XI

In Vienna, Second Death of Plume

Sallying forth one morning, Plume noticed that the city was completely deserted.

. . . They could have given me some sort of warning, he thought, as he proceeded to wander about the city.

Finally he caught sight of a policeman; there was another one further along. Policemen were stationed at all the major intersections . . . How typical of the German race . . . he thought, as he went on wandering about the city.

He approached a policeman and asked for directions to the Haydn-Museum, hoping that the officer would fill him in on what was happening. The officer provided him with the directions, then saluted. Plume addressed himself to another one, who replied in similar fashion. Basically they detest foreigners, A. thought, and went on wandering about the city.

Time was passing. It was starting to rain.

Tomorrow, he said to himself, I’ll go visit the museums and rearrange the pictures a bit to suit my taste, for the way they have been hung does little to arouse my interest.

The following day he was therefore busy removing the paintings when the troops reentered the city, followed by the local citizenry.

— You could have given us some sort of warning, the citizens said to him. Having had to spend the whole night rotting outdoors with our children and wives in the driving rain, exposed to the pneumonias that will inevitably ensue and prey to the general disarray, no question but that this is going to cost us a pretty penny.

— But I did warn you, he said. I sent you a letter yesterday.

— Really? And off they go to the Hauptpost. The letter is found.

— Fine, said the police chief. You’re now free to go.

Plume leaves. Then, at the corner of the street, he takes fright. He speeds off as fast as his legs can take him. Too late. Two shots ring out. The spy survived.