Next morning they left their hotel at half-past nine, and began their search through the bookshops of Nürnberg. Richard wanted a certain collection of early German lyrics. The two bookshops which they first tried were very modern; they specialised in books with streamlined printing and magnificent photographs, or in imposing editions of carefully selected authors. In the second shop, the assistant shook his head decisively. The only place they would be likely to find such a book might be in the smaller second-hand dealers. They thanked him, and walked towards the Marienstrasse. It was just eleven o’clock as they reached the small bookshop with the brown-spotted title pages displayed in the window. Richard noted that the books had been changed since yesterday, except for the collection of old songs, and that it had been moved to another corner of the window.
Inside the shop, there was the sleepy, dusty feeling which its outside had promised. The bookshelves ran to ceiling height around the walls, and there were books overflowing on to the two large tables which crowded the narrow room.
At a corner of one table, a girl with glasses was working with scissors and paste. She had a white face and dull blue eyes, and her hair was tightened back so ruthlessly that it hurt Frances to look at it. She looked up expectantly as the door creaked shut behind them. Frances had the feeling that the girl was disappointed. She left her work reluctantly, and came forward with no smile on her pale lips. No, she didn’t think they had any such edition. She had never heard of it. As she recognised them as foreigners, she asserted her knowledge still more: she was sure, absolutely sure that such an edition did not exist. She neither offered to verify it from any catalogue, nor moved over to the poetry section to find anything else which might interest Richard. He exchanged glances with Frances, and then he searched in one of his pockets and brought out a small clipping. He handed it to the girl.
“The edition does exist,” he said, as politely as he could. “Teubner printed it in Leipzig in 1836.”
The girl took the sheet of paper and held it without looking at it. The truth is, thought Frances, she doesn’t want us here at all.
Richard raised his voice.
“Is there anyone here, then, who does know about German lyric poetry?” The girl’s face was still expressionless, but her eyes shifted for one moment to a door in the back wall of the shop.
“We haven’t got it,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Richard. Frances knew by the cold edge in his voice that he was angry. She moved over to the pile of books on the nearest table and lifted a volume. If it came to a test of endurance, she was determined to outlast the girl.
“Music here,” she said with charming surprise. She kept her voice as lighthearted as she could, and gave the silent girl a dazzling smile.
“You don’t mind if I look through these? Thank you so much.” Without waiting for an answer, Frances proceeded to blacken her white gloves on the dusty covers.
The door at the back of the shop opened. A short, stout man entered. He was in his shirtsleeves, and he mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He had shut the door behind him, but not before Richard had smelled something singeing, something burning. Paper could it be?
The small man looked at the girl in some irritation as he said, “I thought I heard customers.” He turned his back on her abruptly and listened to Richard’s questions. The girl picked up her scissors again, and went on with her work, but Frances noticed that she made only a pretence of being busy.
The bookseller was interested. “That was a very fine collection,” he said. “I had a copy at one time, but I believe it was bought. Over here I have some of the older editions of lyrics; I’ve so many books I sometimes forget what I have.” He pointed to the farthest bookshelves. His eyes were fixed for a few moments on the red rose of Frances’ hat.
She said, “I am very interested in some of these old song collections.” She waved her hand towards the music table. The bookseller looked at her gloves in dismay.
“But the books are filthy,” he cried. “Ottilie, where is the duster?” Ottilie mumbled something about the next room.
“Get it then,” he said sharply. Ottilie went reluctantly towards the back door.
“Helpful creature,” said Richard, more to himself than to the others. Frances had already picked up a large green volume, which she had noted particularly. “Songs of All Nations” read the fading gold letters in German. She turned quickly to the page which the index had numbered. She smiled to the bookseller.
“You are very kind,” she said, and smoothed down the page with the back of her hand. She held the book flat on the table so that both men could see the song title clearly. The bookseller’s eyes flickered as they read “O My Love’s Like a Red, Red Rose (translated from the English).” And then he smiled gently, his round fat face creasing with genial puckers. He mopped his brow again, and Frances closed the book carefully. She had just replaced it exactly when Ottilie was with them again. She had come back very quickly indeed, for such a slow-moving person. She shook her head disapprovingly over the soiled gloves.
