The Prize (19 page)

‘Precisely,’ said Denise, opening her napkin. ‘Even though it isn’t your play, wish me luck.’

‘Luck,’ said Craig.

And with that, they all bent to their food.

For his interview with Miss Sue Wiley, of America, Nicholas Daranyi had selected a distinguished restaurant several centuries old, the Bacchi Wapen, in J
ن
rntorgsgatan, not far from his residence in the Old Town.

In seeing established contacts, Daranyi made it a policy not to pamper them with lunch at all, at least not expensive lunches. For them, the money was enough. Gottling, although he had been sullen and unco-operative yesterday, in fact almost rude, had frequently been free with gossip for the price of a night of drinks. Mathews, the English correspondent, whose suits were threadbare, and Miss Bjِrkman, Hammarlund’s secretary, who was underpaid, were always valuable and dependable, as they had been last night, and never made demands beyond the kronor offered. But Miss Wiley was a new one, of great promise, or so Krantz had suggested, and she was a highly paid American, and that meant that she might require being handled with considerable delicacy.

Bacchi Wapen was far too expensive for Daranyi’s budget, but since he knew that he could not woo a rich American with his small funds, that he must entice her with other bait, a fine restaurant seemed an appropriate beginning. Daranyi had much faith in the seductiveness of expensive surroundings. For one thing, they gave him an air of solidity and prosperity. For another, they put his informants in his debt, in a subtle way, and wine of the best vintage and a fine cuisine more often than not made his guests drop their guards.

There was something to be said, too, for the enchantment of the surroundings. In Bacchi Wapen, a restaurant carved out of a rock, with its unique dining levels like so many descending cliffs, with its rare
smorg
ه
sbord
table, and the lovely young girl nearby at the piano, this somehow ennobled what otherwise might be regarded as a tawdry business. In surroundings such as this, the acquisition of odious calumnies took on the high purpose of a search for Truth.

At his table, enjoying the fragrance of his own body cologne, Daranyi nursed his dry martini and listened to the tinkling piano and wondered if Miss Wiley would prove a fruitful source. If she did, and Mathews delivered as he had promised, the few sources that remained would be inconsequential, the mere gilding of the lily. If Miss Wiley co-operated, he would surprise Krantz by presenting him with a thorough dossier on each laureate many hours before tomorrow evening’s deadline. And for this, he would have a bonus besides his payment. Perhaps more, perhaps more. Daranyi would think about it when he was alone, and making his jottings, tonight.

He saw that the proprietor was directing a young lady—a surprisingly young lady, with a face like a gun dog, a pointer, wearing a costly soldier coat—towards his table. Daranyi shoved back his chair, to free his belly, and came to his feet.

‘I’m Sue Wiley of Consolidated,’ she said, and offered her hand.

Daranyi clicked his heels and inclined his head. ‘Nicholas Daranyi,’ he announced, and quickly bent and kissed her hand.

After they had been seated, Daranyi inquired, ‘You will join me for a drink?’

‘I don’t drink,’ said Sue Wiley. ‘But I’m as hungry as ten wolves. What’s the specialty?’

‘I have studied the menu. Everything in Bacchi Wapen is delicious.’

‘What does Bacchi Wapen mean?’

‘Bacchus Arms,’ said Daranyi.

‘The names get sillier every day. All right, what were you suggesting?’

‘In Sweden, for lunch, you can never go wrong with
kِttbullar
.’

‘What in the devil is that?’

Her aggressive manner was disconcerting to Daranyi, but he retained his aplomb. ‘A superb form of meatballs with carrots in a thick sauce—’

‘That’s for me,’ said Sue Wiley. ‘I’m busy as all get out, so if you don’t mind, let’s be served and call the meeting to order.’

‘Certainly, whatever your pleasure,’ said Daranyi.

He snapped his fingers, and when the waitress came, he placed the orders, and added regretfully that they were in a hurry.

‘What kind of accent have you got?’ demanded Sue Wiley. ‘Romanian? Bulgarian? Hungarian?’

Daranyi was momentarily taken aback, for he did not know that he had an accent. ‘Hungarian,’ he said feebly.

‘Oh, one of those.’ She fiddled with her handbag, took out her compact, examined her face, then snapped it shut. ‘When you have a Hungarian for a friend, you don’t need an enemy.’

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Wiley?’

‘No offence. An American joke. There are hundreds about Hungarians. How does it feel to be a Hungarian?’

‘I would not know. I have always considered myself a man of the whole world.’

‘Yes? Well, what are you doing then, hiding in Sweden? A duller place I’ve never seen.’

‘Oh, you must not be too critical, Miss Wiley. One becomes accustomed to the quiet, and after a while, one appreciates and enjoys it.’

‘There’s enough quiet after you’re dead.’

‘True, but for a historian, it is valuable in life, too.’ He had decided upon his role early this morning, when he had thought about Andrew Craig. ‘One requires solitude.’

