bore an expression of appreciation for Craig’s taste.
‘Tell him where to go, Lilly,’ said Craig.
She spoke in Swedish, Gottling nodding, and all Craig could make of it was Marten Trotzig’s Lane and Vasterlanggatan. Gottling shifted, viewing the oncoming traffic through his rear mirror, and jolted the Volvo into a sudden skidding U-turn. Now he straightened the car, and retraced their original course, heading towards the Strommen canal, and then over the bridge towards the looming Royal Palace and the Old Town.
Once, Gottling said in English, ‘I always thought Daranyi lived on handouts. He must be loaded to live in the Old Town.’
‘He is honest and works hard,’ said Lilly, defensively.
‘I’m not criticizing, young lady, I’m envying,’ said Gottling. He glanced at Craig. ‘No use brooding, my friend. You’re doing all you can. Don’t try to outguess fate. That’s the recipe for ulcers. Let’s see what old Daranyi has to say.’
Gottling now addressed himself to Lilly in Swedish as they drove on, and Craig lapsed deeply into himself. He was sickened with fear for Emily and Walther. Actually, less so for Walther, whom he had never seen, who had no existence in his memory, who was a wraith. It came down to Emily, actually. He tried to visualize her, her glossy dark hair and green eyes and virginal bearing, and he remembered how she shrank from men and violence. And now, despite Eckart’s reassurances, the apprehension of where she was, who was with her, what was at stake, corroded Craig’s insides like a bitter acid.
Gottling bumped his Volvo recklessly, twisting and turning through the crooked streets of the Old Town, and from the window Craig caught a name on a street-sign that whisked past, and it was Vasterlanggatan.
Lilly had moved forward to the edge of the back seat, and now her hand, pointing ahead like an aimed arrow, came between Craig and Gottling.
‘It is there,’ she said, ‘right there past the lane where’-and then she caught her breath-’where the ambulance is parked.’
Craig peered through the windshield. There was an ambulance-at first he had thought it a truck-against the pavement, and several dozen curious spectators, young and old, gathered around it in respectful attendance.
Gottling swerved to the kerb across from Marten Trotzig’s Lane, braked, and the motor died.
‘What has happened?’ Lilly cried. ‘Do you think something has happened?’
The three of them were instantly out of the car and across the street, with Lilly running ahead to the ambulance. When Craig caught up to her, she was still conversing in an indistinct hum of Swedish with the white- coated driver and his assistant, who were leaning against the fender, smoking. A throng of spectators had pressed closer to Lilly and the ambulance men, to catch what they could of the talk.
Craig shoved his way roughly through the wall of people and was at Lilly’s side. ‘Lilly-what is the matter?’
She was frantic. ‘It is terrible, Mr. Craig. I was always afraid this would happen. Daranyi has been stabbed many times, and he is inside, and the physician is with him.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘Oh-they do not know.’
‘Is it very serious?’
‘Come, quick, we must go inside.’
Lilly took Craig’s hand, and the crowd parted. As they hurried into the apartment building, Gottling called to them that he would wait. Craig waved gratefully, and stayed with Lilly.
Inside Daranyi’s living-room, so bachelor-neat and Middle European, Craig found four or five people seated in repose. They were mostly elderly, and obviously neighbours who were Daranyi’s friends, and who had come to hear the worst. Lilly was addressing one squat old lady now-a shopkeeper, it turned out-and Lilly spoke in tearful Swedish, and the old lady’s replies were almost inaudible.
‘What is it, Lilly?’
‘It is bad, Mr. Craig. He was attacked in the street-half an hour ago-and the physician is examining him now. I must see. I must find out the truth-poor Daranyi-’
She left Craig and went to the bedroom door, turning the handle gently, and then easing herself inside.
A voice from behind was directed at Craig. ‘Hiya, Mr. Craig.’ He spun about, and seated on a brown leather chair was Sue Wiley. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘What are
‘I’m dying by inches, I’m a wreck,’ she said, eyes blinking, hands fluttering. ‘Can you imagine such a thing? You want the morbid details?’
Craig pulled a chair towards her and sat sideways in it. ‘I didn’t know you knew Nicholas Daranyi.’
‘We had a transaction,’ said Sue Wiley. ‘Never mind about that. Let’s say we were both in the business of information, and we found each other. Anyway, I got to thinking about the Ceremony this afternoon, and I figured I could use some more dope on it-past performances, such and since Daranyi is a historian-’
‘Historian?’
She stared at Craig. ‘Isn’t he?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. What happened?’
‘I decided to drop in on him for an interview a little while ago, before getting back to change for the Main Event. I took a taxi here, and kept it, and pounded on his door, but no one was home. So I started to leave, and just as I got outside-I happened to look up-and there he was, coming along the pavement. I started to call out to him, but before I could open my mouth-whambo!’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning two hoodlums pounced on him-in broad daylight, mind you-I guess they were hiding in that skinny little lane. They came out, one in front of him and one behind-and the bigger one in front clamped a hand over Daranyi’s mouth, and the other one behind lifted a blade-some kind of knife or dagger-and began punching it into Daranyi. Well-boy, oh boy-I stood on that pavement absolutely petrified. And then I started to yell, to scream bloody murder-and the hoodlums froze the way I’d been frozen-and then they just broke away and ran like crazy. And that little Hungarian, he flopped down in the street like a dead whale. Well, everybody was in the street by then, and my taxi-driver was calling the cops.’
Craig asked himself: why Daranyi? Was this in some way a part of Eckart’s intrigue? He was on the right trail, he felt, and then, sagging inside, he realized that he might be too late. ‘Did you recognize either of them?’
‘No. Looked like a couple of delinquents, far as I could see. Wore those fat knit jazzed-up sweaters-one was turtleneck-I already told the police all I could see. The detectives are checking the alley or lane or whatever for clues. So anyway, here I am-Sue Wiley, Ace Witness.’
‘Are you hanging around for a story?’
‘What story? A down-at-the-heels historian gets mugged by a couple of kids who want his gold watch? Nuts. I’ve got to get out of here-this is the day-but those cops want me to wait a while. I’m sure sorry for the Hungarian. Hope he doesn’t die. Sa-ay, Mr. Craig, you’re a cute one, aren’t you? I’m the interviewer, and you’ve got me doing all the talking. Who was that blonde number you were holding hands with?’
‘Daughter of friends of mine in Wisconsin,’ said Craig. ‘I met Daranyi briefly, through her.’
‘Likely story.’
‘That’s right,’ said Craig, ‘likely story.’
The bedroom door had opened without anyone’s emerging as yet, but Craig was on his feet immediately. The doctor, prematurely grey and urbane, carrying his identity badge of a black bag, came out of the room, still speaking in Swedish to Lilly who followed him. As he spoke, Lilly hung on his every word, and then abruptly he broke away and went out the entrance door. Lilly’s hand beckoned to Craig.
He joined her.
‘They are going to bring the stretcher now,’ said Lilly. ‘You are permitted to have one minute with Daranyi.’
‘How is he?’ Craig asked with concern.
‘He will be all right. He was stabbed three times, but the physician says they are only flesh wounds, not so deep because Daranyi was wriggling and squirming when they tried to kill him. There may be minor surgery. I do not know.’
She went back into the bedroom with Craig behind her, closing the door to shield them from Sue Wiley.
There was a fine old brass bed, worn but polished, and on the bed a mound of blanket, and this was Nicholas
