Thomas Ochiltree (24 page)

His revolver.

He had gotten in free. He had fired. He had won.

He had killed.

And he could not care less that he had killed.

“Ernst, are you all right?”

Just like Helena, he realized, to ask how
he
was and ignore what
she
had been through.

He picked up the knife from the floor and started cutting at the rope that bound her wrists.

Instinctively, his tongue darted out of the corner of his mouth and tasted his own blood as it flowed down his cheek. It tasted strangely good.

“Ernst, you’re bleeding!”

He had gotten her dress more or less fastened together now.

“Ernst, you’re hurt!”

“Come on. Let’s go.”

As he led her to the door, he noticed a telephone on a small table. He picked it up, and asked the operator to find the number of a Colonel von Lauderstein.

It was not a servant who answered.

“Colonel von Lauderstein here,” the voice on the other end said. Von Lauderstein had clearly stayed up all night wondering why his thugs had not returned with Hanna.

“This is von Falkenburg. I’m calling from your rented villa on the Schonenfeldallee.”

Silence.

“Some of your
bravi
are rather the worse for wear, von Lauderstein. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to police to find them and start making inquiries as to who the tenant of this place is. You’ve lost another round, von Lauderstein. Good bye.”

Von Falkenburg hung up without allowing the man time to recover enough breath to say a word.

As he and Helena left the room, the phone began to ring. But they paid no attention to it.

“Can you ride him?” von Falkenburg said, doubtfully eyeing Apollo.

Her answer was to stretch out her hand. The huge beast began licking it affectionately with its thick, wet tongue. Even this stallion, von Falkenburg realized, was Helena’s slave.

“Besides, I’m not in such bad shape,” she said as he helped her into her saddle. “You came in the nick of time, just like in the theater.”

She tried to keep her voice light, but her hands trembled, and there were angry red rope-marks around her wrists. It was a good thing the big stallion loved to obey her. Behind them was the villa. Von Lauderstein would presumably see to getting the corpse removed and getting the other two bullies to whatever underworld doctor they used. And even if he did not, von Falkenburg could not care, just as he could not care that this was the next to last full day of his life. For below them the great spire of St. Stephan’s rose above Vienna and stood out against the beautiful morning sky, and Helena was riding at his side.

“You know, I’m not sure that I agree with Doctor Rubinstein,” Helena said, gently touching the sticking-plaster that covered von Falkenburg’s cheek where the bullet had grazed it. “I think it could look very distinguished.”

Rubinstein had said, “I hope this doesn’t leave a scar, von Falkenburg. I can’t imagine you would want to look like a Prussian.” And von Falkenburg had replied, “heaven forbid,” without bothering to point out to his friend that he would be dead long before the cut had begun to heal.

Von Falkenburg suspected that Helena was very aware of that, however, despite her allusion to the non-existent future in which his scar would look distinguished. His answer to her was to run the tips of his fingers lightly over her lovely face.

The two of them had returned to Helena’s mansion, where they had found Hanna asleep in the chair where von Falkenburg had left her. Helena had awakened her gently to suggest she would be more comfortable in one of the beds available in the house.

“How lucky you are!” Hanna had exclaimed on seeing Helena. And the look on the girl’s face had made it clear that what she meant was not so much, “how lucky you are to be safe!” but “how lucky you are to have a man like that!”

Certainly, Helena had understood her. For when she and von Falkenburg were alone, she had said to him, “Hanna’s right – I’m the luckiest woman in the world, even if it’s just for today and tomorrow!”

“Helena….”

“You don’t need to explain anything, Ernst. I understand now. Since I saw you in the villa I understand…as much as a woman can understand a man or a man can understand a woman. It had all seemed so simple to me: two tickets for the westbound Orient Express, beautiful new clothes for you from the best tailor in Paris to replace your uniform…. No. I’ve seen what a man – a real one – is, and I know you must follow the path you have chosen.”

She was perfect, and he had not known how to approach her.

“Ernst…show me again what love can be!”

