‘The Hanged Man?’
‘Notice he’s hanging by his foot. He’s waiting around for something interesting to happen. If it’s something good – wonderful! If it’s something bad, well, this gives us warning so we can avoid it.’
‘I see,’ Izzy said. ‘Well, which is it? What is he waiting for?’
Come on, Patricia thought, I can’t do this all by myself, give me a hint. ‘Let’s look at the card covering it,’ she said, turning the next card over. It was the Four of Wands. Oh great, she thought. What can we get from that? She took a stab. ‘Wands are associated with emotions or feelings,’ she told him. ‘And since it’s the four, a fairly low card, the emotions are not yet very strong.’
‘But they could grow – the emotions, I mean?’ Izzy asked seriously.
Aha! ‘Let’s see,’ she said, turning over the card underneath. ‘It was the Sorceress.’ Oh yes,’ she said, ‘things are looking up!’
Footsteps and loud voices on the staircase. Two men and a woman, speaking Italian. She turned in her chair as they rounded the corner and saw Count Ciano and Marcello, and a very beautiful young woman dressed to emphasize that she was a very beautiful young woman, who was holding hands with Count Ciano as they climbed. Marcello had a key in his hands. It was, could there be any doubt, the key to the ambassador’s office.
Patricia got up and walked around the table, giving the door to the ambassador’s office two quick taps with the heel of her shoe as she passed. ‘Let’s see what the cards look like from your side,’ she said. Izzy nodded, not seeming to notice how inane that sounded. ‘It matters, you know,’ she told him, leaning over his shoulder, ‘whether the card is right-side up or upside down.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Izzy.
‘Oh yes,’ Patricia told him.
She straightened up as the newcomers reached her. ‘Count Ciano and Signore Bruzzi,’ she said with a bright smile, ‘and I don’t know this lady.’
‘Ah, Lady Patricia,’ Ciano said. ‘Let me introduce my secretary, Miss Arianna Amati.’
‘Ah,’ said Patricia. ‘How do you do?’
Miss Amati nodded. ‘Buonasera,’ she said. ‘Piacere di conoscerla.’
‘Would any of you like your cards read?’ Patricia asked the group. ‘Past, present, future; all mysteries revealed.’
‘Perhaps it would be wise were I not to reveal too many of my mysteries,’ Ciano said. ‘And,’ he added with a sideways glance at Marcello, ‘perhaps of yours also.’
And they say women gossip, she thought. ‘As you say,’ she said. ‘Ah, Count, may I ask you a political question?’
‘So, the lady is interested in politics?’ Ciano asked with a broad smile. ‘Such women are dangerous, just ask the Borgias. What is your question?’
‘There is discussion at the embassy – my embassy – as to whether Hitler will be content with Austria, or is going to make further demands and perhaps invade other countries. Do you … What do you think?’
‘Well, let me ask you – what do you think?’ Ciano asked. ‘Reflect – two years ago Hitler retook the Rhineland with no opposition, and this week he gained all of Austria, with damn little opposition. If you were Hitler, would you stop there?’
‘Well …’ Patricia thought. ‘The Rhineland had been German before the war, and Austria is mostly a German-speaking country, so …’
‘Yes, along with Serbian and Hungarian and Croatian and, I believe, Turkish, as well as a few others. How do you suppose Europe would have reacted if Turkey had invaded East Austria to defend its co-linguists – if that’s the word?’
‘Close enough,’ Patricia told him.
‘Do you know,’ Ciano said, lowering his voice as though imparting a great secret, ‘that when the German Army marched into the Rhineland two years ago their guns were not loaded?’
‘Really?’ It sounded like the start of a joke, but Patricia couldn’t imagine what the punchline would be.
Count Ciano nodded. ‘The troops were under orders to retreat at the slightest sign of resistance. Der Führer was that unsure of himself.’
‘Remarkable!’ Patricia said. She had asked the question to stall for more time, but perhaps she had learned something useful. ‘How can you know that?’ she asked.
‘I heard it from l’imbianchino himself.’
Marcello chuckled.
‘L …?’ Patricia asked.
