As Time Goes By

by Michael Walsh

  Maybe the Nazis weren't so tough. Or maybe that's just what they wanted you to think.

  He had never met a German gangster before. Back home there weren't any. Why was something of a mystery. There were plenty of Germans in New York, and when they first got there they got dumped on like everybody else. They were people who liked their beer cold and their houses neat. They washed the windows twice a year, whether they needed it or not, and had flowers planted in the windowboxes outside their tenements on April 1. They spent their Sundays strolling in Central Park. They took their leisure en masse, hiring steamers to take their church congregations up and down the East River. They worked hard and stayed away from crime. They became bankers and businessmen and doctors and lawyers and sometimes even politicians. There were plenty of opportunities for chiseling, but they didn't seem to take them. You could cheat the children out of their lunch money and not have the father come looking for you with a rod in his hand. They seemed too square to be for real. Still, Rick knew it would be folly to underestimate them. When World War I finally sucked America in, the German New Yorkers volunteered in droves and went happily to France to shoot their relatives.

  Rick dressed unobtrusively, in a dark blue double-breasted suit and a matching blue fedora. He felt naked without a heater in his waistband, but for safety's sake he'd had to leave his favorite .45 behind in the farmhouse.

  He tapped his breast pocket once, to make sure he had his papers with him; he was not about to let some snoops get the drop on him again, as they had in London. Once more, he recited his new name to himself: Ekhard Lindquist, specialist in the oil importation business. British Intelligence had arranged for someone to answer the telephone at a Goteborg number just in case anyone called to check his bona fides. He took the stairs instead of the lift, the better to get an idea of the layout of the hotel. If the hit were going to come practically outside his window, it would behoove him to know the joint from top to bottom.

  He was walking on the Charles Bridge, scoping the killing zone, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “But surely this is Mr. Rick Blaine?” said a vaguely familiar voice in German-accented English.“Of the CafÉ Americain in Casablanca? The walk is unmistakable.”

  He wheeled around. There stood Hermann Heinze, the former German consul in French Morocco. Heinze was smiling, but he didn't appear glad to see him.

  “There must be some mistake,” said Rick. Unfortunately there was no mistaking the identity of the man who stood before him.

  Like many gangsters, and most of the Nazi top brass, Hermann Heinze was a short man. Rick himself was not very big: about five feet nine inches tall and weighing about 155 pounds. Heinze stood nearly a head shorter than he and probably outweighed him by twenty pounds or so. He had a pale round, moon face, a balding head, and rheumy little pig eyes, over which he wore a pair of Coke-bottle spectacles. In civilian life, Rick reflected as he looked at him, he would have been lucky to be the third guy in a two-man office. Under Hitler, though, his ignorance, his arrogance, his congenitally nasty disposition, and his bullying temperament had allowed him to rise quickly in the consular service. He was, in short, a born Nazi diplomat.

  “I think not,” his interlocutor assured him.“Would you be so kind as to come with me?” Heinze gestured in the direction of a BMW coupe parked near the curb.“I have always believed that unpleasantness should be avoided in public places except when one is trying to make a point. Would you step into the car, please?”

  Of all the rotten luck. What were the odds of his running into anyone he knew from Casablanca—or, worse, anyone who knew him? He would have put them at several million to one. Yet his number had come up. Well, that sometimes happened, even when the roulette wheel wasn't fixed.

  Rick got in the car, for he didn't see any point in arguing or causing a scene that might blow everything. Whatever had to be done would have to be done elsewhere.

  He did catch one break: no one else was in the car, no one hiding, waiting to take him for a ride. If this were New York, Rick knew he would be as good as dead already, with only the gunshot to the back of the head and the dump job somewhere in the Jersey flats remaining as a kind of formality.

  “What's on your mind, Heinze?” he asked as idly as he could, lighting a cigarette and tossing the match out the window as the car started up.

  “There are many unanswered questions surrounding your rather sudden departure from Casablanca,” said Heinze,“but even more—in my mind, at least—concerning your appearance here in Prague. Of course you know our countries are now at war?”

