The Seventh Secret (25 page)

Instantly he remembered, and reached out for Emily in the bed, but felt nothing. Turning his head on the pillow, he saw that her place was empty.

He sat up immediately.

She was standing at the dressing table, fastening a manila envelope. Her hair was loose, uncombed, and she was wearing the terrycloth bathrobe that did not completely cover her breasts. Her legs and feet were bare.

He began to feel the swelling between his legs. "Emily, what are you doing?"

She turned, smiling. "I found Rudi Zeidler's unlisted phone number and address. That's really what you came here for, isn't it?"

Rex smiled. "Who's Rudi Zeidlerr

"Well then you got what you came for, didn't you?

Now you'd better go off and find those missing architectural plans, don't you think?"

"Emily," he said quietly, "I'm in love with you. I've never met anyone like you. I never want to meet any other woman again."

Her face had become serious. "Rex, do you mean that?"

"I want to be with you every second of my life from this moment on." His desire for her was all-consuming. "Emily, I want to be with you right now."

"Right now?"

"This minute," he said imperatively, making room for her on the bed.

"Why not?" she said.

Dropping the envelope, she pulled back her terrycloth robe, shook herself out of it, and let it drop behind her.

She posed nakedly beside him, her arms limply at her sides, but he could see the increased rise and fall of her breasts.

Between his legs, he could feel the rigidity grow.

He threw aside the blanket, and fell back, his arms outstretched to welcome her, and his erection pointed at her.

With a cry of pleasure, she bounded onto the bed, pinned his shoulders back, and straddled him. Easily, gracefully, she came down over him until the tip of his erection touched her vagina. She adjusted herself, so that her opening met the hardness of his erection. Then she eased herself lower and lower, as her vulva filled with his penetration.

Now she was riding him up and down, riding and rocking, while they grasped each other, clutched each other, going on and on.

After many minutes, they gradually rolled to their sides, face to face, and he began to dominate the pelvic movements. Soon he was above her, the rhythm of their intense coupling picking up.

At least a half hour later he let go, filling her with his orgasm, and as he finished she came, wildly, registering the release from fingertips to toes. After an interval he pushed himself off her and saw that her eyes were tightly shut and her hips swaying, so he reached down and began to caress her clitoris. She came quickly again. And then a third time, and a fourth.

Then they were done, and he took her in his arms, and she clung to him, head on his hairy chest.

When she wriggled free, she patted back her long hair, and propped herself on an elbow considering him.

"You know," she said, "we can go on doing this all day."

"And all night," he reminded her.

"But one of us has to be practical," she said. "As the man in the family, you'd better get to work. Go thou and see Zeidler."

He sat upright. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to have a big breakfast with the man I love. Then I'm going to pack him off to Herr Zeidler."

"And after I'm gone?"

"I'm going to have your key, and go to your room. I'm going to gather your things together, and move you into this suite. Two of us can stay here for about the price of one. It's never too early to economize. That is, if you agree."

"I insist," said Foster.

"And after I have your belongings down here with me, I'll start my pursuit of Herr Hitler again."

"But carefully."

"Very carefully."

He swung off the bed. "Let me shower and dress. Soon as we're done with breakfast, before trying to see Zeidler,
 
I'm going to tell the management about the man with the knife. I'm taking no more chances with you, my pet."

She smiled up at him, and he bent down and kissed her and found it more difficult than ever to stop doing so.

I
n his fourth-floor single room, using the number that Emily had given him, Foster dialed and hoped that he would find Rudi Zeidler in.

The male voice answering the telephone on the other end sounded cheerful and young, and Foster wondered if it was Zeidler, since he figured that Speer's associate must be sixty-five years old by now.

The voice confirmed that he was, indeed, Rudi Zeidler. "Who is this?" he asked in German.

"My name is Rex Foster, and I've been trying to locate you for some time," Foster replied in German.

"You have an American accent," said Zeidler.

"Because I'm an architect from Los Angeles," explained Foster.

"Very good," said Zeidler, switching to English. "I am fascinated by the early California architecture, especially the Spanish Colonial or Mission style." He coughed. "Why have you been trying to locate me, and who gave you my number?"

"I obtained your phone number from a British friend of mine, Miss Ashcroft—she and her father, Dr. Harrison Ashcroft, were working on a biography about Adolf Hitler. Dr. Ashcroft interviewed you once."

There was a pause. "Yes, yes, now I recollect. A clever man. I spent an afternoon with him. So, now you are calling me. Why?"

"Also to spend a little time with you. I am completing a book on—" Foster hesitated, not wanting to use the word Nazi—"on German—on German architecture during the Third Reich. I understand that you played an important role."

"A minor one." Zeidler seemed to reconsider his self-assessment. "But, perhaps in its way, it was vital. Ah, it was crazy what I had to do for that lunatic man Hitler."

"I'd like to hear all about it, meet with you as soon as possible."

"As soon as possible is today. You are free today?"

"Anytime that is suitable to you."

They made a date for lunch.