‘It means in English,’ Marcello told her, ‘the housepainter.’
‘It is what Il Duce calls Der Führer – in private of course,’ the Count said.
‘So Mussolini dislikes Hitler?’ Patricia asked innocently.
‘Dislike? No – too strong a word. Il Duce has little, ah, respect for him. He is essentially a silly little man. But,’ he held up a finger, ‘silly little men in search of respect have caused great upheavals in the world before this. Think of Genghis Kahn. Think of Napoleon.’ He turned as they heard two more men tromping up the stairs. ‘Ah! Here they are. How timely,’ he murmured, greeting the new arrivals with a precise wave of his hand.
In the lead was a short man in the overly starched uniform of a member of the SS, Hitler’s own personal army, laced with an abundance of silver piping and adorned with several decorations that Patricia didn’t recognize. She allowed herself to imagine him explaining the decorations to her.
‘This one,’ he would say, touching it fondly, ‘was awarded for my conspicuous gallantry in throwing bricks through the window of a Jewish butcher shop. And this was presented to me by Der Führer himself on the occasion of my kicking a Communist while he was down.’
Two steps behind him was a very blond man with a puffy face and a spade-like beard clipped straight across two inches below the chin. His dress suit seemed a trifle too small for him and his collar was clearly a bit too tight for his neck. There was one decoration pinned to the wide collar of his jacket. It must be, Patricia decided after examining his face and finding no humanity in it, for extreme cruelty toward old women and defenseless children.
‘Ah, Oberführer Spaetz,’ Count Ciano called, ‘good to see you. Glad you could make it. And this must be – is it – Herr Weiss?’
‘Ja,’ the man in the dress suit agreed, clicking his heels and bowing from the waist. ‘It is an honor, Count. An honor.’
‘A pleasure,’ Count Ciano agreed, ‘And may I present,’ he patted Patricia on the back, ‘Lady Patricia Saboy, wife of the British Cultural Attaché and, if I may say so, a friend of Italy.’ He turned to Marcello, ‘I may say that, may I not?’
‘Of course, Signore,’ Marcello said, a faint pink tinge rising around his ears.
You bastard, Patricia thought, not sure whether she was addressing it to Marcello or Ciano. Maybe both. ‘Who could not be a friend to Italy?’ she asked. ‘It is so full of the most wonderful ruins.’ She smiled sweetly and walked around the table back to her seat.
‘Yes, well – come, we have business.’ With that Count Ciano turned toward the closed office door. ‘Marcello, if you please.’
She held her breath as Marcello opened the door and turned on the light. But there was no sudden gasp or scream or thunderous demand for an explanation as the group entered the office and closed the door behind them. Patricia returned to her seat. ‘Onward!’ she said.
It was three years, or three weeks, or perhaps only twenty minutes, later when the office door re-opened and Count Ciano and his extended entourage emerged. They turned the light off, closed the door, and clattered back downstairs. Patricia was at that moment reading the tarot for Madam de Poul, a stout mature lady who was inclined to argue with the cards as they were turned over. Patricia found this a bit annoying, but at the same time it gave her a lot of information to work with as she threaded the path toward Madam’s destiny.
About five minutes later, as Madam was insisting that she had no intention of taking any sort of trip in the near future no matter what the Tower in juxtaposition to the Six of Cups said, Patricia saw a small sliver of white paper
emerge from under the office door. Patricia finished with the disputative lady as quickly as decently possible and then gave a double rap on the office door as Madam disappeared down the stairs.
The door opened, Isaac twisted out and closed it behind him. ‘Well!’ he said.
‘I am not destined to die of a heart attack,’ Patricia told him, ‘because if I were, I would have done when they opened that door.’
‘Thanks to your timely warning,’ Isaac told her, ‘I had just time to close the safe and secrete myself in an inconspicuous but highly uncomfortable hidey-hole. I had moved the desk lamp to a better position for my needs and had no time to put it back, but luckily it was not noticed.’
‘Where in earth did you find to hide in that room?’ Patricia asked, remembering the sparseness of it. Little more than a desk, two chairs, and a leather couch. An, as she remembered, overly slippery leather couch.
