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Chapter Text

The dance floor swayed under her. She couldn’t tell if it was the rocking of the ship, or her own wobbly legs after her third coconut rum cocktail, but either way her head felt light enough to take sudden flight. She halted and stared down at her own feet, arms held out straight at her sides in uneasy balance, before the floor rudely tilted in the opposite direction and she tipped over with a squeak.

“Watch it, kitten!”

Betty heard her husband’s warning a second too late before colliding with him. Desperate for an anchor hold, her flailing hands caught the black satin lapels of his dinner jacket, crushing the fine fabric in her fists.

“Hey! Not so rough,” he playfully admonished, holding her steady. His right hand tenderly cradled the back of her head. “Are you all right?”

“I think so. Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

“Never mind that. What’s the matter, feeling dizzy?”

“Yes. A little,” she answered breathlessly, putting a hand to her chest. “I’ll be all right.”

“Are you sure? Do you need to go back to the cabin?”

“No, I don’t feel sick. Just a little lightheaded.” She held tight to his sturdy shoulders as he graciously guided her into a chair.

“Had one too many, huh?” he said.

“Mm-hmm.” She nodded glumly and rested her head on the dinner table. “I would have to be such a lightweight. You see now, Laszlo? This is why I don’t drink. I tried to tell you. I tried and I tried—”

“Hey, I didn’t tell you to have three of those things,” Laszlo chuckled. His fingers glided inquisitively down the bare back of her lavender evening gown, delicately fingering her spine like piano keys.

“I knew it was a mistake,” she said, quivering at his touch. “But it tasted so good.”

She reached out to draw him closer, winding one arm around his waist, and nestled against his side to hide her face. Everything was all at once so bright, as if every glittering surface of the grand ballroom was fashioned from mirror glass. The lights of the fabulous crystal chandeliers blinded her as she blinked stupidly upwards. In a strange way, the ship’s ballroom reminded her of the nightclub back home, with its elegant clean lines and a touch of antique charm. The warm paneled interior stood with one foot in old Edwardian tradition and the other in sleek modernity, all surfaces glassy and razor-edged that left nowhere to hide.

“I just hope nobody saw me,” Betty sighed.

“Are you kidding?” Laszlo gestured broadly at the colorful, capering riot in progress around them. With a blare of brass, the ship’s orchestra launched into a spicy Latin beat as a spontaneous conga line assembled, every reveler kicking and hip-shaking and laughing their way all around the ballroom.

“There, you see that?” Laszlo laughed over the clamor. “Nobody cares that Betty can’t hold her liquor. Besides, it’s New Year’s! You should live a little.”

He bent down to kiss her, and Betty arched to meet his lips like a flower bending towards the sun. She held him close with hands clasped tight at the back of his neck, and for a time she forgot everything but the drunken promise of a new year in his mouth; a faded sparkle of champagne and the fiery breath of whiskey.

“Mmm. Kiss me, you fool,” she giggled, clinging to him as he attempted to straighten up.

“I did!”

“Again.”

He gladly obeyed her, holding back a laugh. “You are a silly drunk, kitten,” he said, gently cupping her face between his hands.

“I told you! Most people are.” She eased out of her seat to stand with him face-to-face, snaking her hands upwards along his torso. Without thinking, she surrendered to the infectious conga beat, hips swaying as she danced in place. She laughed aloud to watch his languorous smile curl up his full lips, creasing the corners of his deep sparkling eyes. He drew her closer and wordlessly traced one hand over the silken curve of her lower back.

“What time is it?” Betty asked, melting into his embrace.

Without letting go of her, he stole a glance at his watch over her left shoulder. “Quarter to midnight,” he said. “Why?”

“I was just thinking. Should we celebrate our anniversary with the new year, or on the day we were actually married?” she whispered in his ear.

“I don’t think it makes a difference. I have already been celebrating. Every day for the past month.”

A deep blush bloomed in Betty’s face as Laszlo trailed hungry kisses over her neck and throat, seemingly oblivious to the abrupt end of the dance number and the bandleader’s request for the crowd’s attention. She tensed. The ballroom had gone oddly still.

“What’s he saying?” she mumbled. She strained to turn around, writhing in his arms, but Laszlo held fast.

“I’m sure it’s not important,” he said, and smothered her mouth in a kiss so ardent he might have devoured her.

The room tilted again. Betty gripped tight to her husband’s shoulders, fearing another dizzy spell, only this time Laszlo lost his footing too. They both stumbled, crashing unceremoniously into the shifting furniture like so much wreckage tossed at sea. A metallic groan sounded throughout the ship, shuddering deep beneath the floorboards, as the crystal chandeliers tinkled and swayed with ominous intent to fall. The lights flickered in and out, sending Betty’s heart racing each time darkness fell, until they dimmed and continued burning at half strength.

Before she could even ask what happened, another collision startled her from behind, and an unpleasant iciness dripped down the back of her dress. She cried out, thinking for one wild moment that seawater was rushing into the ballroom.

“I beg your pardon,” slurred a man’s voice, in the arch tone that suggested Betty ought to be the one apologizing.

She turned and stared indignantly at the slim mustachioed man towering over her, his empty champagne glass dripping in his hand. With a scowl, the man tipped the last remaining drops into his mouth and flung the glass over his shoulder, ignoring the dirty look from a passing waiter picking up the toppled chairs.

“I said, get out of my way,” the man growled. He swayed dangerously with the motions of the ship, threatening to keel over in a state of intoxication. “Didn’t you hear?”

Laszlo bristled, placing himself in the way to guard Betty. Before either man could start a real argument, the ship’s bandleader emerged from the confusion. Short, gray and compact, he stood on his toes to confront the taller man at chest height and said:

“Roger, where the bloody hell have you been? You’re supposed to be in the lounge.”

“Sod the lounge,” Roger swore thickly. “And you. Sod off, yourself.”

“You’re drunk,” the bandleader sneered.

“’Course I am. What’d you expect, you—” He trailed off and squinted down at the smaller man from a great height, eyes swimming in his head. “—mmm-miserable old queen. You wouldn’t know fun if it bit you in that tight little arse. But I am going to...”

Exactly where Roger was going was unclear, but he announced his grand departure with a flourish before stumbling over his own feet. He staggered out of the ballroom, leaving his friend to choose between going after him or let him risk a drunken plunge into the ocean. The bandleader clenched his jaw and followed after.

Laszlo and Betty continued to stare, mystified by the small drama. They peeked out of the foggy, darkened windows overlooking the observation deck where the pair had gone, and held tight in each others’ arms to watch the humbling spectacle of swirling black clouds and lightning strikes on the distant horizon.

“Come on,” Laszlo said, draping a wrap over Betty’s shivering shoulders. “We should head back to our cabin.”

Betty screamed. She pointed in horror as the ship pitched again and a wall of water breached the observation deck, slapping straight into the ballroom windows with a deafening roar.

“Or not,” Laszlo added, retreating several steps from the glass. For now it held, barely.

“Look, they’re still out there!” cried Betty. She covered her mouth in shock as she witnessed both men cling to the rail, having narrowly escaped being washed over the side. Unbelievably, their argument continued, their raised voices fading in the rush of the storm:

“You can leap overboard for all I care, I’m finished with you.”

“Same to you! You’re not welcome in my cabin!”

“Roger, be reasonable, come back here—”

“Go to hell!” Roger shoved him and almost pitched over the side himself into the briny deep. It was only with the assistance of a ship’s crewman that he avoided disaster, and was safely led away below decks.

Scoffing, the bandleader could do nothing else but return to the ballroom, thoroughly drenched in icy water.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized to Betty in a shaky voice.

“What for? It’s his fault, not yours,” Betty assured him, glaring after where the rude gentleman had gone. “Who was that, anyway? A friend of yours?”

“I’m afraid so,” he sighed. “But never mind him. Are you all right?”

“Yes, we’re fine,” Betty assured him. She glanced nervously out the window again. “I just hope we make it in one piece.”

“Indeed. Here, follow me, let’s move away from the windows.”

“I didn’t know we were heading into a storm,” said Betty, as they moved towards the center of the dance floor.

“Yes, but don’t worry, this happens often. I’ve made this crossing more times than I can count.” The bandleader raked a comb through his short waves of steel-gray hair, still dripping water onto the floor. “All we need to do is hunker down for a while. Oh, I beg your pardon. My name is Briggs. Samuel Briggs. Under the circumstances I hesitate to wish you a happy New Year, but it’s here all the same.”

“So it is,” smiled Betty. “I almost forgot in all the excitement.”

“Hm? Oh yes, thank you, Mr. Briggs.” Laszlo tore his gaze away from the storm long enough to shake his hand. “I’m Laszlo Hartvany. This is my wife, Betty.”

“How do you do. Are you enjoying your winter cruise?” Samuel wryly remarked, smooth as butter.

“Well, it’s never a dull moment.” Still distracted, Laszlo glanced over his shoulder with a puzzled look and gestured towards the deck. “Pardon me, sir, but what was that fellow’s name?”

Samuel’s face fell. “Do you really want to know?”

“Well, you don’t have to tell me. He looked familiar, that’s all.”

“I suppose he would. That, Mr. Hartvany, was none other than Roger Vanne.”

Laszlo and Betty shared a look. “No, you must be joking,” laughed Betty. “Roger Vanne, the famous pianist? The one who made all those recordings before the war?”

“The very same.”

“Ah, you see? I thought I had seen that face on a placard somewhere!” Laszlo exclaimed. “So that was the great Roger Vanne.”

“He didn’t look so well,” Betty said without meaning to. Understatement of the new year, she thought, biting her lip to keep her mouth shut. The man was positively plastered.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” groaned Samuel. “Roger had a long-term engagement here, before he buggered off. He was supposed to play in the ship’s cocktail lounge after midnight, but that’s out of the question now. I was saying to him only yesterday—”

Another fearful cry went up from the agitated crowd. The ship bucked under their feet as it crested the surge, sending everyone to the floor. Laszlo, feigning a look of calm, trembled as he searched his pockets for a cigarette.

“Nervous?” said Samuel, offering him a light.

“No, I uh… yes,” admitted Laszlo. In the next second he turned pale, clutching his unsettled stomach.

“You’re not the only one,” Samuel said, tapping a cigarette of his own. “I often catch myself wondering if each new journey will be my last. I’m not ashamed to admit that. But panicking never did me any good.” He tossed his head, sending a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. “In the old days whenever it turned stormy, Roger used to play that very piano there, just to keep everyone’s spirits up. Those were good times, then.”

Betty followed his gaze. By this time the grand piano had slid and shimmied its way across the floor, coming to rest at an awkward angle against the band riser. The rest of the orchestra, unsurprisingly, had cleared out long ago and was nowhere to be seen.

“You could play,” Betty piped up, again without thinking.

“I could what?” returned Laszlo.

“You could play something for everyone.”

“Now? Don’t be silly,” Laszlo scoffed. His cigarette dangled woozily from his lip as he exhaled a scornful cloud of smoke.

“It would keep everyone calm. They’d forget about everything,” Betty said. Her upturned face glowed hot, flushed with excitement and drink. “It’s like another world every time I hear you play.”

“My dear, there’s no need to bother your husband on my account,” Samuel insisted. “I was only reminiscing. Anyway, it isn’t safe to be wandering the ballroom, playing piano like we own the place.”

“I wouldn’t ask him if I knew he couldn’t,” Betty said, leaning on Laszlo’s arm.

“Betty, please,” Laszlo protested, but already he was stealing restless glances at the piano, the gears visibly turning in his head. Ten minutes more and he began shifting about in discomfort. Finally he gave up pretending and rose to his feet. He crossed the floor to recover the overturned piano bench, his steps slightly unsteady as the ship rolled, but his expression of preternatural calm and purpose did not change. Without a word to anyone he sat down at the keys, breathed deep, and began to play.

From the first note, all else began to fade. The howling wind and the sea spray, the creaking ship and her anxious passengers, all became the backdrop to Laszlo’s improvisations, a lento passage so sparse and modern yet deeply sentimental that it felt like home. Betty closed her eyes, imagining rain droplets tapping at the window of the late night lounge, far from the stormy sea. Just her and Laszlo, and the ripple of lonely music in the darkened nightclub together.

The audience quieted by slow degrees, breathing easier. Even when the flickering lights failed for good and left the entire ballroom cloaked in darkness, nobody so much as stirred. Laszlo didn’t miss a beat, either. He played on as if it were the most natural thing in the world, composing solely by touch and memory, until the rolling of the ship evened out and the glittering lights flared on again. At last, he lifted his fingers from the keys and allowed the spell to break. The music, and the storm was over, having passed just as suddenly as it came.

Betty blinked, her eyes aching in the harsh glare after so long in the dark. She watched as members of the audience began to leave, some grateful souls crowding around the piano to thank Laszlo for getting them through it all so calmly. He said nothing in reply, his dark, perturbed gaze still drifting miles away, forever seeking something on the horizon as yet unsatisfied.

“You were wonderful, darling,” Betty exclaimed, rushing up to throw her arms about him.

Still he said nothing, but she felt his lips curve into a secretive smile against her neck, only for her, and her alone.

“Sir, that was beautiful,” Samuel said. He came forward to press Laszlo’s hand, at a loss for words. “Who is your agent?”

“Agent? I don’t have an agent,” Laszlo distantly replied.

“But you must have. You play like a professional.”

“I am,” Laszlo admitted. He glanced about impatiently. “Come on, Betty, it’s getting late—”

“I knew you must be. I only wanted to be sure,” Samuel eagerly continued, following at Laszlo’s heels as he attempted to leave. Before they could reach the observation deck, he resorted to standing in the entryway, shutting the ballroom doors behind his back.

“Wait! Before you go, please listen,” Samuel pleaded.

Laszlo halted in his tracks. “Well?” he said, glaring.

“I’ll get right to the point. What would you say to signing with me, and my orchestra?”

“What? Right now?”

“Why not? I’ve needed a new pianist for some time. One who doesn’t forget his engagements,” Samuel muttered, glaring in the general direction of Roger’s cabin below. “Besides, it wouldn’t be so bad being a cruise musician, would it? There’s no lack of excitement here, as you saw tonight.”

“Really? I play one little thing and you want to sign me on? You’re joking.”

“I promise, I am not.”

Laszlo paused, only for a moment, before arching a witheringly skeptical eyebrow. “What’s the catch?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Hartvany. I’m offering you a job. The least you could do is consider it.”

“But I have a job. A very successful one,” Laszlo returned firmly. “Betty and I have made a good life for ourselves and I’m not about to throw it away that easily. Sure, years ago I might have jumped at the chance, but now…” He shook his head. “Well, those days are behind me. Now I write music only for myself. And for Betty,” he added with a faint smile. “You understand that, don’t you?”

Samuel wasn’t listening. He fumbled in all his pockets before handing over a well-worn business card, still damp from his encounter with the sea. “Mm-hm, you write only for yourself, of course. And for all the adoring music lovers tonight, too. Oh it’s no use trying to deny it,” he continued with a smirk, holding up his hands before Laszlo could open his mouth to protest. “I’ve never met a musician yet who could resist the attention. In any case, I wouldn’t be so quick to say no.”

“Or else you won’t take no for an answer, is that it?”

Samuel dismissed the thought with a flick of his hand, changing tack with the wind. “Look here, there’s no need to decide right this minute,” he said lightly. “Think about it, talk it over with your wife. But do see me again before we reach harbor? I’d hate to lose track of you once we arrive.”

“But I…”

“Please. If nothing else, let me take you out to dinner. Think of it as thanks for keeping everybody calm tonight.”

Laszlo flipped the card over with a puzzled stare before he tucked it away in his jacket pocket. “If you insist, Mr. Briggs.”

“There’s a good man.” Samuel’s warm, low voice was like velvet over crushed gravel. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall go and change. It’s been a pleasure meeting you both. And promise you won’t let him skip town once we arrive in London!” He shook a finger at Betty and laughed as he turned on his heel to go below, whistling merrily over the roar of the ocean in the vast starless night.

“What was that all about?” Betty giggled as soon as he was out of sight.

Laszlo wearily rolled his eyes. “Who knows! Maybe he drank too much, too.”