She actually spoke. “It would have been better to take off your gloves,” she said.
“But my hands would have become dirty.”
“It is easier to wash hands than gloves.”
“But I couldn’t put my gloves on again, over dirty hands,” explained Frances gently. Ottilie shrugged her shoulders, and then suddenly became aware that the two men had gone to the far corner of the room. Frances hardheartedly pointed out a book to dust. It was a curiosity on early Church music.
“Do you like to sing?”
The girl said, “Sometimes.” She looked as if she were going to follow the men.
“Do you like Mozart or do you prefer Wagner?” Frances continued relentlessly.
“Wagner.” If eyes could poison, I am already writhing on the ground, thought Frances.
At that moment, the bookseller was shaking his head sadly. His voice was clearer. “No, I am afraid it’s gone. Ottilie, do you remember a small book bound in red calf which I bought from Professor Wirt?” Ottilie shook her head too; she made a movement as if to go over to where the men stood.
“Have you got any editions of Lieder for a soprano voice?” cut in Frances with her disarming smile. Ottilie threw one last glance at the bookseller. The words “edition”, “Leipzig”, “difficulty” reached them. It sounded the usual business talk. Ottilie searched for the songs. Despite the foreigner’s smile there was a certain firmness in her tone of voice. Ottilie knew that type of customer. The quickest way to get rid of them was to find what they asked for; they knew what they wanted. If only she had recognised the type when they entered the shop they would have been away by this time. But they had seemed easy to deal with, judging from their appearances. She found two editions, and watched Frances look through the contents with interest. Her last suspicion melted as the men came back to the table.
Richard addressed Frances. He spoke in English, carefully, noting the sudden gleam of concentration in Ottilie’s eyes. He chose simple words, which would be understood by anyone who had had English at school.
“He cannot find the book. He must order it from Leipzig. Perhaps it may not be there. It may take time to find it elsewhere. It is a pity.”
Frances recovered herself, and said gravely and just as clearly, “I am sorry. Perhaps we should go to another bookshop.” She was enjoying herself immensely.
Richard returned to German. “My wife suggests another shop. Would you be so good as to advise us?” The bookseller smiled benignly. He dictated two addresses to Ottilie, who wrote them down, and Richard put the slip of paper in his pocket.
“If you cannot find it,” the bookseller said, “then come and see us again. If I am not here, then Ottilie will take the order.” He was looking speculatively over Frances’ shoulder, out into the street. “Good day,” he added suddenly, and walked with quick short steps to the back room.
The abrupt ending startled Richard. He saw a look of warning in his wife’s eye. She had either noticed or felt something. As Ottilie wrapped one of the song-books for Frances they made their way to a bookcase near the door. Richard observed that the girl was glancing at her wristwatch, that she was taking little interest in tying up the parcel. As Richard handed her the money, she seemed as if she were not even counting it… And then the front door swung open. It opened with such terrific violence that the hinges shrieked a protest which made Frances jump.
Three large men strode in, almost upsetting Ottilie. Richard could have sworn that there was almost an approach to a smile on her face. She gestured quietly towards the back door. The three men strode on. Their boots hypnotised Frances. They moved as if they belonged to the same body. They drew their revolvers. The leader turned the handle of the door, and then kicked it open. But there were no shots, no voices. Frances found herself breathing again.
She looked with just sufficient amazement at the girl. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Burglars?” The girl gave her first real smile. Frances watched its contempt and was satisfied.
The men filed out of the back room. Their self-assurance was replaced by bad temper.
“Where is he?” the leader snapped. The girl’s smile faded. Contempt gave way to fear.
“He went in there.” She pointed to the back room. “There is no way out.
“There is a window, fool. Who are these?” He nodded towards Frances and Richard.
“Customers.” The girl was sullen in her disappointment.
“What is your name? What do you want here?” He fired questions at Richard.
