Rick hated him already.
The story also contained a reference to a conference convened by Heydrich at a villa in Wannsee, a lakeside suburb of Berlin, on January 20. The reports were sketchy:
While the full import of the conference at Wannsee, which was attended by a number of top Nazis including Heinrich Himmler, remains unclear, Whitehall sources report that the so-called Jewish problem was in fact the principal topic of discussion, and that the German government plan to take further measures against the Jews of Germany and occupied Europe beyond the existing Nuremberg Laws.
The Secretary for War, Mr. Spencer, declined comment on the conference, but issued a stern warning: “His Majesty's government are second to none in our loathing for Herr Hitler,” he said. “Nevertheless, we hope and expect the German government to act responsibly in the matter of its treatment of the civilian and non-combatant population. We need not remind them that the whole world is watching.”
A fat lot of good that will do, thought Rick. In his limited experience, the Nazis were not about to let a little thing like world opinion stop them from doing whatever they wished to do.
That was, he realized, the mistake Major Strasser had made with Laszlo: he had let Renault's opinion prevent him from doing what he should have done right away. A real Nazi would have shot Victor Laszlo on the spot, the minute he walked into Rick's cafÉ with Ilsa on his arm. Hadn't Strasser just seen what happened to Ugarte? The little man who had murdered the two German couriers and stolen the precious letters of transit had been arrested right there in the cafÉ Americain on Renault's orders, taken outside, and shot. Why, his friend Louie was more ruthless than Strasser. The major had been, of all things, too much the gentleman. A real gangster never let his enemies walk away.
Rick read on. He learned that Heydrich had helped set up the series of concentration camps across Germany, Austria, and occupied Eastern Europe in which Hitler was imprisoning and often murdering his enemies—a list that seemed to be growing daily. He was surprised to learn that like many of the top Nazis, including Hitler, Heydrich feared he might be part Jewish. That his father, the founder of the Halle Conservatory of Music, might have been named Süss, which could have been a Jewish name—or at least the Nazi hierarchy saw it that way. That Heydrich, hoping to rise high in the party, had his grandmother's name chipped off her tombstone because it was Sarah.
He also learned that Heydrich had been trained as a violinist as a young man and then joined the army, from which he had been cashiered for an affair with a teenage girl. Today, Heydrich was the head of something called the Reichsicherheitshauptamt, a typical ten-dollar German word that meant the Nazi Party's security service. In other words, the goon squad. Rick knew something about goon squads.
There was even a picture of him. He was an impressive specimen of German manhood: tall, lean, rangy. He had a thin face with a touch of the hawk about the features—a predator for sure. His nose was patrician, his eyes clear and cold, his hair sandy. His hands were large, with wide palms and long fingers that tapered to a set of elegant nails. His uniform was pressed, his shirt collar immaculate, his shoes spit-polished. Rick knew that face. He had seen it before, on another man, back home in New York: not so tall, perhaps, but just as elegant and just as lethal.
Heydrich was also a thug and slugger who had clawed his way to power the way sluggers always did, by braining people. He was smart and he was nasty, and some said Hitler was grooming Heydrich as his successor. If and until that day ever came to pass, he was in charge of Bohemia and Moravia, the Nazis’ term for what was left of Czechoslovakia after they had gotten finished dismembering the place. Heydrich had made his presence felt by a months-long campaign of brutality against the Czechs that earned him the sobriquet der Henker, or the Hangman, as he pacified the populace. It had worked: in fine weather Heydrich could ride through the streets of Prague in an open convertible with absolute impunity. That was either supreme confidence or supreme stupidity.
The pieces were beginning to fall into place. Ilsa's question mark after Henker in her note probably meant she hadn't heard the word clearly or didn't understand the reference.
But there he was: the Hangman of Prague. The man who—indirectly, at least—had sent Victor Laszlo to a concentration camp and would be delighted to see him back in one again. Could he be the target of a daring and very dangerous British and Czech operation—an operation headed by Victor Laszlo? If there was ever a candidate for assassination, Heydrich looked to be the man.
