CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Brother Benedict!” the Alpenrose desk clerk said.
The four monks, smelling of sweat and horses, stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked at one another. Finally, Sean O’Rourke said, “I’m Brother Benedict.”
The clerk beamed. “Your sister was here. Miss Effie Bell. A little slip of a thing, but a charming lady. She left a little surprise for you in your room.”
O’Rourke could not hide his scowl. “What sort of surprise?” he said.
“Oh, you’ll find out,” the clerk said, smiling. “But I can give you a little clue . . . it once belonged to your dear departed mother.”
O’Rourke’s mother had been a Dublin prostitute who’d died of consumption at an early age, leaving her son to be raised by Monto Maggie Mulgrew the infamous brothel keeper. The Irishman’s mother had died penniless. She had no belongings. No legacy to leave.
Without another word, O’Rourke and the others hurried up the stairs and into their room. Helmut Klemm looked around, let out a string of snarling Teutonic curses and then said, “Die Hure stole my rifle.”
“No, Helmut,” O’Rourke said. “The whore stole the staff of Moses. Only by now, she realizes her mistake.”
“I’ll kill her,” Klemm said. “And the dummkopf who allowed her up here.”
Kirill Kuznetsov smiled and held up the coral rosary. The beads looked as though spots of blood covered his huge hand. “She left you these in trade, Klemm,” he said.
“Yes, my sainted mother’s rosary,” O’Rourke said. “It’s probably been blessed by the Pope.” He took it from the Russian, stared at it for a moment, and then threw it into a corner. “This changes nothing,” he said. “We go ahead and make the kill as planned. Klemm, tonight you will have a bellyache, and Kirill will take you to the doctor again. Tomorrow morning, once the horses are saddled, you’ll have another bellyache, and that’s when we kill the mark and ride out of town.”
“What about my rifle?” Klemm said.
“When we get back to England, tell the Jew to buy you another,” O’Rourke said.
“What does it matter?” Salman el Salim said. He was a small, slender man lost inside his monkish robe. “After the Bradford kill, you’ll retire to your estate in Germany.”
“Yes, where there’s wild boar aplenty, and I’ll have need of a fine rifle,” Klemm said.
“Then do as the Irishman says,” el Salim said, his smile as thin as a knife blade. “Force the Jew Ernest Walzer to buy you another.” He shrugged. “Tell him it’s a business expense. He’ll understand.”
Klemm said, “A slip of a girl, the clerk said. She won’t be difficult to find in this town among the frauleins.”
“Da, big and healthy, like Russian women,” Kuznetsov said, grinning.
O’Rourke shook his head. “No, Helmut. The mark is why we’re here. You’ve suffered a loss, but it’s personal. Go after the thief and you could put all of us in danger.”
“I understand,” Klemm said. “But if I find her in a quiet place . . .”
“Then kill her,” O’Rourke said. “But don’t go hunting the woman. Save that for the wild boars.”
Klemm looked hard at Kuznetsov. “Russian women are ugly. They have faces like sows.”
“And German women are all hideous whores,” Kuznetsov said.
“Enough!” O’Rourke said. He pulled the Adams revolver from the pocket of his robe. “I won’t tolerate fighting among ourselves. The trouble is that we’ve been cramped together for too long. Tomorrow we make the kill, leave this damn town, and go our separate ways back to England. And I’ll shoot any man who’s not willing to abide by those terms.” Then, “I’ve bedded German women and Russian women, and they all looked pretty enough to me.” He smiled. “But none of them compare to Irish women.”
“Or Arab women,” el Salim said.