Ripley's Game (9 page)

He turned back in the direction of his hotel, taking the shortest way possible. He reached the Victoria, claimed his key, and let himself into his room. Then he took his shoes off, went into the bathroom and wet a towel, and lay down with the towel across his forehead and his eyes. He did not feel sleepy, just somehow odd. Reeves Minot was odd. To advance a total stranger six hundred francs, to make the insane proposal that he had – promising more than forty thousand pounds. It couldn’t be true. Reeves Minot would never deliver. Reeves Minot seemed to live in a world of fantasy. Maybe he wasn’t even a crook, but merely a bit cracked, a type that lived on delusions of importance and power.

The telephone awakened Jonathan. A man’s voice said in English:

‘A
chentleman waits on you below, sir.’

Jonathan looked at his watch and saw that it was a minute or two past 7 p.m. ‘Would you tell him I’ll be down in two minutes?’

Jonathan washed his face, put on a polo-neck sweater, then a jacket. He also took his topcoat.

Karl was alone with the car. ‘You had a nice afternoon, sir?’ he asked in English.

In the course of the small talk, Jonathan found that Karl had quite a vocabulary in English. How many other strangers had Karl ferried around for Reeves Minot, Jonathan wondered? What business did Karl think Reeves was in? Maybe it simply didn’t matter to Karl. What business was Reeves supposed to be in?

Karl stopped the car in the sloping driveway again, and this time Jonathan took the lift alone to the second floor.

Reeves Minot, in grey flannels and a sweater, greeted Jonathan at the door. ‘Come in! – Did you take it easy this afternoon ?’

They had scotches. A table was set for two, and Jonathan assumed that they were going to be alone this evening.

‘I would like you to see a picture of this man I have in mind,’ Reeves said, hauling his thin form from the sofa, going to his Biedermeier desk. He took something from a drawer. He had two photographs, one a front view, the other a profile in a group of several people bending over a table.

The table was a roulette-table. Jonathan looked at the front-view picture, which was as clear as a passport photograph. The man looked about forty, with the square, fleshy face of lots of Italians, creases already curving from the flanges of his nose down to the level of his thick lips. His dark eyes looked wary, almost startled, yet in the faint smile there was an air also of ‘So what’ve .’ done, eh?’ Salvatore Bianca, Reeves said his name was.

‘This picture.’ Reeves said, pointing to the group picture, ‘was taken in Hamburg about a week ago. He doesn’t even gamble, just watches. This is a rare moment when he’s looking at the wheel ... Bianca’s probably killed half a dozen men himself or he wouldn’t even be a button man. But he’s not important as a Mafioso. He’s expendable. Just to start the ball rolling, you see …’ Reeves went on, while Jonathan finished his drink, and Reeves made him another. ‘Bianca wears a hat all the time – outdoors that is – a homburg. A tweed overcoat usually …’

Reeves had a gramophone, and Jonathan would have enjoyed some music, but felt it would have been rude to ask, though he could imagine Reeves flying to the gramophone to play precisely what he wanted. Jonathan interrupted finally, ‘An ordinary-looking man, homburg pulled down and coat collar turned up – and one’s supposed to spot him in a crowd after seeing these two pictures?’

‘A friend of mine is going to ride the same underground from the Rathaus stop, where Bianca gets on, to the Mess-berg, which is the next stop and the only stop before the Steinstrasse. Look!’

This had set Reeves off again, and he showed Jonathan a street map of Hamburg which folded like an accordion and showed the U-bahn routes in blue dots.

‘You’ll get on the U-bahn with Fritz at the Rathaus. Fritz is coming over after dinner.’

I’m sorry to disappoint you,
Jonathan wanted to say. He felt a twinge of guilt for having led Reeves on to this extent. Or had he led him on? No. Reeves had taken a crazy gamble. Reeves was probably used to such things, and he might not be the first person Reeves had approached. Jonathan was tempted to ask if he were the first person, but Reeves’ voice droned on.

‘There is definitely the possibility of a second shooting. I don’t want to mislead you …’

Jonathan was glad of the bad side of it. Reeves had been presenting it all in a rosy light, the Bob’s-your-uncle shooting followed by pockets full of money and a better life in France or wherever, a cruise around the world, the best of everything for Georges (Reeves had asked his son’s name), a more secure fife for Simone.
How would I ever explain all the lolly to her?
Jonathan wondered.

‘This is
Aalsuppe
,’
Reeves said, as he picked up his spoon. ‘Specialty of Hamburg and Gaby loves to make it.’

