“She says she has been kidnapped.”
There was such a long silence Simon thought he had been disconnected. Finally the man spoke. His English, though fluent, had an unmistakable Austrian lilt.
“If you would tell me your name...?”
“It is unimportant. Anonymous Bosch Unimportant, Esquire. Who are you?”
“See here, my friend!” the other snapped back. “This is serious. Her life may be in danger.”
The Saint was as bland as a poker player bluffing a weak hand into a good one.
“Suppose we meet somewhere? We must have a long talk. I’m dying to catch up on all your news.”
There was another pause. Then the man chuckled.
“And I should like to meet you, Mr... er... Unimportant. I admire your sense of humour. Let us arrange a rendezvous at the Edelweiss in half an hour, if you are near enough to make it. Do you know the place?”
“No, I don’t, but I daresay a taxi driver will.”
“They all do. And stick a piece of white paper in your lapel so I will recognise you.”
“And how shall I recognise you?”
“I shall be wearing a Siamese cat,” the man replied, and hung up.
2
Vienna is really two cities, the Alte Stadt, dating from the Middle Ages, and the baroque city of Maria Theresa with later additions under the Emperor Franz Joseph. To some extent the two parts mingle. The Alte Stadt is bounded by The Ring, Vienna’s main thoroughfare, built in the nineteenth century on the site of the old city wall. But the baroque style of the outer city has breached this boundary in many places, and nowadays most of the medieval buildings of the Alte Stadt are to be found in the region around its shopping street, the Graben.
The Edelweiss was a small cosy restaurant in this old part of the town. It was furnished in the Tyrolean manner with plain wooden chairs and tables, and its walls were covered with unvarnished panelling.
At close on ten o’clock that night it was fairly empty. The Saint chose a central table where he could see anyone who came in yet which was in a comparatively isolated position. He tore off a corner of a newspaper he was carrying and rolled it up and stuffed it in his lapel.
He ordered an apricot brandy and sipped it while he watched the door. He wondered vaguely if he might have misunderstood the man on the telephone. Perhaps he had really said Siamese “cap” with a “p,” instead of “cat,” and would turn out to be an oriental gentleman wearing his national headdress.
He need not have worried. The cat lay on its owner’s shoulders like a fur collar. It looked like a particularly valuable specimen of its kind.
The man saw Simon at once and made for his table. He was short, stocky and balding, with somewhat flabby features, a flat nose, and merry brown eyes. His age could have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty. He wore a green loden coat and a black Tyrolean hat, which he removed as he came through the door.
“Ach,” he called out to Simon, coming over and holding out his hand. “It is good to see you, my friend Anonymous.”
Simon got up and shook the extended hand.
“Is this table all right for you?” he asked.
“Excellent. There is no one within earshot.”
“That’s why I chose it,” said Simon as they seated themselves. “What will you have to drink?”
“Six brandies. But this is my party. What are you drinking?”
“I’ll stick to Barack, thank you — just one!” Simon said.
The waiter evidently knew the Saint’s companion, for without question or comment he brought along a tray on which were six brandy glasses, each with a double measure of golden. liquid in it, and a liqueur glass containing Simon’s drink. He bowed and departed, a handsome tip clutched in his hand.
“Here’s to you, Simon said, raising his glass.
“Prost!” said the other, draining the first of his brandies at a gulp. “By the way, please excuse that Radio Paris business. It is a means of letting me know who is calling.”
“I don’t quite see how.”
“My friends who know my methods simply go right ahead and talk. Strangers apologise and hang up.”
“And you never take calls from strangers?”
“Not late at night. That’s when I do most of my business. I only use this trick in the evening. It didn’t work with you because you are a witty man, and I like to be amused.”
His cat slipped down off his shoulders and licked the inside of his empty glass. Its owner stroked its ears affectionately. “You had better look out, Thai, or you’ll become a drunkard like your papa.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, do you always have six brandies at the same time?”
“Usually.”
“Wouldn’t it be more convenient just to order a bottle and pour your own?”
The other laughed. “Ah, but that would be the sign of the confirmed alcoholic. This way I know exactly how much I have had to drink.” He tossed off another brandy.
Simon warmed to the man. He had a certain infectious gaiety which was cheering, especially in a Vienna which was stark with the tensions and gloomy forebodings of the time. “I take it you’re not married,” he said.
“No, I’m not, but why do you say so?”
“Married men don’t wear cats,” said the Saint. “Their wives won’t let them.”
His vis-à-vis tossed down his third brandy. “My name is Max Annellatt — with two ’n’s, two ’l’s and two ’t’s. Are you still shy about telling me yours?”
“Not at all, now that I’ve met you. It’s Taylor, Stephen Taylor. I’m in the oil business.”
Herr Annellatt nodded.
“A very good business too in these times. You can’t fight a war without oil.” He gave Simon a shrewd look. “If you are smart both sides will end up buying it from you.”
“You think it will come to war, then?”
The other shrugged.
“Eventually it always comes to war, and we lose everything we have gained by making the machines to wage it. Then we have to start getting rich all over again. It is unfortunate, but it is also a fact of life. In 1922 I was broke. I literally did not have enough to buy food. Now I am a millionaire — in your currency!” He suddenly turned serious. “Now tell me, what do you know about Frankie?”
“I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get around to that.”
Annellatt laughed.
“Everything in Austria takes a long time, including living — and therefore dying!”
When Simon had finished his tale, Annellatt whistled.
“It looks bad but we will cope with it.” He stubbed out his cigar. “Anyway, thank you very much, Mr... er... Taylor. You can forget about the whole thing now.”
Simon was piqued by this bland dismissal, but he only smiled lazily.
“Perhaps I ought to go to the police.”
The other gave him a sharp look.
“Where would that get you? If they thought there was anything in your story, all they could do would be to get in touch with me, and I would say I had never heard of Frankie.” He caressed Thai’s attenuated ears. Animal and master both wore the same expression of calm self-assurance. “Believe me, Mr Taylor, it is better for Frankie if I keep both the police and you out of this business.”
The Saint did not see why this cool customer should have everything his own way. He could be pretty cool, even arctic, himself. Besides, he was curious to learn more about Max Annellatt and the situation in which he himself had become involved.
“As a matter of fact, I imagine you probably wouldn’t be too keen yourself on the police nosing into your affairs,” he remarked pleasantly.
There was a long pause. Max’s eyes reminded Simon of the glacial snows on the mountains above Innsbruck. They had that same quality of cold blue timeless menace, as if their owner had existed since the dawn of history. Well, in a sense he had. Every generation has its quota of Max Annellatts. In his own way, the Saint was one of them. The thought amused him. It also pleased him. He liked dealing with people of his own calibre, and Max looked like measuring up to this.