Carmody's Run Read online

  “Herr Carmody?”

  “That’s right. And you’re Varndal?”

  “I am, yes.” Varndal seized his hand, pumped it rapidly several times. The Austrians loved to shake hands, and they did it with plenty of vigor, as if they were working the handle of a fitness machine.

  “Invite me in,” Carmody said. “It’s damned cold out here.”

  “But of course, herr.”

  Inside, Carmody unbuttoned both his topcoat and his suit jacket so he would have easy access to the Beretta if he needed it; he was a cautious man. Varndal led him into a parlor filled with heavy old furniture. The room had a faint musty smell, as if it had been closed up for some time.

  Varndal asked, “Have you brought the transmitter?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”

  “Please, you will show it to me?”

  “You still owe me eight thousand dollars, U.S. currency.”

  “But of course. May I examine the transmitter first?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Carmody handed him the attaché case. Varndal, eyes bright with expectancy, took it to a table and opened it. Carefully he lifted out its contents.

  The radio transmitter was small, portable, battery operated. It was also delicately constructed to put out a certain signal of ultra-high frequency and strength, with a variation of no more than a plus or minus .03. A transmitter of that type was not easy to obtain, particularly if you didn’t want its origin traced because you had a use for it that was at best extralegal. That was why Varndal had come to Carmody through his Austrian contact, Josef Bruckner. Carmody had connections in every country in Europe and most of those in the free world; he could supply just about anything if the price was right.

  Varndal had wanted the transmitter by today’s date. Carmody had no real interest in why the Austrian wanted it; his only interest was in the ten thousand dollars Varndal had agreed to pay—two thousand faith money in advance, the balance on delivery. He minded his business, his clients minded theirs. Complete discretion was one of the commodities he had to sell.

  “Satisfied, Varndal?”

  “Quite satisfied, herr. This is of excellent quality.”

  “Did you expect any different?”

  “No, no. I expected just what you have delivered.”

  “Then you can pay me now?”

  “Naturlich Herr Carmody.” He put the transmitter back into the case, left the case on the table. “You will come with me to my study, please?”

  “If that’s where the money is.”

  Varndal nodded, smiled, and moved out of the parlor and down a hallway to a closed door at the rear. He opened the door, took a step into the darkened room beyond. There was a snicking sound as he touched a wall switch; light flooded the room. Carmody, following close behind the Austrian, saw that it was a study, all right, but one in which most of the furnishings were covered by heavy dust cloths. He pulled up short, reaching for the Beretta.

  Varndal was already turning, one hand upraised, something long and thin in it that he’d had concealed under his suit coat. Carmody tried to duck and draw the Beretta at the same time—but he wasn’t quite fast enough. The something in Varndal’s hand collided with his head just above the left ear.

  Blinding pain.

  Legs jellying, the floor coming up to meet him. Humming in his ears like a high-speed drill.

  Door slamming, far away.

  Black.

  Carmody came out of it, rolled over, sat up with his head hanging between his knees. The butt of the Beretta, still holstered, dug into his side. Nausea roiled in his stomach. The pain in his head was savage -two jagged lines of it, like parallel lightning arcs that seemed to run upward from his neck to the top of his skull. His thoughts were muddled. Concussion?

  Gingerly he touched the place where Varndal had hit him, found a pulpy area beneath the mat of hair that grew thickly over his ears; the hair had cushioned the blow. There was no blood. He got onto his knees, then onto his feet. Leaned against the wall until the nausea eased and his thinking straightened out. Then he looked at his wristwatch. Eight-twenty. He had been unconscious a little less than an hour.

  The lines of pain glowed hotly as he went out of the study and down the hallway, pulling open other doors, looking inside rooms. All the rooms had dustcovers like shrouds over the furniture. Upstairs it was the same: dustcovers and must. The house had been closed up for a long time.

  There was no sign of Varndal.

