It didn’t work. Hell, he thought. He pulled the lever again inside the broken glass. Nothing.
Some fool neglected to wire the fire alarms properly, Max thought. Or maybe they’re simply cosmetic. Maybe they’re meant to give the residents a good night’s sleep, but don’t work at all.
Max had no time to try and figure it out, however. The bellhop in the basement cannot be expected to keep quiet all night. As soon as he’s discovered, the game is up.
Max was on the eleventh floor; he looked quickly up and down the hall. He saw what he was looking for midway down the hall, to the left. A tray with a champagne bucket on it, and an obviously empty bottle of champagne in it, sat on the floor outside a room, waiting to be picked up by the maid service. Max moved quickly down the hall, retrieved the tray and folded a white serviette from the tray over the bottle to hide the fact that it had been opened. He pulled out the gun from his shoulder holster now, making sure that no one was in the hall to see, and hid it under the serviette as well. The ice was still somewhat fresh in the bucket.
He took the service stairs up to the twelfth floor. Arriving there, Max found a guard was on duty just outside the door to the stairs, his arms folded and all but asleep as he stood, resting against the wall. He gave a jump when Max came out of the door to the stairs, and reached into his coat for a gun.
Max smiled at him, showing him the tray, and the man relaxed, felt through the napkin for the chill of the ice bucket, and then let Max pass.
‘I could do with a drop of that myself,’ the policeman said as Max went to the door of 1220.
Max smiled again at him over his shoulder, saying nothing; not wanting to risk having his accent heard. At the door he squared his shoulder, balancing the tray in his left hand. He knocked with two sharp raps, then put his right hand under the serviette, gripping the gun. He heard steps coming toward the door.
Fitzgerald watched the arrow going round the semicircle of floor levels inside the elevator. It seemed like they would never get there. Eight, nine, ten.
Niel pulled out his gun, double-checking the chambers to make sure they were full of ammunition. Dressed in evening clothes, Fitzgerald had not bothered to take his gun along.
Eleven.
Come on. Come on, he thought. Maybe I was wrong. I hope so. Maybe this is all a farce.
Twelve.
The doors hesitated for a moment; Niel grabbed them and began pulling them apart, and finally they released.
Maybe I’m simply being paranoid, Fitzgerald was thinking. Then he saw the bellhop down the hall at Appleby’s room.
‘Stop him!’ he shouted, running toward the man.
The bellhop turned at the shout, saw Fitzgerald running toward him, and the door to Appleby’s suite opened at that very moment. The bellhop had drawn a gun from under a napkin, Fitzgerald now saw, but he continued running for the man, heedless of the danger to himself.
Chief Inspector Lewis stood in the doorway, looking from the bellhop to Fitzgerald racing down the hall, confused for one fraction of a moment.
In back of Fitzgerald, Niel had taken up a shooting position, the pistol held in a triangle from his body.
‘Get down, Fitzgerald,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve got him in my sights.’
The guard by the service stairs had finally reacted and was drawing his gun. Suddenly the bellhop dropped the tray and put his gun to Lewis’s head, pulling the burly policeman from the doorway.
‘One move from any of you and I shoot him,’ he said.
He put Lewis in front of him, his own back to the wall now. Fitzgerald stopped dead in his tracks. He had no doubt the man meant business.
‘He’s no good to you dead,’ Fitzgerald said, looking the assassin straight in the eye. ‘Let him go. There’s no way out for you.’
The assassin jabbed the barrel into Lewis’s temple. ‘You don’t want to die, do you?’ he said into Lewis’s ear.
Fitzgerald could hear the accent and his entire body began trembling, but he would not show his fear.
‘Tell them you don’t want to die,’ he said with a snarl.
‘I think he’ll kill me if you boys make a move,’ Lewis finally said.
The assassin began inching along the wall with Lewis still in front of him. ‘You,’ he hissed at the guard by the door to the service stairs. ‘Get over here with the others. Away from the door.’
The policeman stood his ground for a moment and the assassin cocked the pistol.