They paused on deck for a breath of fresh air. The winds had died down but were no less cold over the freezing waters, and the cruel bite to Betty’s flushed cheeks was a sobering relief. She felt suddenly tired.

“He was right about one thing,” she said. “You really did pay beautifully.”

He dismissed her with a snort. “That garbage? I was seasick the whole time,” he confessed.

“You wouldn’t know it! I thought it was lovely.”

“But it was pointless. It all made me think of the ship’s band playing on the Titanic, before they drowned.”

“I hardly think we were in that much danger,” Betty assured him. “Even if it felt like it.”

They lapsed into mutual silence for a time, each waging a private battle with the unaccountable call of the void, the racing urge to fling themselves as far into that vast unknown as they could reach.

“What about Mr. Briggs? Do you think he’s dangerous, too?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.” He gave her chilly hand an affectionate squeeze. “Unless he’s really a spy, sent to recover state secrets from the captain’s safe.”

“That sounds like something I would make up,” Betty laughed.

Laszlo’s sad smile faded as he continued staring out to sea, a melancholy frown creasing his brow.

“What did you think of his offer?” Betty asked in the silence.

He huddled deeper into his collar and shrugged.

“You don’t think he was serious?” she pressed.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I just know. Bandleaders don’t ask middle-aged washouts to join their orchestra, just like that.”

“Oh, you are not!”

“Not what? Middle-aged, or a washout?” he grinned.

“You know what I mean. Suppose he was serious? If he works with famous men like Roger Vanne, just imagine what it could mean for you. This might be your big break, the kind you always dreamed about.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t get too excited. These things have a way of falling through at the last minute. Besides, I don’t dream about that anymore.”

“Then I’ll dream it for you.”

He turned to look at her as if for the first time in years. Delicately, he cradled her face between his hands and kissed her, enfolding her tight in his embrace.

“You never give up hope, do you?”

“Never,” Betty whispered, her breath stealing into the wastes of the cold Atlantic. “Happy New Year, darling.”

His warm lips ghosted past her ear. “Let’s hope so,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

The snow fell gently upon the ruin and buried it beneath white drifts. Through the tall arched windows of the hotel lobby, Laszlo and Betty solemnly witnessed the lasting scars of the Blitz, still plainly visible in the crumbling stone. As they watched, Betty strained to hear something else over the murmur of evening traffic and homeward footsteps: the faint voice of a single weeping violin, heartbreakingly near.

“Do you hear that?” she asked.

“What?”

“That music.”

“Hm. The hotel radio,” Laszlo said distantly.

The music faded. She held his hand tight, her other hand grasping at something intangible at the brink of memory. “I don’t hear it now. I’m not so sure it was the radio. It almost sounded like… well, I know you don’t like him, but it almost sounded like Vaughan Williams.”

Laszlo snorted. “You bet I don’t like him. I met him once at a lecture.” He critically examined the end of his neglected cigarette and tapped the ash away. “He was rude to me.”

“I know, darling. But his music’s pretty. There’s a reason it’s so popular.”

“I see the lady knows her composers,” a velvety voice intruded behind her.

She turned in surprise. “Mr. Briggs!” she exclaimed.

“Why, look who it is!” Laszlo eagerly shook the bandleader’s outstretched hand. “I thought we missed you on the boat. We did wait for you.”

“I was beginning to think everything you said last night was a prank!” Betty added.

“No pranks, madam! Not in the slightest. I’m terribly sorry I missed you this morning. I was, shall we say, delayed. Roger? Roger, come here, I’d like you to meet someone.” Samuel glanced over his shoulder to find the great musician sulking some paces away, considerably more sober but no less disagreeable than he was the night before. He caught Samuel’s eye with a peculiar, accusatory look, but neither man chose to elaborate.

“Roger, may I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Hartvany?” Samuel continued. “Mr. and Mrs. Hartvany, Roger Vanne. I believe you’ve already met, after a fashion? Though perhaps under less favorable circumstances.”

Laszlo and Roger eyed each other in cold suspicion.

“I suppose so,” Roger finally said, after Samuel’s obvious prod to his arm. He consented to shake Laszlo’s hand.

“Sir,” Laszlo replied in curt greeting, bowing his head just a fraction enough to remain polite. He ignored Roger’s angry vise grip on his hand and responded in kind, squeezing tighter by degrees until they both let go.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Betty piped up, blushing at the frightened tremble in her own voice. “I’ve heard so many of your recordings.”

Roger said nothing. His glacial stare pierced her silently from on high.

“They’re very beautiful,” she added anxiously.

The musician slowly turned his back and stared through the frosty window, his deathless gaze seeking something a thousand miles away.

“Ah. Well then, that’s settled.” Samuel awkwardly broke the silence, clapping his hands together with false cheer. “As I said, I am sorry that I missed you. However, by some happy coincidence, it appears we are staying in the same hotel.”

“Heh, yes. That’s convenient, isn’t it?” Laszlo chuckled.

“Indeed. Have you ever stayed at the Midway before? I love their—”

“Convenience has nothing to do with it,” interrupted Roger. He glowered at nothing in particular, shoving his hands into his pockets with a look of ill intent. “It just so happens there are no other decent hotels open. Unless you fancy sheltering somewhere under all this rubble.”

Samuel cleared his throat, glancing towards Betty with unease. “Are you staying here long?” he asked, pointedly ignoring Roger’s outburst.

Betty nodded. “We’re visiting for the next few weeks.”

“Oh, anyone in particular?”

“No. We’re here by ourselves.” She sent Laszlo an adoring smile. “A sort of second honeymoon, you might say.”

“Ah! My congratulations,” Samuel beamed.

“My wife wanted so much to see Europe,” Laszlo said fondly. “I told her there was a reason I left it, but she insisted we see England and France, at the very least.”

“Really?” Samuel’s expression wavered between wry amusement and pity as he stared past the trundling cars and the rubble in the street. “To be perfectly frank, Mr. Hartvany, I wouldn’t blame you at all if you turned around this instant and went home on the next boat. It’s a sad state of affairs in London, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I don’t want to leave yet,” insisted Betty. “I’ve hardly ever left my hometown, much less the country. I just had to visit somewhere new. And I think it’s exciting to see the city rebuild. Especially after you’ve endured so much.”

Samuel inclined his head. “I’m touched, madam. Not many would say that on their very first visit.”

Roger, who had taken to pacing a hole into the thick carpet, grumbled something under his breath. He was steadfastly ignored.

“Look here. Did you have any plans for the evening?” asked Samuel. “That is, if you’re not too tired after our New Year’s follies.”

“Oh, we’re fine,” Laszlo said. “Only we couldn’t decide if we should go out, or dine in the hotel tonight.”

“We asked the concierge, and he said if it were him, he wouldn’t go past a mile in any direction from the hotel, and certainly not at night. Can you imagine?” Betty laughed.

“Well, naturally he doesn’t want you to leave the hotel! He works here,” Samuel chuckled. “But he’s got a point. To be sure, the usual tourist places are safe enough during the day. Westminster, Tower Bridge and all that. But there’s been rather more crime these nights than anyone cares to admit. I wouldn’t recommend going out alone, either.”

“Oh,” Betty glanced anxiously out the front windows again before shaking off her concerns a moment later. “Well, I’m not afraid. It couldn’t be any worse than living in Philly,” she asserted.

Laszlo sent a knowing smirk over Betty’s head. “Philadelphians,” he said with a shrug, as if that alone explained everything.

“Mm, I wouldn’t be too sure,” warned Samuel. “Let me guess. No one warned you about the pickpockets before you planned your little trip, did they?” said Samuel.

“That’s not true. Phil did, didn’t he?” Betty said, turning to Laszlo as he nodded in agreement.

“Phil?” Samuel asked innocently.

“Oh, Phil works for me,” said Laszlo. “You see, I own a nightclub back in America. He’s my assistant, and floor manager, and emcee—he does a bit of everything, really.”

“He’s a marvelous singer,” added Betty.

“That’s right. In fact, he aspires to be in your place, Mr. Briggs. He’s anxious to lead his own orchestra someday. Heh, only I don’t look forward to letting him go.”

“Well! I must telephone this delightful chap later and talk shop.” He glanced sidelong at Laszlo expectantly. “Again,” he added.

Laszlo blinked. “What do you mean, again?” he asked

Samuel’s warm brown eyes gleamed with secretive amusement. “Mr. Hartvany, I must confess. I know a great deal more about you than I ought to. You see, I looked you up in the States before we even left the ship. I even pulled a favor with the radio crew and managed to ring your nightclub in Philadelphia. Frank’s Bar, am I correct?”

“Y-yes.” Betty shared a dumbfounded look with her husband, unsure whether to be angry or impressed with the bandleader’s audacity. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Yes. Very... enterprising of you,” Laszlo muttered.

“Granted, ship-to-shore communication is spotty at best. I was cut short,” Samuel went on, undeterred. “But I did manage to speak with a certain Phil—it was good to hear a fellow Londoner on the line, I must say. And I’ll tell you something else. Phil spoke in glowing terms about you, and your music. You’re quite well-known back home, you know that?”

Laszlo looked away, bemused. “I wish someone had told me. But that’s Phil. Just between you and me, he likes to exaggerate.”

“No need to be so modest,” Samuel replied.

Laszlo frowned. “Look, Mr. Briggs, I have to ask. Why bother to do all that, just to talk to me?”

“Because I meant what I said about your music. And I’m a very determined man, Mr. Hartvany. When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you’ll know that it pays to strike when the iron is hot.”

Still seething, Roger could contain himself no longer. “I say, what’s all this damned interest with him, anyway?” he blurted, his eyes flashing.

Samuel regarded him coolly. “I will speak with whomever I please, Roger. Don’t concern yourself with it.”

“I will concern myself, damned if I won't. I see what’s going on here. You’re trying to replace me, aren’t you? With this, this—amateur?”

“He is no amateur. Besides, if I wanted to replace you, I might have done it ages ago.”

“Is that so?” Roger snapped.

“Oh honestly, I didn’t mean it that way. Forget it, won’t you?” pleaded Samuel. “Look, why don’t you go back to your room. You need your rest, and I don’t want you ruining your chances before tomorrow night. Please? Don’t make me go through that nonsense with management again. Fourth time is not the charm.”

Roger’s face purpled. “How dare you. I’m not some washed-up old torch singer, playing the casino circuit. I am Roger Vanne!”

“Keep your voice down,” Samuel growled through clenched teeth.

“No! You listen to me!” Roger snarled even louder. “After all, let’s not forget who’s paying for that room, and yours, too. Who earned that money, Sam? Who supplies that so-called vast fortune you’ve leeched off of all these years? Oho, that’s right, look away. But you know the answer perfectly well. Don’t try to deny it.”

“For God’s sake, will you be quiet?” Samuel hissed.

“Maybe we’d better go,” Betty whispered, edging away from the two men.

“Do they even know we’re still here?” Laszlo questioned in an undertone.

The heated argument finally boiled over as Roger stalked off and made a grand exit back to the bar, slamming the door to the exclusive Rose Room behind him. It wobbled shut and threatened to shatter, delicate golden filigree and frosted glass quivering on its hinges for an interminable stretch of time, before the judgmental stares of strangers finally lost interest and all once again lay still.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Samuel apologized after a long pause. “He was in the service not so long ago. Lost a good deal of friends and family in both wars. You know how it is.”

“I’m so sorry,” murmured Betty.

“I can’t say I blame him,” Laszlo said, looking mournfully after where Roger had gone. “I was that way too, once.”

“Oh no, darling,” said Betty. “You never behaved like that, never.”

“Maybe not in front of you.” He held Betty protectively around her shoulders, resting his cheek briefly against hers before he addressed Samuel again. “I’ll tell you something, Mr. Briggs. Roger and I aren’t so different. That is, I know what’s it’s like to try and drown your sorrows in liquor, even when it always fails. I might not even be here now, if this woman hadn’t saved my life. I could tell you the whole sad story later, but uh… maybe now you understand why I didn’t accept your offer. Touring around on the ocean would be something, yes. But I will not leave Betty behind, not for anything.”

“Who said anything about leaving her behind?” Samuel exclaimed. “Or perhaps you think I’m only a touring agent? It doesn’t have to be like that. I could get you a record deal instead. Why, you’d be on the same exclusive label as Roger, imagine that?”

“Really?” Laszlo raised an eyebrow in careful thought.

“Oh, Laszlo. Think what that could mean for us,” Betty urged.

Laszlo rolled the remnants of his cigarette between his fingers, lost in thought. The lines deepened on his forehead. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Look here, no need to say anything now. We’ll discuss it later, shall we? I did say I’d treat you to dinner first.” Samuel eased between the pair, gently steering them towards the revolving doors. “There’s an excellent Indian place just up the road—well, Nepalese, really, but they make a smashing vegetable curry and lamb kebab. Do you like lamb, Mrs. Hartvany?”

“I, uh...”

“And then we’ll go out for cocktails, and in the morning I can show you about old London town a bit. Roger may still be drying out by then,” Samuel added slyly, not pausing for a second to allow Betty a word in edgewise. “But that’s no reason why we can’t see the sights. Why, we might even be treated to a Vanne concert tomorrow night, if we happen to be extraordinarily lucky. What do you say to that?”

Laszlo paused, sharing a bewildered glance with Betty before admitting defeat with a shrug. “How could I refuse?” he said, but his distracted gaze wandered to one side, somewhere over Samuel’s shoulder.

“Splendid! I promise you won’t regret this. It really is a wonderful little place.”

Betty glanced back, anxious to see what was bothering her husband. “What’s the matter?” she asked quietly.

“I’m not sure,” Laszlo muttered. “Thought that fellow there was watching me.”

Samuel broke off his own chatter long enough to follow Laszlo’s gaze. He sized up the narrow, wiry man lounging against a pillar in the central lobby, his gray hat brim drawn low over one eye. He smiled.

“Ah.” said Samuel, confidently leading Laszlo away by the arm. “That old chap. Pay him no mind, he’s only the house detective. He’s that way with everybody. I must say, he does a rather poor job of being discreet. Now, Laszlo—may I call you that?—I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but your accent is beautifully unique. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind telling me where you’re from...”

Samuel’s pleasant voice faded through the revolving doors and into the wintry night.

The detective watched them go. His blank eye socket stared into darkness, concealed beneath a black eyepatch, leaving his one good eye to scan the lobby to and fro. He shifted his weight to his other leg, still leaning his aching back flat against the carved marble pillar, and allowed himself a heavy sigh. Fetching a cigarette from his jacket pocket, he got up and slouched his way through the front doors, following unhurriedly in the suspicious trio’s footsteps. That pop-eyed miscreant Francis (that was Francis, wasn’t he?) wasn’t going far. He’d be back, same as usual.

The mix of fresh air and smoke crackled in his lungs. He turned up his collar against the cold, breathed in deep again—and nearly swallowed the glowing ashes at the shock of seeing Francis reappear in the exact opposite direction as expected. There he was in his usual place across the street, tipping his hat to the passers-by, busking for coins on that damned violin, his quick fingers dancing on the warped strings. The detective spun in place, having lost sight of the two suspicious friends. He instinctively shoved both hands deep in his overcoat pockets, just on the off chance he had stumbled into some elaborate ruse courtesy of the roving pickpocket gangs, but nothing was missing. He stood baffled, listening dumbly to Francis’ weeping gypsy tune for as long as he could stand it.

The man’s name wasn’t really Francis, of course. It was something unpronounceable and foreign, German or Hungarian or Greek as far as he was concerned. At any rate the little creep answered to Francis, and a good thing, too. Hell of a lot easier to spell in his reports, and even easier to shout at high volume. The detective shouted it now, his sharp command piercing the air loud enough to echo off the brick facade across the street:

“Oi, you! Francis! Stay where you are.”

The little man halted mid-vibrato. He stood in the newfound silence with a wide-eyed, almost comical look of fright, staring without movement as if his worn-out shoes had instantly frozen solid to the pavement. The detective buried his mouth in his coat collar and fought to stifle a laugh.

“Francis, what are you doing here?” he said gruffly.

Francis’ grip tightened on the neck of the violin, knuckles showing white, as he swallowed once or twice in a dry throat. “It wasn’t me, officer, it was those other men,” he nervously recited, clearly anticipating the usual trouble.