  Carmody went back downstairs and outside, leaving the front door standing wide open. The winter wind seemed colder, sharper. He got into the rented Mercedes and burned rubber pulling away from the curb, his body hunched, his big hands in a stranglehold on the steering wheel.

  It took him the better part of half an hour to get to Grinzing. The village had an old-world atmosphere and was well known for its wine inns and wine festivals; the combination attracted the tourists in droves in the autumn months. This time of year the locals were the inns’ best customers.

  Carmody parked in front of a grape-arbored Weinstube called Die Moselle, after one of the local whites, and entered. Most of the high-backed wooden booths were filled—women in dirndals, men in lederhosen, people in more modern dress. Two heavyset men in gypsy costume were playing a spirited zigeuner tune on an accordion and a violin. Carmody barely heard the music, his attention was on the crowd, scanning faces. The pain in his head had dulled to a bearable throbbing. The heat in him now was all rage

  Bruckner was sitting with a blonde who looked as if she could and often did eat an entire Sachertorte mit Schiag at one sitting; she must have weighed about two twenty They were in a corner booth at the rear, drinking wine and toasting each other with their glasses and their eyes. Carmody leaned close to Bruckner and said, “Get rid of the woman We need to talk.”

  Bruckner, thin and bony, with wildly unruly hair and a thick mustache, said in bewildered tones, “Something is the matter, Herr Carmody?”

  “Damn right. Get rid of her, Bruckner.”

  Bruckner nodded, patted the blonde’s thick arm and said something to her in German that Carmody didn’t understand. The woman gave Carmody a hostile look, got ponderously out of the booth, waddled away.

  Carmody sat down. “Your boy Varndal tried to crack my skull,” he said. “Knocked me out and made off with the transmitter. I don’t like to be double-crossed, Bruckner. I don’t like it one bit.”

  Bruckner looked shocked “But… but why? Why would he do such a foolish thing?”

  “You tell me.”

  “But I have no idea!

  “You said he was all right.”

  “It seemed so to me, Herr Carmody. With him I spoke three times before I agreed to call you. He said nothing to give suspicion.”

  “Didn’t you check him out, for Christ’s sake?”

  “As well as I could Bitte, herr, I–”

  “What did he want the transmitter for?”

  “He didn’t tell me. And since it isn’t required that you–”

  “Where does he live?”

  “The house where you met him—?”

  “Vacant,” Carmody said. “Nobody lives there now. Dustcovers over most of the furniture, except in the parlor downstairs.”

  “But if Varndal was there, if he had keys, the owners he must know…”

  “That’s right. And one of us is going to find out who they are. Fast, Bruckner. Tonight”

  “Jawohl, Herr Carmody.”

  “How did you get in touch with Varndal? By telephone, public meeting place, what?”

  “With Anya Berg I left messages,” Bruckner said.

  “Varndal and I met here, as always.”

  “Who would Anya Berg be?”

  “The proprietress of a shop near the canal.”

  “What kind of shop?”

  “A tobacco shop. Also she sells information.”

  “Yes? And where does she fit into this?”

  “It was Anya who gave Varnda
l my name. And yours.”

  “Does she know Varndal personally?”

  Bruckner shook his head. “Ich weiss nicht. She said he had been referred by a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “I saw no reason to ask her,” Bruckner said defensively. “She is an old friend.”

  “You’ve got shit for brains, you know that?”

  “Herr Carmody, I—”

  “You know where Anya Berg lives? How to get in touch with her at this time of night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go call her then. Will she answer the phone herself if she’s home?”

  “Yes. She lives alone.”

  “If she answers, don’t say anything to her. Just hang up. All I want to know is if she’s home.”

  Bruckner left the booth. Carmody lit a thin, black cigar as he waited. There was a strong dose of urgency in his anger: he had to find Anton Varndal quickly. If he didn’t, word would leak out about the double-cross—and others would try the same thing in the future He couldn’t operate if there was even a hint that he was vulnerable.

  Bruckner was back inside of five minutes, mopping sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “She is home,” he said.