It didn't seem that difficult. As Rick had already seen, the Germans were so cocksure of themselves that they failed to take precautions even the dumbest gangster back in New York observed in his sleep. If Heydrich was riding through the streets of Prague in an open car, he was practically daring some poor bereaved parent to avenge the death of a son with a pistol, rifle, or bomb. Hell, anybody on the Lower East Side or Hell's Kitchen could have told him he was crazy to take a chance like that.
Right now Heydrich and the rest of the Master Race considered themselves invulnerable and unbeatable, and everything they had done since 1939 seemed to prove them right. They had rolled through Poland, folded up the French like a cheap suitcase, and smashed deep into Russia. They hadn't had to tackle the United States up to now, though.
The Germans and the Italians had declared war on America four days after Pearl Harbor, three days after Roosevelt declared war on Japan. That was just fine with Rick Blaine. He had no use for either Germans or Italians. Sitting in the chilly library, he let his mind run back over the past, to the Italians whose paths had crossed his: Ferrari, of course, and, in Ethiopia, the forces of Mussolini. Back home there was Salucci. As for Germans, wasn't Major Strasser enough German to last a lifetime?
Looking down at the arrogant, aquiline face of Reinhard Tristan Eugen Heydrich, Rick decided that if he was the man Laszlo might want to kill, then Victor Laszlo had his blessing. “Come quickly,” Ilsa had written. Help was on its way.
Rick caught Fullerton's attention. “Say, I don't suppose you'd know something about this Spencer character, would you?” he asked.
“Sir Ernest Spencer is the Secretary for War.”
“I know that,” Rick said patiently. “What I mean is, where can I find him?”
“The Secretary for War ordinarily does not speak with members of the general public, sir,” Fullerton replied.
“Well, then, who does?”
“I’m quite sure I don't know, sir,” answered Fullerton, turning his back on Rick.
Rick had lost patience with politesse. Time to take a more direct route. “I came in here to get some information, not the high hat.”
Something in Rick's tone warned Fullerton not to ignore him. “Perhaps his private secretary, Mr. Reginald Lumley,” he suggested.
“That's more like it. Do you know where I can find him?”
“As it happens, I do,” said Fullerton. “Mr. Lumley, being a man of the theater, is a clubman at the Garrick.”
“What's the Garrick Club?” asked Rick.
“The Garrick, sir. Never the Garrick Club. The Garrick is the foremost theatrical club in England. Really, you must try to see The Importance of Being Earnest while you are in town, sir. The leading lady, Polly Nevins, is quite a special friend of Mr. Lumley's.” He looked at Rick. “I trust I have been helpful, sir?”
“Very.”
Sam was waiting for him outside the door as he emerged from the reading room.
“Did you get the dope, boss?”
“You might say that,” replied Rick.
CHAPTER TEN
Shortly after their arrival in London, Rick had had some business cards printed up. They read:
THE SOLOMON HOROWITZ THEATRICAL AGENCY
145 W. 43rd Street, second floor
New York, New York
Richard Blaine, producer
Rick took one from his wallet and looked it over proudly. It would pass, he thought, and handsomely. The inside joke he would keep to himself.
Sam was right: time to stop brooding about the past and start doing something about the present.
“Don't you want to take a cab, boss?” Sam asked.
“It's not far,” said Rick. “Besides, you need the exercise.”
Sam shot him a look. “The only exercise you get is lighting them cigarettes,” he observed. “Boss, them coffin nails goin’ to kill you someday.”
“If the drink doesn't get me first,” said Rick.
The Garrick's doorman nodded his head in Rick's direction as he and Sam approached. Rick looked presentable, even if he was obviously an American. Gentlemen were becoming scarce in these parlous times; someday they might even have to be rationed.
“Meet me back at the hotel in two hours,” said Rick, “and try to stay out of trouble.”
“I don't see much trouble for me to get into,” said Sam. “I think maybe I’ll go look for our kind of club. Somewhere nice and smoky for me to play the piano in. Think they got any of those joints around here?”
