Pray for a Brave Heart Read online

  Then he glanced over at Peggy’s photograph on the dressing-table. “The thought only slipped out,” he told her, smiling broadly.

  He was still amused by himself as he carried the ash tray into the bathroom and flushed the black ashes of the little love note down the toilet.

  He was excited. He was restless. I’ll get some exercise, he decided. A walk through the old streets of the Lower Town, a quiet inspection of the Henziplatz, a visit to the neighbouring cheese market or the Minster nearby would combine business with—this feeling of spring. He picked up his brown felt hat; but, after years of wearing an army cap, he looked all wrong. He threw the hat on a chair and went out bareheaded.

  The bagpiper on top of his fountain was blowing his silent tune. The large round clock, high on the square tower at the end of the street, was red-faced too. Who wants sleep? Denning asked himself, and began looking at the gay shop windows and the pretty girls.

  3

  RECONNAISSANCE

  The cobbled street widened suddenly for about fifty yards, and then contracted again into an alley. That bit of extra breadth was the Henziplatz, edged by narrow-faced houses in an endless row, with their jutting eaves shadowing the top floors, their sharply pointed roofs broken by dormer windows and covered chimneys. The sun found its way into the Square, but the arcades were shadowed and cool. No shops here. A few Cafés and small restaurants, many of them climbing upstairs to invade the second floors. A swinging sign or two, carefully lettered. A window-box here and there. A good deal of foot traffic flowing from the busy Kramgasse which bounded the north of the little street. And above the steep red-tiled roofs rose the tall spire of the Minster, a massive background in the sky.

  The Café Henzi was no more remarkable than any of the other eating places in the Square. The only remarkable thing, amusing perhaps, was the fact that the house marked No. 10 lay almost opposite. For tonight’s performance, Denning thought as he walked through the Henziplatz, we shall practically have box seats.

  His pace was steady, unhurried; he resisted the temptation to enter the Café Henzi and have lunch there. This leisurely tour of inspection was enough. Tonight, he’d reach the Square easily. And these arcades would be useful to shelter his approach. His confidence grew. But so did his sense of trouble ahead. Why had Johann Keppler chosen a room almost opposite the café? Did he expect the need for immediate action? Or was that the only room for rent on the Square? Or had Keppler—

  “Bill!” It was a woman’s voice. “Bill!—Bill Denning!”

  He felt his arm grasped lightly. He turned sharply round. And there was Paula Waysmith with a wide smile and astounded blue eyes looking out from her round merry face. A step beyond her, there hesitated a young woman, a little embarrassed, deciding perhaps that she ought to walk on, except that Paula’s other hand was holding her arm.

  “Why, you passed me by!” said Paula. “Didn’t even recognise your name. Is this the way you treat old friends? And what are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Heading south by south-west for the cheese market.”

  “I mean, what—” Then Paula laughed and shook her head. “You know what I meant perfectly well, Bill Denning.” She suddenly gave him a hug, and a kiss on the side of his cheek. Then, to her friend, “Francesca—don’t move away! I want Bill to meet you.” She pulled the girl forward. “Bill, this is Francesca Vivenzio: we used to go to school together near here, so we’re having a celebration. Francesca, this is Bill Denning, who’s one of our oldest friends.”

  “Yes, we came out of the Ark together,” Denning said, and took the strange girl’s politely outstretched hand. She was younger than he had thought at first, a pale blonde, too thin, with hair brushed severely back from a well-shaped forehead. The straight eyebrows looked puzzled for a moment, and then she smiled. The slender hand had closed round his, and he started with surprise. Her grip was as strong as a man’s. She let his hand go just as suddenly, saying in careful English, “How nice to meet you, Mr. Denning.” Her voice was soft and charming. Then she looked away, shyly, and studied the traffic on the street. A straight nose, a determined chin, and dark eyelashes, he noted.

  “Well, why don’t we stop obstructing traffic? Come and have lunch with us. Francesca is taking me to her favourite little place along here—the Café Henzi.”

  “And spoil your class reunion?”

