his last game of tennis with Jerry Phillips, his old adviser about the Brearely predicament, there was a bit of really good news. Veronica had latched on to Phillips.
“You know what you’re getting into?” he had asked Phillips, becoming adviser in turn. Phillips wasn’t listening. Any week-end out of New York in August was a good week-end, and Ronnie wouldn’t be the only girl on the beach. He had then double-faulted his service, and lost game and set.
Perhaps, thought Grant, I should have reminded him that it didn’t take a week-end to have Veronica on your back. All I ever did was to accept an invitation to one of her dinner parties, never held her hand, never even dropped a kiss on her cheek. Ah well, anyone who forgets his own advice as quickly as Jerry Phillips can’t be warned. That solves my Brearely problem. What the devil did she see in me, anyway?
He unbuckled his seat-belt and relaxed with a generous double Scotch. The air-hostess had almost as strong a hand as Lois Westerbrook when it came to pouring a drink. A very efficient girl was the beautiful Lois. The reservations for the Hotel Majestic in Vienna had arrived last week by special messenger with his cheque and the plane ticket. Not a return ticket, just one for the eastbound flight. Easily explained: his return home wouldn’t take place until Basset could meet him in New York and take possession of the Ruysdael, and Basset couldn’t meet him until this Budapest friend was safe in Austria with a new name and new identity. It all hinged on the man’s escape.
The painting itself, according to Gene Marck, was already out of Hungary. How else could Marck say that it had been examined by an expert and judged authentic? It must be in Vienna, well hidden. No doubt (Grant was guessing again, but it seemed the logical succession of facts to him) the auction would take place as soon as the man from Hungary had made his successful escape. This would allow Grant to take the next day’s flight back to New York. Too bad if it cut a day or so from his two-week stay, but he didn’t like the idea of hanging around Vienna along with a Ruysdael...
What if the man’s escape was delayed? Ended in disaster? Well, Victor Basset would have his painting. And the Hungarian—Grant shook his head. He finished his Scotch, drinking to the man he didn’t know and would never see, wishing him a safe journey through forests or swamps, hidden in decrepit barns or deep in the bowels of a Danube river boat. However he travelled, it would be rough.
Not a journey like this one, thought Grant with a sharp touch of guilt as he accepted another Scotch and the smiling intimation that orders for dinner were being taken. Did he wish lamb or chicken or fillet of beef?
Our Hungarian will get out, he told himself at the end of his second drink. Gene Marck had been confident enough. He was a natural planner. The only thing he had been wrong about, in his detailed instructions to Grant, was his talk about the necessity of having a cover story to stave off any suspicions among Grant’s friends. Not one of them had asked why he was going to Vienna. Each and every one had thought it a good idea, a natural. Why not take off for a couple of weeks, enjoy yourself? They’d have done the same thing if they weren’t tied down by the kids, too expensive a deal nowadays to take them all along—or by the office, a new contract coming up, had to stay within easy reach of New York.
The women had said, “How wonderful! That’s what I’ve always wanted to do—wake up some morning and decide I’m going to Europe for two weeks. Why not four?”
Why not? If he hadn’t to bring back a valuable painting to New York, if he could have handed it to Marck in Vienna, saying, “It’s all yours,” he’d have made it four or six weeks, or even three months. It was seven years since he had been in Austria. Before he met Jennifer...
* * *
He slept on the plane, waking up as they touched down at
“You know what you’re getting into?” he had asked Phillips, becoming adviser in turn. Phillips wasn’t listening. Any week-end out of New York in August was a good week-end, and Ronnie wouldn’t be the only girl on the beach. He had then double-faulted his service, and lost game and set.
Perhaps, thought Grant, I should have reminded him that it didn’t take a week-end to have Veronica on your back. All I ever did was to accept an invitation to one of her dinner parties, never held her hand, never even dropped a kiss on her cheek. Ah well, anyone who forgets his own advice as quickly as Jerry Phillips can’t be warned. That solves my Brearely problem. What the devil did she see in me, anyway?
He unbuckled his seat-belt and relaxed with a generous double Scotch. The air-hostess had almost as strong a hand as Lois Westerbrook when it came to pouring a drink. A very efficient girl was the beautiful Lois. The reservations for the Hotel Majestic in Vienna had arrived last week by special messenger with his cheque and the plane ticket. Not a return ticket, just one for the eastbound flight. Easily explained: his return home wouldn’t take place until Basset could meet him in New York and take possession of the Ruysdael, and Basset couldn’t meet him until this Budapest friend was safe in Austria with a new name and new identity. It all hinged on the man’s escape.
The painting itself, according to Gene Marck, was already out of Hungary. How else could Marck say that it had been examined by an expert and judged authentic? It must be in Vienna, well hidden. No doubt (Grant was guessing again, but it seemed the logical succession of facts to him) the auction would take place as soon as the man from Hungary had made his successful escape. This would allow Grant to take the next day’s flight back to New York. Too bad if it cut a day or so from his two-week stay, but he didn’t like the idea of hanging around Vienna along with a Ruysdael...
What if the man’s escape was delayed? Ended in disaster? Well, Victor Basset would have his painting. And the Hungarian—Grant shook his head. He finished his Scotch, drinking to the man he didn’t know and would never see, wishing him a safe journey through forests or swamps, hidden in decrepit barns or deep in the bowels of a Danube river boat. However he travelled, it would be rough.
Not a journey like this one, thought Grant with a sharp touch of guilt as he accepted another Scotch and the smiling intimation that orders for dinner were being taken. Did he wish lamb or chicken or fillet of beef?
Our Hungarian will get out, he told himself at the end of his second drink. Gene Marck had been confident enough. He was a natural planner. The only thing he had been wrong about, in his detailed instructions to Grant, was his talk about the necessity of having a cover story to stave off any suspicions among Grant’s friends. Not one of them had asked why he was going to Vienna. Each and every one had thought it a good idea, a natural. Why not take off for a couple of weeks, enjoy yourself? They’d have done the same thing if they weren’t tied down by the kids, too expensive a deal nowadays to take them all along—or by the office, a new contract coming up, had to stay within easy reach of New York.
The women had said, “How wonderful! That’s what I’ve always wanted to do—wake up some morning and decide I’m going to Europe for two weeks. Why not four?”
Why not? If he hadn’t to bring back a valuable painting to New York, if he could have handed it to Marck in Vienna, saying, “It’s all yours,” he’d have made it four or six weeks, or even three months. It was seven years since he had been in Austria. Before he met Jennifer...
* * *
He slept on the plane, waking up as they touched down at
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