folk he uses as porters are not the most reliable men you could want, especially in South America, as your own experience has doubtless taught you. Well, in a word, last year poor Anderl was climbing alone, in the Andes, and something happened with a porter who was stealing food and—anyway—the porter died.'
'Self-defense isn't really killing,' Ben said, for something to say.
'He wasn't attacking me,' Anderl admitted. 'He was stealing supplies.'
Freytag entered the conversation again. 'And you consider the death penalty appropriate for theft?'
Anderl looked at him with innocent confusion. 'You don't understand. We were six days into the hills. Without the supplies, I would not have been able to make the climb. It was not pleasant. It made me ill, in fact. But I would have lost my chance at the mountain otherwise.' Clearly, he considered this to be a satisfactory justification.
Jonathan found himself wondering about how Anderl, poor as he was, had collected the money for his share in the Eiger climb.
'Well, Jonathan,' Jean-Paul said, evidently to change the subject, 'did you have a good night?'
'I slept very well, thank you. And you?'
'Not at all well.'
'I'm sorry. Perhaps you should get some rest this afternoon. I have sleeping pills, if you want them.'
'I never use them,' Bidet said curtly.
Karl spoke. 'Do you use pills to sleep in bivouac, Herr Doctor?'
'Usually.'
'Why? Discomfort? Fear?'
'Both.'
Karl laughed. 'An interesting tactic! By quietly admitting to fear, you give the impression of being a very wise and brave man. I shall have to remember that one.'
'Oh. Are you going to need it?'
'Probably not. I also never sleep well in bivouac. But with me it is not a matter of fear. I am too charged with the excitement of the climb. Now Anderl here! He is amazing. He tacks himself to a sheer face and falls asleep as though he were bundled up in a feather bed at home.'
'Why not?' Anderl asked. 'Supposing the worst, what is the value in being awake during a fall? A last glimpse at the scenery?'
'Ah!' Jean-Paul ejaculated. 'At last our waiter finds a moment for us in his busy schedule!'
But the waiter was coming with a note for Jonathan on a small silver tray.
'It is from the gentleman over there,' the waiter said.
Jonathan glanced in the indicated direction, and he experienced a stomach shock. It was Clement Pope. He sat at a nearby table, wearing a checked sport coat and a yellow ascot. He waved sassily at Jonathan, fully realizing that he was blowing Jonathan's cover. The defensive, gentle smile came slowly to Jonathan's eyes as he controlled the flutter in his stomach. He glanced at the other members of the party, trying to read the smallest trace of recognition or apprehension in their faces. He could distinguish none. He opened the note, scanned it, then nodded and thanked the waiter. 'You might also bring M. Bidet a fresh pot of coffee.'
'No, never mind,' Jean-Paul said. 'I no longer have a taste for it. I think I shall return to my room and rest, if you will excuse me.' With this he left, his stride strong and angry.
'What's wrong with Jean-Paul?' Jonathan asked Anna quietly.
She shrugged, not caring particularly at that moment. 'Do you know that man who sent you the note?' she asked.
'I may have met him somewhere. I don't recognize him. Why?'
'If you ever see him again, you really should drop a hint about his clothing. Unless, of course, he wants to be taken for a music hall singer or an American.'
'I'll do that. If I ever see him again.'
Anderl's attention was snagged by the two young twits of the day before who passed the window and waved at him. With a shrug of fatalistic inevitability, he excused himself and stepped out to join them.
Immediately afterward, Karl invited Anna to join him in a stroll to the village.
And within three minutes of Pope's appearance, the company was reduced to Jonathan and Ben. For a time they sat sipping their cool coffee in silence. When he looked casually around, Jonathan saw that Pope had left.
'Hey, ol' buddy? What's got into John-Paul?' Ben had changed from the mispronunciation based on print to one based on ear.
'Just jumpy, I guess.'
'Now, jumpy's a fine quality in a climber. But he's more than jumpy. He's pissed off about something. You been drilling his wife?'
Jonathan had to laugh at the directness of the question. 'No, Ben. I haven't.'
'You're sure?'
'It's a thing I'd know.'
'Yeah, I guess. About the last thing you guys need is bad blood. I can just see you on the face, thumping on each other with ice axes.'
The image was not alien to Jonathan's imagination.
Ben was pensive for a while before he said, 'You know, if I was going up that hill with anybody—excepting you, of course—I'd want to be roped to Anderl.'
'Makes sense. But you better keep your hands out of the larder.'
'Yeah! How about that? When he decides to climb a mountain, he don't fool around none.'
'Evidently not.' Jonathan rose. 'I'm going to my room. See you at supper.'
'What about lunch?'
'No. I'll be down in the village.'
'Got a little something waiting for you down there?'
'Yes.'
Jonathan sat by the window in his room, staring out toward the mountain and bringing his thoughts into order. The bold appearance of Pope had been a surprise; for an instant he had been off balance. There had been no time to consider Dragon's reasons for so blatantly rupturing his cover. Because Dragon was chained immobile to his dark, antiseptic cell in New York, it was the face and person of Clement Pope that were universally recognized as SS Division leadership. There could be only one reason for his making so flagrantly open a contact. Jonathan became tight with anger at the recognition of it.
The anticipated knock came, and Jonathan crossed to the door and opened it.
'How's it been going, Hemlock?' Pope extended his broad businessman's hand which Jonathan ignored, closing the door behind them. Pope lowered himself with a grunt into the chair Jonathan had been occupying. 'Nice place you got here. Going to offer me a drink?'
'Get on with it, Pope.'
Pope's laugh lacked joy. 'OK, pal, if that's the game you want to play, we'll use your ball park. Dismiss formalities and get to the nitty and the gritty. Right?'
As Pope tugged a small packet of note cards from his inside coat pocket, Jonathan noticed he was starting to run to fat. An athlete in his college days, Pope was still strong in a slow, massive way, but Jonathan estimated that he could be put away fairly easily. And he had every intention of putting him away—but not until he had drained him of useful information.
'Let's get the little fish out of the pond first, Hemlock, so we can clear the field of fire.'
Jonathan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall by the door. 'Let's mix any metaphors you want.'
Pope glanced at his first note card. 'You wouldn't have any news about the whereabouts of active 365/55—a certain Jemima Brown, would you?'
'I would not.'
'You better be telling it like it is, pal. Mr. Dragon would be mucho pissed off to discover that you'd harmed her. She was just following our orders. And now she's disappeared.'
Jonathan reflected on the fact that Jemima was in the village and that he would be meeting her within the hour. 'I doubt that you'll ever find her.'