  “I’ve heard the rumors,” replied Rick.

  “Oh, they are more than rumors, I can assure you,” Heinze observed as they crossed one of the bridges.“They are very much the facts.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Yes,” said Heinze.“And as an official of the Reich, it is my duty to take you into custody at once.” He made a little grimace.“For your own protection. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I’m sure I do,” replied Rick.

  “This is no time for the joking!” Heinze shouted.“You are wanted the length and breadth of Europe. You cannot escape. I don't know why you have chosen to come to Prague, or under whose auspices, but believe me, Mr. Blaine, you will not be leaving any time soon. Your papers, please!”

  Rick made a pretense of fishing around in his jacket. He was not about to hand over his fake Swedish documents.“I must have left them in my sock drawer.” He shrugged.“In my country, a man doesn't have to carry a piece of paper to tell him who he is.”

  They had crossed over an island in the Vltava and were now headed up a steep hill. Rick lit a cigarette.“Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere we can talk privately,” replied Heinze.“I thought it might amuse you to see the best view of Prague from the top of PetrÍn Hill. I advise you to enjoy it, since it might well be your last view of anything for some time.”

  “I get it,” said Rick.“Somewhere that you and I might be able to do a little business, cut a deal, eh, Heinze?” Heinze's sideways glance told him he'd struck home.“After all, I am a businessman.”

  The car reached the top of the hill. Heinze killed the engine, and they both got out. Nearby stood an old monastery. Under Hitler, there probably wasn't much call for its services these days, although Rick suspected they were needed more than ever. It was very peaceful up there. Although the weather was fine, very few people were about. Those who were studiously avoided looking at them: two men in an official German car could only be trouble.

  This, Rick reflected, was what life would be like if the Nazis won. Like Hitler's watercolors: all buildings and no people.

  “It will go easier with you if you talk to me first, before I take you to Prague Castle and let the Gestapo have its way with you,” said Heinze, lighting a cigarette.“I know you think you are—how do you Americans say—a tough guy, but believe me when I tell you that you have not yet met a real tough guy. Before Herr Heydrich's men are through with you, you will be singing the immolation song from Götterdämmerung—in the original soprano.”

  “You can forget about that,” said Rick.“I gave up vaudeville when I was thirteen.” He started to walk around a bit, planning his next move. Heinze had made a fatal mistake bringing him here, and he was about to find out why.

  “Let us stop playing about the bush, Mr. Blaine,” said Heinze.“Unfortunately for you, Major Strasser lived long enough to gasp out the name of his murderer. Your name was on his lips when he died.”

  “I didn't know he cared,” said Rick.

  “Then you admit you killed an officer of the Third Reich?” Heinze shouted.

  “So what if I did?” Rick retorted.“You'd do the same thing. It was him or me. He drew on me first. The last time I looked, self-defense was legal, even in Casablanca.” He lit a cigarette.“Anyway, what was I supposed to do, take a bullet for Victor Laszlo? What did he ever do for me?”

  “You let Laszlo get away,” accused Heinz
e.“You drew your pistol on the Prefect of Police and prevented him from doing his duty. And you received the stolen letters of transit from the criminal Ugarte and hid them until you could sell them to Victor Laszlo. How do you explain that?”

  “Like I said, I’m a businessman,” replied Rick.“It wasn't any of my concern where those letters came from, or who I sold them to. I’m also a sporting man, and I bet Captain Renault ten thousand francs that Victor Laszlo would escape Casablanca, and I intended to win that bet, since the only kind of bet I like to make is a sure thing. Besides,” said Rick,“America wasn't involved in the war then. Whether Victor Laszlo escaped or was arrested right there in my club like Ugarte made no difference whatsoever to me.” He looked at Heinze, waiting to see if his bluff had gone over.

  Heinze's beady eyes were glistening.“Through our spies in London,” he said,“we have been picking up a great deal of activity between London and the Prague underground. The quality of their intelligence about our plans has improved enormously lately.” He eyed Rick with suspicion.“You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?” he asked.