“If they do, I’m sure you'll find them. Try Soho.”
“Okay, boss,” said Sam. “One of us better start makin’ some money, and I guess it might as well be me.”
“Some things never change, Sam.”
Inside, the club was damp and cold, but Rick was already getting used to the peculiar English notions of central heating.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said the club steward. “My name is Blackwell. How may I be of assistance?”
“The name is Blaine,” Rick said. “Richard Blaine. To see Mr. Lumley, if he's in. Please tell him it's urgent.” He fumbled for one of his business cards, scribbled something on the back, and proffered it to Blackwell.
Blackwell studied the face of the card for a moment; whatever was written on the reverse was none of his business. “Mr. Blaine of the Horowitz Agency in New York.” Like most Englishmen, Blackwell accented the “New” and the “York” equally—as if anyone were likely to confuse the greatest city in the world with old York. “I shall see if the gentleman is in, sir,” he said. “I shan't be a moment.”
The Garrick, named after the great actor, was a splendid old pile—not much to look at from the outside, but within well appointed and comfortable. The walls were adorned with portraits of great figures of the English stage. Rick's taste ran more to Abie's Irish Rose than Shakespeare, but he decided not to let on.
True to his word, Blackwell was back in a few minutes. “Mr. Lumley is pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blaine, and begs your indulgence for a few minutes while he attends to some pressing business.” Blackwell's mien was apologetic. “This dreadful war, you know. Please follow me, sir.
Rick followed Blackwell up a grand staircase and into one of the most magnificent club rooms he had ever seen. The walls were hung with oil portraits and medieval tapestries, the furniture was plush, the teakwood tables polished to a fare-thee-well. This wasn't a club as he understood the term; this was the Grand Central Station of clubs.
Blackwell indicated an empty wing chair near a roaring fireplace. A companion chair stood empty across the hearth. “If you wouldn't mind, sir,” he said, and departed.
Rick sank into the chair and looked around. He'd never thought he would ever be in a place like this. When he was a kid, the notion of his even stepping across the threshold of the Players Club at Gramercy Park was inconceivable.
The honorable members were scattered throughout the big room in conversational groups of twos or threes. They were spaced far enough away from each other that no conversation could be overheard easily—not that any gentleman would ever knowingly eavesdrop on another. Most of the men were either middle-aged or, more likely, getting on in years. Nobody looked to be under forty. Rick remembered why—they were all in the military.
He thumbed through a copy of the Times. The stories were almost uniformly depressing. German advances here and there. British ineffectuality everywhere. The Russians rolling back and, it seemed, rolling over. Meanwhile, in America, the attack at Pearl Harbor still rankled. How hard could it have been for the United States to have seen that one coming? Unfortunately, warning signs, as he knew from bitter experience, were not always heeded.
He decided to amuse himself with his surroundings instead. He studied the portraits on the walls carefully and at once realized that what he had assumed were pictures of men in eighteenth-century dress were, in fact, portraits of Garrick himself in his various theatrical roles. There was the great man as King Lear, striking a suitably worried pose; as a fearful, black-robed Hamlet; as a dagger-drawn Macbeth.
Rick was still educating himself in the history of English theater when he became aware of a man standing beside him. “Damned if he ain't the spitting image of my mother-in-law!” exclaimed the man. “Especially with that dagger in his hand.”
“Mr. Lumley, I presume,” Rick said, jumping to his feet. He had no clear idea what to call him. What if, in private life, he was Lord Somebody, as every third upper-crust Englishman seemed to be?
“No presumption at all, sir,” remarked the man. “Reginald Lumley at your service, Mr. Blaine.”
They shook hands. Rick liked him immediately, and liked him even better when, moments later, his host waved his hand in the air and Blackwell materialized with two drinks.
“I do hope you have a taste for Scotch whiskey at this hour,” said Lumley, raising his glass.
