Knights of the Blood (17 page)

The baroness and Reidl sat at opposite ends of the table, with Drummond to the right of his hostess, sandwiched between her and Madame Polinsky. Opposite Drummond was Professor Detweiller, who–much to his relief–spoke excellent English. During the course of the evening, it transpired that Madame Polinsky spoke far better Spanish than English, with the result that Drummond was able to carry on conversations with all of his immediate dinner companions. One couldn’t be a cop in Los Angeles, these days, without being reasonably fluent in Spanish.

It wasn’t until the last course was removed from the table that Drummond realized he could remember nothing of the meal just consumed–only the conversation that had sparkled as much as the excellent champagne that had been unstintingly poured into the tall crystal flutes.

The women excused themselves from the table, leaving the men to enjoy their cigars before joining them in the library for coffee. In the lull that inevitably follows the departure of the ladies from any well—bred dinner party, Reidl leaned forward onto his elbows to speak to Drummond.

“So, John, you are going to Vienna tomorrow?” he said.

“Yes, I am. I had hoped to get an early start, but I doubt I’ll hit the road much before ten.” He stifled a yawn, exhaustion racing up on him, now that the table had quieted down. .

Reidl and the others chuckled. “Ten is still pretty early, here in Austria. You’ll be in Vienna in time for lunch. Where do you stay?”

“I’m booked into the Hilton,” Drummond said.

“The Hilton? That’s a tourist trap.” Reidl reached into his coat pocket and brought out a small leather notebook and a gold pen. “Before you leave tomorrow, call this number and ask for Inspector Eberle. Tell him you are a friend of mine, and that I said he was to put you in a decent hotel. Okay, John?”

“Okay, Franz. Thanks.” Drummond took the note, folded it in half, and placed it in his pocket.

“So,” said Dr. Polinsky, “now we join the ladies, drink some coffee, and maybe go home to bed.”

Laughing, the men got up from the table and headed back into the library.

The baroness was sitting in front of the fireplace pouring delicious—smelling Turkish coffee into delicate little cups, each emblazoned with a black twoheaded eagle. Reidl sat down next to her and began handing out the steaming demitasses to the guests. Drummond sipped the thick, sweet coffee and chatted politely with the just—arrived Madame Detweiller, who, he was surprised to learn, was a well—known Austrian singer.

“And so where are you singing now?” he asked.

Laughing, Madame Detweiller said, “Ah. I am engaged for the next ten days in Salzburg, where I will be singing for some visiting Americans.”

“Oh, really?” Drummond said, supposing that it must be some sort of trade fair or diplomatic function. “What sort of group are you singing for?”

“It’s the ‘Sound of Music’ tour. I sing all of Julie Andrews’ songs from the film.” She positively beamed. “Do you know it?”

IT WAS
after ten by the time Drummond managed to prise himself out of bed and stumble into the shower the next morning. At first the stinging sensation of the water jets hitting his body seemed to be happening to someone else, but gradually his sense returned as he recovered from the combined effects of one drink too many allied to thirty—two hours without sleep. Lathering up, he had just about decided that he could spend all day in the shower when abruptly the hot water changed to cold. Madly spinning the taps by the edge of the tub did nothing to restore the hot water, and gritting his teeth, Drummond finished his shower under the ice—cold spray. Frozen to the bone, he briskly dried off and climbed quickly into his clothes. His teeth were still chattering as he made his way downstairs to breakfast.

Sitting at a small table in the bay window of the morning room, Drummond thought he could feel himself thawing out as the sun beat down across his shoulders. He allowed himself one last shiver as Joachim approached with a silver tray, set it down next to the table, and poured Drummond a steaming cup of coffee from an elaborate silver coffee pot.

“Danke schön,”
Drummond said–then, remembering the previous night’s discussion about titles, quickly added,
“Herr Jagdmeister.”

A smile struggled at the corners of Joachim’s mouth, and only partly managed to overcome the butler’s strict sense of decorum. Joachim bowed deeply.

“A pleasure,
Kapitän,”
he said, and then returned to the pantry.

Drummond finished a hearty breakfast of orange juice, eggs, bacon, smoked sausage, and toast, and poured himself a second cup of coffee. The baroness came into the room and smiled as she walked over to his table. She was wearing old—fashioned tan riding britches, a khaki shirt with a silk scarf at her throat, and a pair of well—polished russet leather riding boots. Drummond could tell from the dusty marks on her instep that she had only just taken off her spurs.

“Well, I trust you had a good night’s sleep?” she asked.

“Terrific, except I could have easily slept for another twelve hours. I didn’t realize how tired I was. May I pour you a coffee?”

“Thank you, no. It’s the jet lag,” she said. “Well, that’s a relief. For a moment I was afraid I might be allergic to champagne!”

They both laughed at Drummond’s little joke, then the baroness smiled and glanced back at the door.

“Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I must get changed and be about the day’s business. I’ve left your bill in an envelope on the desk, next to the telephone. Joachim will settle up with you.” She extended her hand to Drummond,
“Auf wiedersehen, Kapitän
Drummond. It’s been delightful having you.”

Drummond stood up and took her hand in his.

“The pleasure has been mine, Baroness.” Bowing slightly, he kissed her hand.
“Auf wiedersehen. “

The baroness gave him a dazzling smile, then turned and left the morning room. Drummond, standing next to the small table in the bay window, watched her disappear through the doorway that led out to the lobby.

Reidl, he thought to himself, is one lucky sonofabitch.

After packing, Drummond brought his bags down to the lobby and walked over to the heavily carved desk in the corner. There, propped up next to an antique telephone, was a small white envelope with
“Kapitän Drummond”
written across the front in gothic script. Inside was a gracious note thanking Drummond for having stayed at the castle, along with a bill for what seemed to Drummond to be a ridiculously small amount for his stay.

Joachim materialized from deep within his porter’s chair and bowed deeply to Drummond.

“The
Kapitän
has found everything to be in order?” he asked.

“Yes, although this hardly seems enough,” Drummond said, handing Joachim his bill and a credit card.

Joachim took them from Drummond’s outstretched hand and vanished down the hallway, only to return a few minutes later with the credit card slip ready for Drummond to sign. Drummond signed it, took his copy and credit card, and slipped both in his pocket. He reached for his bags, but Joachim beat him to it.

“I will take these to the
Kapitän’s
car,” the servant said. “You may use that telephone to call Herr Reidl’s friend in Vienna.” Picking up the bag, Joachim turned and marched out the door.

Fumbling in his coat pocket, Drummond found the slip of paper that Reidl had given him the night before. He picked up the telephone on the desk and dialed the number he’d been given. A woman’s voice answered.

“Inspektor Eberle, bitte,”
Drummond said, exhausting most of his meager knowledge of the German language.

“Ein moment,”
the voice replied, followed by a hollow metallic click. ‘

Nearly a minute passed before a man’s voice crackled on the line.

“Eberle hier, kann ich helfen Sie?”
There was authority in the voice, but more than that, definite kindness.

“Inspector Eberle, this is Captain John Drummond of the Los Angeles–“

“Ah, yes.” Eberle cut Drummond off. “Franz Reidl phoned me this morning to say you’d be calling. Where are you now?” Eberle’s English was flawless, without a trace of accent.

“I’m still at the castle.” Something instinctively told Drummond he was going to like Eberle.

“Okay, here’s what you want to do. You’re about one hundred miles from Vienna. Get on the autobahn and head into the city. Just before you get into town, the freeway splits, and you want the AI. Take that to the end of the highway, and then follow the signs toward the Schönbrunn. I’ll meet you out front and guide you to your hotel.” Eberle paused, then added, “Franz tells me you’ve got a red—hot Mercedes, so you should have no trouble meeting me in–say, an hour and a half?”

“Sure,” replied Drummond. “Just so long as I don’t get nailed for speeding.”

“Not to worry, my friend.” Eberle chuckled. “Franz gave me your license number when he called. I’ve already tipped the Bahnpoz not to bother you. See you at the Schönbrunn, Captain.” Then he hung up.

Drummond replaced the receiver on the polished brass cradle. One thing was certain: professional courtesy in Austria knew no bounds. He could just imagine the response he’d get calling up the CHP in Los Angeles and asking them to look the other way when some foreign cop came blistering by on the Harbor Freeway.

Heading out the door, Drummond glanced at his watch. It was just eleven thirty; according to Eberle, he could make Schönbrunn by one. Climbing into the freshly washed Mercedes, Drummond fastened his seat belt, switched on the engine, and pointed the white car towards the autobahn.

The turbo—charged Mercedes clung to the road like an abalone on a rock, and Drummond soon had it cruising at well over a hundred miles an hour. The gently curving blacktop between Linz and St. Polten flashed by beneath the thick Metzler tires, Drummond only occasionally slowing as he approached the odd intersection, or a cluster of cars traveling at significantly slower speeds. The last twenty miles, from just before St. Pol ten to where the Al branched off into Vienna, saw the needle of the speedometer sit at a rock—steady 250 kilometers per hour–slightly more than one hundred fifty miles per hour.

Stepping on the brakes as he approached the AI, Drummond hauled the car down to a safer seventy—five miles per hour and quietly took. back everything he’d ever said about Mercedes—Benz being an old man’s car. Changing down directly into third, he stood on the gas and felt the car leap forward as the twin turbochargers took over. In less than five minutes, he covered the last ten miles of Austrian autobahn and found himself slowing down to what seemed to be a crawl as he wound his way off the autobahn and on to the wide boulevard that led off to his right, following the signs that pointed the way to the Schönbrunn Palace.