Richard looked surprised, and then let the right tone of slight annoyance creep into his voice as he answered. Frances registered appropriate amazement but she left everything to Richard. This was his show, and he was doing remarkably well as the innocent bystander. He was explaining at some length that they had tried two other bookshops and had failed in their search for this book; that they had been directed to the smaller second-hand dealers; that the book was still unfound; that the assistant in this shop had been good enough to write down the names of two other shops where… He at last found the slip of paper with Ottilie’s sharply pointed script, and handed it to the leader of the men. Ottilie, on the verge of tears, verified the statement. It suddenly dawned on Frances that A. Fugger was gaining some very valuable minutes. It seemed to dawn on the leader too, or perhaps his first suspicions were fading. He impatiently interrupted Richard’s description of the book.
“I shall leave this man with you to get further particulars. I have work to do.” He stepped back, brought his heels sharply together, and raised his arm. He barked out his war cry. Now we’re sunk, thought Frances. She saw Richard stiffen slightly, and then relax again as he gave an inclination of his head and said, “Good day.”
The German trooper raised his voice. “I gave you our German greeting!”
“And I gave you our English one.” Richard’s voice was very quiet. “That is only politeness.”
At the word “politeness,” the German looked searchingly at Richard, and then at Frances. They held their expressions, and returned look for look. There was a moment’s tension, and then the two uniforms had marched away, leaving the third to produce a note-book and pencil. It was a good sign that they hadn’t been taken to some kind of police station, thought Frances, and touched the wooden table.
It was all over in ten minutes. The Nazi snapped his book shut. They all made such business-like gestures, thought Richard irritably. Did it really prove greater efficiency to walk with a resounding tread, to open doors by practically throwing them off their hinges, to shut an insignificant note-book with an imitation thunder-clap? Probably not at all, but—and here was the value of it—it made you look, and therefore feel, more efficient. The appearance of efficiency could terrify others into thinking you were dynamic and powerful—but strip you of all the melodrama of uniforms and gestures, and detailed regime worked out to the nth degree of supervision and parrot phrases and party cliches, and then real efficiency could be properly judged. It would be judged by your self-discipline, your individual intelligence, your mental and emotional balance, your grasp of the true essentials based on your breadth of mind and depth of thought. Richard studied the young man opposite him. Viewed dispassionately, he was tall and thin; he was already going bald; his chin was weak despite the posed pout of the lips; but whatever strength his chin lacked, his eyes with their intense stare sought to gain. It was a pity the effect was so like that of a goldfish.
“That is all,” the Nazi said. “We shall find you at the hotel if there is anything else we need to know.”
Frances leaned over the table and fixed him with wide-open, innocent eyes. “Why?” she asked gently.
“Why?”
“Yes. Why? We are English visitors, we visit your bookshops; we buy a book, and then you ask us questions and questions because the man who owned this shop was a burglar.”
“A burglar?”
“Well, don’t tell me he was a murderer!” Frances was shocked. The trooper looked perplexed.
“I mean,” explained Frances as if to a child, “in England the police come to arrest a man if he is suspected of a crime like theft or murder.”
The man exchanged a look of amusement with Ottilie. Then he said stiffly, “This is not England, thank God.”
“Quite,” said Richard.
Frances was keeping her jaw clenched. Keep me from laughing out loud, she prayed, especially when it comes. It came. The arm shot out, the heels clicked, the magic words were invoked. The Myleses bowed and said “Good day,” gravely.
When they left A. Fugger’s bookshop, Ottilie had again picked up her scissors and was bending over the table.
“Charming wench,” said Richard. “One of the higher types, I suppose, of Nordic womanhood.”
Frances had her own private joke. “No one told her to stop her work, and so she goes on. How long will it take before she realises that she is already out of a job? Richard, if ever a sailor needed grog, that sailor’s me.”