The eel soup was very good. There was an excellent cool Moselle.

‘Hamburg has a famous zoo, you know. Hagenbeck’s Tierpark in Settlingen. A nice drive from here. We might go tomorrow morning. That is’ – Reeves looked suddenly more troubled – ‘if something doesn’t turn up for me. I’m half-way expecting something. I should know by tonight or early tomorrow.’

One would have thought the zoo was an important matter. Jonathan said, Tomorrow morning I get the results from the hospital. I’m supposed to be there at eleven.’ Jonathan felt a despair, as if 11 a.m. might be the hour of his death.

‘Yes of course. Well, the zoo maybe in the afternoon. The animals are in a natural – natural habitat…’

Sauerbraten.
Red cabbage.

The doorbell rang. Reeves did not get up, and in a moment Gaby came in and announced that Herr Fritz had arrived.

Fritz had a cap in his hand, and wore a rather shabby overcoat. He was about fifty.

‘This is Paul,’ said Reeves to Fritz, indicating Jonathan. ‘An Englishman. Fritz.’

‘Good evening,’ Jonathan said.

Fritz gave a friendly wave to Jonathan. Fritz was a tough one, Jonathan thought, but he had an amiable smile.

‘Sit down, Fritz,’ said Reeves. ‘Glass of wine? Scotch?’ Reeves spoke in German. ‘Paul is our man,’ he added in English to Fritz. He handed Fritz a tall, stemmed glass of white wine.

Fritz nodded.

Jonathan was amused. The oversized wine glasses looked like something out of Wagnerian opera. Reeves was sitting sideways in his chair now.

‘Fritz is a taxi-driver,’ Reeves said. ‘Taken Herr Bianca home many an evening, eh, Fritz?’

Fritz murmured something, smiling.

‘Not many an evening, twice,’ Reeves said. ‘Sure, we don’t—’ Reeves hesitated, as if not knowing in what language to speak, then continued to Jonathan, ‘Bianca probably doesn5t know Fritz by sight. It doesn5t matter too much if he does, because Fritz gets off at Messberg. The point is, you and Fritz will meet outside the Rathaus U-bahn station tomorrow, and then Fritz will indicate our – our Bianca.’

Fritz nodded, apparently understanding everything.

Tomorrow now. Jonathan listened in silence.

‘Now you both get on at the Rathaus stop, that’ll be around six-fifteen. Best to be there just before six, because Bianca for some reason might be early, though he’s pretty regular at six-fifteen. Karl will drive you, Paul, so there’s nothing to worry about. You don’t go anywhere near each other, you and Fritz, but it may be that Fritz has to get on the train, the same train as Bianca and you, in order to point him out definitely. In any case, Fritz gets off at Messberg, the next stop.’ Then Reeves said something in German to Fritz and extended a hand.

Fritz produced from an inside pocket a small black gun and gave it to Reeves. Reeves looked at the door, as if anxious lest Gaby come in, but he didn’t seem very anxious, and the gun was hardly bigger than his palm. After fumbling a little, Reeves got the gun open and peered at its cylinders.

‘It’s loaded. Has a safety. Here. You know a little about guns, Paul?’

Jonathan had a smattering. Reeves showed him, with assistance from Fritz. The safety, that was the important thing. Be sure how to get it off. This was the Italian gun.

Fritz had to leave. He said good-bye, nodding to Jonathan.
‘Bis morgen! Um sechs!’

Reeves walked with him to the door. Then Reeves came back from the hall with a brownish-red tweed topcoat, not a new coat. This is very loose,’ he said. Try it on.’

Jonathan didn’t want to try it on, but he got up and put the coat on. The sleeves were longish. Jonathan put his hands into the pockets, and found, as Reeves was now informing him, that the right-hand pocket was cut through. He was to carry the gun in his jacket pocket, and reach for it through the pocket of the coat, fire the gun preferably once and drop the gun.

‘You’ll see the crowd,’ Reeves said, ‘a couple of hundred people. You step back afterwards, like everybody else, recoiling from an explosion.’ Reeves illustrated, his body leaning backward, walking backward.

They drank Steinhäger with their coffee. Reeves asked him about his home life, Simone, Georges. Did Georges speak English or only French?

‘He’s learning some English,’ Jonathan said. ‘I’m at a disadvantage, since I’m not with him a lot.’

7

R
EEVES
telephoned Jonathan at his hotel the next morning just after 9 a.m. Karl would pick him up at 10.40 a.m. to drive him to the hospital. Rudolf would come along too. Jonathan had been sure of that.