Schönbrunn Palace would dwarf either Buckingham Palace or the White House, its elegant classical facade stretching along the main road leading into Vienna for four long blocks. The sheer splendor of the pale yellow palace was a lasting monument to the Hapsburgs, the old imperial Austrian dynasty that had created an empire which, by 1900, was greater than the common market for today’s modern Europe.

As he approached the palace from the north, Drummond saw the sign directing traffic to a parking lot opposite the main gates of the palace. Signaling to turn left, he turned as if to cross the bridge that spanned the Wien Fluss–the Vienna River–but then he turned immediately right into the parking lot where Eberle had said he’d meet him.

Drummond checked his watch–12:58. The Mercedes had effortlessly done its job, and Drummond was smugly satisfied that he’d arrived on time.

A black BMW 530 pulled up next to the Mercedes and a dumpty man in his mid—forties got out, tugged up his trousers, and walked over to Drummond’s side of the car.

“Hello, Captain Drummond.” The man crouched down to the open window of the Mercedes. “I’m Markus Eberle,” he said, through a grin that displayed two stainless steel teeth set into an otherwise perfect smile.

“My pleasure, indeed,” Drummond said, sticking his hand awkwardly out the window. .

Eberle grabbed it with both of his fists and pumped it up and down.

“Had lunch yet?” he asked.

“Nope, just got here.”

“Well, then, follow me to your hotel, we’ll get you checked in, grab a bite, and then I’ll show you some of the sights.” Eberle’s smile was infectious, and Drummond decided that he definitely liked the man.

“Lead on, Inspector, lead on.”

Eberle pulled smoothly into traffic, and Drummond tucked in behind him. In tandem they moved along the Schönbrunner Strasse, then Eberle led him through a maze of small alleys and side streets, jigging left and right until they reached Prinz Eugen Strasse, where they turned to the left. At the bottom of the street, Drummond could see a tall pillar with a statue of a soldier on top of it, who seemed to be resting his hand incongruously on top of a very large toilet seat.

Just before they got to the pillar, Eberle turned to the right up a driveway, through an elaborate wrought iron gate. Drummond followed and found that they were in the forecourt of a baroque palace–smaller, but infinitely more elegant, than the Schönbrunn,

Eberle pulled up, and two servants in gold—striped vests and black trousers immediately stepped out from the large double door opposite the cars and stood to attention. Eberle climbed out of the police car and walked back to Drummond’s Mercedes.

“Well, this is home. Hope you like it,” he said.

“I’m impressed. I just hope I can afford it,” Drummond replied.

“Sure you can.” Eberle winked. “You get the police discount.”

Drummond got out of his car, and he and Eberle headed toward the door now being held open by one of the servants. Inside, a discreet counter to the right of the door told Drummond that this was probably one of the most expensive hotels he’d ever been in. He wasn’t far from wrong.

. The man at the desk was wearing a cutaway coat and striped trousers, and as Drummond approached, greeted him by name.

“Kapitän
Drummond,” he said with a cultured voice. “Welcome to Palais Schwartzenberg. Allow me to show you to your room.”

Taking a large key from a small pigeon—hole behind the counter, he led the two men up a short flight of stairs and then down a curving corridor hung with tapestries, finally stopping in front of a pale ivory door set with a silver plaque engraved with the number 45. Using the large key, he opened the door and let Drummond and Eberle into a small hallway.

“Over here is your kitchen,” the man in the swallowtail coat said, gesturing to a door on the right. “And in here,” he opened an elaborate door on the left, “is your sitting room.”

The three men entered the sitting room, which was furnished with traditional rather than modern furniture indicative of taste rather than opulence, “Upstairs,” the hotel manager gestured toward the carved banister at the far end of the room, “are your study, bedroom, and bathroom. I hope you find everything satisfactory?”

“This is just fine, thank you,” Drummond said, as the manager placed the key in his hand.

“Very well, then,
Kapitän,
I will have your bags brought up.” He bowed stiffly and, walking backwards, withdrew from the room.

“Quite impressive,” Drummond said. “I hope the police discount is a big one.”

“Oh, it is,” said Eberle. “Now, go pee so we can head out to lunch.”

Eberle’s idea of lunch was a small Hungarian restaurant around the comer from Palais Schwartzenberg that specialized in fresh game. During a meal of venison in a Hungarian pepper sauce, complimented by a rich, ruby—red wine, Eberle enthused about his city, the most beautiful city in Europe. Drummond could find no reason to dispute Eberle’s claims–certainly what he’d seen of the city so far confirmed that Vienna was without equal.

As the last of the dishes were cleared away, Eberle patted his ample stomach with both hands.

“Ah, that’s what I call lunch,” he said. “Now, can I show you some of the sights?”