books.jibble.org

Page 99

"I can't take anything now," he said. "But I'll remember it, and
if things get very bad I'll come to you. It isn't costing much to
live. Marie is a good manager, almost as good as--Harmony was."
This with difficulty. He found it always hard to speak of
Harmony. His throat seemed to close on the name.

That was the best McLean could do, but he made a mental
reservation to see Marie that night and slip her a little money.
Peter need never know, would never notice.

At a cross-street the car stopped, and the little Bulgarian,
Georgiev, got on. He inspected the car carefully before he came
in from the platform, and sat down unobtrusively in a corner.
Things were not going well with him either. His small black eyes
darted from face to face suspiciously, until they came to a rest
on Peter.

It was Georgiev's business to read men. Quickly he put together
the bits he had gathered from Harmony on the staircase, added to
them Peter's despondent attitude, his strained face, the
abstraction which required a touch on the arm from his companion
when they reached their destination, recalled Peter outside the
door of Harmony's room in the Pension Schwarz--and built him a
little story that was not far from the truth.

Peter left the car without seeing him. It was the hour of the
promenade, when the Ring and the larger business streets were
full of people, when Demel's was thronged with pretty women
eating American ices, with military men drinking tea and nibbling
Austrian pastry, the hour when the flower women along the
Stephansplatz did a rousing business in roses, when sterile women
burned candles before the Madonna in the Cathedral, when the
lottery did the record business of the day.

It was Peter's forlorn hope that somewhere among the crowd he
might happen on Harmony. For some reason he thought of her always
as in a crowd, with people close, touching her, men staring at
her, following her. He had spent a frightful night in the Opera,
scanning seat after seat, not so much because he hoped to find
her as because inaction was intolerable.

And so, on that afternoon, he made his slow progress along the
Karntnerstrasse, halting now and then to scrutinize the crowd. He
even peered through the doors of shops here and there, hoping
while he feared that the girl might be seeking employment within,
as she had before in the early days of the winter.

Because of his stature and powerful physique, and perhaps, too,
because of the wretchedness in his eyes, people noticed him.
There was one place where Peter lingered, where a new building
was being erected, and where because of the narrowness of the
passage the dense crowd was thinned as it passed. He stood by
choice outside a hairdresser's window, where a brilliant light
shone on each face that passed.

Inside the clerks had noticed him. Two of them standing together
by the desk spoke of him: "He is there again, the gray man!"

"Ah, so! But, yes, there is his back!"

"Poor one, it is the Fraulein Engel he waits to see, perhaps."

"More likely Le Grande, the American. He is American."

"He is Russian. Look at his size."

"But his shoes!" triumphantly. "They are American, little one."

The third girl had not spoken; she was wrapping in tissue a great
golden rose made for the hair. She placed it in a box carefully.

"I think he is of the police," she said, "or a spy. There is much
talk of war."

"Foolishness! Does a police officer sigh always? Or a spy have
such sadness in his face? And he grows thin and white."

"The rose, Fraulein."

The clerk who had wrapped up the flower held it out to the
customer. The customer, however, was not looking. She was gazing
with strange intentness at the back of a worn gray overcoat. Then
with a curious clutch at her heart she went white. Harmony, of
course, Harmony come to fetch the golden rose that was to
complete Le Grande's costume.

Previous Page | Next Page

Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Sun 28th Dec 2025, 4:49

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart