The Prize

‘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 brannvin,’ said Craig. ‘Have it all.’

Garrett took the short glass in his unsteady hand and drank the brannvin 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 brannvin 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 Jarntorgsgatan, 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 Bjorkman, 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 smorgasbord 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 kottbullar.’

‘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.

‘Oh, one of those.’ She fiddled with her handbag, took out her compact, examined her face, then snapped it shut. ‘When you have a Hungarian for a friend, you don’t need an enemy.’

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Wiley?’

‘No offence. An American joke. There are hundreds about Hungarians. How does it feel to be a Hungarian?’

‘I would not know. I have always considered myself a man of the whole world.’

‘Yes? Well, what are you doing then, hiding in Sweden? A duller place I’ve never seen.’

‘Oh, you must not be too critical, Miss Wiley. One becomes accustomed to the quiet, and after a while, one appreciates and enjoys it.’

‘There’s enough quiet after you’re dead.’

‘True, but for a historian, it is valuable in life, too.’ He had decided upon his role early this morning, when he had thought about Andrew Craig. ‘One requires solitude.’

‘You can have it.’ Her hand accidentally tipped over the saltcellar, and she hastily retrieved a pinch of salt and cast it over her left shoulder. ‘Now, Mr. Daranyi, I’m not sure why I’m here, except you said on the phone you’d heard I was writing a Nobel series-’

‘Yes, a correspondent from London so advised me.’

‘-and you might have some useful material for me, in return for a slight favour. What favour?’

‘Before we go into that,’ said Daranyi suavely, ‘we must have at least a brief knowledge of one another, how I may be of assistance to you, and you to me. I am, as I have advised you, a historian. I have a contract with a British publisher to develop a thorough book on the Nobel Prize awards, and the personalities concerned, since 1901. However, much to my distress, the publisher has insisted that the history not be too-er, dry-that even, as regards the personalities, it be racy, and that emphasis be placed on the more recent laureates. Unfortunately, I am a scholar and not a journalist. I find it difficult to acquire such information on the current winners.’

Sue Wiley’s eyes blinked steadily. ‘So that’s where I come in?’

‘I had heard you were well acquainted with the current winners.’

‘You bet your life I am. I’m loaded. Are you? What’s in it for me?’

‘I have devoted two years to my researches, Miss Wiley. I have a mountain of important information on the