Free Return to Vienna by Nancy Buckingham Page A

the incident had pointed up how ragged my nerves were. Temperamentally, I wasn’t the type to live with danger.
    “Please, Richard. I must have some way of reaching you in an emergency. I promise to be very careful.”
    He considered, again taking my hand and fondling it. “Very well,” he said finally. “If you really must— in a serious emergency—you could ring the British embassy. Give your name as ... as Miss Brown, and ask the operator to pass on a message to the assistant commercial counselor that you’d like to be hearing from him.”
    “The assistant commercial counselor. Is that you?”
    “It’s a cover I sometimes find useful. If you ever do have to leave that message, I’ll contact you as soon as possible. But I don’t want you to ring the embassy unless it’s absolutely vital.”
    Richard asked how I was managing for money, and I told him I had enough at present. With a smile he said I needn’t be afraid of spending it, and that he’d give me some more the next time we met. “Now, look, Jessica, you’d better leave first. When you get outside, turn right and walk straight down the road, and you’ll come to a tram route.”
    I stood up, and Richard did too, “Let’s make it look convincing,” he whispered, taking me in his arms again. This time, being forewarned, I was able to avert my face so that I didn’t meet his lips directly. Richard realized it was a deliberate action. Still holding me, he murmured reproachfully, “It’s only for show, you know,”
    I pushed back from him quickly, feeling my color rising; it probably all fitted the performance very well —the eager man, the slightly diffident girl. But as I walked out into the wet street, hearing that absurd door crash shut behind me, I was wondering why I should recoil so fiercely from Richard Wilson’s acted embrace.
     

Chapter 7
     
    The tram I caught at the end of the street rumbled along interminably, taking me back over the Danube and through the city outskirts. Just by Schottenring the route ended, and I got off in a huddle of other passengers. With no clear objective, I started walking, and the knowledge that I was certainly being followed by one of Richard’s men gave me an eerie feeling. Once or twice I paused where a shop window reflected the view behind me, but I couldn’t identify anyone who had been on the same tram.
    The rain stopped at last, and as I made my way around the wide curving avenue of the Ringstrasse, the sun began to struggle through heavy gray clouds.
    This was territory I’d known so well with Max, an area of magnificent, exuberant architecture—the university, the Gothic Rathaus, and the classic-columned parliament building. Reaching the twin museums, I branched away into lesser streets, on the lookout for somewhere to have lunch. I had to abandon all idea of shopping, because it was Saturday, and the stores closed at midday. I spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly, remembering.
    It was almost six when I returned to the Mahlerhof, picking up a taxi on a stand because I found I was suddenly tired out. At the reception desk I inquired if any message had been left for me, and felt a spurt of disappointment that there was no word from Steve. I’dtold him not to phone, yet it seemed like lack of interest that he hadn’t tried to get in touch.
    Wearily, I took the ancient lift up to the second floor. In my room I let go, kicking off my shoes and  flopping full stretch on the bed. I felt bleak and dispirited, almost too tired to think. My body seemed heavy, and the bed was a sea of soft foam. I let consciousness slip deliciously away.
    When I woke, it was already dark, with a faint glow filtering up from the streetlights below. I snapped fully awake, put on the lamp by the bed, and looked at my watch. Past seven-thirty! At eight I was to be collected for the Kolbingers’ party.
    I leaped off the bed and went to the window to draw the curtains. First I glanced down to the street, searching for the