yards to where the view had been best. Today there was nothing to see, just gray drifts of rain. Steve took my hand—as Max had done. But nothing else was the same. I didn’t want it to be.
“Did Max leave you here at all?” Steve asked. “I mean, for more than the odd minute?”
I shook my head. “We just stood here, and ...”
“And what?”
Max had kissed me, that was what. I could recall it vividly, even feel his lips, the taste of him. For once my need was more urgent than his, and Max had teased me. “Don’t be so impatient, my darling!” I could hear his voice saying it.
How could I speak of that to Steve? I gave a little shiver, and the wind and the rain provided an explanation. “We just looked at the view,” I said. “But there isn’t one today. Let’s get back to the car.”
We lunched, as Max and I had done, at the famous White Horse Inn. There were quite a few holiday-makers even this late in the season, staring out at the weather and grumbling. Today there were no white sails dancing upon clear sparkling water. Today we could hardly see the water at all, and where we could, near to the bank, it looked thick and oily.
Pushed by some impulse I couldn’t understand, I said, “There’s a mountain railway from here. They say you get a fantastic view from the top in clear weather.”
“Didn’t you go up, then?”
“I wanted to, but for some reason Max wasn’t keen, I don’t know why—they’ve got a hotel up there with a cafe and everything. ...” I stopped, because suddenly I did know why Max had been so dead against the idea. It would have looked absurd—and too conspicuous—to be encumbered with his angler’s carryall on a barren mountaintop.
He had carted that bag around with him, it struck me now, on other improbable occasions. In fact, throughout most of our holiday that fishing gear could hardly have been out of his sight. Even stopping en route for lunch or a casual drink, Max had always worked it so he could keep a close eye on the car. Such precautions weren’t his usual style.
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