‘Do as he says,’ Lewis said, sweat breaking out on his forehead now.
Fitzgerald was closest to the man; he was thinking desperately of how he could get to him without risking Lewis’s life.
‘No heroics,’ the assassin said, as if reading Fitzgerald’s mind. ‘He will live if you all act sensibly. Anybody follows me down the stairs, and this one will be the first to die.’
He had been inching along the wall all the time he spoke and now was at the door to the service stairs.
At least we kept him from Adrian, Fitzgerald was telling himself. This time.
The assassin fixed Fitzgerald with a steely gaze for a moment, one hand in back of him to open the door.
‘I could have killed you now,’ the man said to Fitzgerald. ‘Remember that. I allow you to live for the time being.’
With that, he pulled Lewis through the door with him, slammed it shut and was gone.
They all stood transfixed for a moment. Niel by the elevator was the first to react.
‘Get on the phone to the front desk,’ he commanded as he raced toward the door to the stairs. ‘Tell them to bar the front exit. We’ve got the bastard.’
He reached the door and the policeman on duty grabbed his arm.
‘He said he’d shoot the chief if you follow.’
Niel put his gun to the man’s forehead. ‘And I’ll shoot you right now if you don’t do as I say. Get on the phone, tell them to stop him at the front doors. Move, man!’
The policeman did as he was told and Fitzgerald followed Niel as he made to open the door. It was blocked by something, and they both put their shoulders to it and opened it slowly.
Chief Inspector Lewis lay unconscious, blocking the door. Niel jumped over him, on the chase, but Fitzgerald paused momentarily to make sure Lewis was still alive. There was a nasty bruise on his head where the German had obviously struck him with his pistol, but his breathing and pulse were regular. Fitzgerald then searched in Lewis’s coat for his police revolver and took it with him as he raced down the stairs, following the sound of clattering feet on the stairs beneath him.
Max left the service stairs at the ninth floor, knowing that there would be a greeting party waiting for him at the bottom. He closed the door to the stairs securely in back of him.
They won’t find which floor I’ve gone out onto for a time, he thought. I’ll have enough of a lead by then to lose them. Let’s just hope that my memory of the outside of the building is accurate; let’s just hope that the fire escape is on this end of the building and that it begins on the ninth floor.
The rooms he was looking for were on the west side of the building. Any would do, he knew. He picked 913 and rapped on the door, looking over his shoulder all the while at the door to the stairs. They could be coming at any moment, he knew. Answer the door, damn you. Whoever you are.
No sounds came from inside, so he quickly went to the next door, 915, and knocked.
A sleepy voice sounded from inside. ‘Who is it?’ A woman.
‘Service, madam. A telegram for you. They say it’s an emergency.’ Come on. Hurry, will you.
‘Oh,’ came the startled and worried voice from inside. ‘Just a moment.’
He thought he heard footsteps on the stairs. Finally the door opened in front of him, and a woman in a white linen robe stood in the doorway, her hair piled on top of her head in a bun.
‘Is it from Howard?’ Anxiety played on her lined middle-aged face.
Max immediately pushed her inside, putting his hand to her mouth, letting her see the gun in his hand.
‘Say nothing, and I won’t harm you.’
He heard a door open, then slam shut in the corridor; voices called to one another: ‘Did you see which way he went?’
‘Not a sign.’
‘I’m sure he came out on this floor.’
The voices died away as the steps went to the other end of the floor.
The lady was trembling against him; his hand over her mouth was wet from tears. He realized how terrified she was, wanted to solace her, and took his hand from her mouth for a moment.
‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she whimpered.
‘I won’t. I promise,’ he said. ‘You must only remain quiet.’
‘What do you want with me? Why have you come in here with a gun?’
She was working herself into hysterics, but before he could either soothe her or cover her mouth again, she screamed as loudly as she could, a cry that would wake the entire floor.
Max dashed to the window, flung it open, and started crawling out onto the fire escape leading from it, his left hand on the sill for balance. A sudden searing pain shot through this hand and up his arm: the woman had stabbed him to the windowsill with a letter opener and then ran to her door screaming for help.