  “Not a thing,” said Rick. Inside his head, though, alarm bells were ringing. Heinze must have seen Ilsa and Laszlo in the cafÉ, and Ilsa Lund was not a woman a miserable loser like Heinze would ever forget. She was the kind of woman a man like him could never have and therefore would always hate. If Heinze spotted her here, there would be hell to pay.

  “It is of course unthinkable and impossible for the Czech rabble that calls itself an ‘Underground’ to have placed an agent within Gestapo headquarters, but in any case a major operation appears to be under way.”

  “It's called a counterattack,” Rick told him.“You can't expect to keep punching a guy and not have him punch back.”

  Heinze looked as if the thought had never occurred to him. Maybe it hadn't.“Unfortunately we don't know what this operation might be,” he continued.“Now here you are, which leads me to suspect that Victor Laszlo might not be far away, although I cannot believe he would have the effrontery to return to his former homeland. Which in turn leads me to suspect that whatever is being planned, it is going to happen here.”

  “You know, Hermann,” said Rick, inhaling the tobacco smoke,“you're a lot smarter than you look. You're going places, you know that?”

  “I know,” gloated Heinze. It was about time. He had been rebuffed in his attempts to obtain a position at RSHA headquarters, been shunted off instead with minor diplomatic work involving Slovakia and the integration of Ruthenia into Hungary. Now a ticket to the castle had just been handed to him. He couldn't believe his good fortune. In his excitement, he began to pace, taking mincing little steps.

  “Of course, it is impossible that the Czechs could harm us in any way,” he said.“But there are always agitators, men like this Victor Laszlo, who claims to speak for the Czech people when all he represents are a few Communist malcontents who seek to enslave their own people by mouthing slogans about peace and freedom. Bah! How easily we Germans see through them!”

  “I’ll bet you do,” agreed Rick. He had yet to meet a German who didn't act like a hanging judge even when he was just buying a loaf of bread.

  Heinze missed the sarcasm in Rick's voice. He threw away his cigarette.“What can you offer me in exchange for your life?” he said.

  Rick didn't move. Below him, the city was spread out like a child's toy model. It was not the beauty of Prague that had captivated him; rather, it was, of all things, a reduced-scale version of the Eiffel Tower.“What's that?” he asked.

  Heinze turned back.“The PetrÍn Tower,” he said.“Built in 1891. One-fifth the scale of the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Two hundred and ninety-nine steps from top to bottom. It was constructed out of old railroad ties in thirty-one days for the Jubilee Exposition. Ugly, isn't it?”

  “Only to a Nazi,” muttered Rick. In his mind's eye he could see her again—her in the car as they tooled down the Champs-ÉlysÉes. Her as they dined together that first evening at the Tour d’ Argent and cruised along the Seine in one of the bateaux mouches. Her as they walked together, hand in hand, in the Luxembourg Gardens and across the Pont des Arts. Her, always her.

  Heinze hadn't heard him.“The Führer has ordered it torn down. Why look at a model when you already own the real thing?” The consul threw back his head and laughed.“Perhaps we'll even tear the real Eiffel Tower down someday as well and replace it with a proper monument to German glory!”

  Rick waited for him to stop chortling.“Well, enough sight-seeing,” he said.“It's time to get down to brass tacks.” Rick nodded in the direction of the car.“In there.”

  They got back into the car. It was time to make his move, play his hand, spin the roulette wheel, throw the dice. He'd gambled before with lives and lost, lost big; now it was lucky number 22’s turn to come up again.

  Heinze was so dumb, he hadn't even pulled his pistol.

  That was all the break Rick needed. With his right hand he tossed his cigarette out the window. With his left he swung hard and caught Heinze right in the throat with the edge of his hand. As Heinze's head came down, Rick drove his right fist onto the point of the man's jaw. Heinze didn't make a sound as the lights went out.

  Just like old times.

