the imposing balcony, and said goodbye to the British Embassy. She would go to Mr. Hofmeyer. The droshki driver, an old man with his identification tag hanging at the back of his thin red neck, drove as urgently as he and the horse could manage. They were crossing the city to reach the older district in the north. In the gardens and pleasant green parks, men and women and children were digging.
They had reached the Old Square, at last. As the cab rolled over the wide expanse of cobblestones, flanked on four sides by rows of gabled houses, Sheila looked at her watch, and found she was late. She determined not to worry: nothing she could do now would make her any earlier. She looked at the houses, tall and narrow in the late Gothic manner, with their fronts newly restored to their onetime glory. In the last twenty years, they had been reclaimed from the slums into which they had degenerated under foreign rule. She wondered which house was Number 31. The broadest of the houses had four-window façades, which was the sign that some three hundred years ago, or more, princes had lived there. Those with three windows had housed nobles. Those with two had belonged to merchants. These social differences still remained in the carefully preserved façades, but the people behind the painted walls were now equal in lack of titles and of wealth. Some ofthe houses had long flourished as restaurants famed for this, or wine cellars famed for that. It was near one of them that the House of Kotowitz had its restrained medieval setting.
A car was standing in front of the arched doorway. The entrance led past a small but intricately carved doorway, past a flight of handsome stone stairs leading to the apartments above, and ended inside a cobbled yard with chestnut trees. Sheila, thinking how strange it was that one always went too far when one was late, retraced her steps, to the carved doorway. That seemed the only possible entrance to the ground-floor shop. With difficulty, she discerned the name of Kotowitz written in elegant but faded lettering. The door opened easily, and she was in a room, bright with sunlight from the Square. It was more like an office than a shop. There was a large table, and a girl with a ledger. She looked up and scrutinised Sheila closely.
“My name is Sheila Matthews. I believe Mr. Hofmeyer has an envelope for me.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes!” she said. Then she rose and looked towards a door in the rear of the office. “You are to wait. I’ll get it.”
Sheila waited. Then the rear door opened, and the girl returned. Behind her was a young man with a heavy, but pleasant, face. It had assumed a serious expression for the moment. The eyes were very business-like. Rising young executive, Sheila thought: well-polished shoes, neat pin-stripe suiting, hat in hand, and all.
The young man was speaking. “Miss Matthews? I am sorry that the envelope has not yet arrived. Mr. Hofmeyer asked me to bring you to his house to save further delay.”
Sheila looked at him uncertainly. He returned her stare too blandly, quite unaware of the puzzle in her mind. The girl hadsaid, “I’ll get it.” This man said, “The envelope has not yet arrived.”
“But is this not Mr. Hofmeyer’s house?”
“This is his place of business,” the man said patiently. He reached for the door handle. Sheila looked at the girl, standing once more behind the table. There was a cold, hostile look in the girl’s eyes. Their enmity warned Sheila.
“I am sorry,” she said with evident finality. She didn’t move. How the dickens did you say in Polish: “I haven’t much time. I have another engagement. Anyway, I don’t know who on earth you are and I am not going to accompany you to any strange house”? She was deciding on the correct phrases, and was just about to try a murderous version in desperation, when the young man moved away from the door, came over to her, and took a firm grip on her arm.
She tried to shake
They had reached the Old Square, at last. As the cab rolled over the wide expanse of cobblestones, flanked on four sides by rows of gabled houses, Sheila looked at her watch, and found she was late. She determined not to worry: nothing she could do now would make her any earlier. She looked at the houses, tall and narrow in the late Gothic manner, with their fronts newly restored to their onetime glory. In the last twenty years, they had been reclaimed from the slums into which they had degenerated under foreign rule. She wondered which house was Number 31. The broadest of the houses had four-window façades, which was the sign that some three hundred years ago, or more, princes had lived there. Those with three windows had housed nobles. Those with two had belonged to merchants. These social differences still remained in the carefully preserved façades, but the people behind the painted walls were now equal in lack of titles and of wealth. Some ofthe houses had long flourished as restaurants famed for this, or wine cellars famed for that. It was near one of them that the House of Kotowitz had its restrained medieval setting.
A car was standing in front of the arched doorway. The entrance led past a small but intricately carved doorway, past a flight of handsome stone stairs leading to the apartments above, and ended inside a cobbled yard with chestnut trees. Sheila, thinking how strange it was that one always went too far when one was late, retraced her steps, to the carved doorway. That seemed the only possible entrance to the ground-floor shop. With difficulty, she discerned the name of Kotowitz written in elegant but faded lettering. The door opened easily, and she was in a room, bright with sunlight from the Square. It was more like an office than a shop. There was a large table, and a girl with a ledger. She looked up and scrutinised Sheila closely.
“My name is Sheila Matthews. I believe Mr. Hofmeyer has an envelope for me.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes!” she said. Then she rose and looked towards a door in the rear of the office. “You are to wait. I’ll get it.”
Sheila waited. Then the rear door opened, and the girl returned. Behind her was a young man with a heavy, but pleasant, face. It had assumed a serious expression for the moment. The eyes were very business-like. Rising young executive, Sheila thought: well-polished shoes, neat pin-stripe suiting, hat in hand, and all.
The young man was speaking. “Miss Matthews? I am sorry that the envelope has not yet arrived. Mr. Hofmeyer asked me to bring you to his house to save further delay.”
Sheila looked at him uncertainly. He returned her stare too blandly, quite unaware of the puzzle in her mind. The girl hadsaid, “I’ll get it.” This man said, “The envelope has not yet arrived.”
“But is this not Mr. Hofmeyer’s house?”
“This is his place of business,” the man said patiently. He reached for the door handle. Sheila looked at the girl, standing once more behind the table. There was a cold, hostile look in the girl’s eyes. Their enmity warned Sheila.
“I am sorry,” she said with evident finality. She didn’t move. How the dickens did you say in Polish: “I haven’t much time. I have another engagement. Anyway, I don’t know who on earth you are and I am not going to accompany you to any strange house”? She was deciding on the correct phrases, and was just about to try a murderous version in desperation, when the young man moved away from the door, came over to her, and took a firm grip on her arm.
She tried to shake
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