And so he had. And now they lay together in her bed, while she gently caressed the sticking-plaster. He knew that his enemies had won, for the fatal week expired at 8:00 A.M. morning after next, and he was no nearer to proving his innocence than he had been at the beginning. But at least he had shown he could go down fighting. And he had almost two more full days with Helena ahead of him.

“Is there
no
way to prove your innocence?” she asked, reading his thoughts.

His reply was to glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. She laced her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest. He felt her body shake with sobs.

“Ernst! It’s too unfair!’

“Shhhhhh…. We still have some time together. Let’s enjoy it.”

* * *

It was a glorious spring day, and Tiff and Taff had to be two of the most perfectly matched bays in the world, von Falkenburg decided. The open carriage swung lightly on its springs as it headed down the Praterallee, while the majestic trees that met overhead cast dappled shadows on the carriage and its occupants.

The most beautiful, elegant woman in Vienna chatted with her escort. The young nannies wheeling their baby carriages, the little shop girls hoping that their new spring frocks would catch the eye of some handsome sergeant, looked with wonder and envy, and thought how glorious it would be to be a great lady with a splendid carriage and a handsome young officer at one’s side.

“Hans,” one girl said to the young man accompanying her, “look at that plaster on the officer’s face! Do you suppose that’s a cut he got dueling?”

“Huh! Probably cut himself shaving,” Hans replied disdainfully.

“I expect you’re right,” the girl said, turning to him with adoring eyes. For even though she was sure that it
was
a duel in which the handsome officer had cut his face, Hans was
her
man, and she was pretty sure that soon he would suggest that they get properly engaged. And one day, he might be head clerk, and then they could think of buying a little place of their own.

“Lunch!” von Falkenburg said as the carriage rolled up to Café Nº 1. He handed Helena down. The white gloves she wore covered the rope marks on her wrists, and her hands no longer trembled.

“Something light and refreshing,” she said as the waiter came with the menus.

“You know, Ernst, I’ve not been in the Prater for ages,” she said, referring to the beautiful park they were in, and not to the vulgar fairground tucked into one corner of it.

“That’s remiss of you,” he replied. “Lovely women have certain responsibilities, and driving down the Praterallee is one of them.”

“Oh, I know, but Tiff and Taff are so handsome, and it’s been rather a long time since I’ve known a man who didn’t look perfectly scruffy by comparison. They’re such
choosy
horses.”

“I hope I suit.”

“Oh, of course, though you do have that horrid sticking plaster on your face.”

They both laughed.

The white wine was cool and delicious, the trout a perfect royal blue – proof that it had been taken living from the tank only minutes before.

“They fight duels in the Prater, don’t they, Ernst?”

“Yes, but not here. In a corner nearer where the Danube Canal enters the Danube. Don’t forget, it’s illegal.”

“The law isn’t enforced very hard, is it, Ernst?”

“Hardly at all. Even if you kill someone, you just disappear for a few months, and when you come back, everything is forgotten. That’s part of the ritual – it’s not considered shameful flight at all. But discretion is expected of the duelist. One can’t just blaze away in earshot of a café.”

“Ernst, have you ever fought a duel?”

“No. No one’s ever challenged me, and I’ve never received an insult which I thought was worth a human life.”

“But you have now.”

“Von Lauderstein and Putzi? I’ve thought of that. But it wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“If I challenged one of them, he could insist on a hearing first by a Court of Honor composed of fellow officers of mine. And he could present as evidence to that body the forged proofs of my espionage, treason, murder, what you will. That would cast doubt, to say the least, on my
Satisfaktionsfähigkeit
– on whether or not I’m really a gentleman and have a right to challenge another gentleman.”

“Von Lauderstein…Putzi…could claim that
they’re
gentlemen and
you
aren’t?” The look on her face was one of shocked outrage.

“Not legitimately, but convincingly. Don’t forget, all they have to do is muddy the waters until my week is up.”

“I’m sorry I raised the topic,” she said, looking down at her plate. They had both sworn to enjoy the afternoon and not think of the future – or rather lack of it. But it was an oath easier made than kept.