‘The bathroom—’ Isaac began.
‘The bathroom? There’s no place to hide in the bathroom.’
‘The bathroom has a tub and a shower curtain,’ Isaac reminded her.
‘You pulled the curtain?’
‘I didn’t dare, it might have made someone suspicious enough to check,’ he said. ‘So I closed it ever so slightly and leaned against the wall, twisting my torso so as to keep it concealed. Someone did come in while I was there to, ah, tinkle, but he didn’t look behind the curtain.’
‘Did you have a chance to get into the safe? Was there anything in it?’
Isaac laughed. ‘Yes to both. Also I overheard something, I think, quite possibly worthwhile.’
‘I will burn an incense stick to Tyche when I get home,’ Patricia said. ‘Cardamom, I think.’
‘Tyche? Ah, yes, the Greek goddess of fortune. You know the legend is that you can pray to Tyche and she may well grant your prayers, but she decides whether the fortune she grants is good or bad. It is a chancy thing, dealing with the gods.’
‘Speaking of fortunes,’ Patricia said, nodding toward the woman who had just come up the stairs, ‘I believe my next client approaches.’
‘We’ll talk after,’ Isaac said.
‘Why don’t you go downstairs and call for the car?’ Patricia asked him. ‘After this lady I shall feel fatigued and will say good night to Count Ciano and we can leave.’
‘Excellent idea,’ Isaac agreed.
NINETEEN
Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communist revolution.
The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains.
They have a world to win.
Workingmen of all countries, unite!
– Karl Marx
Detective Second Harry Weintz was working at not becoming bored with his assignment – trailing the ersatz Otto Lehman. When you’re bored you make mistakes, and Weintz hated making mistakes. Andy Blake had peered at the guy three times from the truck window and was pretty sure that this Otto was not one of the killers of the real Otto. Still, he must be somebody, he must be connected to the killers somehow, he must have some good reason for assuming the dead man’s identity, and he must be doing something he shouldn’t, or why bother? But a good tail job is a real pain in the ass; boring as hell ninety-five percent of the time, with brief moments of drama or comedy depending on how you look at it, as you dodge aside or look innocently into the window of a foundation-garments store or hunt frantically for a cab to follow the one your subject just grabbed. All the while carrying a change of hats, a reversible overcoat, and a false beard, which he had never actually used but you never know, in the continuous effort not to be noticed.
The subject, whom Weintz decided to call ‘Otto’ for want of a better choice, went through an elaborate procedure whenever he left the house: going maybe ten, twenty yards in one direction, stopping to tie his shoe, looking carefully around to see if anyone was interested in his movements, and then doubling back in the other direction confident that he was free of pursuers. To Weintz, who watched these maneuvers from the other side of the street and about half a block down, they seemed a sort of ritualistic dance to appease the gods of – of what? Of prudence? Of safety? Of secrecy? As Otto went on his way Weintz would casually begin his own ritual of following while staying out of sight.
The daily trips were of little note: to the grocery store on the next block, to the movies where he sat alone, to a nearby barbershop to get a haircut. Once he took the IRT to an optician on 14th to get fitted for a pair of glasses, once he went to buy a pair of shoes at Wiggins on Columbus and 84th Street. He ate regularly at the Schrafft’s restaurant in the Hotel Dumont building on 79th off Broadway. It was on the subject’s fourth visit to the Schrafft’s that Weintz decided he wasn’t so bored after all.
The Schrafft’s had two entrances, one on the street and another in the hotel lobby. Otto as usual went in the street entrance and took a seat toward the back. Weintz went around to the lobby, with the idea of entering Schrafft’s through the inside to be less noticeable. He paused next to a sad-looking palm tree to give Otto a chance to settle in, and was about to meander over to the restaurant when Otto emerged through the inside door and crossed the lobby, heading for a side corridor.
Ha!
