After the Fine Weather (5 page)

Laura looked at the platform. On one side of the Bishop, Dr Miller sat, impassive. On the other, Hofrat Humbold was stirring. He cast a glance, first toward the crowd, then at the other distinguished guests, a chief secretary from Vienna, the honorary colonel of the regiment, and a number of other people whose functions she could only dimly guess.

The Diplomatic Corps was concentrating with the painful attention of men who would have to summarize and pass on to their superiors, in Paris, Berlin, London and The Hague, every word that was now being spoken.

Laura’s attention was again attracted to the crowd. It was undoubtedly enthusiastic, but it was not entirely unanimous. References to the virtues and sufferings of the Tyrolese were applauded, but when the speaker, his eyes burning in his white face, turned his artillery on the oppressors, when he spoke – and she could hear the venom in his voice – of the “Joch der Italiener” she could sense a restlessness in some parts of the crowd.

The group that she had noticed before, standing under the lamp-post immediately opposite to her, appeared to be conducting a private debate in counterpoint to the Bishop’s speech.

She looked at them more closely. There were four or five men, the most noticeable of whom was a tall, black-haired character in the middle who had his back to the speaker and appeared to be haranguing the group. A smaller man had hold of his left arm and the rest were either restraining him or egging him on. Behind them the crowd swayed in sympathy. It was as if in a deep, strong-flowing current a movement of opposition had made itself felt. There was a centre of turbulence, tiny as yet but significant.

The Bishop stood for a few seconds without speaking. It was Merlin, brooding over the spirits he had raised; an unforgettable figure, tall, aesthetic, and mischievous, a pillar of ivory topped by the scarlet flame of a cardinal’s hat.

The eyes of every man and woman in the crowd were fixed on him; except Laura’s. She was looking at a point above and to the right of the Bishop. There, as she had noticed before, was a circular window in one of the turrets that flanked the portico. When she had first looked at it she had imagined that it was a fixed window, but she saw that this was not so. The top half, a semicircle of frosted glass in an iron frame, opened outward on a ratchet. And it was opening now, slowly but quite steadily. And through the opening something protruded, something dull black, which gave back a glint of metal.

A voice shouted from the group in front of her. It was the tall black-haired man, who was tearing himself free from his neighbours and was waving his arm and shouting. Women screamed.

Laura’s eyes were on the black gun barrel protruding from the window. She saw it jump once, twice, as the shots came.

The Bishop swung round in a violent gesture. It was as if he turned to face an interruption from an unexpected source. Then he went down onto his knees, and pitched slowly forward onto his face. His scarlet hat tumbled from his head and rolled down the shallow steps.

Laura was one of the first to move. Jumping to her feet, she kicked her chair over and started out at a stumbling run toward the section where the Diplomatic Corps was seated. Her one idea was to get close to Charles.

Then the paralysis of affront and shock snapped like an overtight string. There was a roar as the crowd surged forward, in an unreasoning reaction, a desire to move, to stamp, to grab. It was the instinct of a huge animal, wounded in one of its extremities, rolling and threshing.

The ropes that separated the standing crowd from the seats burst, seats went over as the audience jumped up, there was a smashing of wood, and a wave of bodies lapped up against the steps of the theatre. Above the roar of the crowd rose the steady screaming of women.

Laura missed Charles but reached the steps and found shelter behind one of the pillars. She looked down at the square. It was as though a gust of hurricane force had picked up a section of the crowd and thrown it against the steps. But in that forward surge there were already two countermovements. At one point, under the lamp-post, a private war was being waged. She glimpsed the tall, black-haired man, his arms flailing, shot up for a moment like a log in a mill-race, then submerged under the bodies of his attackers.

In the middle of the crowd, directly opposite the steps, another and stronger movement was developing. The troops were coming in; small but determined men in green, butting, pushing and boring. As she watched, the head of the column reached the front of the steps, the officer in charge shouted, and the men turned outward, forming a cordon.

Overhead a loudspeaker crackled and boomed, and a voice started giving orders.

Laura found Charles beside her. His black Homburg hat was over one eye, but he looked comfortingly matter-of-fact.

“I think you’d better get back to the flat,” he said. “There’s still a way out behind the theatre, if you jump to it.”

“Charles, I saw it–”

“We all saw it,” said Charles. “It was a bestial thing. They’ve got the man, that’s one comfort. I expect they’ve torn him to pieces by now.”

“But, Charles–”

“It was that tall black-haired man under the lamp-post. I caught a glimpse of him as he fired. He looked like an Italian. There’s going to be trouble if he was.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but Charles was already hustling her across the steps and down the side of the theatre. There was a hooped-iron fence, shoulder high.

“I’ll give you a leg up,” he said. “See if you can work your way round to the back of the theatre. The crowd isn’t right round yet. I’ve got to get back.”

