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under his chin. Light flashed off the large oval-shaped sapphire on his index finger.
"So tell me, Father," he asked, "who is this Mr. Drummond?"
"The police officer from Los Angeles who was here last month, Your
Eminence."
There was a rustle of crimson silk as the man behind the desk opened a
folder and produced the photographs of Drummond that had been taken in the
elevator at von Liebenfalz's apartment. "Is that him?" he asked, handing the
photographs to Father Freise.
"Yes, Your Eminence. He's asked me to meet him in Europe. He needs my
help." Freise looked beseechingly at the cardinal seated behind Father Conklin's
desk.
"You mean he needs the help of the Church," the cardinal corrected him.
"Yes, Your Eminence."
"Then in that case, you had better pack."
The cardinal extended his hand, and Father Freise bent down to kiss the ring.
"Go with God," the cardinal said. And almost as an afterthought, he added,
"Oh, and tell Father Conklin I won't be needing his office any longer, will you?"
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Chapter 16
It was raining when Drummond woke up the next morning. Despite the hot
bath he had soaked in the night before, every bone in his body seemed to ache as he
hauled himself out of bed and headed into the bathroom.
Small wonder, he thought, as he surveyed himself into the large bathroom
mirror and gave up trying to count the welts and bruises scattered across his body.
After a long, hot shower he felt decidedly better, and by the time he had
shaved and dressed, only the ugliest of the bruises gave him any real discomfort.
Adjusting the knot on his silk foulard tie, he slipped on the jacket of his navy
double-breasted suit and went downstairs for a light breakfast. In the middle of his
coffee and croissant, one of the waiters approached his table carrying a cordless
telephone.
"Excuse me, Kapitän, but there is a call for you."
Drummond took the phone, and the waiter withdrew from the table. "Hello,
Drummond here," he said.
"John, it's Markus." There was concern in Eberle's voice. "I'm still at home,
but I've just heard about last night. Are you all right?"
"Couple of minor bruises, nothing serious." Drummond poured more coffee
into his cup from the small silver pot on the corner of his table.
"Listen, I've pulled some strings, and this is going to be given top priority,"
Eberle said. "We're going to need you to make a statement, so if you don't mind, I'll
have a car collect you at your hotel at eleven o'clock. I'm in court in shit, I'm
late! half an hour, or I'd collect you myself. I hope that's all right?" Eberle
sounded rushed, but at the same time willing to do anything Drummond might ask
of him.
Drummond picked up his cup. "That's just fine, Markus. I think I can handle
it."
"Okay, pal. I'll see you at the station as soon as I'm free." Eberle hung up,
and Drummond signaled the waiter to come and retrieve the phone.
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Looking out the window at the rain, Drummond cursed to himself that he
hadn't brought a raincoat. There was time to buy one, though, thanks to the hour's
reprieve before he was due at the police station. After signing for his breakfast, he
walked over to the porter's desk and asked for a taxi to be called. While he waited
for it, he borrowed an umbrella and went outside to look at the railings under his
window.
The drop from Drummond's balcony to the top of the railing was a good four
feet more like seven, from the top of the stone balustrade around the balcony. The
railing below was of wrought iron, with slender spear points jutting up every ten to
twelve inches. It would have been impossible for anyone to fall on them and
survive.
Drummond had just about convinced himself that in the poor light of the
previous night he had been mistaken in what he thought he saw, when he noticed
the dark puddle of congealed blood pooled at the base of the railing. Directly above
it, one of the spear points was bent, as though the weight of the falling body had
shoved it slightly forward.
Reaching down, Drummond dabbed one finger in the reddish puddle and
sniffed it. It was blood all right. No mistaking the cloying smell, even in the rain.
As he went back to the porter's desk to return the umbrella, he found himself almost
wishing he had thought to put Father Freise's rosary in his pocket.
«» «» «»
The rain had worsened by the time Drummond's taxi arrived at the hotel.
Armed with the address of a travel agent and a men's clothing store, Drummond
climbed into the waiting taxi and headed out into the city.
The first stop was Herter's, an exclusive men's shop in Vienna's fashionable
third district. As the taxi pulled up to the curb, Drummond couldn't help but
compare the street with Beverly Hills' famous Rodeo Drive. The shops tended to be
as small as their merchandise was expensive. Rolex, Gucci, and Cartier were
nestled side by side with Bally, Hermes, and Zolli, while out front the street was
lined with Mercedes-Benz and Rolls-Royce motorcars.
Pushing open the door of the taxi, Drummond paused to glance up at the
driver.
"Bleiben Sie hier, ja?" He had gotten the phrase from the porter, in hopes of
not being abandoned again. "Hier. Nicht gehen. Verstehen Sie?"
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"Ja, ja," the man replied, turning off the ignition as he nodded in the rearview
mirror. "Ich verstehe." The fact that Drummond had not yet paid him probably also
helped to get the point across.
Slamming the door, Drummond dashed across the rain-slicked pavement and
into Herter's. An impeccably dressed salesman in his early sixties came
immediately to his assistance, his English as crisp as his freshly starched shirt.
Leading him to the back of the shop, he showed Drummond an impressive array of
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