  “What’s her address?”

  Bruckner told him. “What will you do when you see her?”

  “Ask her some questions.”

  “She is not responsible for Varndal—”

  “Let’s hope not,” Carmody said. “As for you, get to work checking into that house on Görtnerstrasse. Then go to your apartment and wait for me to contact you. Clear?”

  “Klar, Herr Carmody.”

  Outside in the Mercedes, Carmody consulted his city map of Vienna. Anya Berg lived off the Ringstrasse, the boulevard that circled the old Inner City—easy enough to find. He left the map open on the seat beside him, put the car in gear.

  Carmody said, “Anya Berg?”

  The woman standing in the doorway was in her thirties, brown-haired, attractive in an overripe way. Her brown eyes were shrewd, calculating. “Yes?”

  “I’m Carmody. Shall we talk inside?”

  Anya Berg studied him for a few seconds, shrugged, led him into a small sitting room. “Why are you interested in me, Herr Carmody?”

  “Bruckner tells me you sent Anton Varndal to him.”

  “I did that, yes. Why?”

  “I’m looking for Varndal. Where does he live?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You don’t know him personally?”

  “Not well, no. He was sent to me by a mutual friend.”

  “So Bruckner tells me. What’s this friend’s name?”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you that.”

  “You’d better tell me. I’m in no mood for games, lady. “What’s the friend’s name?”

  “Dietrich. Viktor Dietrich.”

  “What’s his connection with Varndal?”

  “Viktor once handled a transaction for him.”

  “What kind of transaction?”

  “The sale of some small property.”

  “Yes? Dietrich’s a real estate agent?”

  “Among other interests.”

  “I’ll bet. Where do I find him?”

  “You intend him no harm? He is a good friend.”

  “He won’t get hurt if he’s cooperative.”

  Anya Berg hesitated, but not for long. The look in Carmody’s flat eyes convinced her to be candid. She said, “Burgplatz, in Volksprater. Number ninety-seven.”

  Carmody said, “Don’t call him after I leave. I wouldn’t like it if I have trouble finding him. Neither would he and neither would you.”

  “I will not call him,” she said.

  A sleek black sedan was just pulling into Viktor Dietrich’s driveway when Carmody rolled past. He parked four doors down from the Swiss-style house, ran across the street into the shadows cast by a willow that grew on a neighboring lawn. The wind off the Danube was like ice against his skin. In the distance, the bell in the Cathedral of Saint Stephen tolled the hour: eleven o’clock.

  Carmody climbed over a small boundary fence, the Beretta in his hand. His head had begun to ache malignantly again. He eased across a strip of lawn, into the darkness of Dietrich’s garage.

  The man who stood there at the open car door said in startled tones, “Wer ist da?”

  “Viktor Dietrich?”

  “la. Was ist Ihnen denn?”

  “Don’t close the door. Just stand where you are.”

  Carmody moved ahead to where he had a clearer look at the man: tall, paunchy, sixtyish. There was no one else in the car or in the garage. He said then, “I’m looking for Anton Varndal. I understand you’re a friend of his.”

  “Yes, I know him.” Dietrich said, in English now. “Who are you?”

  “Never mind that,” Carmody said. “I’ve got business with Varndal and I can’t seem to find him. Maybe you can tell me where to look..”

  “You have tried his home?”

  “I don’t know the address. What is it?”

  “… What sort of business do you have with him?”

  “My business, not yours. Tell me where he lives.”

  “Not before you tell me who you are and what you–”

  Carmody moved forward again, let Dietrich see the Beretta “Who I am isn’t important to you. This is.”

  Dietrich went rigid. There was fear in his voice when he said, “What do you want with me? What are you going to do?”

  “If you answer my questions, nothing. Just be cooperative–that’s all you have to do.”

  “I... I will do whatever you say.”

  “Smart man. When did you last see Varndal?”

  “Last evening. At nine o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, my home. He came to see me.”

  “Why?”

  “To ask me for a favor.”

