Immediately, Mercier sensed that something was wrong. He forced himself to look away, at a row of brick factories sliding past the window, until the trolley slowed for the next stop. Then he stole another glance. If they got off together, what would he do?
But they stayed on the tram. Which rolled over the bridge that crossed the Vistula, the snow swirling in the wind above the dark river. Now it was her turn to talk, her face concentrated, wanting the man she’d met, older, experienced, to take her seriously. Was she speaking Polish? Did Uhl speak the language? Breslau had forever been a disputed city-Wroclaw, as far as the Poles were concerned-and it was possible that Uhl spoke some Polish. A woman standing next to Mercier-he could smell the damp wool of her coat-caught him staring and gave him a look: mind your own business. He turned back to the window. The trolley was now approaching his stop, in central Warsaw, and, as the motorman pulled on the cord that rang the bell, Mercier glanced up the aisle and saw that Uhl and the blond girl were moving toward the rear platform.
Mercier left by the front door, circled the tram-thus shielded from Uhl and the girl-headed quickly for the shops across the street, and chose one with a set-back entry. Like some sly private detective, he thought, lurking in a doorway. A fancy perfume shop, as it happened, great clouds of scent rolling out each time the door opened. When the trolley pulled away, he spotted the blue cap in the crowd waiting to transfer to another line. Where the hell were they going? Not to the Europejski. A taxi drove up to the front of the shop, a pair of women in the back, and Mercier arrived in time to hold the door as they emerged. “Oh, why thank you,” the first one said. Mercier mumbled “You’re welcome” and slid into the seat.
“Sir?” the driver said. He was in his twenties, with a well-oiled pompadour.
“Don’t go anywhere, not just yet,” Mercier said. “Some friends of mine are waiting for a trolley; we’ll just follow along behind.”
“Friends?” A wise-guy grin, who are you kidding?
“Yes, it’s a surprise.”
The driver snickered. Mercier peeled twenty zloty off the wad in his pocket-for agent meetings, one carried plenty of money. The driver thanked him, and they waited together, the ill-tuned engine coughing away in neutral.
Waited for ten very long minutes. At last, a trolley arrived and the blue cap climbed aboard, followed by Uhl. “That’s the one we want,” Mercier said.
As the driver put the taxi in gear and fell in behind the tram, he said, “It’s the number four line. Up to Muranow.”
Not bad at this, the driver, he’d evidently done it before, pulling over well to the rear of the trolley each time it stopped. The tram tracks curved into Nalewki, the main street of the Jewish quarter: kosher butchers, pushcarts piled with old clothes or pots and pans, men in caftans and fur hats, hurrying along through the snow. Mercier could see that the crowd of passengers inside the trolley had thinned out-had Uhl and the girl somehow gotten away? No, the next stop was Gesia, Goose street, and they appeared on the rear platform as the trolley slowed. Mercier put his head down.
“That them?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, look at her.”
Mercier handed over more zloty and climbed out. He found himself in front of an open stall on the cobblestones, a chicken-seller, scrawny birds hung by their heads from hooks, and a smell that almost made his eyes tear. To Mercier, it now seemed that the girl was leading the way, her arm looped in Uhl’s, walking quickly. Mercier hung back, close to the buildings, ready to step into a doorway if one of them turned around. Gesia was an old street-three-story buildings, some wood, others gray stone darkened by time and coal smoke-where every shop called out to potential customers: a clock hung out over the sidewalk advertised a watchmaker; a painted sign showed a pair of eyes wearing spectacles; M. PERLMUTTER-FINE GLOVES.
HOTEL ORLA.
Now Mercier knew where they were going. He dropped back well behind them as they crossed the street, past a crowd of schoolboys with curly sideburns and yarmulkes, past a horse-drawn coal wagon, the driver, wearing a long leather apron, shoveling coal down a chute that led into the hotel’s cellar. The Orla-eagle-had the look of hourly rates and no questions asked; as Warsaw slang put it, a Paris hotel. Mercier stationed himself where he could see the entry, using the doorway of a shop with stacks of old books piled high in the window, some with Hebrew writing on their spines. After a time, the proprietor of the shop came to his door and had a look at Mercier, then nodded to himself, a faint look of disgust on his face-so here’s another one, the watchers of the Hotel Orla.
It was now after nine in the morning, and Uhl, having to return to the Europejski for his valise, would miss the express to Breslau. Well, there was always another train, and Uhl, who had fallen to the charms of the Countess Sczelenska, now took advantage of a new opportunity, but that was the way of the world-Uhl’s world, at any rate. An opportunity much too good to be true, Mercier thought, but maybe he was seeing the same phantoms that had spooked the engineer on his last trip to Warsaw.
The Orla was busy-a couple hurried out of the hotel, and, a minute later, another. An officious little fellow, all business, came striding down Gesia, looked left and right-feeling guilty, monsieur? — then went inside. A luxurious black Opel, a German car with Polish license plates, drew up in front of the hotel and waited there, engine idling. Mercier shifted his stance, stared at the books in the window, watched the morning shoppers go by, the women’s heads covered with shawls, string bags in hand.
Then, suddenly, the blond girl came out of the hotel.
What now? She was very pale, and grim-faced, as she looked around, then walked, almost ran, to a taxi parked a little way down the street. The snow made it hard to see, but Mercier thought there might be a silhouette in the rear window. He couldn’t be sure, because the girl was still closing the door when the taxi took off and sped away down the street.
Mercier tensed; now he had to go in there and find Uhl. He was halfway across the street when a fat man with a red face came out of the Orla, struggling with the weight of a parcel wrapped in a bed coverlet and flung over his shoulder. A step at a time, he moved toward the Opel. The driver, a sinister little weasel of a man with tinted glasses, jumped out and ran around the car to open the trunk.
For an instant, Mercier didn’t know what he was looking at, and then he did. He ran the last few steps and planted himself in front of the man with the parcel. “Put it down.” He said it in German.
And so he was answered. “Get out of my way.” The weight on the man’s shoulder made him take a step to the side.
The weasel came from behind the car and, with a hand like a claw, took Mercier roughly by the elbow. “Better get out of here, my friend, this doesn’t concern you.”