Max pulled the blade out of the back of his hand. Blood flowed freely from the wound and it began throbbing immediately. He had no time to worry about that at the moment, but took off down the fire escape, moving as fast as his game leg would allow.
He heard voices from above him, and then felt the thud of weight applied to the metal ladder and knew that they were just behind him. He looked up once as he neared the fifth floor and saw two forms in the darkness above him, a couple of floors away.
Keep your body inside the metal framework of the fire escape, he ordered himself. Don’t give them a clear shot at you.
His lungs felt as if they were bursting and the wound to his hand was still bleeding, sapping his strength. It sounded as if the heavy pounding of steps above was gaining on him; he could not be sure.
Ridiculous, he thought. Here I go again: the assassin being pursued, and I have not yet even seen Appleby after two attempts on his life.
How could this attempt have gone wrong? But he knew. It was that damn Fitzgerald spotting me at the elevators. Yet how did he know it was me? My beard is gone and I’m in disguise. I should have killed Fitzgerald back there in the hallway. I had the opportunity. But I couldn’t; not in cold blood and him unarmed. I should kill him now, though. If he is one of those chasing me, I should lay a trap and finish him.
He felt tired of running like some coward or failed villain, but he knew that he could not waste time on personal vendettas: if he were going to escape, he had to keep moving; stay one step ahead of the pursuers; give them no chance to cordon off the entire block.
He got lucky at the third floor, finding an open window and diving into it, and then discovering that the room was unoccupied.
He made for the door automatically, then thought a moment. He glanced at the window, its curtain fluttering in the breeze. I should at least close the window; put them off my trail.
Then he had a better plan. He threw the door to the room open, then went to the wardrobe and got into it, closing its door firmly in back of him. A strong smell of mothballs hit his nostrils, making him nauseous. Soon came the sounds of his pursuers on the fire escape.
‘An open window,’ a voice called out. ‘He’s gone inside again.’
Max could hear the men climb through the window and jump onto the floor. They were only feet away from him now. He gripped his gun tightly in his right hand and tried to still his breath to a shallow intake.
‘Quickly,’ the same voice said. ‘Out in the hall! He’ll be making for the stairs again.’
Max waited tensely as he heard one of them move off into the hall, but he thought that the second was still there. A creak of a floorboard sounded near the wardrobe where he was hiding.
He suspects I’m in here, Max thought. He’s going to open the door now. Bathed in sweat, he could hear his heart pounding so loudly in his chest that he was sure the man in the room could hear it, as well.
‘Come on, will you,’ a voice cried out from the hall. ‘They’re after him on the service stairs.’
The man next to the wardrobe now raced out of the room and Max let out a long sigh, closing his eyes reverently in thanks as he did so. He waited a thirty count before opening the wardrobe door and climbing out into the room. There was no sound of his pursuers in the corridor. He got back out onto the fire escape and resumed his downward journey, checking over the side to see no one was waiting for him below.
Only now did he examine his hand, as he continued to take the metal stairs as quickly as possible. It was covered in blood; the brown pants of the bellhop uniform were stained down the side. He quickly thrust the injured hand into the jacket pocket to hide the blood. His whole arm throbbed painfully; he felt light-headed, out of breath.
At the bottom of the fire escape he tucked his gun into his waist to avoid drawing attention to himself, jumped down the few feet to the alley and then made his way cautiously out to the street.
Obviously the police had had no time to cordon off the entire hotel, Max discovered once he stuck his head around the corner at the mouth of the alley. There was only the lone policeman at the corner of F and 14th Street as before, and he did not seem particularly agitated.
Thank God for small favors, he thought as he waited for the man to turn his back to him before going out onto the sidewalk. At first he made himself walk slowly, jauntily almost. It took a giant will to manage this, for his one instinct now was to run. There were no shouts for him to stop; no steps chasing behind him, yet he feared there would be at any moment. He continued walking naturally for a full block, reaching the Treasury, and only then did he allow himself to look back over his shoulder.
