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was preserved the exact moment when a thousand-year dynasty had ended,
plunging the world into the most horrible war it was ever to know.
Vienna itself, Drummond mused, was also in a partial state of
suspended animation. Von Liebenfalz' apartment, Eberle's home, the hotel
where he was staying all were very much part of a past that had ended
on a hot, dusty day in Sarajevo in 1914. Very little had moved. He
glanced at his watch and was almost startled to see the sweep second hand
moving across its black face, the luminous hands signaling the approach
of noon.
Walking quietly away from the wounded motorcar and embalmed
uniform, he headed out of the museum and caught a taxi back to his hotel.
As it pulled into the forecourt of the Palais Schwarzenberg, he was
surprised to see several hotel employees crowded around his Range Rover.
It soon became apparent, from the commotion, that a great deal of effort
was going into packing Drummond's luggage and all of his outdoor gear
into the back of the car, with bags and boxes being inserted and removed
like pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle. Inside, Herr Hubmann greeted him
with a polite bow as he approached the desk.
"Kapitän Drummond," Hubmann said. "How was your visit to the army
museum?"
"Interesting, very interesting," Drummond replied. "I see my car is here.
I hope you haven't had any difficulty in loading it."
"None at all, Kapitän," Hubmann replied. "The car was delivered about
fifteen minutes ago." He handed Drummond a thick manila envelope.
These are the insurance and registration documents and," he handed him a
leather key case, "these are your extra keys."
"Thank you," Drummond said. "It's been a pleasure staying here again.
Is my bill tallied up?"
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"It is, Kapitän," Hubmann said, handing him another envelope. "I trust
you will find everything in order."
"I'm sure I will," Drummond said, slipping the envelope and the car
documents into the inside pocket of his navy blazer. "Auf wiedersehen,
Herr Hubmann."
"Kapitän." Hubmann bowed and clicked his heels.
"Oh, Kapitän Drummond," Hubmann said, as Drummond turned to
leave. "There was a young man here earlier this morning. He left this for
you." He handed Drummond a small envelope with "S.E. Herr
Drummond" printed neatly across its front.
"S.E.?" Drummond asked, glancing at Hubmann.
"Sein Exzellenz," Hubmann supplied.
"Ah. Thank you." Turning aside, Drummond opened the envelope and
took out the folded note inside.
Exzellenz,
I am most sincerely flattered by the generosity of your most excellent gift.
There is an old tradition in my country, and perhaps in yours as well, that
when a huntsman is given a knife he must in some way pay for it, lest it
cut the bonds of brotherhood that unite all hunters. I hope then that you
will accept this payment as a token of my respect and continuing
friendship, should you ever return to my country.
Yours truly,
Paul Gemmer
Taped to the bottom of the page was a small Austrian coin.
Smiling, Drummond carefully folded the note and put it in an outside
pocket of his blazer as he walked out of the hotel and climbed into his
Range Rover. His bags were on the seats behind him, his other purchases
stowed behind the back seats. Hamilton-Bolt had thoughtfully left the
owners manual on the passenger seat, and Drummond spent several
minutes familiarizing himself with the car before starting up and easing
out into the Vienna traffic.
At a service plaza just before the entrance to the autobahn, he bought a
large European road atlas and half a dozen classical music tapes, one of
which he immediately popped into the Range Rover's tape deck. After a
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r r
brief consultation with the map, he headed west toward Schloss Dielstein,
with Hayden's Trumpet Concerto in E flat providing the background
music to the changing panorama of the Austrian countryside.
The Range Rover owner's manual had advised against sustained high-
speed cruising for the first five hundred miles, so Drummond used the
admonition as an excuse to leave the autobahn and meander along the
narrow roads that ran through the small villages to the west of Vienna. As
he drove along, Drummond found himself thinking of the Baroness von
Diels, idly speculating whether or not Franz Reidl would be at dinner that
evening. It had been more than five years since Drummond's wife had
been injured, and during that time he had only casually dated other
women.
He supposed that it was the remoteness of the baroness that made him
wonder what sort of woman she really was. One thing was for certain, he
decided. It was unlikely that she would have any interest in him. It was
his experience that beautiful women had no shortage of admirers, and the
baroness was beautiful. No, some lucky local, like Reidl, would have the
inside track on the attentions of the baroness.
It was late in the afternoon when Drummond finally turned off the road
from Reid and headed down the dusty, tree-lined avenue of Schloss
Dielstein. Unlike the occasion of his previous visit, there were a number
of cars parked in front of the castle, including a scarlet Bugatti convertible
casually drawn up next to the Teutonic bulk of an older Mercedes-Benz.
Having found a shady spot to park, Drummond got out and headed
toward the main entrance to the castle. As he reached the door, he was
greeted by Joachim the butler, who bowed formally as he came through
the door.
"Guten Abend, Kapitän Drummond," he said. "May I bring in your
luggage?"
"Just the bags on the back seat, thank you," Drummond replied. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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