‘Good luck,’ said Reeves. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Jonathan was downstairs in the lobby, reading a London
Times,
when Rudolf walked in a few minutes early, Rudolf was smiling a shy, mouselike smile, looking more like Kafka than ever.

‘Morning, Herr Trevanny!’ he said.

Rudolf and Jonathan got into the back of the big car.

‘Luck with report!’ said Rudolf pleasantly.

‘I intend to speak with the doctor too,’ said Jonathan just as pleasantly.

He was sure Rudolf understood this, but Rudolf looked a little confused and said,
‘Wir werden versuchen
—
’

Jonathan went with Rudolf into the hospital, though Rudolf had said he could fetch the report and also find out if the doctor was free. Karl had helpfully translated, so that Jonathan understood perfectly. Karl, in fact, seemed neutral, Jonathan thought, and probably was. The atmosphere to Jonathan was strange, however, as if everyone were acting, acting badly, even himself. Rudolf spoke with a nurse at a desk in the front hall, and asked for the report of Herr Trevanny.

The nurse looked at once in a box of sealed envelopes of various sizes, and produced one of business-letter size with Jonathan’s name on it.

‘And Dr Wentzel? Is it possible to see him?’ Jonathan asked the nurse.

‘Dr Wentzel?’ She consulted a ledger with isinglass slots, pushed a button and lifted a telephone. Then she spoke in German for a minute, put the telephone down and said to Jonathan in English, ‘Dr Wentzel is busy all day today, his nurse says. Would you care to make an appointment for tomorrow morning at ten-thirty?’

‘Yes, I would,’ Jonathan said.

‘Very good, I will make it. But his nurse says you will find a – a lot of information in the report.’

Then Jonathan and Rudolf walked back to the car. Rudolf was disappointed, Jonathan thought, or was he imagining? Anyway, Jonathan had the thick envelope in his hand, the genuine report.

In the car, Jonathan said, ‘Excuse me,’ to Rudolf, and opened the envelope. It was three typewritten pages, and Jonathan saw at a glance that many of the words were the same as the French and English terms he was familiar with. The last page, however, was two long paragraphs in German. There was the same long word for the yellow components. Jonathan’s pulse faltered at 210,000 leucocytes, which was higher than the last French report, and higher than it had ever been. Jonathan did not struggle with the last page. As he refolded the sheets. Rudolf said something in a polite tone, extending his hand, and Jonathan handed him the report, hating it, and yet what else could he do, and what did it matter?

Rudolf told Karl to drive on.

Jonathan looked out the window. He had no intention of asking Rudolf to explain anything. Jonathan preferred to work it out with a dictionary, or to ask Reeves. Jonathan’’ ears began to ring, and he leaned back and made an effort to breathe deeply. Rudolf glanced at him and at once lowered a window.

Karl said over his shoulder,
‘Meine Herrn,
Herr Minot expects you both to come to lunch. Then perhaps to the zoo.’

Rudolf gave a laugh and replied in German.

Jonathan thought of asking to be driven back to his hotel. But to do what? Stew over the report, not understanding all of it? Rudolf wanted to be let out somewhere. Karl dropped him beside a canal, and Rudolf extended his hand to Jonathan, shook Jonathan’s hand firmly. Then Karl drove on to Reeves Minot’s house. Sunlight twinkled on the Alster’s water. Little boats bobbed gaily at anchor, and two or three boats were sailing about, simple and clean as brand-new toys.

Gaby opened the door for Jonathan. Reeves was on the telephone, but he soon finished.

‘Hello, Jonathan! What’s the news?’

‘Not too good,’ said Jonathan, blinking. The sunlight in the white room was dazzling.

‘And the report? Can I see it? Can you understand all of it?’

‘No – not all of it.’ Jonathan handed the envelope to Reeves.

‘You saw the doctor too?’

‘He was busy.’

‘Sit down, Jonathan. Maybe you could use a drink.’ Reeves went to the bottles on one of his bookshelves.

Jonathan sat on the sofa and put his head back. He felt blank and discouraged, but at least not faint at the moment.

‘A worse report than you’ve been getting from the French?’ Reeves returned with a scotch and water.

‘That’s about it,’ Jonathan said.

Reeves looked at the back page, the prose. ‘You’ve got to watch out about minor wounds. That’s interesting.’

And nothing new, Jonathan thought. He bled easily. Jonathan waited for Reeves’ comment, in fact for Reeves’ translation.

‘Rudolf translated this for you?’