Laura ran along the strip of lawn. The crowd, packed against the outside of the fence, had no eyes for her. They were craning and pressing toward the square, infected by a common excitement but uncertain of what had happened.

Ahead of Laura was a second fence, flanking a path leading to one of the side doors of the theatre. She was actually climbing the fence when the door opened and someone came out. It was the pretty, blond-haired boy she had seen the night before attacking the Italian. And, as she was immediately and completely certain, it was the murderer of the Bishop.

It was this certainty, which had no basis in logic but was the stronger for being illogical, that made her scream.

The boy looked at her, and for a second she saw in his eyes a mixture of alarm and hatred that turned her blood cold. Then he turned on his heel, ran the few yards to the end of the path, and started to shoulder his way through the crowd.

She found herself running after him, shouting “Stop him! Murderer!” Faces turned and looked blankly at her. Then she was herself in the crowd. A man grabbed her. She shook herself loose, hitting him in the face as she did so. Behind her someone growled out something. The boy was well ahead of her now, working his way through the crowd. As she tried to push after him a foot came out and tripped her. She went down on her knees. Two hands came down, grabbed her arms, and hauled her to her feet.

“Better get out of here before they start getting rough,” said the voice of Helmut.

He kept hold of her wrists and started to back out, pulling her after him in a series of jerks. People were shouting. A face looked down at her, stupid with fear and excitement. A hand grabbed her dress near the shoulder, and she heard the tearing noise as the stuff went. The next moment they were clear.

“No need to run,” said Helmut. “They won’t chase you. They just didn’t like you treading on their toes. They’re a bit worked up.”

They walked down one of the passages at the rear of the theatre and came out into a street of shops. Behind them they could hear the roar of the crowd, dominated by the booming of the loudspeaker.

She said, “Would you mind stopping for a moment? I can’t–”

She was trembling so violently that she couldn’t speak.

Helmut put an arm under hers and steered her through a doorway. She found herself seated at a table.

“What you need is a drink.” He shouted, and the solitary waiter, who was out in the street listening to the uproar, came reluctantly back to take the order.

Laura took a mouthful from the glass that was put in front of her, and spluttered. It was neat schnapps. It tasted like incandescent hair oil.

“Finish it,” said Helmut. “You won’t like it, but it will do you good.”

“I’m all right now.”

“What were you crashing about in the crowd for? They were beginning to get angry about it.”

“It was the man,” said Laura.

“Which man?”

“He was quite young. He had fair hair, and a – rather pretty face. You know – sort of weak, but pretty. He was coming out of the theatre.”

“And you suddenly felt an overmastering desire to chase this – what would you say? – an actor or perhaps a pop singer.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“It would have been no joke for him if you had caught him, I can see.”

Laura said angrily, “Will you stop making fun of me? The man was a murderer.”

Helmut stared at her.

“I told you. He was slipping out of the theatre by a side door. And I recognized him.”

“You recognized him?”

“You remember my telling you, at dinner last night, about that gang of bullies that was beating up an Italian. Well, he was the leader of them.”

Helmut signalled to the waiter and ordered more schnapps.

“I’d rather have coffee,” said Laura.

“And coffee. Now see if I can set this straight. Because you recognized this man as someone you had seen assaulting an Italian the night before, you came to the conclusion that he had had a hand in shooting the Bishop.”

“I saw him do it.”

“You–?”

“No, that’s not quite right. I saw a gun being pointed at the Bishop through a gap in one of the circular windows in the turret beside the porch.”

“Then what – a flash – smoke.”

What had she seen? She shut her eyes. Had the gun barrel jumped just a little, as the shots rang out? When she opened her eyes again Helmut was looking at her, his head cocked, the eighth of a smile on his lips.

“You don’t believe it, do you?” she said. “You don’t believe a single word of it.”

“The idea in my part of the crowd,” said Helmut, “was that the shooting was done by an Italian. I didn’t see him myself, but lots of people seem to have seen him. A big man, with black hair. He was shouting and waving while the Bishop was speaking; then he pulled out a gun and shot him.”

“There was a man.”

“You saw him, then?”

“He was with a group of people under a lamp-post opposite where I was sitting. But he didn’t do the shooting. That was done from the theatre.”

“By your blond friend?”

“Well – of course, I don’t know it was him. But if he wasn’t mixed up in it, why was he sneaking out of the theatre by the back way?”

“Maybe he works there,” said Helmut. “He sounds a bit theatrical. Suppose he was watching the parade from one of the theatre windows.”

“Why did he run away when he saw me?”

“That,” said Helmut, “I agree is quite inexplicable. Hello. What’s all this?”

There was a crescendo of noise in the street outside, and three open lorries rocketed past. Each of them was full of uniformed, steel-helmeted men.

“Reservists,” said Helmut. “Colonel Julius is doing his stuff.”

“Colonel Julius?”

“Julius Schatzmann, otherwise the Grey Bear, our respected Sicherheitsdirektor, or chief of security. It was Julius himself who got onto the microphone after the shooting. Didn’t you hear him?”