They walked back to the old town at a medium pace. They didn’t see anyone following them, but probably someone would. Richard, continuing his role of the wandering scholar, discovered another small bookshop with much second-hand material. The assistant, a pleasant young man with really gentle manners—Frances sat on a chair and watched him with a mixture of pleasure and relief—promised to make inquiries for the book, after Richard had spent half an hour in the poetry section. He bade them good morning like a human being. In fact, thought Frances, he is the first really obviously human being I’ve met since I arrived here.
When they got to their hotel, Frances went upstairs to change her gloves. Richard sat in the entrance hall and looked through a Nürnberg paper. It seemed as if the inhuman Poles and the wicked Jews were behaving with abominable, not-to-be-tolerated cruelty to the Germans who were living in Poland. The editorial worked itself up into a fine lather. It made crude reading. By the time Frances came downstairs, he was very bored. It was not only crude, it was an insult to intelligence.
He looked at Frances, and was instantly aware that something had happened. The look she gave him was too intense. She surprised him by suddenly standing on her toes and kissing him; but it brought her close enough for him to hear the word “Searched,” spoken with motionless lips. So they had taken advantage of their slow return to the hotel, as he had hoped they might.
He returned her kiss and said, “Good.”
Frances saw the American, whose foot she had mutilated yesterday morning, halt in amazement. On an impulse, she smiled to him. He reddened as he raised his hat and turned hastily away. Perhaps he didn’t like to be found looking quite so amazed.
“Let’s eat,” she suggested. “I’m ravenous. Only, not a sausage place.” She shuddered. Last night’s dinner had been at one of the sausage showplaces, small and amusing, except that the whole menu was devoted to sausage. It was strange how her mind, as well as her stomach, rebelled when the choice was sausage or sausage or sausage.
“I’d like an omelette, and not one with apricot jam in it either, and fruit, and some hock, and coffee, such as it is,” she decided.
“I must say that for someone who comes from England you are pretty snooty about coffee.”
“Well, it is even worse than ours, and that’s something.”
They found a restaurant near at hand, where they had their late lunch. They ate it leisurely, and sat smoking their cigarettes long after Richard had paid the bill. The room had emptied, much to the annoyance of two uniformed men who were seated in one corner. As Richard said, it made things look a bit too obvious. The men may have come to the same conclusion. At any rate, they rose at last with bad grace, and on their way out clumped past the table where Frances and Richard sat. Richard had a Baedeker opened in front of him—lying between his elbows as he leaned forward to light his fifth cigarette. As the men passed, he looked up and spoke. Would they be so good as to help him? He and his wife were strangers, and wondered if it were possible to explore the charms of Dutzendteich this afternoon, or would it be better to make a day’s excursion? The men were obviously at a loss for words. One said yes, the other said no, and then they both left the table.
“Well, it might be better to see the Burg this afternoon, after all,” said Richard. Even if the men couldn’t understand any English, at least the clearly spoken Burg would stick.
Frances watched their progress to the door. “They are ’phoning,” she reported.
“Time to leave,” said Richard, and tucked the Baedeker prominently under his arm. They walked quickly to the door, past the man at the public telephone and his worried companion. Frances gave him a sweet smile. She felt suddenly generous.
They entered a tramcar, at the Königstor, which carried them westwards and then northwards round the whole town. The heat was intense. Frances was glad of the open windows of the tram, which, as it moved, gave at least the impression of a breeze.
They skirted the thick walls and their broad dry moat, and at last reached the Castle. There was a number of visitors to the Burg. Frances and Richard mixed casually with them and made a leisurely tour of the grounds. They didn’t look back once. Richard said it would make whoever was following them in whatever uniform happier. It would have been discouraging for them really if Frances had insisted on carrying out her idea of looking back every hundred yards, smiling broadly and waving a cheery hand… And Richard didn’t really mind being followed in this way. They had nothing to hide…now. He added to himself, If A. Fugger made it, that is.
Richard had left the Five-cornered Tower for the last. He had a feeling that Frances might discover another allergy there. It was full of frightfulness, he remembered.
“Are you sure you really want to see this?” he asked as they reached the doorway. “It is rather monotonous, you know. There’s no law compelling us to go in.”