  “What kind of favor? Loan him the keys to a vacant house, maybe?”

  Surprise made Dietrich blink. “How did you know that?”

  “I’m the reason he wanted the vacant house.” Carmody said thinly. “I don’t suppose Varndal told you the reason for this favor?”

  “No, he told me nothing.”

  “Why did you let him have the keys?”

  “I... we are friends.”

  “Sure you are,” Carmody said. “How much did he pay you?”

  Dietrich hesitated, looked at the gun in Carmody’s hand, and said, “Two thousand schillings.”

  “All right. Now let’s talk about Anya Berg.”

  “Anya? You know her?”

  “We’ve met. You sent Varndal to her. Why?”

  “No,” Dietrich said, “I did not send him to her. I gave her name to Varndal, yes, but that is all. He went to her, used my name without permission.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yes Afterward.”

  “I’ll bet you were upset,” Carmody said “You and Anya are old friends too, I suppose. Everybody’s an old friend of everybody else in Vienna.”

  “We have known each other many years.”

  “She tell you Varndal was after a radio transmitter?”

  “Radio transmitter? No.”

  “He didn’t mention it either? Any idea why he’d want one with a special frequency?”

  “No, I have no idea.”

  “You’d better not be lying to me, Dietrich.”

  “Why should I lie? I have no wish to be shot.”

  “Just keep thinking that way. Where does Varndal live?”

  “On Kurzgasse, near the Prater Platz. Number twenty.”

  “Private house?”

  “Yes. The neighborhood is mixed.”

  “Mixed?”

  “Business establishments and private homes.”

  “If Varndal isn’t there, where do I look for him?”

  “I don’t know,” Dietrich said.

  “No? I thought you were such good friends.”

  “Not so ve
ry good. No.”

  “So you don’t know any of his other friends? Or where he hangs out?”

  “No. We have drinks a few times, we have some little business together, that is all.”

  “Like I said, Dietrich, you’d better not be lying to me. If I find out you are, I’ll be back.”

  Carmody backed away, and as he glided out of the garage he could hear Dietrich breathing noisily in the darkness. He jumped the boundary fence, crossed under the willows, and slid into the Mercedes again.

  Kurzgasse and the Prater Platz were in the old Russian occupied sector, not too far from the Prater, Vienna’s big public park. It was an old, rundown neighborhood, not quite a slum but sliding in that direction. Plain trees lined Kurzgasse, their bare branches moving in the wind like crone’s fingers.

  Number twenty was a one-story brick house, nondescript and lightless. Carmody rang the bell four times; chimes echoed emptily within each time. He went to work on the flimsy lock, had it open in less than a minute. He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, took the pencil flashlight from the pocket of his topcoat.

  He followed the beam through five rooms, opening drawers and closets and cabinets. The search told him Varndal had moved out, and in something of a hurry: important belongings gone, not so important ones left behind. Carmody wondered if he were following an ice-cold trail; Varndal had had more than enough time to make plane or train connections out of Vienna. But it was just as likely that the purpose Varndal had for the transmitter was here in the city or its environs If that was the case, he intended to use it tonight or early tomorrow. Otherwise, why had he wanted it by today’s date? And why had he already made preparations to skip?

  A door at one end of the kitchen caught Carmody’s eye. When he opened it, the flash revealed a set of stairs leading downward. He felt along the inside wall, found a light switch, flicked it on. Below was a cellar, small, cramped, smelling of dampness and mold... and something sour he couldn’t identify. He went down the stairs, sweeping the torch beam from side to side.

  The floor was earthen, muddy, trenched along the bases of the stone walls from water seepage and erosion caused by heavy winter rains. Carmody prowled among stacks of miscellaneous cartons, examined tools and bottles and jars on a narrow workbench. None of it told him anything useful. He took a few steps toward the rear wall, and the odd sour odor seemed stronger over there. The hair on the back of his scalp prickled. He drew a deep, slow breath. Now he knew what the smell was.