  Paula ignored that. “It serves the most wonderful cheese fondue.”

  “I’d spend the afternoon sleeping it off. Actually, at the moment, I’m making up my mind between a ham and a chicken sandwich.”

  The girl with the Italian name looked at him sharply.

  “Andy will be here tomorrow,” said Paula.

  “How is he?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Give him my regards, won’t you?” He took a step away.

  But Paula was not ready to say goodbye. “He’s in Bonn at the moment. I came on ahead of him to look for an apartment. We’ll probably be here only a couple of months, but you know how Andy loathes hotels.” And then as she noted Denning’s surprise, “Didn’t you hear? Andy’s been made European editor for Policy, and we’re doing a study of the capitals of Europe.” Her delight was infectious.

  Denning smiled in spite of his worry. “No, that’s what I like to see. Wifely pride bursting out all over.”

  Paula glanced at him quickly; almost nervously. “Where are you staying, Bill?”

  “At the Aarhof.”

  “We’re at the Victoria, meanwhile.”

  “Congratulations.” He had meant it well, but Paula’s frown deepened.

  The blonde girl stirred restlessly. “Paula, I’m afraid Mr. Denning’s ham sandwich will get cold.”

  Paula’s smile was determined. “I’ll call you,” she told him. “We must all get together. Andy will want to see you.”

  “That would be fine,” Denning said. But did he want to see Andy Waysmith? Not for the next few days, certainly. He took two more steps away. He bowed to the cold, calm blonde. “Goodbye,” he said to both of them. Then to Paula, “And I like your hat.” He gave his very best smile. He was fond of Paula. For one thing, she made Andy the happiest friend he had.

  “Not goodbye,” Paula called after him. “We’ll see you soon.”

  “Fine,” he said again, and walked away.

  But it wasn’t fine.

  “Didn’t you like him?” Paula asked.

  Francesca said, “Not particularly.”

  “Why not?”

  Francesca studied her American friend’s worried face. “Is there any need for me to like him? You like him, and I like you, but that’s no reason why I should like him. Is it?”

  “I suppose not,” Paula agreed. But she was disappointed. “Do you think I can risk any more of this fondue?”

  “It has never killed anyone yet.”

  Paula giggled. “I know why you don’t like Bill.”

  Francesca shrugged her shoulders and looked round the oak-panelled room of the Café Henzi. It was crowded now, cheerful and warm and bustling. “It’s still better here in the evening,” she said. “People sing. When they feel like it. That’s the best way to sing.”

  “You don’t like him because you both talk the same way,” said Paula. “Almost.”

  Francesca stared at her.

  “Of course your phrases are different and your accents are different.” Paula went on. “But there’s the same—the same bite. Every now and again. Look, do you think this fondue is making me just a little bit, a little bit drunk?”

  “Impossible.”

  “Well, they say here,” Paula picked up the menu, “they say here it’s made from vintage cheeses.”

  Francesca began to laugh. Her face softened and became warm. “Dear Paula,” she said affectionately. “It’s so very good to hear you again.”

  “I think,” Paula helped herself to some more fondue, “I think I was just empty with hunger, and so the blood is now coping with all the calories in my s
tomach, leaving me slightly lightheaded. Could that be my trouble?” She looked at her fork, and frowned. “Or perhaps I’m just sorry for Bill,” she said gravely.

  “For him? Why, he’s the most composed, cool, and self-sufficient individual I’ve met in a long, long time.”

  “You know, Francesca, your English is amazing.”

  “I’ve been having a lot of practice.”

  “Are you thinking of coming to America?”

  Francesca shook her head. “I’ve merely been teaching those who are going to America,” she said very quietly.

  “Oh, you mean those—”

  “Yes,” Francesca said quickly. “But not here, Paula. Later, we’ll talk about it. When we’re out in the open air.”

  “But this looks like a most respectable place.” Paula looked round it, now with added interest.

