‘Krantz?’ said Lilly in an undertone.
Craig nodded. ‘Krantz.’
‘I must remain with Daranyi,’ she said. ‘You must find Krantz and Emily. Do not take bad chances-the police-’
Craig took Lilly’s hands. ‘When you know about Daranyi, phone me at Concert Hall if it is before six-thirty. Otherwise-’
‘You will hear from me, Mr. Craig.’
Craig nodded, and hurried-outside into the darkening cold. The spectators were still there wondering, and the ambulance, waiting, its rear doors flung open, and across the street he could distinguish Gunnar Gottling behind the wheel of the station-wagon.
When he slid in beside Gottling, he said, ‘I think we’ve got our man.’
‘Name him.’
‘Carl Adolf Krantz.’
Even Gottling, whose features were too arrogant to concede surprise at any time, showed astonishment. ‘Krantz? I always knew that little rat was pro-German and anti the human race, but I always thought he was too proud of his position-a judge on two Nobel committees-to sink to this. So it’s Krantz? Are you sure?’
‘Daranyi was positive. Krantz hired him to do some espionage on the Nobel laureates-apparently Professor Stratman and Emily were the real targets-in order to get something on the Stratmans and force the Professor to come over to the other side. Daranyi dug up some information no one else but Krantz knew or could use-and the key part of that information was on the tape.’
‘I’ll be goddamned, then it’s true,’ said Gottling. ‘But I’ll bet my britches it isn’t Krantz alone. He’s gutless. If a poodle barks, he goes up a tree. I called him a rat. That’s too princely. He’s a weasel, really. There must be others.’
Craig chafed irritably. ‘I’m not interested in nit-picking. I don’t care who in the hell is responsible. I just want to find Emily and her father. Daranyi says Krantz, so Krantz it is.’
‘Simmer down, pal. What time you got?’
‘Ten past four.’
‘We’d better shake the lead out of our asses then. If I remember, everyone leaves for Concert Hall in ten or fifteen minutes.’ He started the station-wagon. ‘Krantz is probably still in his apartment, getting ready to leave.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘Ha, who in Stockholm doesn’t? It was the only balcony in the city, during the war, that was draped with a swastika!’
Gottling had said ten or fifteen minutes, but now he accelerated the Volvo through the Old Town, wheeling and careering, as if there were only one minute to make St. Peter’s gate. They passed gay, open Christmas stalls and the municipal Christmas tree on Stortorget. They sped over the illuminated bridge, twisting away along the canal, and because Craig was still not used to the left-hand drive, with oncoming traffic approaching from the right, he had a mounting fear that he would never survive to see Krantz-or Emily.
There had been a sharp turning, and an attractive street stretched westwards between the Mälaren canal and rows of expensive apartment buildings, the string of small cars parked before them shining under the high street-lights.
‘Norr Mälarstrand,’ said Gottling.
As they drew nearer to their destination, Gottling slowed the progress of his station-wagon, head ducked low, squinting past Craig and out the right-hand window, hunting for Krantz’s apartment.
Craig’s mind had gone to the Nobel judge they were seeking. Since his arrival in Stockholm, he had not seen much of Krantz. The Swedish physicist has been assigned to the Marceaus, Garrett, Farelli, Stratman, and Ingrid Påhl and Jacobsson had been assigned to the literary laureate. Nevertheless, Craig had a distinct image of Krantz-an ugly, stunted man with a hog’s snout and a scrub moustache and goatee, and a repugnant personality. Craig had no specific plan of action in mind for when he came face to face with the vicious, mis-shapen hippogriff, but the rage in him was bursting now, and he knew that he would kill Krantz if necessary, to extract some word of Emily and Walther Stratman’s whereabouts.
‘We’ve caught him just in time,’ he heard Gottling mutter.
‘Where?’
‘The fifth apartment down. There’s the rented limousine parked in front.’
They had slowed to a crawl as they approached the limousine, and through the Volvo windshield Craig could see a portly figure in chauffeur’s cap and uniform in the brighter area under the street-light, gloved hands, clasped behind, waiting for Krantz.
‘You park,’ said Craig tightly, opening his door. ‘I’ll grab Krantz.’
‘If you need help-’
‘I won’t need help,’ Craig called back.
He crossed the street, squeezed between bumpers of two parked cars, attained the pavement, and going fast, and then running, he approached the entrance of the orange apartment building, its shadowed balconies jutting above like military pillboxes.
At the entrance he slowed, became aware that the chauffeur was eying him inquisitively and with apprehension, as you observe anyone who is running in the night.
Craig stopped, and looked at the chauffeur. ‘Are you waiting for Dr. Krantz?’
The chauffeur came to loose attention. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I must see him first. Which apartment?’
‘Fourth floor, sir.’
Inhaling deeply, Craig went inside. The modern elevator was at ground floor level. Taking it to the fourth floor, Craig tried to contain his impatience and temper, tried to rehearse an approach. Before he could do so, the elevator had whirred to a halt.
Almost blindly, Craig found himself at the apartment door, jamming his thumb at the buzzer, then rapping imperatively. In immediate response, the door was flung open. Between Craig and the one he must see, firmly planted, stood an annoyed housekeeper. Her width filled the doorway, and the hair on her upper lip momentarily distracted Craig.
‘Yes?’ she was demanding, crossly.
‘I must see Dr. Krantz immediately.’
She shook her head. ‘No-impossible. He is leaving for-’
‘I’ve got to see him!’ Craig bullied his way past her, ignoring an outstretched arm, and entered the hall.
She snatched at his sleeve. ‘No-who are you?’
Roughly, Craig freed himself, trying to find the right door. ‘Where is he?’
‘No-!’ Nervously, she shouted off. ‘Dr. Krantz! Dr. Krantz! Please-!’
There were footsteps to Craig’s left, and Krantz’s harsh voice loud, ‘What the devil-what the devil-what is all the racket, Ilsa?’
He materialized, combatively, in the hall. For a moment, Craig was taken aback by his appearance, so ludicrous and pompous in silk top hat and formal overcoat with velvet lapels. Could this improbable figure be the spinner of plots, the formidable enemy?
Approaching, Krantz halted, recognition replacing annoyance on his face. ‘Why-it is Mr. Craig. What are you doing here? You should be at Concert Hall-’
‘Never mind Concert Hall. We’re going to have a little private talk first.’
Craig’s tone, the tremulous anger of it, seemed to surprise Krantz. Affability fought concern. He stood very still and when he spoke, it was past Craig. ‘That will be all, Ilsa.’
The peasant woman brushed alongside Craig, with a shove of her body against his to display her displeasure at the rude intrusion, and then she disappeared into the apartment.
Krantz gestured off. ‘We will talk in the parlour. I have only a moment-my chauffeur-’
Craig had already gone into the room, to the centre, and turned about to meet his host. His initial desire had been to seize Krantz by those velvet lapels and shake the information out of him. But somehow, the atmosphere of the homely old family room, the used squat mahogany pieces, the lace doilies (above all, the doilies), curbed violence. This was a man’s home, and he the disturber of peace, and then, seeing Krantz come tentatively towards him, his mission became more real and his anger rose again.
Krantz offered no seat, and took none himself, as if to make it clear that the meeting was unwelcome and would be brief.