“Oh? And just what were these ‘other men’ up to?”

Francis shrugged. “Uh. Whatever you thought I did wrong,” he said, offering up the hesitant smile of a guilty child.

The detective sighed. “Look, Francis. I really don’t care a fig what you’re doing, but hotel management makes it my business to know these things. And what I want to know is, what were you doing in the hotel just now?”

“I, sir? I was not in the hotel.”

“Of course you were, I saw you. You and that chatty friend of yours, and that little brunette number hanging on your arm. Just what are you playing at this time, hm? Posing as guests to have yourselves a right expensive meal again, I’ll wager, all expenses paid? Or were you merely testing out your new quick-change act?”

Francis cocked his head. “You are saying… I was with someone? A beautiful lady?” He lowered the long lashes of his bashful doe eyes and reddened slightly, smiling at the ground. “No, no, that is not true. I do not know any beautiful lady,” he replied sweetly.

For the briefest of moments, the detective hesitated. Francis’ purring accent was so heavy on the r’s that one could fairly hear the longing for the old country (whichever it was), the aching heartsickness of the lonely immigrant on the boat, so poignant and bittersweet that the detective almost regretted having to say what he did:

“Francis, have you been listening to a word I’m saying?” he barked. “You know you’re not supposed to be in the hotel, not after what happened last time. Management’s orders.”

Francis broke from his own private reverie, shaking his head. “You are mistaken,” he replied smugly, closing one eye in imitation of the detective’s squint. A panicked note broke into his voice as the detective made a grab for his shirt collar. “I wasn’t there!” he squealed.

The detective held him a moment longer, his singular needle eye pinning him in place like a dried beetle, before he let go with a smirk. “All right, Francis. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I was mistaken. But I’ll tell you one thing. There ain’t nobody else in this world what looks as strange as you. Ha, ha! Thank God for that!”

The detective turned on his heel and laughed, great gusts of his breath clouding on the snowy air, all the way back to the hotel.

Francis shivered in the road. He stood motionless for a while, stirring only to avoid a passing motorist. His gaze flickered in confusion between his own freezing hands, the speeding cars, the detective’s retreating footprints in the slush. For a long time he stood looking up, craning his neck until it ached, to gaze into the inviting lit windows of the hotel that called to him like lighthouse beacons on the barren shore.

Only he didn’t dare follow.

Chapter Text

“Hurry, dear, we’re going to be late.”

“I don’t care,” Laszlo sighed.

“But look at you, you’re not even half-dressed. Your shirt’s unbuttoned.” Betty sent him a mischievous glance in the vanity mirror, her eyes roving over his torso. “Not that I mind, of course. Only I don’t think the hotel management would approve.”

“Yeah, well. I still don’t care.” He refused to budge from bed, reclining with hands clasped behind his head as he contemplated the ceiling. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind about the whole thing.”

“What do you mean? You don’t want to go?” Betty shot him an incredulous look over her bare shoulder.

“No, not really,” he answered. He continued watching in languid interest as Betty delicately rolled a sheer silk stocking over her leg. “I’m too tired.”

“What do you mean, ‘too tired?’ We’ve only just arrived.”

“That’s what I mean. It’s all Samuel’s fault. He’s a menace.”

“How so?” Betty laughed. “He’s been a perfect gentleman, taking the time to show us all around the city, pointing out all the best places to see. He’s our own personal tour guide, for free!”

“Yeah. Dragging us all over town in one afternoon.” Laszlo grimaced, massaging the sore tendons of his calves and ankles after so much unwonted exertion. “Only I don’t think he’s doing it out of the kindness of his heart. I think he’s trying to wear me down first.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard him, didn’t you? Day and night ever since we got here, pestering me about signing with him! It’s got to the point where I think he’s going to force his way into our bedroom after we say goodnight. We haven’t had a single moment to ourselves. That’s bad enough, but now we have to ruin a perfectly good evening in that stuffy old ballroom, listening to an old has-been murder the classical standards.”

He rolled over in bed, lying flat on his stomach with his head resting on his crossed arms like a petulant child. “‘A Night With Roger Vanne,’ pffft,” he mumbled into the blankets. “I’d rather spend my evening in hell.”

“Shh, it won’t be that bad. I hope,” Betty assured him, putting a dab of perfume behind her ear.

“Couldn’t you call Samuel, and tell him I’m not coming? Tell him I’m sick or something.”

“You sure? I tell him that and he might come up here personally with a mug of chicken soup.”

“Ugh, you’re right. He would, too.” Laszlo raised himself on his elbows with a grunt and thumbed idly through his copy of the evening program. “I would have to make the acquaintance of the biggest busybody in all England. I suppose there’s nothing for it. I’ll just have to leave the country again, that’s all.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Here I was hoping you might stay long enough to do me up.” Betty swept her hair upwards from the nape of her neck, uncovering the open back clasp of her gown. Her eyes followed him in the mirror, gazing shyly from under her lashes.

Laszlo sat up, taking in the soft curves of her back and shoulders bared to him, warm and trusting. “I might be convinced,” he murmured pleasurably.

He stood behind her, threading his fingers into her full waves of brunette hair. He deftly fastened the clasp in the center of her back and smoothed his hands upwards to caress her naked skin, his thumbs gently tracing between her shoulder blades. As he thoughtfully regarded the graceful curve of her throat, stroking a finger over the quickening pulse in her veins, he reached for the open jewelry box on the dresser and withdrew his anniversary gift to her: a beaded necklace of small white pearls, twisted into a thin rope of triple strands secured on delicate loops of gold. He held it aloft, allowing its beads to slide so carefully between his fingers, and draped it with infinite tenderness around her neck.

“There,” he said, fastening it for her. He gazed adoringly at her radiant reflection in the mirror. “I’m so glad you decided to wear this tonight.”

She blushed, rolling a single pearl between forefinger and thumb. “You know I’d wear it every day if I could. Sometimes I think it’s too good for me.”

“Nothing’s too good for you.” He bent down, nosing behind her ear to catch the suggestive, faintly spicy scent of her perfume. “Mmm. Travel suits you, you know that? You look more beautiful than ever.”

“Be careful.” She smiled up at him. “You might tempt me to stay.”

“Why don’t we?” He stroked her cheek, kissing her lips until an even hotter blush glowed in her whole face.

They lost time in each other’s arms. She held tight to him, her searching fingers inching beneath his waistband, clinging to the ends of his crisp shirt. He took a step, nudging her with gentle insistence towards the bed, but she pushed back. Slowly, internally battling her own will, she lovingly stroked his bare chest with one hand while closing the buttons of his shirt with the other.

“Later,” she whispered with longing. She teased her fingertips through the dark chest hair peeking from the top of his collar. “It might be nice to listen to someone else play for us, for a change.”

He laughed through his nose. “No getting out of it, is there?”

“Unh-uh.” She tucked in his shirt and finished dressing him, brushing away flecks of lint from the back of his formal black jacket, before reaching over his shoulder to flick the light switch and plunge the bedroom into darkness.

“Shall we go?” she asked.

He bowed his head, visible only as a sleek silhouette against the light spilling through the open hallway door. “Mademoiselle,” he answered low, dutifully ushering her through.

She smiled behind her hand and graciously nodded her thanks, trying not to giggle as she stepped lightly into the hallway. She watched him emerge from the room and turn the key in the lock, his every motion so exacting, so elegantly smooth—

The genteel illusion was shattered by the loud jangling of the telephone within.

Laszlo’s eyes flew to the ceiling in exasperation. “Oh, what NOW?” he growled, ripping the door open again.

“Don’t answer that,” Betty implored, but Laszlo had already stalked back into the bedroom and snatched up the phone.

“Yes, who is it—oh, sonofabitch,” he added, hissing the swear under his breath. In his haste he had almost toppled over the bedside lamp.

“Ahem. Front desk calling, Mr. Hartvany,” a prim nasal voice answered him. “There’s a long distance call for you from Philadelphia. Shall I put you through?”

“What? All right, fine. Go ahead,” he huffed. He heard the tap on the other end of the line and waited several interminable seconds before:

“Hello, boss? It’s me, Phil!”

“Phil!” Laszlo reclined expansively on the bed, ignoring Betty’s frantic attempts to keep his shoes off the lace coverlet. “It’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better!” Phil chirped. “Well, apart from the fact that you’re over there and I’m not.”

“I seem to recall that you’re the one who insisted we go,” remarked Laszlo.

“Well, you know how it is. Even I get homesick sometimes. Say, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Not at all,” Laszlo replied, impatiently waving away Betty’s hand as she hovered a threatening finger over the phone cradle. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

“Nah, don’t you worry. I had a few minutes and thought I’d check up on ya, that’s all. So, how’s the old neighborhood? Everyone treating you all right? Keeping out of trouble?”

“So far, so good, I suppose.”

“Good! And how is the charming Miss Betty?”

“Oh, she’s fine, too.” Laszlo caught Betty around her waist and compelled her to sit on the edge of the bed, holding the receiver up to her ear to listen in. “We’re going to a concert this evening.”

“A concert? What’d I tell you about going on a busman’s holiday and all that, hmm?” Phil chuckled.

“Oh I know, I know, but the lady absolutely insists,” Laszlo answered, watching Betty from the corner of his eye with a sly grin. “She’s here if you want to talk to her.”

“Hello, Phil,” Betty said. She mustered every effort to sound cross and failed miserably. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“Ah, Miss Betty! Are you having a good time? Not that I mean to intrude on your fancy evening and aaaawll,” Phil drawled in his best imitation of the upper class.

It was impossible not to smile. “Yes, I’m having a wonderful time!” answered Betty. “Everyone’s been so nice to us.”

“Not everyone,” Laszlo pointed out.

“Oh, true. I mean everyone except you-know-who,” agreed Betty.

“Who? Not Sam?” Phil exclaimed. “Has he been rude to you?”

“No, no! Definitely not Sam. I was talking about Roger Vanne,” Betty said.

“Ooh, a rude pianist? You don’t say.” Phil’s cheeky smirk was practically visible over the telephone line.

“Hey now, listen,” Laszlo shot back. “Let’s not forget who signs your checks.”

“Noted, boss. So how is Sam doing, by the way? He called me again this week, you know. We had quite the little chat about you.”

“Hm. Great,” Laszlo muttered.

“You talked to him again about that contract?”

“Uh. No, as a matter of fact,” admitted Laszlo.

“Why not?”

“Because…” Laszlo frowned darkly. “Say, why is everybody trying to get me to sign this thing all of a sudden, huh? First Sam, then Betty, and now you! Maybe tomorrow Scotland Yard will pester me about it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were all trying to get rid of me and take over the nightclub, like a certain pair of ex-crooks I won’t mention.”

“Hey now, it’s not like that at all!” protested Phil. “It’s a golden opportunity, s’wot it is. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for a chance like that? Meanwhile, the break of a lifetime drops right into your lap, and you want to throw it away!”

“Then you should be the one signing up, not me,” Laszlo returned sharply.

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me, Phil, not now. I’m tired and I don’t want to think about it any more tonight. So if you don’t mind...”

Betty held her breath. In the tense silence she studied Laszlo’s troubled expression, questioning him with her eyes. He refused to look at her.

“I hear ya, boss. Sorry,” came Phil’s sheepish apology.

Laszlo’s shoulders slumped. “You’re not the one who should be sorry,” he sighed, rubbing his creased forehead. “Look, I—I’ll give it some thought later. Maybe tomorrow night I’ll make a decision. How does that sound?”

“Oh, no rush! It’s up to you,” Phil answered a little more cheerfully. “But if it were me, I know I’d jump at whatever Sam is offering. Just my opinion, of course.”

“Thanks, Phil.”

“Aw, it’s no trouble. Well, my lovelies, I won’t keep you much longer, wot with long distance being as bloody expensive as it is. At this rate, I may have to start sending letters by post. So I’ll say good afternoon, or good evening or whatever time it is—”

“Wait a minute, Phil,” interrupted Laszlo. “I just remembered—can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” said Phil. “Uh, provided you’re paying for it!”

“Don’t worry about that. I was wondering…” Laszlo raked his fingers through his hair, his dark gaze narrowing as he searched for the correct words. “Is there something I don’t know about London, or does everyone hate me in particular?”

“Huh?” Betty and Phil expressed the same syllable of surprise at once.

“Nobody hates you, boss! What makes you say that?” added Phil.

“I don’t know. Just a strange feeling I’ve had ever since I got here,” Laszlo said. “I feel like everyone is watching me wherever I go. The house detective, the hotel staff, people on the street. It’s like they’re all waiting for me to commit a crime.”

“Maybe they recognize you from somewhere. Or you have an evil twin!” laughed Phil.

“Not likely,” Laszlo scoffed. “I have no family here. They’re either dead, or… in any case I don’t know where they are. Not in England, that’s for sure.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, then. You’re a stranger in town and people are nervous by nature, that’s all. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Laszlo smiled faintly. “Maybe you’re right. Thanks, Phil. It was good to talk to you.”

“Likewise! Take care, you two!”

“Goodbye, Phil,” Betty said. She watched in concern as Laszlo hung up the phone without looking, missing the cradle a couple of times. She gingerly took the handset from him and replaced it.

“Laszlo, what’s the matter?” she asked. “Are you feeling all right?”

With a muffled groan he clutched his head between his hands, his nails digging at his scalp. “This was supposed to be our holiday,” he despaired.

“We are on holiday. You’re the one making a fuss over nothing,” she admonished. She moved closer and wound her arms around him, nestling her cheek against his. “Anyway,” she continued more gently, “if you’re worried about the contract, don’t be. I’ll still be here, no matter what you decide. After all, we’re not exactly broke. We don’t need the money. I just thought—”

“You thought it would make me famous. Yeah, I know,” he muttered, turning away.

“Darling. Couldn’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, drumming his fingers in troubled thought, before he stood abruptly and motioned for his wife to follow. “Come on. We should go.”

The concert began late. The unannounced delay pushed everyone into an awkward time of the evening; too early to have dinner first and far too late for tea. Not that it seemed to matter. Of the odd twenty or so who bothered to show up to the Rose Room, most were permanent residents of the hotel who treated the event with the same indifference that defined their own dissipated lives, and as good an excuse as any to avoid the miserable weather. Laszlo and Betty milled about for a time, puzzled at the mysterious absence of both Roger and Samuel, until they grew bored and took their places instead in the sparsely-occupied front row of seats. They were struck dumb by the sheer lethargy of the still atmosphere, staring in increasing dismay at their fusty surroundings like flies trapped in amber and decaying rose gold damask. Every breath brought with it the dust of ages past, and with it an oppressive, museum-like odor of inertia and preservation and all things long since forgotten by time.

“Are we in the wrong place?” Betty whispered.

“I don’t think so.” Laszlo glared over his shoulder, breaking the suspicious gaze of another guest who swiftly turned her head and pretended not to be watching. “Didn’t Sam say the concert hall was destroyed? This is the only place Roger could get.”

“I almost feel sorry for him.”

“I don’t,” scoffed Laszlo.

Just as they were considering how to discreetly quit the sad affair altogether, Roger finally made his appearance. He stood shakily upon the ballroom stage to light applause, looking sallow and vaguely nauseated as he took his seat at the grand piano without so much as an introduction. He looked around foolishly, as if seeking someone to lead him to water. When no one appeared, he continued sitting in a motionless stupor until a hiss from backstage startled him to life and he began to play, mechanically pounding out notes like a malfunctioning clockwork.

Laszlo sank lower in his chair. He could already tell what kind of a debacle this was going to be. It started clumsily enough, with inelegant but at least passable renditions of Elgar’s Enigma Variations. But by the time Roger fumbled his way through some complicated variations on Béla Bartók concertos (none of which, interestingly enough, could be found anywhere on the evening’s program), the disaffected atmosphere of the ballroom turned positively stormy. A low murmur of discontent hummed through the audience, interspersed with subdued laughter and snorts of derision. It only grew worse. For an entire passage, Laszlo suffered with teeth set on edge as Roger blithely played in the incorrect key, having unknowingly modulated up a semitone as his body listed to the right like a sinking ship.

“Why—I believe he’s drunk.” Betty’s timid, almost indiscernible voice in his ear was like the faintest whisper of a moth.