  “Of course it is,” Francesca assured her. She smiled at Paula’s sudden disappointment. “Nothing but students, and representatives from the Cantons when Parliament is in session, and a few business-men, and some scholars, and a poet or two, and the usual painters.”

  “And tourists.”

  “I’m afraid so. In Switzerland, they take the place of the poor. They are always with us.”

  “I wonder what Bill is doing in Bern?”

  “What does anyone do? He is on holiday perhaps.”

  “On furlough, darling. He’s in the army.”

  “On furlough,” Francesca repeated carefully, memorising it. “But why must we talk about this Bill Denning? Because you’re sorry for him?”

  “I hurt him. Didn’t you see?”

  “Hurt him? Why, he didn’t even want to talk to us. He was thinking of something else all the time. That I did see.”

  “You don’t understand, Francesca.”

  “I hate people who tell me I don’t understand.”

  Paula said, “But you don’t, darling, not at this minute. You see, every time I meet Bill I have a mad genius for being tactless. I talk so enthusiastically about Andy, I kind of show off— without meaning to—all the fun we have together, and how well we’ve done, and what a happy marriage I have.”

  Francesca had a strange smile on her face. “Your friends forgive you that,” she said. There was pleasure, however painful, in being reminded that personal happiness still existed.

  “But Bill—well, once he was as happily married as Andy and I.”

  “Was married?”

  “Now, don’t look like that. Not all Americans get divorced, you know.”

  Francesca’s pale cheeks coloured. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You know, Francesca, I don’t think you’re looking after yourself properly. You’re much too pale. Where’s the colour you used to have?”

  “I’m all right. I’ve just had two weeks of ’flu.”

  “You are working too hard.”

  “Stop it, Paula.” Francesca tried to smile. “I know I couldn’t look worse, but don’t keep telling me. You’re as bad as Aunt Louisa.”

  “Perhaps you ought to go back to live in Italy.”

  “With whom? My family is dead. All of them.”

  “If they had been alive, would you have lived with them anyway?”

  “Probably not. I’d have had my own life. But—” Francesca hesitated. How could she explain all this to someone as secure as Paula? “But then I’d have had my friends too.”

  “You could make new friends now.”

  “Not until I learn to trust people again,” Francesca said bitterly. “I’ve still too much hate in my heart. Let me get that under control first. I’ve shocked you?”

  “No, no.” But Paula was startled.

  “It’s better for me to stay here. Meanwhile. Switzerland is a good place for a cure, isn’t it?”

  Paula, for once, had nothing to say. She looked at the long table at the end of the room, where a dozen girls in Panama hats and navy dresses were chattering in peculiar French to an exhausted schoolmistress. It was only twelve years ago, she thought in distress, twelve years since Francesca and I were two of those schoolgirls over there.

  “For here,” Francesca was saying, “I have Aunt Louisa to worry over me and that is always a comforting thing, even if sometimes it’s irritating. And I have friends here, people who have not deceived me and betrayed my family and helped to kill them. And I have my work.”

  “Francesca,” Paula lowered her voice, “will you tell Andy about this work?”

  Francesca said slowly, “But I don’t want any publicity.”

  “You’re wrong there,” Paula said. “The more people know what your Committee is doing, the safer you will all be. Don’t you see?”

  “Put your trust in the people?” Francesca asked, and her sad smile was back again.

  “Yes,” Paula said stubbornly. “Some don’t listen. Some will be against you. But plenty will be on your side. And when you’re fighting something like—”

  Francesca said quickly, “Shouldn’t we start looking for your apartment? Or do you want dessert?”

  “No,” Paula said, gathering up her gloves and bag hastily. “No dessert, thank you. I’ve had enough calories to last me for a week.” She fixed her small white hat more firmly on top of her short dark curls. Almost in the same breath she added, “When you’re fighting, you need all the help you can get. That’s all.” She looked for their waitress, but without success, so she signalled to a white-coated waiter who had been hovering vaguely in the background. Protocol, she thought with amusement as she watched the man, embarrassed, hurry to find the waitress for them. “This is my lunch,” she told Francesca firmly. “We won’t argue about that, at least. Now, here’s my list of furnished apartments. Where shall we start? What district do you think Andy would like?”