“It's after noon, isn't it?” replied Rick, savoring the warmth of the amber liquid as it slid down his throat. It wasn't Kentucky bourbon, but it would do nicely. One thing you could say about the British weather: it always called for a stiff drink.
The pair drained their glasses more or less simultaneously. “Damned fine stuff, that!” said Lumley. “Blackwell, would you be so kind?”
“Very good, sir,” said Blackwell, and toddled off.
Rick sized up his companion. Lumley was a short, slight man with dark wavy hair that splashed across his forehead. He was wearing a well-cut blue suit, a starched white shirt, and a floral tie. He looked like a banker who was considering you for a loan and hadn't made up his mind yet.
“Mr. Horowitz sends his compliments … ,” Rick began.
“Beastly business last night, what?” interjected Lumley. “Pity I’m not over there this go-round. Show the damned Jerry's a thing or two, I daresay. Eh?” In one smooth motion he scooped up his drink at the same instant Blackwell laid it down. “Ever catch a whiff of the grapeshot yourself, Blaine?” he asked.
“Can't say that I have,” replied Rick. “Except from the critics.”
Lumley chuckled. “Know what you mean, sir, know what you mean. Myself, I took a swing or two at brother Boche in France back in eighteen, and I daresay I sent more than a few of the damned Kameraden to hell.” He tossed back his drink and swallowed half of it. “Wouldn't mind adding a few more to the tally. Wouldn't mind it at all.”
Lumley produced Rick's card and peered at it. “Solomon Horowitz, eh?” he said. “Mr. Horowitz would be a Jewish fellow, I should expect. I gather half the people in New York are Jewish these days.”
“The trick is telling which half,” said Rick.
“Lucky for you they're not Irish,” said Lumley. “Neutral, in a war like this one! Can you believe it?”
“After all you've done for them, too,” said Rick.
Lumley perked up. “Who needs them?” he asked brightly. “Not with you Yanks in the fray. Damned glad to have you aboard.”
“Mr. Horowitz … ,” Rick prompted.
“Ah, yes, Horowitz. Never met the man. But that's not the name you want to talk about, is it, Mr. Blaine?”
On the back of his phony business card, Rick had written a series of names: Polly Nevins. Victor Laszlo. Ilsa Lund. Reinhard Heydrich. At least one of them seemed to have gotten results.
“I’m particularly interested in Miss Nevins— professionally speaking,” Rick ventured, continuing the game. “I gather that her performance as Gwendolyn is the talk of the town. My employer would be gre
atly interested in having her star in one of his own productions—when the war is over, of course, and once it is safe to travel.”
“Yes, Miss Nevins,” Lumley said. “A woman of whom one can truly say not so much that her beauty becomes her as that she elevates the very notion of beauty. Especially on the stage, where she is quite the loveliest creature one has ever had the pleasure to behold.” He took a reflective sip of his whiskey and studied the back of Rick's business card. “We are all of us helpless prey in the face of beautiful women, are we not?” He shook his head. “The things we do for them….”
“The things we want to do for them,” Rick corrected softly. “I hope I have the chance to make her acquaintance while I’m in London.”
“Just how long might that be, Mr. Blaine?” inquired Lumley.
“Indefinitely, for the time being.”
“I shall make certain the two of you meet at the earliest possible opportunity.” Lumley's next words took him by surprise. “What about tomorrow evening? Are you free for dinner?”
“If you're buying, I’m eating.”
“It's settled, then,” said Lumley. “Tomorrow at eight o'clock. I’ll send my driver round for you. Where are you staying?”
“Brown's.”
“Splendid. I live in South Kensington. It's not far. We'll all have a splendid matter.”
Things were moving fast. “If it's more convenient, I’ll be happy to find my way to you,” Rick said.
“Oh, no bother at all,” exclaimed Lumley. “Damn! Look at the time. I’ve completely forgot all about an appointment at Whitehall. That's what I get for having a beaker or two in the afternoon. I’m afraid you'll have to excuse me, Mr. Blaine. In the meantime, may I suggest that you enjoy the hospitality of the Garrick with my compliments.”
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