He curtly nodded his agreement. Roger was drunk all right, the utter disgrace. Laszlo crossed his arms and white-knuckled his way through more of the charade with a look of supreme embarrassment, as if he himself were the one playing poorly. He couldn’t sit still. He clenched and twisted the shredded pages of the program, he tapped his fingers to the correct tempo ticking in his head, he played invisible notes in his lap. Another twenty minutes and he couldn’t take it anymore. Glaring darkly, he rose from his seat and stalked out of the Rose Room without a word.

A stunned moment or two later, Betty couldn’t say it wasn’t a relief to follow his example.

“He went that way, miss,” the desk clerk called to her in the lobby. He pointed towards the revolving door, still in motion where its last occupant had fled.

She rushed after her husband, catching the ubiquitous scent of his cigarette smoke upon the frozen air.

“Laszlo!” she cried, her heels slipping over patches of ice in the street.

He said nothing, only caught her firmly by the arm as she stumbled into him.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

He still didn’t answer. He scarcely looked at her. He continued his aimless sojourn into unknown territories of the city with Betty at his side, no plan, no friendly guide, only defiance to rule him as the lights grew fainter and colder in the unforgiving night.

Betty glared with envy as she huddled close to him for warmth, rubbing her freezing arms. He hardly seemed to take notice of the temperature at all.

“What’s the matter?” he said at last, breaking from his trance.

“I didn’t bring my coat,” she said.

“Why didn’t you say so?” With a remorseful look, he shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Betty. I didn’t think.”

“That’s all right,” she said through chattering teeth. She shivered beneath his clothes, wrapped in his snug embrace until some semblance of feeling came back into her hands, all pins and needles. When she worked up the courage to speak again, her soft voice shattered the brittle silence:

“I’m sorry, too.”

“What about?”

“I didn’t realize how much it would upset you.”

“What? I don’t care, you need it more than I do,” he murmured distantly, turning up the collar of his jacket under her chin.

“I mean the concert. I’m the one who insisted we go.”

“Oh,” he said dully. “I only wanted some fresh air. That’s all.”

Betty rested against his chest, trying her damnedest to forget the concierge’s warning against going out at night. “What did you really think of it?” she asked.

Laszlo puffed aggressively at his cigarette. “Before I tell you,” he said, pursing his lips, “let me ask you the same question.”

She hesitated. “I thought it was… well it was very…”

“Yes?” he prompted.

She cleared her throat. “Modern,” she finished feebly.

He fixed her with a severe stare, only for a second or two, before his hard expression melted in spite of himself. “Never a bad word for anybody, huh, kitten?” he grinned. “Do you really want to know what I think?”

“I’m sure I can guess!” she laughed.

“Ohh, it was dreadful,” he groaned aloud, shaking his head. “I have no words. He would have to murder Bartók so, even if the poor devil is dead already. I tell you, it almost makes me want to give up music entirely.”

“Don’t say that.” She looked up at him brightly. “Why, how would we continue my piano lessons if you gave it up?”

“That’s true,” he reconsidered. “In that case, for you, kitten, I won’t give it up. Not yet, anyway.”

“Good,” she said, and bit down a giggle as she thought of the disastrous performance again. “I’m sure I sound just as bad as Roger whenever I play,” she said.

“Betty, I am going to be perfectly honest with you,” he said. “If I told you to sit down right now, and play Bartók—and believe me, I am not that cruel—but if I told you to do it as the most inexperienced beginner, whatever sounds that came out would have more feeling, and more earnest passion, than a lifetime of anything by Roger Vanne.”

“Don’t tease me,” Betty scoffed, hiding a pleased smile.

“I am perfectly serious.” He rested his arm protectively across her shoulders and hugged her closer as he examined his surroundings for the first time. The ruin of darkened streets spread before them like a pool of ink, no cars or streetlights to be seen.

“It does get dark early, doesn’t it,” he mumbled to himself.

“Let’s go back, darling,” Betty said. “We’ll have dinner, and go to bed, and forget this whole awful night ever happened.”

“Yes, we should go back,” he said uncertainly. “Only I’m not sure how.”

Betty held her breath. In the foreboding silence, a clear, yearning sound floated through the air from nowhere on a thin silver thread. It was the sound of quick fingers upon violin strings, ascending the scale like a bird soaring over a spring riverbank, singing in joyous flight. She moved towards it.

“Betty? Where are you going?”

It was her turn not to answer. The music grew stronger, beckoning her forward. Turning a corner, she entered a faint circle of warm yellow light, like a guttering candle. Among the alcoves of collapsed bricks and broken foundations of destroyed buildings, she caught a glimpse of a startlingly familiar face. She gasped.

“Betty! What are you doing, come back!” Laszlo shouted. His steps quickened, echoing on the pavement as he caught up to her. “What were you thinking?”

“Laszlo. Look at him,” she breathed.

“Huh? Where?”

She pointed keenly. “There, across the street. That man looks just like you.”

“What?” He stared in apprehension, his eyes faintly glowing in the aura of firelight. His mouth fell open.

“No. It can’t be.” He stood torn, every muscle at divided attention, both here and there. The bitter cold lashed the tears from his eyes as he sprinted closer. He cleared the wide bare street in seconds, rushing into the circle of light within the crumbling ruin, and his mouth filled with the taste of a long-forgotten name, rolling unconsciously off his tongue:

“Ferenc!” he screamed to the winds. “FERENC!”

Chapter Text

Ferenc stopped playing. At the sound of his own name he peered into the street, pale and trembling in the flickering light of the campfire, and watched an unknown figure rush at him. He remained rooted to the spot in fear, trapped between twin instincts to answer and to flee. As the figure drew nearer, his lips framed a silent name. His heart pounded.

“László?” he whispered, too quietly to be heard. He took a step forward with the face of a lost man, sudden recognition setting his features alight. “László!” he shouted.

He stumbled closer, still clutching his violin and bow in an outstretched fist, and fell into Laszlo’s waiting arms.

“Tényleg te vagy az? Hol voltál ennyi éven át?”¹ Laszlo cried.

“Mindenki azt hitte, hogy meghaltál. Próbáltalak megkeresni! Eskü!”² Ferenc answered, laughing wildly as his brother embraced him. He held tight and hid his face in Laszlo’s shoulder, staining his shirt with tears.

“Betty! Betty, this is my little brother Ferenc,” Laszlo joyously exclaimed as they broke apart. “I can’t believe it. We haven’t seen each other in how long, now? Twelve years, can you imagine? Ferenc—shh, shh. Don’t cry. It’s all right. Look. I want you to meet my wife, Betty.”

Betty stood by, listening in astonishment as the brothers continued to laugh and weep and converse in rapid Hungarian all at once. After a pause Ferenc wiped his eyes on his sleeve, removed his shabby, threadbare hat, and bowed deeply at the waist. His precious violin never left his hand.

“It is a great pleasure to meet you,” Ferenc recited, doing his utmost to shape the sounds of a foreign tongue. He replaced his hat and extended his free hand to welcome Betty closer, softly closing his fingers around hers. His weather-beaten palm rasped against her tender skin, cold to the touch, and Betty suddenly found herself wondering just how many ruined cities he had witnessed, or how long he had managed to survive amid the ashes.

“Oh. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too!” Betty said, gratefully edging closer to the smoky heat of the makeshift campfire. “I had no idea Laszlo had family living here at all.”

“Neither did I,” said Laszlo. “Seriously, where have you been?”

“I? I have been… everywhere,” Ferenc answered haltingly. He spread his arms wide as if to encompass the globe. “For years. All over the world.”

“But why here, of all places?”

Ferenc smiled. “Why are you here?”

“Ha. Fair enough. But you’ve got to tell me first.”

Still hovering close to the flames, Betty suppressed a shiver, holding her arms tight. “I have an idea. Why don’t we all go back together, and talk about it over dinner?”

“Dinner, huh?” Laszlo hummed approvingly as he contemplated more material concerns for the first time that night. “Now that you mention it, I’m starving. I thought maybe that concert killed my appetite for good, but I guess not.”

Betty smiled as she met Ferenc’s curious gaze. “How does that sound, Fer… Feren... Mr. Hartvany?” she asked, unwilling to risk botching his first name. “Would you like to have dinner with us?”

Ferenc tilted his head, looking to his brother for an explanation.

“Azt kérdezte, hogy akarsz-e velünk vacsorázni, kis hülye,”³ Laszlo teased, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it.”

Ferenc’s eyes lit up, sparkling, and he humbly lowered his head with a shy smile. “Yes please,” he answered softly, clasping his hands in front of him.

“Good. Come on. Let’s get back to the hotel before poor little Betty turns into an ice cube,” said Laszlo, gathering her shivering body close to his chest.

“The hotel?” Ferenc held back, nervously biting his lip. “The Midway?”

“Yes, we’re staying there. Why?”

“I am… not allowed back there.”

“What? Why not?”

“I have no money,” he said mournfully. He knelt down and stowed his violin safely in its case, fussing with the latches to stall for time. When he looked up again, his mercurial features changed in an instant, lighting up with a gleeful grin. “But once, I stayed anyway!” he chirped in a high, childish voice. “And then, I was caught in bed, with one of the maids.”

Betty blinked at him, utterly taken aback by his candor, but was swiftly brought back to earth by the sound of Laszlo’s disdainful laugh.

“Ferenc, you did no such thing,” he said.

“I did!” Ferenc pouted.

“No, because that was the same ridiculous story you gave to the concert promoter when you were seventeen, remember? When you supposedly ran away from home after getting the maid pregnant? The maid who didn’t even exist!” Laszlo snorted. “Besides, even a cleaning maid has better standards than that.”

“It is all true, I swear it!” insisted Ferenc, even as he struggled to suppress a giggle. “All right, maybe that was not true. But I am still not allowed in the hotel.”

“It doesn’t matter, Laszlo,” said Betty. “I was thinking we could eat somewhere else tonight, anyway. I mean, the hotel is lovely, but it’s always so… formal. Sometimes I feel like I can’t relax.”

“What do you mean? Hey, don’t let my brother tell you where we can and can’t eat,” retorted Laszlo. “We’ll all go back there, and then we’ll see who’s not allowed in the hotel.”

“I mean it, darling. I really did want something different tonight.”

“But why?”

Betty shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just not used to it. Especially after we’ve spent so much money on travel and, and… all those gifts for me.” She twisted the strings of delicate pearls at her neck, at once self-conscious as Ferenc’s eyes momentarily dropped to follow the motion of her hand.

“Hey, what’s wrong with that? Even you said this was our holiday,” argued Laszlo. “You let me worry about money, I’ll spend it however I like.”

Ferenc continued to listen closely, his attentive gaze flipping back and forth between them like a spectator at a tennis match. “I know a good place!” he excitedly chimed in. “Penny’s Place, not far from here. She is always nice to me!”

“Penny’s Place? What is that, some kind of cheap pub?” asked Laszlo in disdain.

Ferenc nodded eagerly. “Yes, real cheap!”

“We are not going there,” Laszlo said flatly.

“Oh, Laszlo, why not? It might be fun,” said Betty. “Samuel would never bring us to a place like that. And—” Her eyes widened at her own bright idea. “And if nothing else, we’re not likely to run into him there! Just imagine that awkward conversation when we get back, explaining why you walked out on the great Roger Vanne.”

Laszlo paused. “That’s true,” he muttered. “But—”

“I show you!” Ferenc said, deciding for himself that the matter was settled. He gathered up his meager possessions, his coat and hat and violin case. “Follow me! It is a very good place, I promise.”

Laszlo grudgingly decided, against his better judgement, to follow.

Ferenc led them through the winter night with a light step, navigating the tight maze of London’s back streets and alleyways at surprising speed. From time to time he looked back to make sure his brother was still following, and his wide shining eyes were mirrors against the faint signs of life in the battered city, reflecting gleams of dim lamplight dotting the broken shop windows and abandoned flats. They continued on in silence until Ferenc halted in his tracks and waved to them.

“Here! Here it is,” he said. He proudly indicated a decrepit structure much like all the others: a run-down, windowless hole-in-the-wall slumping between the piles of broken brick and stone. The roof sagged under a dripping gutter, its foul contents draining away into the sewer grate beneath the frozen street. The entire collection of rubbish was barely recognizable as a building, much less an establishment of any kind. The only sign of its occupant was a steady trickle of black smoke pouring from a dented metal chimney, and with it, the greasy odors of hot cooking oil and fried meat.

“Are you sure this is the place?” asked Betty.

“Yes, this is it. Penny’s Place,” Ferenc confidently replied.

Laszlo eyed the hovel with sheer skepticism as he lit a cigarette and vented smoke contemptuously through his nose. “Penny ought to have the place condemned,” he said.

Ferenc shot him a wounded look. “You would not say that if you knew. Her husband died in the war. This is all she has left. It is all that some of us will ever have.” His reproach hung uncomfortably upon the air as he turned his back.

Stung, but deciding it was too cold to argue any further, Laszlo reluctantly followed his brother through the door and down a short flight of creaking stairs. Much to his surprise, the space within was decently clean. He emerged into a warm and cozy cellar, furnished with a colorful variety of secondhand tables and chairs of mismatched origin. Each wall sported a brave attempt to conceal the cracks in the plaster with reproduction paintings of racehorses and rural landscapes of centuries past. He looked around the empty bar, trying not to ease too readily into the soothing sounds of a radio as it played sentimental jazz at low volume, when he was startled by a lively female voice:

“Well, look at you! All dressed up and nowhere else to go! Who’s this, Francis?”

Laszlo turned around to see the squat, apple-cheeked woman emerging from a back room, wiping her rugged hands on a cloth. She was of solid middle age, her wiry copper hair shot through with streaks of silver, and her ruddy face, shining with a fresh layer of chip oil, was crinkled all over with the laugh lines of her welcoming smile.

“Hello, Penny!” Ferenc exclaimed. He tugged at Laszlo’s sleeve, urging him forward. “Penny, look who I found! This is my brother Laszlo, and this is his wife Betty. They are visiting from—where is she from, Laszlo?”

“I stole her from America,” Laszlo said with a smirk. He bowed his head to the proprietress. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Penny. My brother insisted we pay you a visit.”

“Well! Isn’t he polite!” Penny laughed behind her hand, sending a knowing wink to Betty. “But just between you and me, I ain’t no missus, not anymore. Just call me Penny, if you don’t mind. And have a seat wherever you like!”

“Thank you, Penny.” Betty blew on her hands and pressed them to her own tingling cheeks, still numb with cold. “Are we the only ones here?” she asked, peering around the empty bar.

“Looks that way, don’t it?” said Penny. “That’s all right. Much too early for my usual crowd, but I’m sure you won’t mind if you have the place to yourself. T’aint every day Francis brings me such fancy company.”

“Who, us?” Laszlo sighed, sprawling into the nearest wooden chair. He shifted on the hard seat, stretching almost horizontal in his efforts to find a comfortable position. “No, not at all. Merely some lost and weary refugees, fleeing terrible crimes against music.”

Penny cocked her head. “Are you in the music biz too, just like Francis?” she asked in wonder.

Laszlo raised an eyebrow. Were impoverished street musicians a vital part of the “biz” these days? He nodded vaguely and kept such witticisms to himself.

“My, it’s a small world. Well, I know you didn’t come here just for idle chatter. What would you like to drink?” asked Penny. “I got wine, and plenty of beer, and even a little gin, if that strikes your fancy.”

“In that case, I’ll have a gin and tonic,” said Laszlo.

“Good. And for the lady?”

“Oh, nothing for me, thanks,” said Betty shyly.

“I’ll get you a lemon water, dearie,” Penny promised her. “Francis, the usual?”

“Yes, please.” A hopeful gleam came into his eye as he folded his hands expectantly. “My brother is paying. This time, could I have…?”

“What am I agreeing to now?” Laszlo frowned.

Penny laughed. “I know what he wants. Just wait, I’ll have it ready for you in a tick.” She bustled behind the bar to fetch their drinks before disappearing back through the kitchen door in a cloud of steam.

“What did you order?” asked Laszlo.

“One of everything,” Ferenc beamed, raising his foaming pint of beer. “Cheers.”

“Everything?” blurted Laszlo.