  Francesca said, as they reached the street, “We’ll walk up to the Clock Tower and take a tramcar there over to Kirchenfeld. It’s a pleasant district. Or would Andy prefer a view? Then we ought to try the north-west, perhaps… Let me see your list.” Paula handed it over in an abstracted way. “Tell me,” she asked suddenly, “did you know that waiter in the Café Henzi?”

  Francesca looked at the list. “Was it so obvious?” she asked very quietly.

  “Not to most people. But I do know you very well.”

  “You must, indeed.” Francesca bit her lip.

  Paula looked over her shoulder, but the street was quiet now. Bern was a place which took its noonday meal seriously. “Is he one of your pupils in English?” she asked in a low voice.

  Francesca hesitated. Then she nodded.

  “He escaped?”

  “Yes.” Francesca looked around her nervously. But no one was near.

  “Where did he escape from?”

  “Hungary. He’s quite a famous man.”

  “And he’s a waiter now?”

  “He has to eat, as you say. But soon his papers will be in order. And then—”

  “America?”

  Francesca glanced over her shoulder once again, but there was still no one near enough to hear. She suddenly smiled. “Remember when I wrote you at Christmas and asked if you could find some school of music interested in Peter Andrássy? And you got a friend of yours to invite him to that college in California? Well—”

  “That was Andrássy?”

  “Yes. That was why I took you to the restaurant. He did want to see you. just to see you, and say thank you by seeing you. That was all.”

  “That was Peter Andrássy,” Paula said almost to herself, “and I never guessed.”

  “We’ve dyed his hair. He calls himself Schmid. And who would expect to see one of Europe’s best composers hurrying around with a tray?”

  “I wish, somehow, he was already on the other side of the Atlantic.”

  “Soon he will be. Next week he sails from Genoa.”

  “Francesca,” Paula said excitedly, “you’ve simply got to tell Andy all about this.”

  “We’ll see.”

  They turned westward on th
e Kramgasse.

  “How many have you helped in this way?” Paula asked.

  But the street was more crowded, and Francesca only shook her head, smiling.

  Paula was contented with the smile. There must have been several men and women, all first-rate in their own highly specialised fields. She looked at Francesca with pride, and pressed her arm gratefully. “You just make me feel good. You make me feel very good. But how mad you must make some other people feel!”

  “We don’t entice anyone. All the men and women we have helped have come here by their own choice. They have the courage. We just give them hope, and some help.” Francesca laughed suddenly. It was the kind of happy laugh she used to have: it hasn’t gone, Paula thought, it has just been buried.

  “If we run,” said Paula, “if we run, do you think we’ll make that trolley car?”

  Bill Denning, coming out of the restaurant where he had eaten, not a sandwich, but at least an undisturbed meal, saw them climbing aboard. They were back to their schooldays, he thought with amazement. Women were fantastic. Paula was crazy, of course, you could expect anything from Paula. But that tragedy queen—he stared, unbelieving, at the blonde Italian—she not only could run, she could laugh.

  Then he turned away before they could see him. He would go and shut himself up in his hotel room. That was one way to avoid these two lunatics, one way to keep them clear of him. In a town like Bern, so closely centred—for visitors, at least—on the tight peninsula circled by the river Aare, he could meet Paula too easily again. Today he didn’t want to meet anyone, least of all a friend. For it was possible that he was being followed, that his movements were being checked, that all his contacts were being noted. Better keep Paula and her blue-eyed friend out of all this. Danger was like cholera: it had an unguessable way of spreading.

  4

  THE WAITING HOURS

  That afternoon was quiet enough in Denning’s room. There were no more interruptions from the inquisitive chamber-maid. There were no more gardening operations. But Denning, in spite of stretching himself out on his bed, didn’t sleep. He couldn’t read, either: Malraux’s Les Voix du Silence lay beside him unopened. He couldn’t plan for tomorrow. He was a man caught by the moment and held there captive.