“Anyway, Helena,” he said, “at least I’ve struck a few blows back. I doubt if von Lauderstein is in quite such good graces with Putzi as he was….”

Von Falkenburg paused motionless, his wine glass half way to his lips. Helena looked at him, realizing that inspiration had come to him.

“Putzi must be outraged with von Lauderstein’s incompetence,” she said.

“Outraged, but not
just
outraged,” he replied.

“Meaning?”

“Putzi has been playing for very high stakes. He
cannot afford
to surround himself with incompetents. Von Lauderstein was useful
once.
As a Staff officer, he provided Putzi with the military secrets Putzi needed for his purposes. And in his dissolute way, von Lauderstein had acquired underworld contacts that allowed him to put together a useful strong-arm force. But that’s all in the past.”

“And in the present?” she asked.

“In the present, von Lauderstein no longer has a role. I’m sure Putzi and his even more highly-placed co-conspirator are most interested at present in covering their tracks. And von Lauderstein has shown himself to be an unreliable henchman whose thugs are dead, wounded, disbanded.”

“Thanks to you,” she said admiringly.

“All von Lauderstein has now,” he went on, “is a mouth, and two well-known weaknesses which can be used by someone to pry that mouth open. From being an asset, he has turned, quite simply, into a liability.”

“But perhaps von Lauderstein has not told Putzi about what has happened?” she asked.

“I’d be very surprised if he had,” von Falkenburg said, “which is all the more reason for me to do so myself.”

* * *

Here above all, von Falkenburg realized, it was necessary to keep to the established forms of behavior. For only through a display of the greatest self-control could he hope for success.

So instead of looking curiously around him – as he would very much have liked to do – he contented himself with dropping his calling card negligently on to the silver salver held out for him by the footman. And that despite the fact that the answer the fellow would bring him in a few minutes would determine whether he still had a faint chance of life, or at least of vengeance.

“His highness would be pleased to receive you,
Herr Baron.
”

For the lackey, a title of nobility – even one so far below that of his master – was clearly more significant than von Falkenburg’s military rank, although both were on the calling card he had handed over.

Von Falkenburg was led down a sumptuous hall, and for all his pose of indifference, he could feel his heart beat as he stood before the twin white and gilt doors at the end of it.

The lackey threw open both doors and announced, “the Baron von Falkenburg.”

Putzi lived up to von Falkenburg’s expectations. He was wearing a velvet smoking jacket so elegant in the shade of its color and the perfection of its cut that von Falkenburg imagined that if he wanted to, Putzi could almost use it as an all-purpose garment: at a dinner where all the other men were wearing tailcoats, Putzi in such a smoking jacket would look most like a gentleman.

Nor was it just the clothes that impressed von Falkenburg. Putzi stood very straight without looking stiff. Putzi was clearly in his fifties, yet he projected all the strength of youth. Indeed, the iron-gray hair of his temples simply made him look all the stronger and more determined.

Above all, von Falkenburg realized, Putzi had utter self-mastery. His face showed not the slightest trace of surprise at what another man would have found utterly astonishing: the appearance in his home of his mortal enemy.

“Von Falkenburg. Please come in. We’ve not been introduced, but I feel the circumstances can allow us to dispense with such formalities.”

That was almost exactly the statement von Falkenburg had been prepared to make. Putzi had already seized the initiative and was on the offensive.

“Cigar?” Putzi asked.

“Thank you.” Von Falkenburg knew that if he failed to match Putzi’s negligent-seeming self-assurance step for step – if, indeed, he failed to go beyond it – he was lost.

“Glad to have a chance to meet you, von Falkenburg. You’ve been a worthy opponent.”

“The respect of the matador for the brave bull, von Lipprecht?”

“Something like that. Why don’t you call me Putzi.”

That seemed as natural to von Falkenburg as the fact that neither had used formal titles in addressing one another.

“After all,” Putzi added, “I feel as if we’ve become old acquaintances.”

“True enough, Putzi. I, at least, have come to know a great deal about you in the past week….”

“I expect you have. And of course, I came to know a great deal about you before that.”