“Oh don’t worry, it’s for everyone,” Ferenc hastened to add. “To share.”

Laszlo knocked back his gin, grimacing at the trail of fire down his throat. “Naturally.”

True to Penny’s word, a small buffet of dishes soon made their way to the table, one after another: thick slices of buttered bread, cream of potato soup with crumbled bacon, oyster stew and saltine crackers, fish and chips, shepherd’s pie, banana and toffee pudding, and as many refills of ale and stout as they pleased.

“How was it?” Penny hovered attentively at the table over an hour later, ready to sweep away the jumble of empty dishes. “Would you like anything more?”

“Oof. No, thank you,” Laszlo sighed. By his estimation, his appetite had already been pretty well satisfied half an hour ago, and about three times over, if the bite of his waistband was any indication. “How about you, Betty?”

“Oh, no, I think I’m about to burst,” Betty laughed. “But it was all delicious. Thank you, Penny.”

“My pleasure, I’m sure! And Francis, I… I’ll just let you finish that.”

Ferenc smiled gratefully at his hostess and continued eating his fourth bowl of stew without pause, not slacking pace for a second.

“Hey, slow down,” Laszlo chided. “It’s not a race.”

Ferenc paused mid-slurp, the spoon still in his mouth. A disbelieving smile spread over his face, quite gradually, until his mirth bubbled over with a giggle. “Listen to him,” he said, glancing to Betty in sympathy. “He comes here, after the whole city fell down, and he worries about how I eat soup.”

Betty covered a laugh. “He’s got you there, sweetheart,” she said.

“Hmm,” Laszlo said, too sluggish to come up with a better retort. He looked to his brother again. “Sorry, Ferenc. You know I’m very glad to see you. But what have you been doing all this time? It’s like you dropped off the face of the earth. What happened to you?

“Mmf.” Ferenc hurriedly swallowed another mouthful as he crumbled still more crackers into his soup, already more floury paste than broth. “I traveled everywhere. I played music all over Europe, just as I wanted!” he said proudly, before his face slowly fell. “And always running away,” he added.

“Running from what?

A worried look darkened his brow. “Everything,” he said. “Running from war. From Mother and Father. I never wanted to see them again, after they…”

“After they kicked you out,” Laszlo finished for him. “I remember. So you really stayed in Europe through the whole war?”

“They never caught me,” he replied solemnly.

“Remarkable. And afterwards, did you at least manage to become a music teacher like you wanted?”

Again Ferenc looked forlorn. “No. For a long time I had no job at all.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Ah, it’s just as well for you, I suppose. I hear that music teachers these days must be able to read their music,” Laszlo said pointedly.

Ferenc ignored him, the only change to his expression a fleeting shadow of pain behind his eyes. He assumed a smile again and turned to Betty.

“Tell me, how is it in America?” he asked. “Is it like the movies?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” laughed Betty. “Do you mean, is it glamorous or exciting? Not really.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Laszlo broke in. “There was that little police adventure when we first met.”

“Oh no, please don’t tell him about that. I don’t want him thinking we live in some sort of criminal underworld,” Betty shushed.

“Like the crime films?” Ferenc exclaimed, delighted. “I like those.”

“No, I mean—well, maybe some of it is like that,” Betty conceded.

“But it didn’t start out that way. You see, Betty and I worked together in the same nightclub,” Laszlo began, languidly pulling smoke from a fresh cigarette. “That year I was feeling low, so low that for the longest time, I didn’t even notice her. But it was on New Year’s Eve…”

For the next hour, Laszlo spun his recollections of year-end despair in a city not his own, of Betty’s intervention at the platform of a speeding train, and their eventual brush with senseless murder on the Mainline. Ferenc listened in rapt attention the whole time, his eyes going round in amazement as Betty admitted the murderer was her own father, now safely locked away behind bars.

“But that’s ancient history now,” Betty added. “I’m trying to forget that any of it ever happened.”

“I know.” Laszlo reached out and laced his fingers with hers, squeezing her hand in reassurance. “Well, with any luck we won’t run into any more trouble like that. Now all we have to worry about is getting back to the hotel in one piece. Or without running into that drunken idiot.”

“What idiot?” asked Ferenc, stifling a yawn. He had tilted back in his chair several inches to ease his full stomach, taut with heavy food and too much beer. He balanced precariously on the chair’s rear legs, rocking slightly as he grazed his belly with a comforting hand.

“Oh, never mind. I’ll tell you about this guy later, you won’t believe it,” Laszlo chuckled. “We met him on the boat over here, and he’s been a pain in my neck ever since.”

“You lead an exciting life, brother,” Ferenc mumbled sleepily. His cheeks reddened and puffed out with the release of a satisfied burp. “I should go, too. It will be busy soon.”

“Go where?” asked Laszlo. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“Oh. I don’t know. I always find someplace.”

“What, you mean in the rubble where we found you?” Laszlo snorted. “You will not sleep on the street tonight. Or any night. It’s freezing.”

“I did it before,” Ferenc replied indignantly. “All the time.”

“Ferenc, no brother of mine is going to sleep on the street, not while I have a perfectly good hotel room.”

“And there’s that extra bed in the other room!” added Betty. “Goodness knows why they gave us that enormous suite. We sure don’t have any use for it.”

“But I told you, I can’t go to the hotel,” insisted Ferenc. He tipped his chair forward on all fours again and feigned great interest in the bottom of his pint glass, swirling the last of the suds this way and that. “I can’t—”

“Oh, Francis?” Penny reappeared from the kitchen, her voice carrying loud and clear across the barroom. “I forgot to tell you. Mr. Constantine was looking for you today.”

Ferenc’s empty glass made sudden contact with the tabletop with a loud thump.

“Mr. Constantine?” Ferenc gulped. “He’s here?”

“Well he isn’t here now. Earlier this afternoon. He says he wants to see you as soon as possible.” She chortled to herself. “What he really said was ‘at your convenience,’ but you know full well what he really means.”

“He said that?”

“It’s the honest truth, dearie.”

Ferenc paled, sinking several inches in his seat.

“But don’t you worry!” Penny cheerfully continued as she wiped down the bar. “I didn’t tell him a thing. I didn’t know where you got yourself to, anyhow!”

Betty frowned. “Who’s Mr. Constantine?” she asked in an undertone.

“Oh, he is… a friend of mine,” Ferenc mumbled, not sounding too convinced of it himself. He wrung his hands together in anxious thought. “Laszlo?” he questioned.

“Mm?” said Laszlo, already anticipating his reply.

“I think I will stay with you tonight,” Ferenc answered with a soft smile.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Laszlo stood up from the hard wooden seat with a groan, rubbing the soreness out of his backside, and idly tossed extra money on the table. “Come on, I think it’s time we all went home—if you can call it that. Ferenc, you wouldn’t happen to know the way to the hotel from here?”

Ferenc nodded happily. “Yes! I know,” he said, hopping to his feet.

They made their fond goodbyes to Penny as Ferenc gathered his things and peered cautiously out the back door. Satisfied that no one was lying in wait for him, he led the group once again into the streets. It had grown even colder in the dead of night, a thin wind whistling down the alleyways and biting straight down to their bones. They hurried onward, eyes shut against the cold, and were just starting to recognize more familiar surroundings near the main thoroughfare when Ferenc stopped dead, his ears perked to an unfamiliar sound.

“Hey, watch it. What’s the matter?” demanded Laszlo, almost running into him.

“I—forgive me,” Ferenc whispered. He grasped his brother firmly by the arm.

Laszlo felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. He resisted his brother’s insistent grip, but froze up entirely at the nearby sound of a sharp whistle and the rapid tap of running footsteps. He spun around at a rough push to his back and raised his hands to defend himself, but encountered only vapor and a rush of cold air to his face, his unknown assailant having raced past him into the night.

“Are you all right?” gasped Betty, rushing to his side.

Laszlo didn’t answer, uncertain of what had actually transpired. Breathing hard, he slowly dropped his arms to his sides. His hands crawled into his empty pockets with growing dread.

“Betty,” he said, fighting the strike of panic to the pit of his stomach. “My wallet’s gone.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“It’s not here. For God’s sake, tell me I put it in my jacket. Look for it!”

Betty dug through every pocket of the borrowed coat, her heart sinking as she turned up nothing. “It’s not here, Laszlo.”

Laszlo swore bitterly.

“Don’t worry, it’s all right,” Ferenc said soothingly, but his brother scarcely listened.

“All right? I’ve been robbed and you’re telling me it’s all right?” Laszlo snapped. “Now what am I going to—”

“Look! Look,” Ferenc pleaded. He avoided Laszlo’s furious glare, staring at the ground as he timidly offered up the missing wallet in both hands.

Laszlo’s mouth fell open. “You… how did you…”

Ferenc shrugged, a look of abject apology writ plain across his face. He lifted one hand, the tips of his fingers lightly closing on the air as if to pluck something straight from an imaginary pocket.

“Give it here,” Laszlo ordered. He took his wallet and rifled through its contents, counting the notes by touch before snapping it closed again. Not a single pound was missing.

“So,” he said in a lower tone, securing his wallet back where it belonged. “This is how you make a living these days, isn’t it?”

Ferenc shook his head, shamefaced. “I would never steal from you, brother. But I heard them coming. I had to take it from you before they did, that’s all.” A nervous smile flickered over his features. “You are lucky they only tried to steal. Sometimes they do much worse.”

“Who’s ‘they?’” demanded Laszlo, fixing his brother with a severe stare. “You know these criminals?”

Ferenc glanced uneasily over his shoulder. “I tell you later. Come on, quick. Almost there.”

Rounding the corner, they faced their destination at last and returned at last to a friendlier world of well-lit shops and speeding automobiles and the effusive welcome of the hotel clerk. Laszlo paused before crossing the foyer, watching narrowly for any signs of Roger or Samuel, but they had evidently cleared off long ago.

“Téged is követ valaki?”⁴ Ferenc asked curiously, peeking over his brother’s shoulder.

“Fogd be,”⁵ Laszlo muttered. “And keep an eye out for the house detective. I don’t need him asking me a lot of questions, understand?”

“Uh-huh,” Ferenc nodded. He crept along quietly, slinking behind Laszlo and Betty as they approached the grand staircase. He might have gone completely unnoticed had he not, through sheer force of habit, removed his hat to address a familiar eyepatched gentleman in passing:

“Goodnight, Mr. Officer, sir,” Ferenc greeted him drowsily.

“Yes, goodnight. I—what?” The house detective nearly wrenched his own neck in a double-take.

The brothers shared a panicked look before sprinting upstairs with Betty in tow, leaving the bewildered detective scratching his head and wondering if his appointment with the eye doctor wasn’t seriously overdue after all.

Safely in their room at last, Betty bolted the door and leaned against it with a sigh. “That was close. You don’t think he’s going to follow us in here?” she asked.

“Don’t worry. Even I think that’s above his pay grade,” said Laszlo. He wasted no time in undoing the constricting knot of his black tie, tearing it free. “Of course, if a certain someone hadn’t opened his big mouth…”

Ferenc wasn’t listening. He set down his violin case and stood gawking at the opulent room with its tall mirrors and white-gold French furnishings and tasseled drapes. He looked down, suddenly conscious of his filthy shoes, and cringed at the sight of mud tracked behind him over the plush champagne carpet. He hurriedly stepped out of his shoes and attempted to hide them, but if either Laszlo or Betty had noticed, they were kind enough not to say anything.

“Well, get comfortable, brother,” Laszlo said. “It’s been a long night.”

“I can really stay here?” Ferenc asked in disbelief.

“Of course, didn’t I say so? Beats sleeping outside, anyway.”

Ferenc’s lip trembled. Tears stood in his eyes as he tumbled into his brother’s arms once again, setting both of them off-balance.

“Hey, hey. It’s all right, no need to cry about it,” said Laszlo.

“You are too good to me,” Ferenc mumbled into his shoulder.

“Listen. You are always welcome here.” Laszlo hugged him tight, patting him on the back before he pulled free and lifted a finger in mock warning. “That is, unless you give me a reason to watch my pockets around you.”

Ferenc’s teary laugh resonated in his chest. “Don’t worry! I told you, I would never steal from you. Never.”

“That’s good. Here, let’s get you some clean clothes.”

Ferenc managed to stay awake long enough for a good hot bath—not without nodding off once or twice—before he blearily wished Betty goodnight and padded off to the other room in his brother’s borrowed pajamas.

“’Night, Laszlo,” he murmured, climbing into the spare feather bed.

“Goodnight.” Laszlo turned in the doorway, his hand hovering near the lamp, but his steps dragged as he remembered something else.

“Ferenc,” he ventured.

“Yes?” a weary voice answered.

“About what Penny said. Who is this person looking for you? This… Mr. Constantine, was it?”

Ferenc’s eyes flickered open and darted to one side. “I, uh. I don’t remember,” he said.

“Yes you do. Look, I’m not angry, I only want to know. Are you in trouble with someone, is that what she meant? Do you need help?”

Ferenc responded with a full-body stretch and an exhausted yawn so wide, his eyes rolled clear to the back of his head. “I am tired, Laszlo, very tired. I will tell you about it later, huh?” he said. “Goodnight.”

“Wait a minute—”

Ferenc flopped upon the pillow and was asleep and snoring within seconds—or else he did a convincing job of pretending. Laszlo watched him for a moment longer before he shook his head and turned off the lamp, leaving the room awash in soothing darkness, and gently closed the door behind him.

His own luxuriant bed was calling. He indolently undressed in the center of his room, peeling away the last of his stiff evening clothes into a crumpled pile on the floor until he stood completely bare, arms stretched high above his head in grateful freedom. He shut the lights and crawled beneath the covers where Betty waited for him.

“Ohh, what a night,” he groaned, easing into Betty’s delicious warmth and softness between the cool sheets. He shut his eyes blissfully as she rolled closer and slid one naked leg over his hip, lightly stroking up and down his side.

“You can say that again,” said Betty. “The concierge wasn’t kidding about going out at night, was he?”

“No, he was not.” Laszlo buried his nose in the aroma of her hair, still redolent with perfume, and pressed a grateful kiss to her temple. “Let’s not do that again for a while, huh, kitten? It must have been a terrible time for you.”

“No, I had a good time,” Betty said brightly. “It was exciting. It reminded me of a story I read once: ‘The Mandarin’s Hand.’ A girl visits an unfamiliar city, and gets caught up in all kinds of criminal intrigue after she enters the wrong curiosity shop by mistake.”

Laszlo smiled in the dark. “Betty, this isn’t some pulp novel. We were almost robbed, remember?”

“I know. If your brother hadn’t been there, I don’t know what we would have done.”

“Yes, it all happened so quick. I still don’t know if I should be angry or impressed with him,” Laszlo grumbled. “A pickpocket, of all things. If we had all gone back to the hotel for dinner like I told him, none of that would have happened in the first place.”

“It could have been worse.”

“Hm. Maybe.” He laughed with fresh realization. “You know what is worse? I should be thanking Roger. If not for his shameful display, I never would have found my brother out there.”

Betty snickered. “I suppose you’re right.”

They both lay quietly a while as Betty’s slender hands sought Laszlo’s body in the darkness, smoothing over the knotted muscles of his back, relaxing the coiled tension in his shoulder blades. His arms cinched around her waist at the silken touch of her flushed skin, pressing her close to his belly.

“It’s so quiet in there,” Betty whispered. “You think he’s all right?”

“Yes. He’s already asleep.”

“Poor guy. He must be exhausted.” Betty nestled her head against his chest. Her hands continued to trace the familiar contours of his body, gliding over the arc of his lower ribs, the firm curve of his stomach. “How long do you think he was out there? Just living out there, in the ruin?”

“Who knows. He doesn’t want to tell me anything.” He yawned, breathing deep beneath her as she continued listening to his heart. “But then he always did like to keep secrets. You never quite know when he’s telling the whole truth. That’s just the way he is.”

“Are you going to help him?”

“Naturally. I’ll do anything I can.”

“Good.” Betty smiled as she traced one finger through Laszlo’s thickly furred chest, his hair tickling at her nose. “I think he’s a sweetheart. He reminds me of you.”

“Really? He’s nothing like me.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean he’s exactly like you. He’s… you know how I’ve always said it’s like another world whenever you play music?