Frances looked surprised. “Why not? It’s only an old prison tower with a torture chamber. I’ve been to the Tower of London, and the Conciergerie…”
Richard shook his head doubtfully. “This one could teach those places a thing or two.” But he had only piqued her interest. Frances had already entered. Richard bought the tickets, and followed, with a shrug of his shoulders.
He had been right, after all, but Frances wouldn’t admit it at first. Half-way through the tour of the long rooms, she began to move more quickly as the exhibits became more diabolic. Her eyes viewed unbelievingly the directions for extracting the greatest amount of pain which were hung on the wall above each instrument of torture. They were printed in black letter for the most part, and complete with diagrams, in case the minute detail of text wasn’t sufficiently clear to ensure the fullest effects.
She suddenly spoke. “The cold-blooded beasts.” Her voice was a mixture of incredulity and disgust. A tall young man, standing morosely before an intricate object of spiked iron whose function had been to pierce and tear and burn all at the same time, turned as he heard her voice. There was an expression of fellow-feeling on his face, followed by a look of recognition. Frances, whose remarks had been for home consumption, stopped in embarrassment. The man looked as if he would speak, and then didn’t. Frances felt he was leaving it to her.
“How’s your foot?” she asked. “I’m really sorry, and I assure you it isn’t a habit of mine.”
“That’s all right.” His face relaxed, but he still didn’t smile with any enthusiasm. “Enjoying this?” he added, with just the right note in his voice.
Richard grinned; he liked this man. “They made it quite an art, didn’t they? The pages from the Torturer’s Handbook are peculiarly thorough,” he said, and won a smile from the American. Something caught the man’s eye at the other end of the room, and a slight frown appeared; but it was gone so suddenly that Frances wondered if she was beginning to imagine things. She looked carelessly in the same direction. There were two uniformed men, who seemed to be interested in them rather than in the exhibits. She let her eyes pass through them, then over them, and then on to a German family who were arguing over one of the printed directions with naive interest.
“Is there much more of this?” she asked.
The man said, “Piles of the stuff. I’ve just taken a look into the tower place and gotten a cold welcome from the Iron Maiden. There are several models of her.”
“She would seem mild after these. At least she would kill you, and not turn you into a piece of gibbering flesh,” said Frances. She turned to Richard. “You win. I thought I could manage historical objectivity. After all, I was brought up on Foxe’s Book of Martyrs… But where’s the way out?”
The American smiled. “It’s past the tower dungeons. You can’t escape them.”
Frances looked at him. “You are in league with my husband. Our name is Myles, by the way. Would you come and have something to drink? I’m parched.”
The American gravely acknowledged that he was parched too, and he knew of a good beer place just down the hill. They left the Five-cornered Tower, to the amazement of the man on duty at the exit door, who pointed out to them that they had only seen half of the display. Outside, it was pleasant to feel the warm sunshine, and see the green trees and ordinary people looking neither efficient nor thorough. And then a detachment of troopers marched past them; actually they were only a group of men going to some meeting, but they had chosen to march in military formation. Their faces were expressionless under their uniform caps. Frances felt her depression return. Men who marched like that, who dressed like that, whose faces held the blankness of concentration and dedication, were a menace, a menace all the more desperate because of the hidden threat.
“You are looking very solemn,” said the American.
“I was thinking of icebergs. You know, one-tenth above to impress you, and the rest beneath to terrify you.”
“If you know the peculiarity of icebergs,” said the American, with a quick glance at Frances. “There are still plenty of people who think there’s very little of them under the water. But why did you come to Germany this year? I haven’t met any English here so far. At first I thought you might be here to worship at the shrine, but you seem to have the wrong reactions for that.”
Richard answered that. “Oh, the usual inquisitiveness. We wanted to see for ourselves. We haven’t been in Germany proper since the new era got well under way. We thought this might be our last chance.”
