Garrett, wraithlike, clambered to his feet, but Craig remained in his place.
Sue Wiley shook Garrett’s hand and widened her eyes. ‘Boy, what a beaut. Where did you get the shiner?’
Garrett felt Craig’s presence, and felt perspiration under his collar. ‘I-I was in the bathroom and turned around and the shower door was open-lucky I didn’t lose an eye.’
‘I’ll bet,’ said Sue Wiley cheerfully. ‘If that’s your story-okay by me.’ She came around on one spiked heel. ‘Why, hallo, Mr. Craig. I didn’t see you.’
‘Don’t,’ said Craig.
‘I heard that you had a divine night with my friend Mr. Gottling. Did you? He said he was too drunk to remember a thing, the beast.’
Craig offered his silent thanks to Gunnar Gottling and hoped that it was true. ‘You can write that the alcoholic literary laureate was drunk too, and that he robbed the Royal Palace and raped a princess or two and that his mind is a blank.’
‘Thanks for nothing,’ said Sue Wiley with determined cheer, but her eyes blinked and blinked. She faced Garrett once more. ‘You wanted to see me about something? I have an important date, but if it’s anything at all, I can ring and put off-’
Garrett swallowed. ‘It-it’s nothing-nothing at all-I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought I would have some news for you, but-’
‘About what?’ demanded Sue Wiley.
‘I-well, it was about the nature of my next-next work-experiments. But it involves others-an endowment-and there’s been a delay, so I have no announcement to make yet.’
Sue Wiley sniffed. ‘Anything is grist for the mill. Maybe you can tell me something?’
‘I apologize for taking you out of your way, Miss Wiley, but what I wanted to tell you-it hasn’t developed-and I’m not at liberty-’
‘I understand,’ she said abruptly. ‘But if it happens, remember what I told you on the plane-I’m in your corner, and I want the beat.’
‘I promise you that.’
‘All right. See you before the Ceremony, I hope.’ She hitched her bag under her arm and turned to Craig. ‘You keep me in mind, too, Mr. Craig.’
‘You’re never out of my mind for a second,’ said Craig.
‘I know, I know. Well-happy skåling and goddag and adjö.’
‘The same to you,’ muttered Craig.
He watched her leave, stopping here and there to shake hands at various tables, until she had disappeared into the lobby.
Garrett sat down slowly, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. After he had stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, he took the sheet of paper from the table. He tore it into shreds, and crumpled the shreds, and shoved them into his pocket, too.
‘Can I have a sip of whatever you’re drinking?’ he said, at last.
‘Ice-cold brännvin,’ said Craig. ‘Have it all.’
Garrett took the short glass in his unsteady hand and drank the brännvin down in one gulp. He grimaced, and then met Craig’s eyes.
‘Thanks,’ he said. And then he said, ‘I don’t mean for the drink.’
Craig nodded. ‘I know. You won’t be sorry.’
Garrett licked his lips. ‘I think you should know-this is only armistice-it isn’t peace.’
‘Whatever you say.’
After that, Garrett ordered another brännvin and smoked reindeer sandwiches, and by the time his order came, Denise Marceau was making her way back to their table.
‘Have I held you up? Please do not stand.’ She slid into her chair, and beamed at Craig. ‘That was the party of the third part on the telephone. Everything is arranged.’
‘The plot thickens?’ said Craig.
‘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 Järntorgsgatan, 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 Björkman, 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 smorgåsbord 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 köttbullar.’
‘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.