Free Return to Vienna by Nancy Buckingham Page B

Volkswagen. It was there, as though it hadn’t moved since the previous evening. But now that I knew for certain that my shadow was one of Richard’s men, there was no longer an air of menace about the featureless gray car.
    Hurrying, I was nearly ready when there came a discreet tap on the door. It was the porter.
    “Meine Dame, a gentleman has come for you.”
    I said to tell my escort I’d be down in five minutes. Then I hurried with doing my face and giving myself a final checkover. I didn’t do badly. When I set off downstairs, it was barely six minutes past eight.
    I’d put on a taffeta dress in crocus yellow, a slick outfit to give me courage. I guessed I’d need every bit of courage I could muster for the evening that lay ahead. It would have been bad enough merely to be meeting up with the friends I had known with Max. But I had to play the undercover agent, be on the alert for the smallest signal, and throw out hints that I could safely be approached. “The prospect had me strung up almost beyond endurance.
    Reaching the foot of the stairs, I turned toward the lounge, and through the glass doors I saw a man rise from one of the armchairs just inside.
    My spirits zoomed and crashed all in the same instant. Steve couldn’t have chosen a worse time to call. Hadn’t he had all day, I thought unreasonably. Why did he have to choose this precise moment? And somehow I hated him seeing me dressed up like this—fit to kill, he’d think. And any minute now another man—a complete stranger, probably—would be calling to collect me.
    I wanted to turn and rush straight back to my room.
    But it was too late for that. Steve was coming out to meet me, smiling. Then I watched his expression change, and I realized it was on account of my own reaction to seeing him here—not pleasure at all, but a sort of horrified dismay.
    “Is something wrong, Jessica?”
    “I ... I can’t stop to talk to you now, Steve.” There was even a touch of hysteria in my voice. “I . . . I’m going out. . . .”
    “But that’s why I’m here—to take you.”
    “You don’t understand! I can’t go with you. I’m going to ... to a party.”
    “That’s right! I fixed with Gretl Kolbinger to call for you. It’s almost on my route, you see.”
    I was bewildered. “Your route . . . ?”
    “Yes. I’ve got a flat over by the Karlskirche, if you remember.”
    The dawning was slow and painful, because it just hadn’t occurred to me that Steve might be going to the Kolbingers. He had never been to one of their parties in the old days, and in fact, I didn’t realize he even knew them.
    “How come you’re invited?” I asked suspiciously.
    “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be?”
    “Well, how did you know I was going? Or did Gretl tell you, and ask you to call for me on your way?” I was beginning to get muddled, trying to sort out the possibilities. “Was it her suggestion, I mean —or yours?”
    “Questions, nothing but questions! Does it matter? I’m here to take you, and you’re ready to go. So let’s get moving.”
    “But Steve . ..”
    He took my arm firmly and led me to the door. I felt too weak to argue anymore.
    Outside, the night air was cool. But in the car it was warm, and we seemed cozily cut off from the thronging life of the city. I had a foolish wish that we needn’t go to the Kolbingers’ at all, and that this drive with Steve could last all evening.
    At first he didn’t say much, concentrating on weaving through the dense traffic. Then, after we’d crossed over the Gurtel and were striking out toward Cobenzl, he relaxed a bit.
    “I’ll be driving you back, too, by the way. Let me know whenever you’re ready.”
    “Thanks, Steve,” I said, and left it at that.
    He began to ask me about my life in London. “I think I know Burton Square. I seem to remember a rather elegant facade of terraced houses with some nice iron railings at the front.”
    “Your memory is doing a glamorizing job. The