They had reached the Rathaus-Keller, and the American hadn’t any opportunity for further questions until they were settled at a table, and beer was ordered for the men—Frances insisted on tea. She noted that her order gave the American some delight, although he really was very polite about trying to hide his amusement. I suppose I ought to play true to form, she thought, to keep up the national character. She had begun well with the big-footed note when she had trampled on him yesterday, and tea in the afternoon was another authentic touch; tonight, she really ought to ask him to dine with them, and wear a dinner dress. Only Richard and she never travelled with dinner clothes; it would be such a pity to disappoint him. However, the American seemed less amused and more convinced when two hot cups of tea had produced more visible coolness than his two steins of beer. Frances caught his eye.
“There’s method in our madness,” she suggested, and noticed he looked a little disturbed, as if he had been found impolite. It was difficult talking to someone who didn’t know you, especially when you both had a common language and thought that that made everything easy. There was always the chance that your words would be taken to mean too little, or too much. That was what made all the English-speaking peoples so damned touchy with each other. Someone who spoke a foreign language had more allowances made for him.
“By the way, we don’t know your name, yet,” Frances said. “We can’t go on just calling you ‘the American’.” The man smiled. Thank goodness, thought Frances, he’s given up the idea that I was trying to reprimand him. He was searching in his pocket-book for a card.
“This makes it easier,” he said. He was, they read, Henry M. van Cortlandt from High Tor, New York. He told them he was a newspaperman, originally working in New York City, but now on an assignment in Europe looking for symptoms.
“War?” asked Richard.
“Well, perhaps that. What do you think?”
Frances looked at the well-cut features opposite her, and the well-brushed fair hair. The jaw was determined; the slightly drawn eyebrows gave a certain intensity. You would hardly notice the colour of his eyes; it was as if the other features of his face overshadowed them. His skin was tanned—if it hadn’t been tanned it might have seemed pale, even sallow. He had gone on talking without waiting for Richard’s reply, and he talked well, with a fluency which showed he had either thought about his subject a lot or had already argued it carefully into a neat pattern. As he talked, he smiled a good deal, showing very white, even teeth; but in repose, his mouth looked firm, even tight-lipped. Frances watched him as she listened to the neatly tailored phrases. A very direct, a very controlled and a very impulsive young man.
“But surely you never took Munich seriously?” he was asking Richard.
And a rather disbelieving one, too, it seemed.
Frances spoke.
“We were still at the stage of taking anything seriously or at the least hoping we could take it seriously, as long as the magic word of peace could be spoken. Until this spring. The march into Prague ended that coma.”
Van Cortlandt shook his head. “Well, we never thought that in America.”
“You mean you think we have been playing a kind of game? That we shall go on playing it, as long as we can keep ourselves out of war?”
“Well, if you put it so frankly, yes.”
Frances leaned forward on her elbows. “Your President doesn’t think so. I hear you’ve been calling him a war-monger because he really knows what’s going on in Europe.”
“Nice weather we’ve been having,” suggested Richard. “Warm, though.”
The American went on: “But Britain’s policy for the last years…”
“I know,” said Frances. “In America it is called Isolationism, freedom from foreign entanglements, unwillingness to die on foreign fields. We’ve been trying all that. It hasn’t worked. We admit it…we’ve come out of the ether…”
“And you’re telling me that Britain is going to take off its nice clean coat and get its nose all blooded up in defending Poland? What would you get out of it anyway?”
“A country fights for two main things, either for loot or for survival. We’ll fight along with our friends for survival. The Axis is after loot. If Poland, or any other country, is attacked, then it is the signal for any nation who doesn’t want to become a part of Germany to rouse itself. It may be the last chance.”
Van Cortlandt smiled, comfortingly. “Don’t worry. I don’t think you’ll find your country at war. Your politicians will always see plenty of other chances.”
“That’s my main point. The politicians won’t dare. The people are aroused now.”
Van Cortlandt still looked unconvinced. “Well, that’s a new one on me. We have some pretty swell news-hounds, and they nearly all scent out more appeasement.”
“Their sense of smell has led them to the wrong lamp post this time. They will look very funny there, when the trouble starts.”