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s as if he lives in both those worlds at once. Half in the here and now. Half wandering in the clouds.”

“That’s always been his trouble,” smirked Laszlo. “He’s been that way his whole life.”

“He plays violin beautifully.” Her voice trailed off with a delighted shudder as Laszlo worked his hand lower, dipping his fingers between her legs.

“Say. That’s enough about him,” he said. “Don’t we have some unfinished business, you and I?”

“I thought you were tired,” she breathed through a kiss. She clung to his mouth, their lips parting and merging together again like drops of water.

“Not that tired,” he purred low in his throat.

He moaned and moved into position on top of her, ensconced between her parted thighs, but a loud snore from the next room made Betty tense up. Her breath caught.

“What if he hears us?” she said.

“I assure you he won’t,” murmured Laszlo. “He sleeps like the dead.”

He silenced her with a hungry kiss. Lifting her legs, Betty could do nothing but grip him tight around his back, bending double as the breath was pressed out of her and she raised her hips to receive him deep inside, as deep as he could go.

Chapter Text

The black cat followed close at heel, weaving between his unsteady legs until he almost tripped. It happened again. It was only after the third time that he paused to examine the creature as it slinked past. It stared back at him with pale unblinking eyes, large and luminous as headlamps, before it disappeared. Without knowing why he chased after it into the cold night, straining to run at full speed through a teeming crowd, until he spotted it again, melding perfectly into the crooked shadows of a city in turmoil. Undeterred, he followed the cat through a door in a blank brick wall and found himself trapped in a beam of blinding light. His eyes watered as he gazed into the audience from the center of a nightclub stage, and watched a cavernous ballroom unfold at his feet, stretching well past the limit of his vision. It was more like a theater palace than a nightclub, its high walls and ceilings supported by immense columns of black-veined marble and polished sanguine tile. He tried to speak and made no sound. When he attempted to flee backstage, he discovered his own violin inexorably clutched in his sweaty grip. He gazed again into the lights and the crowd stilled for him expectantly. He yearned to play for them but found it difficult to move. His fingers, normally so quick, slid from note to note like drips of cold molasses. The bow hairs frayed and sent up choking white clouds of aromatic rosin dust with every sweep of his arm. Through it all he could not shake the feeling of a ponderous presence standing much too closely behind his shoulder, observing all with a fat malevolent smile as the leaden music rang in his ears, louder than ever before, and louder—

Ferenc awoke in a thunderclap and gasped for breath.

He lay in bed for some moments with a galloping heart, clinging to the crumpled sheets for dear life, until he remembered where he was. Closing his eyes, he exhaled and allowed the balm of sweet relief to wash over him. A smile curved his lips as he rolled up tighter in the feather blanket and buried his face in it, breathing deep of its fragrance of fresh cotton and laundry soap. He considered his anxious dream and laughed into the pillow at the folly of it. There was nothing to fear, not now. Not here, muffled in the delicious embrace of clean, soft bedclothes. He was safe. He turned over and curled into himself with delight, feeling the blood rush to his extremities with a fierce heat and vitality he had almost forgotten was possible in this dreary land.

No one would find him here.

He drifted into grateful sleep for another hour or so, dreaming his ephemeral dreams, until a different sort of urgency woke him again—it seemed an unthinkable luxury to use a real toilet for a change—and he decided to rouse himself. He wandered his part of the suite with delicate curiosity, peeking out at the gray foggy morning behind the thick curtains and examining the usual hotel niceties strewn about; the hanging crystal lamps and gilt-framed artwork and colorful soaps, each one individually wrapped in crinkled pastel paper like a gift. Without thinking he palmed three of the little soaps, rolling them around in one hand, and attempted to stash them in a coat pocket that was not there. He remembered himself and hastily put them back.

His own clothes remained exactly where he left them the night before, stuffed somewhere in a shameful spot under the bathroom sink. He was not especially inclined to wear the dirty things again, even if he didn’t have much choice in the matter. Unless…

Ferenc listened at the door between the two bedrooms of the suite. From the sound of quiet breathing within, Laszlo and Betty were still fast asleep. He cautiously poked his head inside, and immediately laid eyes on a likely pile of evening clothes discarded on the floor. He smiled. Taking care not to disturb the sleeping couple, he crept into the room and gathered up his brother’s clothes.

Before he could sneak back to his room, a pretty sparkle on the vanity table caught his eye. He moved in for a closer look and stared with desire at Betty’s pearl necklace in the open jewelry case. Slowly, almost against his will, he reached out to pick it up. He turned it over with an exquisitely light touch, admiring every bead and golden strand that threaded through his fingers like iridescent streams of water, shimmering in the low light. He continued to play with it, like a child entranced by some beautiful new bauble, until a sleeping sigh from Betty made him jump. With a guilty look, Ferenc softly replaced the necklace just as he had found it and slipped back into his room.

He tried on Laszlo’s suit and bit down a laugh, giddy with his own audacity. It was hardly a perfect fit, but ignoring the fact that the pants compressed him snugly about the waist—honestly, since when did Laszlo get to be so slim?—at least it was more or less the right height. Laszlo’s polished black Oxfords fit even better, molding easily to his feet as he wiggled into them. It would all work well enough for his purpose. Holding himself as straight and taut as possible, he sucked in his gut and finally managed to button everything closed. Satisfied, he gave himself the final once-over in the mirror, proffered a smile and a courteous wave of the hand to his own reflection, and entered the hallway to take careful note of his room number: Suite 308.

He didn’t expect to be so hungry. His stomach growled at the promise of an early breakfast, enticed by the delicious odors of fresh eggs and bacon and sweet jam on toast wafting from downstairs. With a sunny smile and a frightful appetite he made immediately for the dining room, ignoring the bemused looks from the other guests, and waved cheerfully to the morning hostess. She stared at him oddly. Against her better judgement she seated him anyway, conducting him to the least desirable spot near the kitchen and behind a huge potted plant. Ferenc cared not. He kindly thanked her, brushed aside the dry palm fronds tickling his face, and snapped his fingers at a passing waiter.

“Service, please!” he called.

“Yes, sir, what can I get for you?” the waiter said, his pencil and paper at the ready.

“I would like a full English breakfast. The one with eggs and bacon, and sausage, and beans, and—”

“Yes sir, the full breakfast includes everything,” the waiter curtly assured him.

“—and mushrooms,” Ferenc blithely continued, drifting into a private rhapsody already. “Oh, and I want extra toast, very hot, with butter and honey, and some very strong tea with sugar and no cream, and…”

The waiter paused, tapping the point of his pencil in irritation. “Just a moment,” he interrupted, glowering down at Ferenc. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” Ferenc innocently replied, but the waiter’s suspicious scowl deepened.

“Yes, I do. I remember now. You’re that fellow from last year—Francis, that was your name! Oh, you’ve got some nerve coming in here again after that stunt you pulled. Thought you were clever, didn’t you? Posing as a guest and putting all your meals on other people’s rooms for a whole month. It might have worked, too, if the last fellow you swindled hadn’t noticed the outrageous charge for ten whole bottles of Veuve Clicquot. So I suppose that stint in jail wasn’t good enough for you then, hm? Back for more? Why, I ought to have the police in here this very minute.”

Ferenc folded his hands and patiently awaited the end of the man’s scolding. Under normal circumstances he would have freely admitted to everything. He was of the opinion that if the hotel had failed to notice his grifting after a whole month, surely they could afford to house him for free, but he wisely kept this view to himself. Instead he put on the most displeased sneer he could muster, his expression growing darker and darker by the second, and dug deep in memory to conjure up his brother’s most devastating tones:

“How dare you accuse me,” Ferenc spat, his eyes flashing like thunderclouds. “This is how you treat guests?”

The waiter faltered. “But I—I was certain you were—”

Ferenc cut him off with a snarl. “Francis? I know of no Francis. If you mean my no-account brother Ferenc, that is a different story, but he is not here.”

“Your brother?” the man gulped.

“Yes, my brother, who did you think? I am Laszlo Hartvany, and a guest of this sorry place, more is the pity. See for yourself! Go and see who is in room 308, why don’t you? Only I, the great Laszlo Hartvany and his—uh, my! My beautiful wife,” he said, covering his blunder with an angry beat to his own chest.

The waiter collected himself, blotting a drop of sweat from his brow. “Oh, so you’re the great Laszlo Hartvany,” he repeated smugly, recovering somewhat. “And who is that supposed to be? Some kind of magician?”

“Some say that I am a magician... of the piano,” Ferenc coldly announced, his fingers gliding in a silent flourish up and down an invisible set of keys. “Perhaps you have heard of me.”

“Is that so?” The waiter glared at him sidelong as a conniving smile tweaked the corner of his mouth. “Well then, if you’re so famous, you must be familiar with that other grand musician we had here last night. Why, of course, that must be why you’re here. It’s a regular artist’s convention! Go on, sir. Why don’t you tell me the gentleman’s name?”

Ferenc’s heart dropped. “Uh, of course,” he croaked, thinking back furiously. Laszlo had mentioned something last night about escaping disaster, or possibly a drunken fool on a ship? But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember any mention of another musician at the hotel. He squirmed and stalled under the waiter’s gaze, his arrogant facade threatening to break at any moment, when he was saved by an astonished voice calling across the dining room:

“Laszlo? Fancy meeting you here!”

Ferenc stared goggle-eyed at his salvation; a steely-haired, compact little gentleman sporting a tweed suit and a clever smile. He did not recognize the fellow in the slightest, but in this excruciating moment he was more than willing to call anyone his friend. He rose from his seat and shook the man’s hand with such effusive joy it damn near fell off, all while proclaiming loudly of his oldest and dearest friendship to everyone within earshot.

“My friend! My dear friend!” he gasped. “How good to see you again! Dear God, how long has it been? Three years, four?”

The man tensed, fighting without success to pull his hand free. “Laszlo, what on earth—?”

“Forgive me,” Ferenc muttered through his teeth, moving closer to cradle the man’s face between his hands and kiss his cheeks in quick succession, one, two. “Oh, but it has been too long, friend!” he exclaimed aloud. “No! I say you are more than a friend. You are more like a brother to me, yes?”

“Uh.” The poor man stammered and turned red.

“There, you see? He knows me,” Ferenc said, glaring back at the startled waiter in rebuke.

The waiter, only too keenly aware of the many curious eyes turned in his direction, retreated in shame. “I’ll be back with your breakfast, sir,” he mumbled, and dashed off to the kitchen before Ferenc could blink.

His new friend was silent for a while, his mouth gaping open and shut like a fish, until he recovered with a disbelieving smile. “I say, what was that about?” he laughed.

“It was—what do they call it? Oh yes. A case of mistaken identity,” Ferenc purred.

“I see. Bloody hell, next time warn me about playing pranks like that, would you?”

“I am sorry,” Ferenc nodded politely. “I did not mean to embarrass you.”

“Not at all.” The gentleman hesitated. “Look, ah… would you mind very much if I joined you? There’s something I must tell you. To be frank, I wasn’t certain if I’d see you again, after last night.”

“Please, sit down.” Ferenc smoothly offered him a chair. Inside he was glowing. It was almost frightening just how easily he inhabited his older brother’s shoes, literally and otherwise. He began to wonder just how far his little charade might go.

“By the way, you are looking awfully smart this morning,” the gentleman said. He lit a cigarette and took a moment to gather his thoughts, looking Ferenc up and down with a faint smirk. “But slightly overdressed, don’t you think?”

“Oh, uh. My other suit is dirty,” Ferenc answered, tugging at his collar. He realized with dread that he had forgotten to wear any sort of tie. Fortunately he didn’t have long to dwell on it, as the waiter soon returned in record time with his breakfast, a fully-loaded plate of fried eggs and crisp rashers of bacon, sweet baked beans on toast, plump roasted mushrooms and juicy tomatoes sprinkled in rosemary and dill, and links of fatty sausage bursting at the seams. He licked his lips, trying in vain to stop his mouth from watering as he gleefully put the cost on Laszlo’s room.

“Smells wonderful,” Ferenc’s new friend remarked appreciatively.

“Yes. Would you like some?” Ferenc asked him, gesturing to his plate.

“No, no thank you. I’ve already eaten.” The gentleman raised an eyebrow, watching in morbid fascination as Ferenc speared an entire sausage on his knife and casually devoured it in two bites. “Laszlo, are you sure you’re feeling all right? You’ll forgive me, but you don’t seem quite yourself today.”

Alarmed, Ferenc stuffed a generous forkful of beans in his mouth to avoid answering.

“And where’s Betty?” the other man pressed.

“Mmf—she is asleep,” Ferenc said with his mouth full, relieved to answer something truthfully for once. “Don’t worry, she is all right. We are both quite well, thank you.”

“If you say so.” The man shrugged and laced his fingers together, leaning forward on the edge of the table. “Look, Laszlo. About last night. Now, don’t interrupt me, please. I swear I’m not angry with you, but I’ve got to have this out.”

Ferenc chewed steadily, not intent on making the slightest interruption, and motioned for him to continue.

“Of course, now that I’ve said it, I imagine Roger would insist I should be angry with you,” the man said. “After all, he doesn’t look too kindly on anyone walking out on a show. But unfortunately, there’s no denying it. After his performance last night, I can’t say I blame you one bit.”

“Oh, naturally,” Ferenc replied vaguely.

“You might not believe Roger would care what you think, but I assure you he does. After he saw you leave, he was deeply ashamed of himself, truly. He told me so. I’ve never seen him so upset.” The man stared worriedly at the floor, and his warm caramel voice melted to the lowest of graveled tones. “He’s… he’s not well, Laszlo. He hasn’t been well in some time. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and it may be best if we leave London soon. Just a few days more and it’s off to—I’m really not sure where. Perhaps onto the next harbor. Or back to Roger’s old home, or someplace abroad. Perhaps it doesn’t really matter.”

Ferenc took a long sip of tea. “I am sorry to hear that,” he replied in sympathy. “But, uh. What will I do, when you are gone?”

“Oh, you may do as you please. Don’t let me stop you. I know I’ve hounded you about this whole arrangement since we met, and for all that I wasn’t the least bit successful. You have outlasted even my patience, Mr. Hartvany. I congratulate you.”

Ferenc returned the man’s gracious nod, still feeling very much in the dark.

“So! I wanted to give you an out, you might say,” the gentleman briskly continued. “Just say the word, and I’ll darken your door no longer. No more of old Sam making a pest of himself, and on your honeymoon, at that. I’ve behaved quite badly and I’m sorry. From now on, not another word about a contract, I promise.”

Sam. His name is Sam, thought Ferenc in relief. “Contract?” he said aloud. He was beginning to tire of his little joke and had tuned out the rest of Sam’s chatter as errant nonsense, but that word stood out with unusual significance. “What contract?”

Sam stared at him blankly for a second before he burst out laughing. “Oh, Laszlo, you’re an awful kidder. Well then, I’ll take that as a no. I won’t say I’m not disappointed—”

“I did not say that,” Ferenc interrupted. He raised his head in a haughty manner, looking down his nose. “Perhaps I am interested.”

Sam’s shocked face lit up like a beacon. “You are? Why, that’s… I can hardly believe it. You do mean it, don’t you? This isn’t another joke on me?”

“No. You see, I have given this a lot of thought, too,” Ferenc lied, grinning slyly.

“Good heavens, why didn’t you say so before?” Sam blurted. He checked his watch and stood up in a hurry. “Listen, I’ve got to make a call. If you really are serious about this, let me get the papers in order and I’ll be back with you to discuss terms. Please, don’t go anywhere! If I don’t see you, I’ll have you paged, all right?”

Ferenc said nothing, only bowed his head to hide a smile as Sam sprinted from the dining room to parts unknown. The instant he was out of sight, Ferenc covered his grinning face and broke down laughing until he nearly choked, hot tears leaking down his cheeks.

“Is everything all right, sir?” the waiter asked in concern.

“What?” coughed Ferenc. He wiped his eyes, still giggling helplessly as he gulped in air. He nodded limply and was about to wave the waiter away when fresh inspiration struck. He sat up straighter.

“Yes, I am all right,” he said. “But this morning my wife is not feeling well. Send another full breakfast up to my room, at once!”

