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 Malaren canal and rows of expensive apartment buildings, the string of small cars parked before them shining under the high street- lights.
‘Norr Malarstrand,’ 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 Pahl 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.
‘You appear agitated, Mr. Craig. Is there anything-?’
‘You’re damn right,’ said Craig. ‘I’m here to tell you you’re a son of a bitch and a blackmailer-and I’ve found you out.’
The word assault hit Krantz like a physical blow. He stepped backwards, his tiny eyes terrified and his moustache and goatee opening and closing, and his top hat began to slide off his greased hair. Despite shock, he stayed his hat and tried to maintain dignity.
‘Mr. Craig, I do not understand. What language is this to use-’
‘I said you’re a blackmailer, and you’ve been found out. There are no words for what I think of you-nothing low and filthy enough.’
Krantz fought for poise, but his moustache and goatee still jumped. He had difficulty finding his voice. ‘What is this, Mr. Craig? A crude American joke? Are you drunk? I should have known this might happen-everyone knows about your drinking. I will not have such language under my roof.’
Craig moved towards him, the muscles of his forearms prepared to lash out. ‘You’re lucky I’m only using words-I should kill you!’
Krantz was in retreat against the wall. ‘Do not touch me! Go-or I will call Ilsa-I will call the police!’
‘We’ll both call the police,’ said Craig, restraining himself, ‘unless you tell me where you’ve got Emily and Walther Stratman.’
A gush of air went out of Krantz, and he was smaller and very afraid. ‘You are ranting. What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the Stratmans, and what you’ve done to them, and you know it. It’s all in the open, you bungler. It’s all out. I intercepted the taped message you sent to Professor Stratman. I heard the whole rotten deal-how you exhumed Emily’s father and brought him here, how you’re holding him with Emily until you get your hands on Professor Stratman, and escort him behind the Curtain-’
‘Fairy tales!’ shrieked Krantz. ‘Crazy fairy tales! You are drunk! Where do you find such lies?’
‘From your friend Eckart on the taped message, for one thing.’
‘Prove it. Show me this tape.’
For the first time, Craig felt closer to truth. ‘Yes, Krantz, we both know I can’t show you the tape. But I don’t need it, you see. I have better evidence. I have Nicholas Daranyi.’
Krantz straightened against the wall, and made a pretence of relief. ‘So that is it. You have been listening to that Hungarian simpleton. Well, you listen to me-’
Craig shook his head. ‘No, Krantz, you listen to me. This minute, Daranyi is on his way to the hospital. Instead of paying him, you sent some roughnecks to knife him. But you made one mistake. You counted on their killing
