The Sword and the Net полностью

He went into Altinger’s private office. Without much hope of success, he tried the drawers of Altinger’s desk. But they were locked and he sat himself down to wait and employed the time of waiting by going over in his mind, for perhaps the three-hundredth time, every step of his plan.

He was undisturbed for seven minutes, and then the janitor came in upon his final rounds, attracted by the open outer door of the suite. He was an ancient, perpetually tipsy Irishman, and he was volubly delighted to see Mr. Jorgensen back after his terrible experiences. He exhibited symptoms of far too long a stay, but Otto managed to get rid of him before the quarter hour.

“Good night, Michael,” said Otto. “I will lock up when I leave. And I will see you to-morrow.” He smiled and closed the outer door and stayed by it, listening to the old man’s footsteps as he shambled away along the corridor.

He looked at the clock upon the wall above Miss living’s desk. There still lacked three minutes before the appointed time, and unless Altinger were early, there would now be none to know—at least before the late visit of the night-watchman—that there had been anyone here but Nils Jorgensen. That was good, very good. It fitted well.

It was not until five minutes before the hour that Altinger arrived.

Otto met him in the outer office: he had heard the quick, familiar footfalls.

“Well, well!” said Altinger. “Look who’s here! How are you, young Jorgensen? How are you?” He seized Otto’s hand in a powerful grip and the bright dark eyes flickered over Otto from poll to toe.

Otto produced an answering smile. He said:

“I am well now. Fine!”

“Yes, you look it!” Altinger led the way into the inner room and slammed the door and turned and once more let the quick eyes roam over Otto in appraisal. “Look hard, too. How’d you manage to keep so fit?”

Otto said: “I invented exercises for myself.” He was trying to see, without letting his gaze direct itself too plainly, whether Altinger were wearing the shoulder-holstered gun which was occasionally an adjunct to his immaculacy. “That is, before they would let me stand. The last weeks I have been able to do more.”

“Hot as hell in here!” said Altinger. “Whyn’t you take off your coat?” He ripped off his own, and there was no gun, nothing save a silk shirt of quiet splendour.

Otto said, truthfully: “I have not felt it very hot here.” He watched Altinger’s back as he strode across to the desk, pulling the key chain from his pocket as he went. There was no gun in the hip pockets—which left only the one in the right-hand drawer of the desk.

And now Altinger, who had thrown himself into his padded swivel-chair, unlocked this drawer and opened it and pulled out a flat box of cigars and left the drawer open.

“Have a cigar?” he said, and took one himself and bit off the end with large white teeth.

Otto walked over to the desk but did not sit. He shook his head, and Altinger found himself a light and presently sat back with a blue haze about his head.

“Well,” said Altinger, “now business! What’s on that I don’t know about? Why did you give me the sign on the phone?”

Otto let his eyes flick a glance at the open drawer. He could see the butt of the Lüger. He said:

“It is very important. I have seen Mrs. Van Teller. . . .”

Altinger took the cigar from his mouth. He said quickly:

“When? Saw her myself yesterday, on her way to Santa Barbara. She didn’t say anything about you.” He sounded angry, and Otto, sweating a little at the thought of so narrow an escape from immediate revelation of his lie, thanked his providence for the man’s overweening egoism. He played upon it some more. He said:

“That is strange. She said nothing of having been with you. It was this morning. Before I left. She telephoned to me and arranged that I should meet her on the road. At the roadhouse restaurant near Palitos.” He had to talk Altinger away from the desk and the Lüger. He said:

“I met her. She was very . . . strange. She said to me too that she was en route to Santa Barbara. But she did not speak about you.” He saw the effect of this stroke again: Altinger twisted in his chair and smoked furiously.” She told me there were two important matters to which I must attend at once—as soon as I was arrived back here, in San Francisco.” He wondered what the first matter could be—and made a quick decision. “The first matter was that I must find out how were the arrangements for Plan Six . . .”

He got no further. Altinger jumped to his feet, his eyes blazing. He said, almost shouted:

“I reported to her on Plan Six; spent half a day on the job. I told her everything—even though I didn’t want to! What the hell sort of monkeyshine is this!” He cursed, both in English and in German.

Otto was startled by the German—not by the words, which were those of any barrack-room, but by the accent, which placed Rudolph Altinger as originally in a stratum from which it would never have occurred to Otto that he had climbed.