Chapter Text

Laszlo bolted awake, emerging from a deep dream as if it were quicksand. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to understand that the pounding noise was coming from the other side of the door.

“Son of a bitch,” he hissed under his breath. “What now?”

“What’d you say?” Betty slowly stirred awake beside him, her eyes stubbornly shut tight.

“Nothing,” he said, inhaling most of the word in a huge yawn. “What time is it?”

“Oh, I dunno. Answer the door, will you?” she mumbled, pulling the blanket over her head. “Make them go ‘way.”

Laszlo blinked dry-eyed at the bedside clock and found the hour not to his liking at all. “I specifically said we were NOT to be disturbed,” he barked at the door, but the unknown visitor continued knocking for all they were worth. Fuming, he stumbled naked out of bed and wrapped himself in the first piece of clothing within reach, a fluffy white terrycloth robe hooked over the bathroom door.

“Laszlo!” Betty giggled. “Wait a minute!”

“Not now, Betty.” Without hesitation Laszlo jerked the door open with enough force to rattle the hinges and roared into the hall at the top of his lungs:

“WHAT? What is it, you complete and utter PEST, you?!”

The red-uniformed boy stood frozen in the open doorway, one hand on a wheeled serving tray, his other hand poised over the knocker in arrested motion. He gaped at Laszlo in shock, his wide eyes roving over him from head to toe as he fought valiantly against a slow, bubbling grin.

“Darling,” Betty piped up again from the shadows.

“What?” Laszlo spluttered.

“I was trying to tell you. That’s mine!”

“Huh?”

“That’s my robe. Yours is the brown one.”

With a sinking heart, Laszlo dared to look down and discovered the terrycloth was in fact a slinky, alarmingly diaphanous garment falling past his knees, its white faux fur trim draped unevenly over his hairy chest. He flushed angrily as his gaze slowly crept back towards his unwanted visitor. The little pest was still gawking at him, his wondering eyes the size of dinner plates.

“What are you staring at?” Laszlo snarled, and viciously slammed the door.

“Oh, Laszlo.” Betty was still giggling, her laughter ringing through the room like tinkling bells. “Don’t you look pretty.”

He palmed his face with a groan. “Looks prettier on you,” he said. He hurriedly shucked off the feminine frills and flung it in Betty’s direction. The robe unfurled like a parachute and landed squarely in her face.

“Hey!” she snorted.

“Sorry. Put that on, quick!” he urged. Unbelievably, another knock sounded just as insistently as before, but this time Laszlo was better prepared. Donning the correct robe, he took a moment to breathe and compose himself before opening the door once again.

“Well, what do you want?” he demanded, standing in the doorway with hands on hips.

The boy coughed behind his fist in a poor attempt to cover his snickering. “Breakfast is served, sir. You insisted it be sent up right away.”

“I did nothing of the kind.” Laszlo eyed the covered dishes and polished silver tea service with deep suspicion. “There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake, sir.” The boy’s voice faltered. “This is Suite 308, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I didn’t order any breakfast.”

“Someone did. Head waiter told me to deliver it up here. That’s all I know.”

“Then I’m telling you to deliver it back. Take all of it, and—” Laszlo was on the point of specifying exactly where in perdition it belonged, but one accidental glance at Betty’s innocently curious expression made him reconsider.

“Never mind,” he grunted. “Betty, are you decent?”

“Me?” Her would-be sultry answer came out as more of a squeak.

Laszlo smiled faintly in spite of himself. “Go ahead, in there.” He waved the boy inside and began fumbling through the dresser drawers in the hopes of turning up loose change for a tip.

The boy whisked in the serving tray and arranged it on the bed with frightening efficiency. Betty hardly had time to pull her robe tighter around her shoulders before he was already done, lifting the dome platter to reveal a hearty full English breakfast, freshly hot from the steam tray. Laszlo wordlessly paid the boy without bothering to count the coins and was never more grateful to see anyone speed off in glee.

“And don’t come back,” he added darkly, bolting the door behind him for good measure.

“Aw, sweetheart. Come here. I think that was a nice surprise, ordering breakfast in bed,” said Betty, giving Laszlo a peck on the cheek.

“Didn’t you hear what I said? I didn’t order anything,” he grumbled, slouching back into bed.

“You might at least pretend you did,” Betty retorted, spearing a tomato slice and a morsel of crumbly bacon on her fork. Her face lit up at the burst of flavor. “Mm! Try some of this, it’s delicious!”

“No thanks,” Laszlo sighed. “I’m not very hungry.”

The scrape of Betty’s knife and fork abruptly ceased. Already Laszlo could sense his wife’s keen stare of concern without even looking at her, but he was determined to ignore it.

“You sure you’re all right?” Betty asked.

“Sure, I’m sure.” Laszlo blankly stared at the ceiling, then at the floor on his side of the bed. He rubbed the back of his neck, unable to shake the pesky feeling that something, somewhere, was missing.

“Betty,” he said at last. “Did you put my clothes away last night?”

“No.”

“That’s odd. I thought—” His eyes widened. “Ferenc.” He hurried to the other room and found the spare bed empty and unmade, its rumpled sheets tumbling towards the floor.

“Did he really take my…?” Laszlo mumbled the incomplete thought in disbelief.

“What, darling?” called Betty.

“He’s not here.”

“What? Where did he go?”

Laszlo pursed his lips. “I know exactly where he went,” he said, hunting in the dresser for a fresh pair of socks. “I’ll bet you anything he’s downstairs eating breakfast. In my good suit.”

“Really? Well, in that case, he didn’t go far. Can’t you look for him later?” Betty pouted.

“I wish I could.”

“Please? Come on, eat your breakfast before it gets cold. It’ll make you feel better,” she coaxed.

She languidly reached over the downy mass of pillows and plucked at the braided cord of his robe. Whether she meant to untie it or simply rope him back into bed, Laszlo could not be certain. For once in his life, he was in no mood to care. He shooed her playful hands away in distraction as he retrieved a clean set of clothes folded away in the dresser drawer.

Betty drew back. “What’s the matter?” she asked softly. She dropped her gaze to the floor, trying to avoid looking at him as he hastened to get dressed.

“Hm? What did you say?” he muttered, too preoccupied with the clasp of his wristwatch to answer properly.

“Nothing,” Betty whispered.

Oblivious, Laszlo patted down his pockets for a comb and bent down for a better look in the vanity mirror. “Believe me, Betty,” he said, raking back his tangled hair until it lay perfectly glossed and slick against his head. “This is the last thing I wanted this morning, but you don’t know my brother. There’s no telling what he’s getting up to now. What do you figure he’s behind this little gag?” He gestured impatiently at the breakfast tray. “Better find him now before he gets into real trouble.”

“You sure you won’t have anything?” she asked timidly.

“I’m sure.” He bent down and lightly kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry about me, kitten. Just stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“You’ll never believe it, Rog,” Samuel crowed, marching into his room as if he expected a blaring fanfare of trumpets to sound at any moment. “Laszlo Hartvany has agreed to discuss terms.”

He received no answer. The bedroom lay still and dark, exactly as he had left it, all the shades drawn tight to block out the feeblest ray of winter sun. He reached for the curtain cord and thought better of it at the sound of a weary groan.

“Roger, are you awake?” Samuel called brightly into the dark.

His only answer was the uneasy rustling of sheets.

“Did you hear what I said? Laszlo wants to look over the contract,” Samuel went on. He cautiously pulled the shades open just a sliver, allowing a thin shaft of indirect sunlight to pierce through. “Don’t look now, but I may have finally convinced him. I do believe he’s going to join our record label. Oh, and I told him what you said last night about your performance. He accepts your apology, by the way.”

Roger groaned once more and buried his head under the pillow, pressing it tightly against his ears.

“Are you feeling all right, love?” Samuel sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on the unresponsive lump beneath the sheets. Still no answer.

Samuel clicked his tongue. “Well don’t just lie there,” he chided. “I know you’re awake. Say something, man, what’s wrong with you?”

Roger angrily threw aside the pillow and rolled onto his back, his bloodshot eyes boring two holes straight through Samuel’s own. His face was pale and clammy in the faint light, and damp with sweat.

“Oh dear, you don’t look well at all,” Samuel murmured. “Can I get you something? Some tea, a bit of dry toast? If you think you could keep that down.”

Roger glared, his breath coming in shallow gasps between faintly chattering teeth. “Do you love him?” he rasped.

Samuel gazed skyward. “Oh, for heaven’s sake—”

“I said, do you love him? You never answered me the last time.”

“If I didn’t answer it’s because you were drunk,” Samuel shot back. “You wouldn’t have remembered a thing I said.”

“I’m not drunk now,” Roger said. He folded his arms across his bare chest. “So who’s it going to be, then? Me, or that twisted little Hungarian you’re so infatuated with?”

“You’re a fool, Roger,” Samuel sighed.

“Am I?”

“Of course you are. In fact, you’re not only a fool, you’re a jealous, irrational bastard. Do you really think Laszlo and I would—”

“Answer the question!” Roger thundered.

Sam reddened furiously and was grateful for the veil of semi-darkness. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t love him at all!” he airily replied, turning away with a careless wave of his hand. “This is strictly a business affair, not pleasure. You’d know that if you weren’t drinking your life away by the hour. Anyway, talk about infatuations. I’ve been infatuated with you for over twenty years, for whatever reason.” He hesitated, pushing forward with his next indelicate thought anyway. “Though I must say. In recent years this little partnership of ours has become... rather difficult.”

Roger trembled, two lurid spots of color rising in his sunken cheeks. “Difficult how?” he demanded. “Difficult to behave decently in public? Difficult to avoid chasing after the first warm, tight little body you see?”

“Roger!”

“Shut up! I’ve argued enough with you. Yes, it’s been difficult, more than you know. More than I could ever admit to you, and I’m sick to death of it. I’m not pretending any longer, Sam. I don’t want to hear another word of your excuses, you vile, stupid—”

Roger broke off, grimacing at the sledgehammer beat of his own heart pounding in his head. He slumped under the covers again in defeat, but he offered no resistance as Samuel placed his hands on him again, finding purchase somewhere in the middle of his back. He shuddered as Samuel traced his lean shoulders, the straight line of his backbone with his fingers, pressing deeper to soothe the tired muscles and sinew.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Samuel. “I know you don’t mean that.”

“The hell I don’t,” Roger snapped, jerking away from his touch.

“I do love you, you know that. That’s the problem. I might just love you to death, if I’m not careful.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that we can’t go on like this. I can’t keep giving in, providing the very thing that’s killing you.”

Roger snorted contemptuously.

“I don’t have to tell you that we’re only destroying ourselves, and we do it willingly,” Samuel went on, ignoring him. “We both need a change. A brand new year and a fresh start, and all that.”

“And what do you suggest?” Roger growled his contempt through gritted teeth.

“I was thinking you might need to get away from the old scene for a while. Take all the time you need to rest up and relax. No more touring, no more recordings, no troubles for a good long while. Would you like that?”

Roger’s only answer was a long, sullen minute of stony silence as Samuel gently rubbed his shoulders.

“Rog, I’ll let you in on a secret,” Samuel quietly continued. “There’s a sanitarium I’ve learned about only recently, in Norfolk. I saw pictures of the place and I think you’d love it there. I’ll tell you what it looks like. It’s an old stone mansion, nestled in a beautiful lonely spot near the sea, and you can sit on the rolling lawn and watch the white waves cresting at the foot of the cliffs. It’s so calm and quiet there, so far removed from everything. It’s meant for people just like you.”

“People like me,” repeated Roger in disdain. “So I can be happy with my own kind, among the other wild beasts, is that it?”

“Nothing of the sort,” insisted Samuel. “I meant that it’s for people who need help to stop drinking. Professional help, so you can really dry out for good. They can help you, I know it. These new doctors work miracles these days. You won’t have to be in pain any more. You won’t have to remember any of the awful things that happened. Best of all, we can go there any time you say.”

“I will not,” muttered Roger.

“Well, of course not today. In a few days, perhaps, or next week—”

“Next week?” erupted Roger. “Oh, I see. You’d like that, wouldn’t you. Very convenient, to have me put away as soon as possible, where you don’t have to see or think about me ever again. You’ll be free to have as many ‘partnerships’ as you like. Well I won’t have it! My own grandfather died in one of those cruel institutions. A prison for the insane, that’s what it was!”

Samuel hushed him. “It’s not a prison. There’s no police, no armed guard, if that’s what you’re afraid of. It’s a hospital, and the best psychiatric clinic I could find. No one’s going to hurt you. And I’ll always come visit, anytime you want. But you’ve got to promise to leave London with me. I’m not going without you. Please, Roger, you’ve got to let me help you. I want you to get well again.”

“No!” Roger’s mouth twitched unpleasantly. “I want a drink,” he announced.

“You can’t,” said Samuel. “I threw away all your liquor last night.”

“Surely not all of it.” Roger flung the blankets aside and staggered to his feet. His limbs trembled as he searched every corner of the room in increasing desperation, having turned up nothing more than the empty whiskey bottle under the bed from last night’s binge.

“No. I found that one too,” Samuel informed him calmly, as Roger stood on his toes to reach the top of the tall mahogany wardrobe. His groping fingers met only dust. He stood bewildered for some moments, seemingly at a loss. With great effort he collected the last shreds of his composure and tied on his rumpled dressing gown, gripping the doorknob in a gaunt white fist.

“No matter. I’ll go down to the bar, then,” he announced.

“They won’t serve you, either,” Samuel warned. “I told them last night to refuse you anything. You’ll get nothing more, Roger. They were only too happy to follow my instructions.”

Roger’s sallow face turned purple in an instant, the muscles twitching in his gnashing jaw. “Damn you!” he shouted. In a rage he picked up the empty whiskey bottle and hurled it clear across the room, smashing it to pieces against the nightstand. “I’m going!”

“Just where are you going?”

“Home!” Roger howled.

“Home? But—Roger? Roger, come back!” cried Samuel, as the door slammed in his face.

Laszlo jogged down the stairs two at a time, set foot in the lobby and promptly cursed himself. He just realized he had neglected to throw on a suit jacket and was blundering around like a sweaty idiot in suspenders and shirtsleeves. He stormed through the entrance to the dining room anyway, fully expecting to be accosted by one pompous maitre-d’ or another, but as luck would have it, no one paid him the least attention. Instead the waitstaff hovered like bees to nectar around one far table in particular, serving up plate after loaded plate and listening attentively as a familiar honeyed voice carried across the room:

“Yes, it’s true! I know them very well! I have played concerts for all the royal families, all over Europe…”

“Pofa be, Ferenc, shut up, shut up,” Laszlo growled, picking up his pace.

“...As a matter of fact, I played piano for King George’s birthday only last month! That was before the royal Christmas party…”

Laszlo forced his way through the knot of enthralled listeners. Sure enough, Ferenc sat there with a smile to rival the Cheshire Cat, comfortably seated behind a stack of empty plates and stuffing yet more bread in his face, looking fit to burst at the seams at any second. He watched as Ferenc selected a thick slice of toast, folded it in half, and eagerly crunched into it, sending a dribble of melted butter all down the front of his pilfered evening jacket.

“Oh, how clumsy of me,” Ferenc chuckled, as one overly-solicitous waiter attempted to wipe away the stain with a napkin, smearing even more butter. “Of course, His Majesty has invited me again,” Ferenc went on, licking his fingers, “but I have not decided if I wish to—”

Laszlo’s rising blood pressure could take it no longer. “Ferenc!!” he bellowed.

Ferenc dropped his uneaten toast with a look of horror. “L-Laszlo! I was just…”

“Leaving? What an excellent idea,” Laszlo said tightly. He clapped a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. “Now.”

Ferenc quivered. “B-but I am not Ferenc, I am the great Laszlo Hartvany,” he bleated to the waiter, who had taken to fussing with various greasy spills congealing on the tablecloth. “Please tell him!”

The waiter froze as he looked up, his eyes fairly popping from his head in astonishment. “Good Lord. You look just like—but this man insisted that he—”

“Was me?” Laszlo finished for him. “And you believed him?”

