'Lead them to where?' Lindsay wondered how she knew the direction to take. 'This isn't my idea of Strauss's Vienna at all…'
'It's one of the poor districts,' she said, striding out. 'Quite possibly Hitler knew it well in his younger days. You can see how it could drive a man on to get somewhere in the world…'
They were treading across an open area of rubble when two youths loomed out of the fog. Shabbily dressed, cap-less, they had an ugly look. One carried a length of iron pipe. The youth with the pipe hoisted it to strike Lindsay's skull a shattering blow.
The Englishman stopped Paco with his left hand. He jerked up his right foot and kicked his assailant between the legs with all his strength. The youth screamed, dropped the weapon, crouched over, moaning horribly. The other youth vanished. Raising his foot again, Lindsay placed it on the shoulder of the crouched youth and shoved hard. The youth spun over backwards and sprawled among a debris of stones and broken glass. Blood oozed from his head.
'Move!' Lindsay snapped. 'And put that thing away…'
That thing was a short-bladed knife Paco had produced – Lindsay wasn't sure where from. They hurried through the night as he went on talking.
'If you knifed one of them the police would have started swarming. That we can do without…'
'I know. This way…'
'And get rid of that knife…'
'I didn't expect…'
Paco stopped in mid-sentence. She must be ruddy well played out, Lindsay thought. He knew what she had stopped herself saying: 'I didn't expect you'd cope with those two thugs…'
'You're learning fast, Lindsay.' She linked her arm through his, and a trace of the normal Paco returned as she smiled mischievously. 'You may even survive.
Now, you mustn't be able to identify this place we're staying for the night.'
A fat chance of that, Lindsay almost retorted. The three-storey building they were approaching had plaster peeling off the drab walls. In the swirling fog he made out the word Gasthof but the name which had once followed it had peeled away.
It was a slum. Torn curtains with ragged edges hung across the windows at crazy angles. Nearby he heard the muffled thump of engines shunting freight wagons. Were they that close to the Sudbahnhof? Then they were inside a gloomy hall and he shut the warped front door. An interesting contradiction – the hinges were well-oiled, making no sound.
Paco went up to a plain wooden counter behind which a gnarled old man in a threadbare green waistcoat waited. The place had a musty, dank smell mingled with stale urine. 'Were they going to spend many hours in this hell-hole?'
'You know me – Paco,' she said in a firm, confident voice. 'I am expecting two men…'
'What kept you?'
Bora appeared out of nowhere halfway down a rickety staircase. Behind him, smiling warmly, stood Milic. Bora ran lightly down the rest of the steps, making no sound. He paused at the bottom to stare hard at Lindsay. The Englishman had had enough of the arrogant Serb and stared back. Bora turned to Paco.
'There has been some trouble in the area recently…'
'Stop rattling your guts in public!' It was the old boy behind the makeshift reception counter who growled out the words. From his manner he had as little liking for Bora as had Lindsay. He turned to Paco, ignoring the Serb.
'The police have already been. They looked at the register. They went away. They won't be back. They're looking for a killer.'
'A killer?' Paco queried softly.
'Two youths in civvies – they're probably army deserters. They attacked two soldiers and robbed them blind. Attacked them with lengths of iron piping. One soldier killed, the other in hospital. They got good descriptions from the one who survived. It's stirred things up round here, I can tell you.'
'Where are the suitcases I left?' Paco interrupted brusquely.
'Room 17. Your friends have already collected one. I've put them in Room 20. You two will be sharing…?'
The question drifted off into space as the receptionist looked over Paco's shoulder at Lindsay who remained silent. Nothing lecherous in the old man's expression – just a straightforward enquiry.
'We'll be sharing,' said Paco.
'Money in advance…'
'I know! This payment includes warning in time for us to escape if the police return. And that front door is still open..
'It won't be!' Lifting a flap in the counter, the receptionist trudged to the entrance, inserted a large key in the lock, turned it and began shutting bolts. Lindsay counted four. The old man peered up at him and winked. 'Take a cannon to blow this door in. That's solid yew…'
Paco counted out a large pile of banknotes. Picking up the key, she gestured for Lindsay to follow her. Bora and Milk preceded her up the stairs. She waited until they were alone at the end of a long corridor before speaking.
'Bora, we're catching the 4.30 am train from the Sudbahnhof to Graz – so get what sleep you can. No problems on the way here?'
'Our cab broke down – his scrap metal engine exploded. We walked two miles. This murdered soldier worries me. By morning the area could be swarming with Gestapo…'
'So, we're catching the earliest train we can. Go to bed, Bora.'
'Lindsay followed Paco along the narrow, bare- boarded corridor to Room 17. It was larger inside than he'd expected – dim light filtered through the un-curtained window. He went across and looked out. The view was restricted – a blank wall opposite, a thread of an alley below. He closed the curtains carefully and Paco switched on the light, a naked bulb the equivalent of forty watts.
Paco sank on to the edge of the large bed. 'Thanks for keeping quiet about those two thugs we met – they must be the men who killed that soldier. The receptionist would have been alarmed. And Bora would have had a fit..
'You gave that receptionist enough money. I was amazed. We can trust him?'
'The price of secrecy. We can trust our money. Funny, isn't it, for that amount we could have stayed at the Sacher.
'Why didn't we? This place is quite a dump.'
'Lindsay, you've stopped learning again. If by any quirk of fate they've traced us to Vienna they'll check the top hotels first – the places where the Baroness Werther would stay at. To say nothing of the problem of registration. And here we're a stone's throw from the Sudbahnhof. I'm dog-tired – get me the suitcase out of that big wardrobe…'
The furnishings were simple – primitive might have been a better word. A large wardrobe with a door which didn't close properly, a cracked mirror. The large bed with varnish peeling off the headboard. A cracked wash-basin which exuded a peculiar aroma if you stood too close. He placed the case on the bed and sat at the top with the case between them.
'We're peasants from now on,' she said. 'We change into our new clothes before we sleep – then if we have to leave quickly by the fire-escape we're dressed. It's at the end of the corridor…'
Dropping from fatigue, Lindsay changed into the outfit Paco had chosen for him – a thick shirt with a worn collar, a pair of green corduroy trousers which had been repaired many times and a heavy, shabby jacket.
Paco was quicker and by the time he had changed she was in bed under the down quilt and fast asleep. Wearily he climbed in the other side, careful not to disturb her and lay down. Closing his eyes, he slipped into blessed oblivion.
It was 3 am. At SS headquarters in Vienna all the men seated round the table could hardly keep their eyes open except for one. Gustav Hartmann seemed tireless and capable of going on for ever without sleep.
Gruber was holding forth. By his side sat his new colleague, Willy Maisel, a thin-faced man of thirty with a thatch of dark hair who had a considerable reputation for shrewdness.