The policeman at the corner was not pursuing him, only staring quizzically after him.
As Max turned north at the Treasury he began running for all he was worth, racing like a track star, his lungs near bursting. He did not let up his crazy pace until he had gone past Lafayette Square. Just beyond there he caught a Georgetown line streetcar, out of breath and about ready to pass out, but free.
They were gathered in Appleby’s suite of rooms, somber as guests at a teetotaler’s wake. Fitzgerald stood at the tall windows, looking out at Pennsylvania Avenue far below. Normally he would be cheered by such a bird’s-eye view of the capital’s premier street: tonight it depressed him to see the people, cars, and streetcars so small looking, so insignificant. It made him feel helpless.
I could be dead right now, Fitzgerald thought. Running blindly toward the killer as I did; it’s a wonder he did not simply shoot me.
Fitzgerald looked back in at the sitting room: Adrian was sprawled out on the divan like a swooning diva, a bag of ice to his head. Anyone would think he was the one to get bashed over the head, Fitzgerald thought. But Lewis had won that dubious honor, and sat meditatively in an armchair, a white bandage wrapped around his head. Moments before, the house doctor had warned ominously of concussion, and Lewis had chased him off with a bear growl and a threat to concuss certain parts of said doctor’s anatomy if he did not leave that instant.
Niel stood by the door, a fresh stick of gum in his mouth, grinning at all and sundry.
A baseball pitcher, Fitzgerald thought. That is what the fellow reminds me of, with his gum and interminable grin.
‘A complete fiasco, Edward,’ Appleby sighed. ‘That’s what this is. Twice the fellow has been within our grips, and twice he has escaped.’
‘I’m sure Scotland Yard would do better, Sir Adrian,’ Lewis said.
Fitzgerald looked at him with surprise: he had not known irony was among Lewis’s repertoire.
A police sergeant knocked and entered the room out of breath. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir,’ he said. ‘But Philips says to tell you that our man posted around back got a look at the suspect fleeing the premises.’
‘What?’ Lewis was on his feet, but had to grip the back of the chair to steady himself. ‘How do you mean “got a look”? Didn’t he give pursuit?’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘That’s what Philips says, sir. I guess no one expected a bellboy. He said the fellow walked away from the hotel calm as you please, right up to the Treasury building. Turned north on Pennsylvania, but that’s the last we saw of him.’
‘Brilliant,’ Appleby said from his divan. ‘Bloody brilliant.’
Again the feeling of helplessness swept over Fitzgerald. Here we are in an elegant Regency suite in the finest hotel in Washington with armed police littering the premises, and the German is able to breach our defenses with impunity.
‘If I might intrude?’ Agent Niel said from the door.
‘Niel, I’m in no mood for this, understand?’ Lewis growled at him. ‘None of these inter-agency rivalries tonight. This is my turf; I’ll take care of it.’
‘Sorry,’ Niel said with a bright smile. ‘But it looks like it may be Bureau turf now, as well. You see we’ve been doing a fair bit of digging on our own with our meager resources. We have, however, turned up an interesting homicide.’
‘I’m not interested in your damn homicides,’ Lewis fumed.
‘Oh, you will be in this one.’
‘Let the man speak,’ Appleby said, sitting up now and placing the ice bag on the low rosewood table in front of the divan. A crystal vase overflowing with yellow roses sat in the middle of the table.
‘As I was saying,’ Niel continued. ‘Last Monday night there was a reported homicide at the medical laboratory of the Georgetown University not far from here. A night guard obviously surprised a burglar as he was leaving by the fire escape …’
Fitzgerald’s ears pricked up at the mention of this similar means of escape.
‘A rather professional job of killing, it seems. Cartilage to the brain; a clean kill, as the professionals would say. The burglar seemed to have broken into the chemical pantry. Officials at the laboratory say the only thing apparently missing is a vial of sulfuric acid.’
‘The active ingredient for these German tube bombs,’ Fitzgerald said, beginning to see the connection.
‘Wild speculation,’ Lewis said.
