‘That’s right. We’ve been bowled a googly.’
Then he went to bed with the Colt under his pillow, caring not one jot that the oil on the gun would stain the linen of his sheets. What would the chambermaid think, having changed them that morning after his night of passion?
CHAPTER TEN
Aware that he might be indulging in an overreaction, Jardine was at the reception desk while the cleaners were still trying to dust the lobby and the day staff had not yet come on duty: if you want to find out anything in a hotel, those who work overnight are much more malleable than the more stuffy daytime people and his question, in truth, was seemingly harmless. A twenty-lei note and a hint he was a potential business competitor established that Herr Reisner had checked in late the day before. As soon as office hours came into play he phoned the German embassy and asked for the same person, to be told no one of that name occupied a position there, which eliminated one possibility.
There was no need to bribe the night-time receptionist to keep hush what he had been asked: if Reisner was genuine, he would not enquire; if he was what Jardine thought he might be, a member of the SS Intelligence Branch, either resident in Bucharest or sent from Berlin, he did not need to. It was not surprising they met at breakfast — being guests in the same place it was natural — nor was there anything untoward in the way the German greeted him and made a polite and silent gesture that asked permission to share his table.
In daylight, over the kind of food one has in the morning, jams and hot rolls, it was easier for Jardine to study his hands, for they tell you much about what a person might do in his life. A fellow who occupies a desk and uses his pen as a weapon should, in the main, have soft hands. Reisner’s were not excessively large but the knuckles were prominent, the skin covering them showing some evidence of scarring as if, many times in his life, he had used them in physical conflict; in short, the man was a fighter.
‘You have busy day ahead again, Herr Jardine?’
‘Not as taxing as yesterday, but enough to be going on with. And you?’
Reisner smiled, showing perfectly even and white teeth, his answer, once more a millisecond delayed. ‘Mostly telephone, make contacts I hope call on.’
Not a good answer: you did not come all the way to Rumania to make those calls; you wrote beforehand and only expended money on travel when you had firm commitments to talk.
‘I, too, have many calls to make,’ Jardine said, draining his coffee cup, ‘so if you will forgive me …’
‘Perhaps tonight dinner?’ came the reply. ‘Not hotel … somewhere other perhaps? I told many good eating places in Bucharest.’
‘What’s your room number, Herr Reisner?’
This time the pause was way too long, while the eyes flickered, as though divulgence was unwise. ‘Drei, funf, eins.’
Tempted to muck him about by asking for a translation, Jardine decided not to bother. ‘I shall call you later and let you know if I am free.’
Vince always took his breakfast in his room and later than Jardine, more so on this morning having had a late night, an evening out his one-time CO had to enquire about, having been required to get him out of bed to answer the door. A quick glance at the state of his linen showed only the crumbs of toast.
‘It was way too pricey, guv, and that was the food. The women were out of sight. God only knows how much your colonel shelled out on you.’
‘You got my message?’ Vince nodded, but showed no evidence of understanding until it was explained to him, and that from a man who lived within shouting distance of the Oval. ‘I need you to ride shotgun again, but this time ignore Dimitrescu’s dolt and see if there’s anyone else too interested.’
‘Nazi bastards,’ Vince replied, thumbing his oft-broken nose and shimmying a straight left and a right hook. ‘Be nice to land one on the sods.’
‘They won’t be goose-stepping, Vince. If they are around they won’t look much different to anyone else, and it occurs to me there are so many fascists in the place already, half of them probably funded by the German Foreign Office, that my Reisner bloke would not have needed to bring anyone with him.’
The phone call he made to Lanchester from his exterior cafe got a more positive response: he had understood the message. ‘That guy you asked in Berlin about me, any chance of getting on the blower and seeing if he can pick up a whisper?’
‘Worth a try, though I think we’ll end up spending more money on international phone calls than-’
‘Don’t say it, Peter.’
‘I was about to say those ladies of the night Vince and I turned down. Christ, they were expensive, and I always thought when one went abroad such things were cheaper.’
‘Since I am completely in ignorance of the price at home I am not able to comment.’
‘Stop being pious, Cal, and send Vince over later.’
Exiting the cafe, he had an agreed signal with Vince: if he was reading a paper, it was back to the Athenee Palace for a report; all clear and it would be under his arm, so he could phone Goldfarbeen and get a taxi to meet him. They both assumed that the bad grey suit was a given. Vince was reading.
‘He was right behind the berk we’ve had since the off. Big shoulders and heavyweight muscles, ’cause his suit jacket was real tight on his biceps, hands like hams and square head under his titfer, as well, but that’s what you expect with Huns.’
‘I must introduce you to some German women.’
‘Whenever you like, guv, I’m game.’
‘There’s one called Gretl I think you’d like.’
‘Don’t get the idea I’m fussy, but what about this new bloke?’
‘If he was following me, that means Dimitrescu does not know he is here. In contact he would not have to, he could just ask.’
‘Good or bad?’
‘Ask me another.’
‘What’s goin’ to win the three-thirty at Kempton Park?’
‘All I know is it’s getting messier, Vince.’
‘Might be towel time — like throw it in, guv.’
There was no fear in that statement, just the option anyone but an idiot might take. ‘Not yet, I’ve got to go and see Goldfarbeen, usual drill.’
‘What if our new chum follows you in a cab?’
Jardine wrote down and passed over Goldfarbeen’s number. ‘Call him and say not to show up.’
‘You never did tell me what coins the phones take.’
One phone call and two taxis later Jardine entered the synagogue once more, to be greeted by a man with good news and, of more immediate concern to him, a troubled stomach, over which he constantly rubbed his hands, an act that only demonstrated how massive it was.
‘My wife’s cooking is so good, Herr Hardeen, if we had time I would let you taste it and you would never leave Rumania. I ate too much of it last night.’ That was followed by an attempt at a burp, not wholly successful. ‘It will surprise you how much I eat.’
‘I cannot believe that,’ Jardine responded, with a glance at the offending belly.
‘I should shed a few kilos, no?’
‘I heard a Yiddish expression in Germany once, that a man should eat like a bird and shit like a horse, then he will be thin.’
Goldfarbeen laughed, which he started loudly but had to cut quickly: they were in a house of worship. ‘Me, I eat like a horse and today I shit like a bird, but I have hopes that later-’
‘The Berlin train?’
‘Will arrive at the Chitila Marshalling Yard tonight at around ten.’
Have I got time to get my weapons on the way to Constanta and be out of Bucharest before …? Jardine paused his self-questioning thoughts and decided to share another thought with his indigestive Jew. ‘My problem is, I think the SS are already here, or at least a couple of them.’
‘You have done the business with the pig?’
‘I have.’
‘And who are these Germans?’ Jardine’s explanation was brief.