His clothes had been searched.
He crossed to the bed and his open attaché case. It was his office when he traveled; he knew every millimeter of space, every compartment, the position of every item in every slot. He did not have to look long.
His attaché case had been searched as well.
The telephone rang, the sound an intrusion. He picked it up and heard the voice of the Athletic Club’s operator, but he knew he could not now ask for Richard Holcroft; he could not involve him. Things were suddenly too complicated. He had to think them through.
«New York Athletic Club. Hello? Hello?… Hello, Rio operator? There’s no one on the line, Rio. Hello? New York Athletic Club…»
Noel replaced the receiver. He had been about to do something crazy. His room had been searched! In his need for a cover in Rio de Janeiro, he had been about to lead someone directly to the one person closest to his mother, once the wife of Heinrich Clausen. What had he been thinking of?
And then he realized that nothing was wasted. Instead, another lesson had been learned.
Carry out the lie logically, then reexamine it, and use the most credible part. If he could invent a reason for such a man as Richard Holcroft to conceal the identity of those seeking the Von Tiebolts, he could invent the man himself.
Noel was breathing hard. He had almost committed a terrible error, but he was beginning to know what to look for in the unfamiliar forest. The paths were lined with traps; he had to keep his guard up and move cautiously. He could not permit himself a mistake like the one he had nearly made. He had come very close to risking the life of the father that was, for one he had never known.
Very little of value or truth ever came from anything he touched. His mother’s words, and, like Manfredi’s, meant as a warning. But his mother—unlike Manfredi—was wrong. Heinrich Clausen was as much a victim as he was a villain of his time. The anguished letter he had written while Berlin was falling confirmed it, and what he had done confirmed it. Somehow his son would prove it.
La comunidad alemana. Three, four families in the German community, the arbiters who made irreversible decisions. One of them would be his source. And he knew exactly where to look.
The old, heavy-set man with thick jowls and steel-gray hair, cut short in the fashion of a Junker, looked up from the huge dining-room table at the intruder. He ate alone, no places set for family or guests. It seemed strange, for as the door was opened by the intruder, the voices of other people could be heard; there were family and guests in the large house, but they were not at the table.
«We have additional information on Clausen’s son, Herr Graff,» said the intruder, approaching the old man’s chair. «You know about the Curaçao communication. Two other calls were made this afternoon. One to the woman, Cararra, and the second to a men’s club in New York.»
«The Cararras will do their job well,» said Graff, his fork suspended, the puffed flesh around his eyes creased. «What is this club in New York?»
«A place called the New York Athletic Club. It is—»
«I know what it is. A wealthy membership. Whom was he calling?»
«The call was placed to the location, not to a person. Our people in New York are trying to find out.»
The old man put down his fork. He spoke softly, insultingly. «Our people in New York are slow, and so are you.»
«I beg your pardon?»
«Undoubtedly among the members will be found the name of Holcroft. If so, Clausen’s son has broken his word; he’s told Holcroft about Geneva. That is dangerous. Richard Holcroft is an old man, but he is not feeble. We always knew that if he lived long enough, he might be a stumbling block.» Graff shifted his large head and looked at the intruder. «The envelope arrived in Sesimbra; there is no excuse. The events of the other night had to be clear to the son. Cable the Tinamou. I don’t trust his associate here in Rio. Use the eagle code and tell him what I believe. Our people in New York will have another task. The elimination of a meddling old man. Richard Holcroft must be taken out. The Tinamou will demand it.»
8
Noel knew what he was looking for: a bookstore that was more than a place to buy books. In every resort city there was always one major shop that catered to the reading requirements of a specific nationality. In this case, its name was A Livraria Alemão: the German Bookshop. According to the desk clerk, it carried all the latest German periodicals, and Lufthansa flew newspapers in daily. That was the information Holcroft sought. Such a store would have accounts; someone there would know the established German families in Rio. If he could get just one or two names… It was a place to start.
The store was less than ten minutes from the hotel. «I’m an American architect,» he said to the clerk, who was halfway up a ladder, rearranging books on the top shelf. «I’m down here checking out the Bavarian influence on large residential homes. Do you have any material on the subject?»
«I didn’t know it was a subject,» replied the man in fluent English. «There’s a certain amount of Alpine design, chalet-style building, but I wouldn’t call it Bavarian.»
Lesson six, or was it seven? Even if the lie is based in an aspect of truth, make sure the person you use it on knows less than you do.
«Alpine, Swiss, Bavarian. They’re pretty much the same thing.»
«Really? I thought there were considerable differences.»
Lesson eight or nine. Don’t argue. Remember the objective.
«Look, to tell you the truth, a rich couple in New York are paying my way here to bring back sketches. They were in Rio last summer. They rode around and spotted some great homes. They described them as Bavarian.»
«Those would be in the northwest countryside. There are several marvelous houses out there. The Eisenstat residence, for example; but then, I think they’re Jewish. There’s an odd mixture of Moorish, if you can believe it. And, of course, there’s the Graff mansion. That’s almost too much, but it’s really spectacular. To be expected, I imagine. Graff’s a millionaire many times over.»
«What’s the name again? Graff?»
«Maurice Graff. He’s an importer; but then, aren’t they all?»
«Who?»
«Oh, come now, don’t be naive. If he wasn’t a general, or a muckedy-muck in the High Command, I’ll piss port wine.»
«You’re English.»
«I’m English.»
«But you work in a German bookstore.»
«Ich spreche gut Deutsch.»
«Couldn’t they find a German?»
«I suppose there are advantages hiring someone like myself,» said the Britisher cryptically.
Noel feigned surprise. «Really?»
«Yes,» replied the clerk, scaling another rung on the ladder. «No one asks me questions.»
The clerk watched the American leave and stepped quickly down from the ladder, sliding it across the shelf track with a shove of his hand. It was a gesture of accomplishment, of minor triumph. He walked rapidly down the book-lined aisle and turned so abruptly into an intersecting stack that he collided with a customer examining a volume of Goethe.
«Verzeihung,» said the clerk under his breath, not at all concerned.
«Schwesterchen,» said the man with the thick black-and-white eyebrows.
At the reference to his lack of masculinity, the clerk turned. «You!»