‘Not so wild,’ Niel said. ‘A young assistant who conducts tours at the laboratory remembers a gentleman that very day who showed great interest in the chemical pantry and who also seemed quite interested in the view out an alley window. Our fellow probably unlatched the window while acting as if he was gazing out of it. This curious visitor matches the description of the assassin from the New National Theater.’
‘Fine,’ Lewis said, sitting down again, a pained expression on his face. ‘So we know where M got his sulfuric acid. We know he made a bomb; we know he’s a careful planner and ruthless as hell. But what does this have to do with you?’
‘The night watchman,’ Niel grinned at him. ‘He was a government employee. That makes this federal business, you see?’
‘I for one am happy to have you aboard,’ Appleby said. ‘It looks as though we could use all the help we can get.’
‘Glad to hear that, Sir Appleby.’
Fitzgerald watched Adrian wince at the appellation and wondered if he would finally correct the agent, for Niel had obviously not picked up on his own attempts to do so. He felt himself agreeing with Adrian, however; perhaps they could use fresh help, and then he felt disloyal to Chief Inspector Lewis for having thought this.
Yet he had to remind himself that this was not a popularity contest they were running; it was a life and death struggle with a cunning and powerful enemy. It really was a wonder that no one had been killed tonight. The fellow had obviously been hiding in the wardrobe in that room on the third floor, waiting for them to charge on past.
I had the instinctive feel for him, Fitzgerald thought. I sensed he was in there. But Niel called; the police had mistaken a real bellhop for the killer, and we were all diverted just long enough for the man to make his escape via the fire escape once again.
But if I had opened the door to that wardrobe, he thought. What then? Who would have walked away alive?
‘I’m sure there is plenty of room for both services on this case,’ Niel was saying. ‘And I strongly disagree, Sir Appleby—’
‘Sir Adrian,’ Appleby finally said, correcting Niel.
‘Oh.’
Niel did not look embarrassed or put out, Fitzgerald noted. He simply noted the correction and filed it away for later use.
‘I strongly disagree that this was a fiasco,’ Niel went on. ‘We didn’t catch our man, but we’re coming closer to him. We know a lot more about him than ever before. We know, for instance, what he looks like under his beard. We have several face-to-face encounters with him and can put together a new sketch of him to circulate. We also know that he has an injured left hand. The lady on the ninth floor may have a tendency to exaggeration, but the trail of blood the fellow left behind corroborates what she says. He’s got a nasty wound there, may even have to see a doctor. And we know he left on foot. No getaway car waiting for him in the immediate vicinity. Maybe we’ll be lucky; maybe the fool is taking public transport and somebody will remember him and his destination.’
From his chair Lewis groaned at this suggestion.
‘All right,’ Niel allowed. ‘I said maybe we would get lucky. I don’t bank on it, though.’ He clapped his hands together suddenly, rubbing palms. ‘It hasn’t been a bad night’s work, all in all. Though I do hope in future, Mr Fitzgerald, that you’ll rein yourself in a bit. I had the killer in my sights until you ran into the field of fire.’
‘It was damned brave of you, Edward,’ Appleby said. ‘I shan’t forget it.’
‘Brave and rather foolish. You’re lucky to be alive,’ Niel said, looking at him now rather curiously. ‘What he said up there to you, that he was letting you live for now. It seemed almost that he knew you, or that he had some personal grudge against you. A rivalry or vendetta? You didn’t, by any chance, recognize the man?’
Fitzgerald shook his head. ‘I simply assumed that he felt I had foiled his plans both times: at the theater and here at the hotel. That he was warning me off.’
Niel nodded. ‘Interesting. It might be something we can put to use. A special animus for you.’
The room was silent for a time; traffic sounded from out the window, muffled and distant.
‘We have work to do, gentlemen,’ Niel said. ‘The president will not return until Monday and there’s no way to contact him, it seems. My boss has been on to the White House, as well, but it’s no go. The president needs rest, is the reply we get. The president needs a break from all concerns.’ He looked squarely at Appleby. ‘It wouldn’t do, I imagine, simply to see the vice president or somebody else in government?’
