Ride a Pale Horse Read Online Free PDF Page B

towards the sun-filled street, she saw him hurry on his way down Kärntnerstrasse, looking to neither right nor left. That’s all he had been, a man in search of a toilet. She shook her head over her suspicions. And then amusement ended. She frowned as she replaced the lipstick in her shoulder bag and slung it over the back of her chair. A moment more of disturbing thought, and she hailed her waitress. “Tell me, please—are the washrooms over there?” She pointed at the distant sign.
    “Yes. Straight along the corridor, then down the staircase.”
    Down a flight of stairs? Then up? That could take almost two minutes. “Is there a telephone?”
    “Just around the corner.”
    “In the corridor itself?”
    “Jawohl,” the girl said again. And when Karen didn’t move, she asked, “The lady wishes something else?”
    The lady is an idiot. She’d better straighten out her mind before she walks out into the street. “Another cup of coffee, please. No cream.”
    The pink-cheeked face became rounder in astonishment. The yellow curls shook in disbelief. “The lady didn’t like the cream?”
    “It defeated me. I need more practice.” More practice in everything, Karen decided as the waitress hurried off with a puzzled look in her china-blue eyes. If she didn’t understand my last remarks, she is at least sure about the coffee. My German can’t be too bad. Travel... how simple it seemed until I stepped through Vasek’s door.
    She studied the street. What inconspicuous man had been summoned by telephone to wait for her out there? But if he was assigned to dogging her footsteps, how would he recognise her? According to the movies, the brown suit should have been hovering outside to identify her quietly. They’d hardly work that angle right in this room where she would notice the two of them together even if they tried to keep apart. She leaned forward to see as much of the street, of the tables outside, as possible. The brown suit had definitely left, had made no contact.
    The coffee came, a pot of it no less. Perhaps her German hadn’t been so good after all. But the strong black brew was welcome. She stopped watching the street, asking herself quite another question. If I am being followed, then why? Is Vasek under suspicion? Is anyone who talked with him automatically under surveillance? Even here —in Austria? Suddenly, she felt chilled. And afraid. Thank God she had left the envelope secure in the safe of a reliable hotel. She might very well have followed her first idea: don’t leave it behind, keep it close to you, tuck it into your handbag with your passport and other valuables.
    A purse snatcher? she wondered, thinking once more about the brown suit. A foreigner, a woman by herself, a bag slung over her shoulder—if she had walked into a quiet lane or been jammed by a crowd, would he or an accomplice have attempted a snatch? It was a common practice for women travelling alone to carry jewellery in their handbags. She relaxed slightly, sipped the coffee. Perhaps that was all the little man thought of her—a likely quarry who wore good clothes and could afford the Sacher Hotel. (He wouldn’t know about expense accounts or that her gold necklace, bracelet, earrings, and wedding ring were all she ever travelled with.)
    A movement and laughter at the entrance caught her attention. She looked at the mirrored wall: three people—two men and a girl. “Well, look who’s here!” one of the men called out and left the table he had almost chosen to come forward to hers. She set down her cup in astonishment.
    The last time she had seen Sam Waterman was in Hubert Schleeman’s office at the Spectator. Five years ago? Yes, almost five, and Waterman hadn’t been in such an amiable mood then; he had just resigned on the spot. She had been given the job he had expected to have—he had been two years writing about Washington personalities for Schleeman; she had been working only a year on that column. He had stormed