Pleased with the arrangement, and grateful to Emily for having made it possible, Foster determined to use the better part of the next hour giving Emily a hand in moving his effects to her suite.

Humming happily as he thought of Emily and relived their lovemaking together, he emptied the bureau drawers of his few clothes and put them on the bed, took his jackets and slacks off hangers and transferred them to his garment bag, gathered together his toilet articles and placed them in a leather kit, and finally packed the clothes on the bed into his suitcase. Everything was orderly, and he would leave his luggage for Emily, who would have it moved to her suite and unpack.

Ready to depart, Foster called downstairs to the information desk and said that he would like to meet with the manager of the Kempinski as soon as possible. He added that it was to report an incident of grave importance. Since he refused to say anything more, he was advised to come down to the lobby where he would be met.

Putting on a freshly pressed plaid sport jacket, Foster took the portfolio of his architectural book under one arm, and headed for the elevator.

In the lobby, he found someone already waiting for him before the information desk.

The short, dapper gentleman, a Swiss as it turned out, proved to be not the manager but an assistant. The manager was in Baden Baden for a few days, but the assistant was temporarily in charge.

"You have some problem?" the assistant asked. "Yes, and I think you do, too," said Foster.

Without wasting words, Foster recounted to the assistant manager what had happened in Emily Ashcroft's suite during the attempt on her life last night.

The assistant manager listened with growing horror. "A waiter from room service with a knife?" he mouthed. "You know it was a waiter for certain?"

Foster described the attacker's outfit.

"You could recognize the man if you saw him?"

"I had only a glimpse of him, it happened so fast. But I might recognize him."

"Very well, Mr. Foster. You wait. We have identity photographs for all our personnel, including those who handle room service. Let me bring them to you." About to start away, he said, "Do you mind repeating what you've told me to the head concierge over there. Per-haps he saw such a person, someone suspicious, leaving last night. What time did it happen?"

"Around eight o'clock. Just about."

"Please tell the concierge. I'll be back in a minute." The assistant hastened off past the information desk.

Foster crossed over to the counter behind which the uniformed concierge stood, and, in a low voice, repeated the story of the attack on Emily Ashcroft.

The concierge's ruddy face became ashen. "Terrible, terrible," he muttered. "Actually tried to stab her?''

"Actually tried."

"You should have notified us at once."

"I couldn't," said Foster. "Miss Ashcroft was badly frightened, and I wanted to comfort her." He paused. "The question is—around eight last night--maybe a little after—did you see anyone hurrying through the lobby and leaving? A stocky, youngish man, dark-complexioned, muscular."

The concierge threw up his hands. "Mr. Foster, so many come and go at that hour—and I am so occupied here when I work early evening—it is difficult to notice anyone. I can't remember anyone last night in a particular hurry or suspicious in appearance, but—"

They were interrupted by the return of the assistant manager. He was carrying a rectangular, orange-covered photo album. "Our identity record of the personnel in room service," he said, opening the album as he handed it to Foster. There were passport-sized head shots of the various room waiters with their names and employment numbers imprinted below. "Go through it," insisted the assistant manager, "and see if you recognize the one who was in Miss Ashcroft's bathroom."

With 'care, Foster examined the photographs set in transparent plastic pockets in the album. He turned the pages, hoping for a flicker of familiarity. When he was finished, he knew that the assailant was not among these.

"No go," said Foster, handing back the album. "Obviously he came from the outside by some means and disguised himself as a waiter."

"I am trying to think of what precautions we can take," said the worried assistant manager.

The head concierge was leaning across the counter toward Foster. "May I make a suggestion, sir? Basically, I do not believe this is completely a hotel matter. It may require a greater capability."

"What do you mean?" asked Foster.

"That this matter must be reported at once to the West Berlin chief of police," said the concierge. "I happen to be personally acquainted with Chief Wolfgang Schmidt. I wish to phone him now, inform him that he must see you immediately. He's the best man to have on your side, a real crime-buster, as American television always says. As for politics, if this assault had political implications as you have hinted, you can be sure Chief Schmidt will become involved. He has an abiding hatred for neo-Nazis. He is always trying to root the last of them out of our society. You know, Chief Schmidt was a hero of the German anti-Nazi resistance—the only important conspirator to survive Hitler's purge after von Stauffenberg's plot to blow him up failed. I will phone him that you are on your way. Please report this without further delay."

F
oster took a taxi directly to the
Polizeiprasident
of Berlin at Platz der Luftbrücke 6. He had plenty of time before his meeting with Rudi Zeidler, and his first priority was Emily's safety. If the police could not trace the assailant, at least they might find out what had motivated the attack and provide some protection.

After presenting himself to the security and information office before entering the large lobby of the four-story building, Foster was cleared and guided to a door lettered, DER POLIZEI- PRASIDENT. Ushered into the chief of police's unostentatious office, Foster found Wolfgang Schmidt and his broad desk to be the only large objects in the room. On the wall behind the chief, between two shuttered windows, was a simply framed inscribed photograph of Konrad Adenauer.