Through the corridor and into an entrance to a service area and past two rooms and then down a flight of stairs, with Weintz hanging so far behind that he was afraid he was going to lose him. But Otto, protected by his ritual, clearly had no idea he was being followed. He headed for a room about halfway down the next corridor and paused to greet a short man in a long overcoat who stood in front of the open door smoking a cigarette. They both gave a sort of closed-fisted salute, and Otto went on into the room.
Weintz, not sure if he had been seen, pulled back behind the corridor door and waited for a minute before he peered around it again. The man in the overcoat was gone, and a short, skinny man wearing a chauffeur’s cap was just going in the door.
There must be a meeting of some sort going on in that room, and at least one more way to get down to it. Weintz could either pull back to the hotel lobby and wait or find someplace where he could watch who came in and went out of that room. If it wasn’t important that Otto not know he was under observation, Weintz could merely barge into the room and go, ‘Here now, what’s all this then?’ like the Scotland Yard boys did in all those British movies. But maybe there was a decent hiding place somewhere along the corridor.
There was no one in the corridor now, it was as good a time as any. He went through the door and started down, trying the handles of the doors he passed. The third one turned just as he heard some voices and a door at the other end started to open. He swung his door open, stepped into the room, and closed the door quickly and silently behind him. The room was dark, but he decided not to look for a light switch. Dark was his friend. He leaned against the door, trying to hear if there were voices outside.
A flashlight clicked on from a few feet away, its beam aimed at his face. ‘Son of a bitch!’ a voice said in a whisper. ‘I thought it was you!’
‘What? Who?’ Weintz could make out that there was a person, probably a man, holding the light but couldn’t tell who it was. He flattened himself against the door and reached slowly behind his back for his service revolver.
‘Weintzy, what the hell are you doing here?’ the voice asked.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Weintz demanded – a not unreasonable question considering the circumstances.
The flashlight flicked up to show the man’s face, then he turned it off. ‘It’s me,’ the voice said.
‘Conley?’
‘Right! Got it in one.’ Special Agent Alfred Conley of the FBI turned the flashlight on again, aiming it at the floor. ‘And again – what the hell are you doing here?’
‘Following a guy,’ Weintz said. ‘And you? You living here now?’
Conley chuckled. ‘Stakeout,’ he said. He turned the light over toward the corner of the room where a man wearing a pair of headphones was sitting in front of a black box, fiddli
ng with some knobs, and studiously ignoring both Conley and Weintz. On a table by his side were a large thermos, a stack of cardboard cups, a couple of bags of chips, and the remains of a couple of deli sandwiches. Someone, Weintz noticed, had not eaten his pickle. There was what Weintz thought was a pee bottle carefully capped on the floor next to the table.
‘Dictaphone,’ Conley explained. ‘We got a couple of mikes planted in the room across the way. Which is where your guy went, right?’
‘Right,’ Weintz agreed. ‘I’ll tell you my tale if you tell me yours.’
Conley laughed again. ‘You’re a funny man,’ he said.
What was funny about that? Weintz wondered. But he said nothing.
‘Commies,’ Conley told him.
‘Communists?’
‘Yeah. They meet across there once or twice a week, and we listen. We don’t learn much ’cause they use code names and such, but every bit helps fill out the big picture. Now, your turn.’
Weintz wondered how much to tell Conley. Were we holding anything back? He decided that the stuff about the naked dead guy, and that this guy was probably a ringer, would keep, but he could open the bag on the rest. So: ‘The guy I’m following, his name, as far as we know, is Otto Lehman. Lives in a boarding house on 92nd Street, where he may or may not have pushed another guy down a flight of stairs. My boss wants to know if and why.’
‘Lehman?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Wait a minute. Wasn’t that the name of – sure!’ Conley clicked on a little lamp sitting on the corner of the table. ‘This guy a German? Like fresh off the boat?’
‘We think maybe,’ Weintz told him.
‘That’s the guy we missed when he got off the boat a few weeks back. Our agents got there a few minutes after someone else whisked him away.’
‘Sounds right,’ Weintz said.
‘We figured he’d turn up. He’s supposed to be some sort of bigwig Commie. We’ll have to go over what he says in there – see if he seems to be sort of leading the discussion.’
The Bells of Hell Page 15