Appleby shook his head slowly and Fitzgerald was quick to explain that they had gone through that option as well, but it came down to the fact that Sir Adrian would need to talk with the president face-to-face eventually. That was the only way his ‘business’ could be conducted.
Niel shifted his gum from one cheek to the other and clucked his tongue. ‘Must be some kind of business. The longer you delay, the more you put your life at risk.’
Appleby sank back down horizontal on the divan at this statement.
There followed another silence broken finally by Niel. ‘So, where to now? It looks like we need another lodging for Sir Adrian. Some place right away from Washington, if possible.’
Fitzgerald brightened, pulling himself out of his defeatist thoughts. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t I think of it before? I’ve got just the place.’
The phone rang then in the room, and Niel went to it. ‘Yes?’ He listened for a moment. ‘Sorry, Mrs Fitzgerald. Yes, he is here.’
‘Oh, lord,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘I completely forgot about Catherine. She must still be waiting for me at the restaurant.’
Max got off the nearly empty tram at Wisconsin Avenue. By now he was in bad pain. He had managed to staunch the flow of blood by pressing hard on the wound, but his entire arm was on fire and he felt almost as weak as he had after being wounded at Ypres. He kept his wounded hand tucked into the pocket of the jacket.
He knew, however, that he had to lead a circuitous route to his lodgings in case anyone could trace him this far, and so he began walking up Wisconsin past a saloon when a group of sailors came stumbling out, drunk and laughing. They saw him lurching along the sidewalk in his bellhop uniform and began teasing him.
‘God, I love a man in uniform,’ one of them, a huge ungainly man, said.
Another spun him around playfully, and Max tried desperately to keep from falling. He wanted to pull his gun and be rid of them all, but that would be suicidal. If nothing else, it would mean he’d be traced to this vicinity for sure.
‘You oughtta trade that in, sonny, for a real uniform,’ the big sailor said.
Max said nothing, and hunkered against the wall of the saloon for support.
‘Ah, leave the little guy alone,’ another sailor finally said. ‘He looks like he’s got problems enough already.’
‘Fucking bellboy,’ the big sailor said disgustedly. ‘We’re getting ready to fight the Germans, and he’s humping rich bastards’ suitcases around.’
He made to kick at Max, but the other sailors finally pulled him away.
‘Come on,’ one of them said. ‘Let’s find some women.’
Max waited for the sailors to be well up the street before proceeding.
They’ll love war, he thought. Just let them get in their first sea battle; let them feel the floorboards underneath them rock from incoming shells; let them see their buddies blown to pieces by shrapnel; let them struggle in the freezing waters of the Atlantic with an oil slick all about them, praying it doesn’t catch fire.
Oh, war will be a lovely adventure for them, all right.
His anger fueled him, and he was able to weave a crazy-quilt route back to the World Peace League House. The front door was unlocked and he went in, crossed to the stairs and reached the first landing before he passed out.
He had no idea how much time had passed, but it was still dark outside his window when he awoke. He was in bed, and Annie McBride was sitting in a chair at his side.
‘Hello,’ she said.
He lifted his left hand; it was bandaged neatly. He was stripped to his underwear lying in clean linen sheets.
‘Don’t worry. I closed my eyes when undressing you.’
He felt himself smiling weakly. It was an unaccustomed feeling.
‘I burned the uniform in the furnace. I don’t suppose you’ll be needing it again?’
He shook his head, not knowing what to say. ‘Thank you,’ he finally managed.
She shrugged, making the wooden chair creak as she moved. ‘It’s a nasty wound.’
He stared at a water stain on the ceiling over the bed, not replying.
‘You want to tell me about it?’ she finally said.
The water stain reminded him of an early abstract painting he had done, one of the first ever: a circular miasma like the ripples of cause and effect extending from an unintended action.
‘You should not be involved,’ he said, turning his head to look at her.
