Chapter 4

‘WHAT I DISLIKED about him at first sight,’ Martins told me, ‘was his toupée. It was one of those obvious toupées – flat and yellow, with the hair cut straight at the back and not fitting close. There must be something phoney about a man who won’t accept baldness gracefully. He had one of those faces too where the lines have been put in carefully, like a make-up, in the right places – to express charm, whimsicality, lines at the corners of the eyes. He was made up to appeal to romantic schoolgirls.’

This conversation took place some days later – he brought out his whole story when the trail was nearly cold. We were sitting in the Old Vienna at the table he had occupied that first morning with Kurtz, and when he made that remark about the romantic schoolgirls I saw his rather hunted eyes focus suddenly. It was a girl – just like any other girl, I thought, hurrying by outside in the driving snow.

‘Something pretty?’

He brought his gaze back and said, ‘I’m off that for ever. You know, Calloway, a time comes in a man’s life when he gives up all that sort of thing …’

‘I see. I thought you were looking at a girl.’

‘I was. But only because she reminded me for a moment of Anna – Anna Schmidt.’

‘Who’s she? Isn’t she a girl?’

‘Oh, yes, in a way.’

‘What do you mean, in a way?’

‘She was Harry’s girl.’

‘Are you taking her over?’

‘She’s not that kind, Calloway. Didn’t you see her at his funeral? I’m not mixing my drinks any more. I’ve got a hangover to last me a lifetime.’

‘You were telling me about Kurtz.’ I said.

It appeared that Kurtz was sitting there, making a great show of reading The Lone Rider of Santa Fé. When Martins sat down at his table he said with indescribably false enthusiasm, ‘It’s wonderful how you keep the tension.’

‘Tension?’

‘Suspense. You’re a master at it. At the end of every chapter one’s left guessing …’

‘So you were a friend of Harry’s,’ Martins said.

‘I think his best,’ but Kurtz added with the smallest pause, in which his brain must have registered the error, ‘except you, of course.’

‘Tell me how he died.’

‘I was with him. We came out together from the door of his flat and Harry saw a friend he knew across the road – an American called Cooler. He waved to Cooler and started across the road to him when a jeep came tearing round the corner and bowled him over. It was Harry’s fault really – not the driver’s.’

‘Somebody told me he died instantaneously.’

‘I wish he had. He died before the ambulance could reach us though.’

‘He could speak, then?’

‘Yes. Even in his pain he worried about you.’

‘What did he say?’

‘I can’t remember the exact words, Rollo – I may call you Rollo, mayn’t I? he always called you that to us. He was anxious that I should look after you when you arrived. See that you were looked after. Get your return ticket for you.’ In telling me, Martins said, ‘You see I was collecting return tickets as well as cash.’

‘But why didn’t you cable to stop me?’

‘We did, but the cable must have missed you. What with censorship and the zones, cables can take anything up to five days.’

‘There was an inquest?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did you know that the police have a crazy notion that Harry was mixed up in some racket?’

‘No. But everyone in Vienna is. We all sell cigarettes and exchange schillings for bafs and that kind of thing. You won’t find a single member of the Control Commission who hasn’t broken the rules.’

‘The police meant something worse than that.’

‘They get rather absurd ideas sometimes,’ the man with the toupée said cautiously.

‘I’m going to stay here till I prove them wrong.’

Kurtz turned his head sharply and the toupée shifted very very slightly. He said, ‘What’s the good? Nothing can bring Harry back.’

‘I’m going to have that police officer run out of Vienna.’

‘I don’t see what you can do.’

‘I’m going to start working back from his death. You were there and this man Cooler and the chauffeur. You can give me their addresses.’

‘I don’t know the chauffeur’s.’

‘I can get it from the coroner’s records. And then there’s Harry’s girl …’

Kurtz said, ‘It will be painful for her.’

‘I’m not concerned about her. I’m concerned about Harry.’

‘Do you know what it is that the police suspect?’

‘No. I lost my temper too soon.’

‘Has it occurred to you,’ Kurtz said gently, ‘that you might dig up something – well, discreditable to Harry?’

‘I’ll risk that.’

‘It will take a bit of time – and money.’

‘I’ve got time and you were going to lend me some money, weren’t you?’

‘I’m not a rich man,’ Kurtz said. ‘I promised Harry to see you were all right and that you got your plane back …’

‘You needn’t worry about the money – or the plane,’ Martins said. ‘But I’ll make a bet with you – in pounds sterling – five pounds against two hundred schillings – that there’s something queer about Harry’s death.’

It was a shot in the dark, but already he had this firm instinctive sense that there was something wrong, though he hadn’t yet attached the word ‘murder’ to the instinct. Kurtz had a cup of coffee half-way to his lips and Martins watched him. The shot apparently went wide; an unaffected hand held the cup to the mouth and Kurtz drank, a little noisily, in long sips. Then he put down the cup and said, ‘How do you mean – queer?’

‘It was convenient for the police to have a corpse, but wouldn’t it have been equally convenient, perhaps, for the real racketeers?’ When he had spoken he realized that after all Kurtz might not have been unaffected by his wild statement: hadn’t he perhaps been frozen into caution and calm? The hands of the guilty don’t necessarily tremble; only in stories does a dropped glass betray agitation. Tension is more often shown in the studied action. Kurtz had drunk his coffee as though nothing had been said.

‘Well –’ he took another sip – ‘of course I wish you luck, though I don’t believe there’s anything to find. Just ask me for any help you want.’

‘I want Cooler’s address.’

‘Certainly. I’ll write it down for you. Here it is. In the American zone.’

‘And yours?’

‘I’ve already put it – underneath. I’m unlucky enough to be in the Russian zone – so don’t visit me very late. Things sometimes happen round our way.’ He was giving one of his studied Viennese smiles, the charm carefully painted in with a fine brush in the little lines about the mouth and eyes. ‘Keep in touch,’ he said, ‘and if you need any help … but I still think you are very unwise.’ He touched The Lone Rider. ‘I’m so proud to have met you. A master of suspense,’ and one hand smoothed the toupée, while another, passing softly over the mouth, brushed out the smile as though it had never been.