“I heard someone bellowing. I didn’t understand it.”

The man who had served them with drinks came up and said something to Helmut.

“He’s turning us out.”

“Why?”

“He’s from Italy himself. He thinks there’s going to be trouble.”

The man, stocky and black-haired, was clearly on edge for them to go. A boy – his son, she guessed – was already swinging a heavy shutter across one of the windows.

“It mightn’t be a bad idea,” said Helmut. He seemed in no hurry to move, however, but was lying back in his chair, feeling in his pocket for money. “I should think that the consulate would be the safest place for you.”

“What sort of trouble?” said Laura. “What do you mean?”

Outside, from the direction of the square, came a sharp rattling. It was as if someone had drawn a walking stick along a section of iron railing. The sound ceased as abruptly as it had started.

“A machine-gun,” said Helmut. “I wonder who’s shooting whom?” He handed the man some money, and they walked to the door and looked cautiously out.

The street was empty.

“Stay where you are for a moment,” said Helmut. “I’ve got my car down the next turning.”

Most of the shops in the little street were shut, she noticed, the doors barred and the windows shuttered. At first-floor level faces peered from curtained windows.

Then the car slid up.

“Jump in,” said Helmut, “and don’t look so worried. Everything’s under control now, I imagine.”

“I’m quite all right,” said Laura.

The noise from the square had died down. There were occasional shouts, but they seemed to be the shouts of people in authority. Over all, the loudspeaker boomed steadily. Then the voice stopped speaking, there was a crackling, and music blared out.

In the Maria-Theresien-Strasse they ran into a roadblock. Two troop carriers were across the street. Helmut spoke to the young, good-looking sergeant of gendarmerie, and they were allowed to pass.

“The sergeant seemed to know you,” said Laura.

“He ought to,” said Helmut. “He was on my ski team last year.”

“Why are they blocking the roads?”

“That’s Julius. It’s his idea of security. If anything happens, you put a cordon round, quick. You can work out the answers later. The first thing is to keep everyone where they are.”

“Was he expecting trouble?”

Helmut looked at her sideways out of his brown eyes, and said, “He was brought up in a hard school. Here we are. I expect your brother will be back soon.”

He parked the car, walked with her into the hallway of the flats, and pressed the button for the lift.

“Would you like me to come up with you?”

“I shall be all right,” she said. “Frau Rosa will be there.”

“If you do want me for anything, please telephone me. I shall be only too pleased. Here. I will give you my card. It has my telephone number on it.”

“You’ve been very kind,” she said.

“There was one other thing I wanted to say. You may find this strange. I think it would be wiser to forget all that you may have seen, or may not have seen, in the square. Eyes play strange tricks. I have seen that myself, on the mountains. Once I very clearly saw my friend, above me, reach down and cut the rope between us. I saw the knife, I saw the strands in the rope part, one by one. Then I blinked my eyes – and none of it had happened. It was an optical illusion, brought on by strain and sleeplessness. Auf Wiedersehen.”

He gave an absurd little click with his heels, swung about, and was gone.

Laura shut the lift door, and pressed the button which would take her up to her brother’s flat on the top floor. “But I wasn’t suffering from strain.” She said it aloud as if Helmut were in the lift with her. “Or sleeplessness. And I’ve got particularly good eyesight,” she added, as she fitted the key into the lock. “Frau Rosa!”

There was no answer. Frau Rosa was evidently out, shopping or watching the parade. Laura went to look in the kitchen, and shouted once more to make sure. But the flat was empty.

In the drawing-room there was a copy of the thin-paper edition of The Times that Charles got every day, twenty-four hours after publication. It carried on the editorial page an account of troubles in the South Tyrol headlined “When Neighbours Fall Out.” She read a few sentences of it, but the reasonable, cultivated phrases made no sense to her. She was seeing a fierce old man, with a white face and a nose like an eagle’s beak, falling forward onto his knees, as if in prayer, and then folding forward onto his face. She was watching a red hat cartwheeling down the steps.

Bump, bump, bump. It was her own heart beating. She felt cold.

One of the double windows was open, and when she went across to shut it she noticed that the blue sky of the morning had gone. It was as if an artist, tiring of a summer scene, had dipped his brush in grey and blocked out the sky with a few quick strokes.

The telephone rang. Laura let it ring. She did not feel up to shaping German sentences. After a bit it got discouraged and stopped.

The shutting of the window had made the room very quiet. She picked up the paper again. “It is to be hoped,” said the foreign correspondent of The Times, “that counsels of moderation will prevail, and that we shall not see, in these peaceful upland valleys, so loved of tourists, the incongruous incidents of terrorism and repressions.”

Did journalists really hope that counsels of moderation would prevail? Or was it something they said while they sat by and hoped for exactly the opposite? She was pretty certain that counsels of moderation were the last thing Joe Keller wanted.