‘You can have it.’ Her hand accidentally tipped over the saltcellar, and she hastily retrieved a pinch of salt and cast it over her left shoulder. ‘Now, Mr. Daranyi, I’m not sure why I’m here, except you said on the phone you’d heard I was writing a Nobel series—’

‘Yes, a correspondent from London so advised me.’

‘—and you might have some useful material for me, in return for a slight favour. What favour?’

‘Before we go into that,’ said Daranyi suavely, ‘we must have at least a brief knowledge of one another, how I may be of assistance to you, and you to me. I am, as I have advised you, a historian. I have a contract with a British publisher to develop a thorough book on the Nobel Prize awards, and the personalities concerned, since 1901. However, much to my distress, the publisher has insisted that the history not be too—er, dry—that even, as regards the personalities, it be racy, and that emphasis be placed on the more recent laureates. Unfortunately, I am a scholar and not a journalist. I find it difficult to acquire such information on the current winners.’

Sue Wiley’s eyes blinked steadily. ‘So that’s where I come in?’

‘I had heard you were well acquainted with the current winners.’

‘You bet your life I am. I’m loaded. Are you? What’s in it for me?’

‘I have devoted two years to my researches, Miss Wiley. I have a mountain of important information on the past.’

‘My kind of information, Mr. Daranyi?’

‘It depends. What exactly is your kind of information?’

‘One paragraph’ll do it for you. You want to know the lead to my opening article next week? Now, sit tight.’ She squeezed her eyes shut and recited: ‘ “Part I. Exploding the Nobel Myth. By Sue Wiley, CN’s Special Correspondent in Stockholm. Paragraph, lead. That late gadfly, George Bernard Shaw, once stated, ‘I can forgive Alfred Nobel for having invented dynamite, but only a fiend in human form could have invented the Nobel Prize!’ Ditto, say I from the capital of Sweden, source of the world’s greatest and most dangerous give-away circus. Paragraph. I have been where few men or women have ever ventured, behind the scenes of last week’s Nobel awards, and for months I have done firsthand spade-work into past awards, and I am here to prove that the dignified, solemn prize-giving is, and always has been, an explosive, as deadly, as harmful, to giver and taker alike, and to the world, as the donor’s invention of dynamite. Exclamation point.” ’ She opened her eyes. ‘How’s that?’

‘Provocative, to say the least.’

‘You can say that again. It’ll be a sensation. Now then, I’ve laid it on the line. I’m not interested in any high falutin’ scholarship. I’m interested in dirt, as one writer to another. Can you help me?’

Even Daranyi, who had been forced into many disagreeable relationships in the course of his work, was repelled by this young person. But he saw at once that she would have what he required for Krantz. Business is business, he reminded himself. ‘I believe I do have much that would be valuable to you, Miss Wiley.’

‘Okay, you come across and I’ll come across. Your credentials first. For all I know, you may be a stringer for Associated Press.’

‘Credentials?’

‘How do I know you’re pounding out a book?’

‘Yes, of course, I do not blame you.’ From inside his jacket, Daranyi withdrew a folded, blue-bound publishing contract which he had carefully prepared for this occasion. He handed it to Sue Wiley. ‘I anticipated that you might ask. There is my contract. I trust that you will not divulge the—er, financial—financial details to outsiders.’

‘What do you think I am?’ She studied the first page of the contract, then riffled quickly through the other pages, then examined the last page. She handed it back. ‘Kosher,’ she said. ‘You want to see my press pass?’

‘That will not be necessary, Miss Wiley. I have been informed of your high standing.’

‘Okay, Mr. Daranyi, what do we do next?’

‘We exchange information. You give me a fact. I give you a fact in return.’

Sue Wiley blinked. ‘Not so fast, my friend. Let’s have a preview first.’

‘What does that mean—preview?’

‘Sorry—some samples. You throw me a couple of titbits, so I know you’ve got the dope. I’ll do likewise. If we’re both satisfied, we can go on from there. You’ve got everything with you?’

Daranyi nodded. ‘In my head, yes. All can be verified.’

‘Bravo for you. I keep my notes under lock and key in my hotel. If I’m satisfied, we’ll get this lunch over with fast, and you’ll come back with me. We can make our exchange and take down the information in my room. Suit you?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Let’s go, then. You first.’

Daranyi found himself inhibited. ‘I do not know exactly what you want. There is so much.’

‘Anything off the cuff,’ said Sue Wiley, ‘but make it juicy and keep it factual.’

He had prepared himself carefully, reviewing carbon copies of old assignments and writing down snatches of gossip overheard since his arrival in Sweden, and his knowledge had seemed formidable, but now, suddenly, he was less confident of pleasing her.

‘Frans Eemil Sillanp
نن
—’ he began.

‘Frans Eemil
who?
’

‘Sillanp
نن
,’ he repeated weakly, ‘the Finnish author. When he learned that he had won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1939, he immediately proposed marriage to his secretary and then went off on a fourteen-day drunk.’

Sue Wiley scowled. ‘Is that all?’