“I tried the weather,” said Richard, “and that wasn’t much good. I think we’d be better talking about something else, for neither of you is convincing each other in the slightest, and we’ll know soon enough which of you was nearer the truth. As Count Smorltork said to Mr. Pickwick, ‘The word poltic surprises by himself.’ Anyway, I have the unpleasant but increasing conviction that all of us who argue so much would be wiser if we learned to make aeroplanes or shoot a machine-gun. That’s only my academic point of view, of course. But that seems the only answer for certain people.”
He nodded to a group of men in brown shirts at another table. “Now what about dinner?” he added.
Van Cortlandt rose. “Sorry, I’ve got to see a man.”
Richard rose too. “We are sorry too. We shall see you again soon, I hope.”
“Yes.” The American’s voice didn’t seem overjoyed at the prospect. “Thanks for the beer. Goodbye.”
Frances looked after him sadly. “He really was so nice, you know, before he got caught up in his theories. I suppose if your country is three thousand or whatever it is miles away you can afford the luxury of pros and cons. I think you punctured him, some place, Richard. He’s probably saying we are one of the ‘ bloody English’ at this moment.”
“Nonsense. He handed criticism out. If you do that you have also got to expect to take it. Anyway, hairsplittings are really becoming so very out of date. The time for theories is really past. But keep off politics after this, Frances, even if you feel you have got something approaching an answer. What do you say about something to eat, and then a movie, and then bed?”
Frances nodded her approval. There was much she wanted to know about A. Fugger. She stopped worrying about van Cortlandt and began thinking of the little man who had walked with quick short steps into that back room. Had he got away? Could it be that the Nazis were already picking out each agent in the chain, or was A. Fugger wanted on another charge? They would find out, one way or another, but it would be unpleasant waiting.
Richard had looked round the large room. At a discreet distance, the two men who had visited the Five-cornered Tower that afternoon were sitting at a table. They had become hungry, it seemed, and had just ordered food. Richard waited until the steaming plates were put in front of them, until they had taken their first mouthful.
“Now’s the time, Frances.” She abandoned A. Fugger, and followed her husband quickly to the door. He seemed amused about something. As they left the room he turned back to see the two men rising angrily to their feet.
“Would you mind, Frances, if we went to the flicks first of all and then ate when we came out? I think that would be an idea.” Frances saw the gleam in his eye. There was a joke somewhere.
So they went to a picture house. After fifteen minutes Richard decided he couldn’t see through the large woman in front of them, so they moved quietly to different seats behind their original places. Richard’s joke seemed to be getting better and better.
As he explained to Frances in bed that night, “They were hungry, and when we landed in the cinema they might have gone out in relays for their dinner. Then we moved our seats, and they didn’t notice it at first. It was pretty dark, you know. We were just sitting down behind them when they noticed we were no longer in our first seats. That was really funny. It was easy for them to find us again, as the place was almost empty, but for five minutes they had quite a bad time of it. That probably decided them to stay together, standing at the back of the theatre in case we changed our minds again. I could feel them getting hungrier.”
“Why didn’t we lose them when we had the chance? “
“And make them realise that we disliked being followed? They’d interpret that as a guilty conscience. Better pretend that it seems very harmless and amusing, the kind of silly adventure which you like to tell your friends about when you get home.”
But about A. Fugger he wouldn’t say anything.
“The less you know from now on the better for you, my sweet.” And that was that.
It was Frances who lay awake tonight. She thought of the bookseller; of the tall American who had either been offended, or bored; of the constant rhythm of marching boots. When she fell asleep her thoughts were still with her, and chased her through the Five-cornered Tower. Richard was beside her, for she spoke to him and heard him answer, but she couldn’t see him. A. Fugger was there trying to show her the way out, but he spoke in a strange language and she kept straining to understand it. The American was there too, observing everything, but contenting himself with a sad smile when she took the wrong turning. It must have been the wrong turning although it had seemed the only right one, because then there was no way out, and she was looking at the Iron Maiden, and the face was that of the girl Ottilie, and the hands were real. The fingernails were long and pointed, and they were coloured blood-red.