  He started the engine and left it in neutral. Nobody had seen or heard a thing. To all intents and appearances, they were two men sitting in the front seat of an expensive BMW, talking and looking out over the city.

  Slowly Rick released the hand brake. The car was now in perfect equipoise at the top of PetrÍn Hill; the slightest push would set it moving.

  He got out the passenger's side, went around the front of the car, leaned in the open window on the driver's side, and pretended to say good-bye to the man at the wheel. With his head in the window and his shoulder against the doorjamb, he leaned hard against the vehicle and gave it a shove. As it began to roll down the hill, he steered lightly with his right hand, aiming rather than driving. He could hear Heinze starting to come around.

  A sharp curve lay just ahead as the car picked up speed.

  “Heil Hitler,” said Rick.

  The car missed the curve and went over the edge. He thought he could hear Heinze screaming as it went down, but that could have been his imagination.

  The wreck brought people running. He walked the other way, back up toward the monastery, not hurriedly but briskly. From the top of the hill he looked back. This time, with Heinze's flaming BMW in the middle foreground, the view was better than ever.

  His mind raced, trying to sort out all the information, all the suspicion. Unless Heinze had been lying to him, Ilsa was in mortal danger. They might not be able to pin anything on her right away, but even the Germans could eventually put two and two together and come up with her arrival and the beginning of the leaks. He had to get her out of there, no matter what.

  Maybe the operation was already blown. Maybe, like Heinze's car, all it needed was a little push.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  He was meeting her at a small restaurant called U MaltÉzských RytÍru, an ancient barrel-shaped cellar just across the river from his hotel in the Mala Strana that had once been, or so legend had it, a hospice of the Knights of Malta. Rick didn't know much about Malta except what he had read in The Maltese Falcon by Hammett, more than a decade ago, when he still had time to read. Despite himself, he was letting his mind drift back over the past when he spotted Ilsa walking down the stairs and into the dining room. Right away, he was back in the present.

  How beautiful she looked! It hardly seemed possible, but she gained in beauty each time he saw her. In Paris she had merely been exquisite; in Casablanca, ravishing; in London, magnificent. Here in Prague, she was overwhelming. She put to flight the memory of every other woman he had ever known, save one, and even that one was finally beginning to fade.

  He rose and stood stock-still as she approached. A restaurant was no place for a display of public affection. There wasn't a man in the room who
did not notice Ilsa as she strolled by, so different, so fresh in her beauty compared with the heavyset German matrons and the rawboned Czech girls. Let Rick stick his neck out by embracing her in the middle of the room, as he longed to do, and the show might close before it even opened.

  “Mr. Lindquist?” she said pleasantly in Russian-accented English.

  “At your service,” he replied.

  They sat down, the waiter hovering as if he had just seen a miraculous apparition of the Madonna, and Ilsa spoke to him in rapid-fire Czech. Her command of languages amazed Rick, especially set next to his. The waiter's head bobbled on his shoulders like a funhouse doll's, and then he scuttled away to fetch their drinks.

  “What did you order?” Rick asked her quietly.

  “Some mineral water for both of us,” she said, smiling. He wished she wouldn't smile that smile. It reminded him too much of Paris. But there was nothing he could do about it, even had he wanted to.

  “I’ve also ordered some roast duck.” She forced a light laugh.“In Prague you can have anything you want as long as it's roasted. It's all they know how to do very well.”

  “Is everything in order?” he asked, dispassionately.

  She kept the smile plastered to her face, but answered in the negative.“I’m very much afraid there has been some difficulty with the business that you and Herr Sieger” — their code name for Victor—”have been discussing. It seems that he might no longer be able to arrange delivery of the shipment. I’m very sorry.”

  “So am I,” said Rick, taking a sip of the water to conceal his surprise; today was full of surprises, all of them bad.“This is rather sudden, isn't it?”

  “Very much so, I regret to say.” Although hardly a muscle in her face had moved, to his practiced eye her whole demeanor was now different.“Apparently something has come up, something very urgent. Frankly, we were hoping you might be able to explain it.”