She nodded, half-smiling. ‘I was wrong the other day,’ she said. ‘You don’t really remind me of my son. That was only sentimental hogwash, remembering his death. John was a softy at heart. He carried a gun, but I don’t think he would ever have used it.’
She looked at him closely, and again Max wondered if he could trust her.
‘No. Who you really remind me of is myself. It’s people like us who need to act to change this world before it imprisons us all in the lock-step of standardization, mechanization and materialism. Before the likes of Ford has us all working like drones on assembly lines and reading the illustrated magazines to see what we should be buying at Sears and Roebuck. John used to complain about the 35,000 men, women and children killed in this country each year in industrial accidents, about the upper classes who were only one percent of the population and controlled half the wealth. He was a great reader of Marx, was my John. I guess the difference between me and him is that I’m more fearful for our souls than our bodies. And the soul of this planet is being ground into the mud of Flanders, isn’t it, Mr Voetner? You’ve been there, haven’t you? I saw the scars on your leg when I was putting you into bed. Shrapnel wounds, by the looks of them. And I see the scars in your eyes, as well. Fey Annie.’ She chuckled.
‘You sound like an anarchist,’ he said, attempting a bit of brightness to distance himself.
‘Anarchist, Marxist, populist, socialist, pacifist, pragmatist. I’m any kind of “ist” as long as it means change.’ She smiled at him. ‘Why am I telling you all this? Now you’ve got your cornered animal look on again. And that’s why I’m talking, to take the fear from you. To take it from myself. It’s a fearful time, and only action can counteract fear. I figure you’re doing the action. I hope you’ll be giving as good as you get soon,’ she said, nodding at his wounded hand.
‘I should leave,’ he said. ‘They’ll be looking for me.’
He did not need to explain to her who ‘they’ were; she understood.
‘I run a respectable house,’ she said. ‘There’s never been any trouble here. About that I’ve been cautious. I see no reason anyone would come looking for you here.’
‘All the same …’
‘You rest now, Mr Voetner. In the morning we’ll talk about it further.’
She put her hands on her knees and got up from the chair with some difficulty.
‘Your gun’s under the pillow, if you’re interested. I put your other things on the mantle over there.’ She indicated the tile-lined fireplace opposite the bed, turned to go, and then suddenly looked back at him over her shoulder, a devilish smile on her lips.
‘That was some to-do they had at the New National Theater this week, now wasn’t it. They say some assassin was after a diplomat.’
Their eyes locked for several moments, and Max read trust and compassion in hers. His entire body suddenly relaxed, melting into the cool sheets, and he was asleep not minutes after she closed the door in back of herself.
‘But you could have been killed,’ Catherine said, touching her husband’s cheek with the back of her hand.
They were sitting up in bed together, and she was extracting details of the latest outrage from Edward with some difficulty. Had she not spoken to her uncle at the hotel, she would never have known how heroic her husband had acted; how impulsively. Edward would not tell her about it.
‘Were you awfully frightened?’
He smiled to himself. ‘I’m getting rather used to it, actually,’ he said. ‘Twice in one week and all that.’
‘You don’t have to play the brave soldier with me, Edward.’
He grinned sheepishly, like a little boy with a secret. ‘Niel is right,’ Fitzgerald said suddenly.
‘How is that?’
‘The evening was not a complete failure. We have a very accurate description of the man now.’
‘Am I allowed to hear?’ she asked with a good deal of sarcasm in her voice.
He arched his eyebrows at her.
‘All right,’ she said, trying to rid herself of the bitter tone in her voice. ‘What does he look like? Are his eyes large and white and does he foam at the mouth?’
‘It’s hardly a laughing matter.’
‘Well, that’s how you’re treating it, isn’t it? Just laugh the danger away. Make a joke about it. Be the brave man.’
He folded his arms over his chest.
‘I thought we’d put this argument behind us,’ he said.
She suddenly felt rotten for acting this way. Here Edward was, nearly murdered and she was climbing all over him for being his usual closed self. Perhaps now was not the time for confrontation.
‘Let’s go to sleep, Edward. Close the world right out for the time being.’