The waiter thinned his lips and glared at both brothers in turn, his face the very picture of indignation as he began to puff up like an affronted balloon. “I knew it, I knew it!” he shouted, pointing an accusing finger in Ferenc’s face. “Francis! You did lie to me, didn’t you! Oh, you’re in for it now. This time I really am going to call the police.”

“Nooo, please!” Ferenc whined.

“Don’t bother,” Laszlo ordered sharply. “No need for the police. I take full responsibility for my brother’s actions.”

“Well, I...” the waiter stammered.

“What?” Laszlo snapped, drawing himself higher. “Is there a problem?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, it’s just that I’m relieved to know he really has a brother. This man has cost the hotel more than you will ever know,” the waiter said, mopping his brow. “You’ll pay for his meal? Both meals, I should say? And ah, the extra service charge for—”

“Yes, yes, never mind. Charge it all to my room. Assuming he hasn’t done so already,” Laszlo said tightly, shooting his wilted brother a glare hot enough to ignite coal. “Come on, we’re going.”

“Nah, don’t take him away yet!” laughed one of the busboys. “He tells the most cracking stories!”

“Ha! We ought to let the little fella play the Rose Room,” another server remarked. “He couldn’t do any worse than that old duffer here last night.”

“Not Roger Vanne? God, the old chap’s let himself go. He got so drunk last night, he slid off the piano bench and fell flat on his face at the end of the show.”

“Aw, go on. Did he?”

“It’s true! Saw it myself.”

“Really? Oh, that’s funny,” Ferenc giggled. He turned innocently to his brother. “Was he the same drunken idiot you were talking about last night?”

The baleful shadows darkened under Laszlo’s eyes. Without another word he grimly hoisted Ferenc from his chair and alternately pushed, then pulled him all the way back upstairs, enduring a constant stream of complaints the entire way.

“Wait, Laszlo! What did I do?” Ferenc whimpered. “I was going to come right back! I was hungry and I didn’t want to miss breakfast, that’s all. Please, I didn’t steal anything from you! I was only borrowing your nice suit!”

Laszlo halted in front of his door. “Oh, I see! You only borrowed it!” he laughed coldly. His rigid smile lasted just enough to throw Ferenc off guard. “And got your greasy paws all over it too, you little—”

“Ow!” Ferenc crossed his arms protectively over his soft middle, right in the spot where Laszlo had aimed a strike with the back of his hand. He blinked rapidly, looking far more shocked than hurt. “What was that for?”

“For ruining my best suit and being too fat to wear it, for one thing!” Laszlo shot back, slapping him in the stomach again. “Just what do you mean by playing these stupid games, hm? Is this why you’re not allowed in the hotel anymore?”

Ferenc opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. He meekly hung his head.

“So you have done this before,” said Laszlo. “I should have known. Do you do this often? Have you skipped out on every restaurant in town?”

“Not every single one!” Ferenc asserted. “London's a big place.”

“That's not the point! No wonder everyone gave me the stink-eye from the moment I got here. They recognized me—I mean you—thinking that I'm you! What else did you do, rob the safe? Steal silverware?”

“No!” Ferenc declared, offended at the very idea. “The silver is only imitation. Not even worth stealing.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“Now, the incident with the Clicquot was, I agree, a mistake,” Ferenc admitted. “But I was having a party, you see, and I got greedy. Or perhaps I was drunk?” His mouth fell open with excited realization. “Oh! What I should have done, was charge one bottle to ten different rooms, and—”

Laszlo began to wonder if it was possible for his eyes to roll completely free of his head. “Look, Ferenc, you’ve got to stop this. For your sake and mine. I’ll tell you right now, I will NOT be confused with a deadbeat, least of all my own brother.”

Ferenc recovered his wounded pride, straightening up to look his brother in the eye. “And I refuse to starve here,” he said. “I refuse to starve anywhere, but especially not in this land of plenty.”

“Land of plenty? England is still rationing, you insensitive clod! In fact, Samuel tells me they still don't have any proper meat at the shops most days. Small wonder, with pigs like you running around loose.”

“Samuel?” Ferenc tilted his head at the name, too puzzled to take notice of his brother’s insult.

“And anyway, you cannot live this way all your life!” Laszlo went on. “You're not a student anymore, begging for loose change at the coffeehouse. You're a grown man of forty—”

“Thirty-nine!” Ferenc insisted.

“You're a grown man of almost forty, as frightening as that is to contemplate, and you need to make an honest living.”

“I have a job! I play music, same as you!”

“Yeah, except I make good money doing it,” scoffed Laszlo. “You, on the other hand, play a lot of pretty, pastoral, Vaughan Williams symphonic nonsense for cows in a field, in exchange for nothing.”

Ferenc shook his head slowly, more melancholy than upset. “That is not true, that’s...”

“It is, and I’m not going to argue about it any longer!” Laszlo pushed open the door to the suite and manhandled his brother inside. “Now do as I say and get in that room before—”

Laszlo stopped short at the noise of screaming and an unholy commotion of feet thumping down from the floor above. He turned around just in time to witness Roger Vanne himself fly past at top speed, clad in nothing but a shabby dressing gown flapping wildly about his knees, with Sam not far behind in hot pursuit.

“What was that?” Ferenc exclaimed, fighting for a better look from the doorway.

With a grunt, Laszlo shut the door on his brother and wedged his foot under it. “Sam!” he called out. “Sam, what the hell is going on?”

Sam halted on the landing, his momentum nearly carrying him head-first down the stairs. “Oh, there you are,” he stammered. “Look, old chap, I’m terribly sorry, but you’ll have to sign the papers later. I’ve got to go after him—”

“Papers?” Laszlo frowned. “What are you talking about, what papers?”

“What? The papers for the—but why am I explaining this to you again?”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“For the music contract, Laszlo! Didn’t I say I’d page you about it? You seemed rather more agreeable to it not a quarter of an hour ago,” Sam replied peevishly.

“Huh? But I never saw you, I never agreed to anything! What’s gotten into you, Sam?”

Sam jogged nervously in place, edging further down the stairs. “Look here, Laszlo. I may be a patient man, but I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

Laszlo bristled. “Don’t call me a liar.”

“Blast, I knew this had to be some kind of trick,” growled Sam. “Oh, but it doesn’t matter now, there’s no time. I’ve got to go after Roger. Heaven only knows what he’s doing. I’ve got to go!”

“I thought I made myself clear—” Laszlo snapped, but Sam had already disappeared. “Sam—oww, goddamn it!”

“Sorry!” Ferenc had managed to force the door open a crack, accidentally mashing his brother’s toe. He peeked worriedly into the hall. “Where are you going?”

“Hell if I know,” Laszlo grimaced. “Ferenc, listen to me. You stay where you are. I’ll be back in a minute. Stay there with Betty, understand?”

“But—”

“DON’T go anywhere! And Betty, don’t let him out of your sight, understand? I’ll be right back!”

Without waiting for a reply, Laszlo limped downstairs once again and found Sam pacing up and down in the lobby, thoroughly beside himself. Sam gestured fitfully towards the front doors of the hotel, out into the cool gray mist blanketing the pavement just beyond.

“He’s out there, Laszlo. I told Roger they wouldn’t serve him any more alcohol but he wouldn’t listen. He dashed outside and into a cab before I could stop him. He’s gone.”

“Yeah, well, tough break,” Laszlo muttered, deciding it would be mildly gauche to tack on the words ‘good riddance.’ “But look, Sam. About this whole business of signing papers—”

“Laszlo, not now! You’ve got to help me find him!”

“Me? Why should I?”

“Because he might kill himself!” Sam cried, his anguished voice choked with tears.

Laszlo frowned. “Are you certain?”

“Yes! I know him better than anyone, you’ve got to believe that. He’s tried to do it before. Oh, Laszlo, I know you and Roger don’t like each other, but you’ve got to help me get him back to his room. He’ll be safe there until I can call a doctor. Please, you will help, won’t you?”

“Why not call the police?”

“The police? Because they’ll arrest him, that’s why! They’ll arrest a sick man for intoxication,” Sam raged. “Under no circumstances will I involve the police, ever.”

Laszlo stared into Sam’s pleading face, and in an instant he was standing on a bridge in some January night once long-forgotten, gripping a length of frozen steel in his numb fingers as he gazed into the waves lapping below, tasting the lethal winter air that stole his breath and waited for him to drop, for his lungs to fill.

“I’ll help you,” Laszlo quietly promised. “Come on.”

Sam beamed with hope. Together, the two men rushed from the lobby and managed to secure another cab of their own, utterly unaware they were being watched.

“Ah, see? That’s the one you want, the little miscreant,” exclaimed the house detective, pointing after the fleeing pair. “Ain’t no one else in the world what looks like that. Er. I think.” He privately considered his unaccountable case of double vision late last night and dismissed it just as quickly. “Anyway, that’s him, all right. You’d better hurry if you want to catch him.”

The second figure, huge and ponderous, peered over the top of his newspaper. With a narrow look, he secured his bowler hat and belted a long tan overcoat about his corpulent waist.

“Indeed, sir,” rumbled the fat gentleman, clearing his throat. “However, there’s no sense in rushing things, not among old friends. Francis and I are well acquainted with each other.” He took a firm hold of his umbrella in a meaty fist, bowed stiffly to the detective, and offered up a fleeting, oily smile. “And I certainly intend to take my time. Good day, sir.”

The fat gentleman marched through the doors and into the chilling mist in no particular hurry, his rolling gait well-balanced and deceptively agile for one of his size. He opened the rear door to his private car and eased his bulk into the passenger seats.

“Follow them,” he ordered the driver, pointing after the fleeing cab.

“Yes, Mr. Constantine,” the driver answered, and stepped hard on the gas.

Chapter Text

Betty sat speechless in the wake of her husband’s disappearance. She continued chewing the same mouthful of toast for a while, slowly and perplexedly, as Ferenc closed the door behind him. He faced her with an air of defeat, looking rather rumpled and worse for wear in his brother’s abused evening suit. With great effort he managed to conjure up a listless smile and shyly waved his fingers.

“Good morning!” he greeted in a fluty voice.

Betty finally remembered to swallow her food. “Um. Good morning,” she coughed. She hugged herself for comfort in the morning chill and glanced down, eyes widening in slow horror as the full extent of her compromising situation began to dawn on her. She was alone. In her robe. In front of a man she hardly knew.

“Oh. Oh, excuse me!” Leaping out of bed with a timid squeak, Betty grabbed an armful of clothes, scurried into the bathroom and firmly turned the lock behind her. The hissing pipes and gush of running water in the tub carried through the empty suite, muffled behind the closed door.

Ferenc’s heart sank. He stood rooted to the spot, staring after Betty with regret, then shook his head and padded across the room to where his violin case lay undisturbed from the night before. The battered instrument glowed for him like buried treasure as he opened the case, but he did not play it. Instead he cradled it close and softly plucked the vibrating strings with his thumb, discreetly tuning it by ear. He sighed and allowed time to pass in silence, his mind wandering aimlessly until the moment he heard the bathroom door click open. He put his violin away and stood up in a hurry.

“Hello,” he said humbly.

Betty hesitantly peeked from behind the door, looking fresh and pinkish from the bath but decently clothed in a clean wool skirt and bright matching cardigan. “Hello,” she echoed.

“I regret this for… I mean, I wish to…” The correct words refused to arrange themselves into an apology and he gave up, his shoulders slumping. “I am sorry for everything.”

“That’s all right,” said Betty, still uncertain about what exactly he had done wrong. “Um. Do you know where Laszlo went? What was all the shouting about?”

Ferenc shrugged helplessly. “I think he was talking to that fellow… Sam, that was his name,” he said after a moment’s thought. He suppressed a soft giggle. “You know, I met him at breakfast, and—”

“He was yelling at Sam?” Betty interrupted, wrinkling her nose. “About what?”

Again Ferenc shook his head. With a sigh he looked down and fiddled with his jacket lapels. “I don’t know. But I am sure it was about me. You see, I am a fool for so many things to go wrong, all in one morning. See?”

Betty approached him, her questioning gaze tracing the buttery stains and guilty fingerprints smeared over the satin of his coat.

“Oh, you mean the suit!” she exclaimed. She giggled internally as she pictured her husband’s outrage, his eyeballs popping out in fury at the sight of it. “Why, that’s nothing. You should have seen it on New Year’s Eve. Laszlo spilled more champagne on it than he would like to admit,” she joked, and was gratified to watch Ferenc’s cheeky smile peek through like a ray of sunshine.

“You know something?” she went on. “I think the hotel has its own dry cleaning service. They could take care of it right now.”

“You would do that for me?” Ferenc asked in wonderment.

“Sure! I don’t think it would cost that much. Besides, it needed to be cleaned anyway.” She looked around the room, putting a hand to her in mouth in thought. “What about your old clothes? I’m sure they could use a wash, too.”

“Yes, but—”

“If you give them to me, I can send them along with Laszlo’s suit. How does that sound?”

His quizzical expression wavered for a brief moment at the edge of tears. “Thank you,” he murmured, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Oh, but, what else can I wear?”

“Hm. Wait, I have an idea. I’m almost positive that Laszlo packed an old suit he doesn’t wear much anymore. Let me get it for you.”

Ferenc waited patiently as Betty dug into the closet and returned moments later with a fresh white shirt and a decidedly outmoded, but perfectly serviceable dark brown suit.

“Here. Not quite sure why he packed this, if I’m honest. I hope it fits,” she said, brushing away some flecks of lint before handing it over. “You’re both about the same height, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Ferenc, critically examining the cut of the fabric. “But, uh. That isn’t the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

He wryly gestured to his own midriff and pinched the spare roll of fat bulging over the top of his waistband, rolled his eyes in resignation, and retreated to the other room to change. He returned some minutes later, awkwardly sidling back into the room.

“Well?” asked Betty.

He shook his head slowly. “I am not sure,” he mumbled.

Betty’s chuckle slipped out before she could stifle it into a cough. Height-wise, the suit was fine, but the jacket appeared to shrink upwards on Ferenc’s rounded shoulders and did not button properly across his waist, leaving a gap that revealed a plump belly fighting for breathing room beneath a too-tight shirt.

“No good?” he asked timidly, trying in vain to pull the jacket closed.

“Well,” Betty said, hiding a smile behind her hand. “It’s not a perfect fit. But wait a minute, I’ll be right back.”

Digging into her purse, Betty found her miniature sewing kit and withdrew the largest safety pins she could find, clipping two of them together in a short chain. With Ferenc’s permission, she undid the button of his trousers and slackened the waist, then pinned the gap closed.

“Is that better?” she asked.

He nodded. “Better,” he agreed, inhaling more freely to fill the extra space.

“Good. Can’t fix the jacket, I’m afraid, short of having it altered. I don’t think Laszlo would appreciate that. But it’s only temporary.”

“Oh, this is fine, thank you very much,” he said gratefully. “I will give it back very soon, I promise.”

“Of course. Don’t worry, once I drop off your clothes, they’ll have everything clean for you in no time.”

Ferenc smiled vacantly. He sat down and fidgeted in the awkward silence that followed, sending shy glances towards Betty and looking away each time she met his eye. Not for the first time, Betty marveled at his uncanny resemblance to her husband, even though his demeanor couldn’t have been more different. He was less assured, his deep stare less haunted. Overall he was softer around the edges.

“Say,” she blurted. “I just realized something. We’re family now, you and I. You’re my brother-in-law!”

“Huh?” He stared at her blankly.

“Brother-in-law, you know. My husband’s brother.”

He blinked. “Oh. Oh, you mean I am your—sógor!” His grin lit up the room with understanding. “Then, that means you are my…?”

“Sister-in-law.”

“Sógornő,” he replied, still beaming. “Yes, of course.”

His accent lay heavily upon his words. The thrum of his rolled r’s sent the same pleasing trill down Betty’s back that she experienced from Laszlo’s voice, every time.

“Say that again,” said Betty.

“What?”

“The word you just said, for sister-in-law.”

“Sógornő,” he repeated.

Betty smiled at a second, smaller frisson shivering down from the top of her scalp. “That’s it. You sound so much like Laszlo, you know that?”

He glanced away to study the carpeted floor. “Many people say that,” he said, pretending to examine a seam in his shoes. “Even when we were very young. We were mistaken for each other, all the time.”

“I can see why!” Betty laughed. “But I like to hear you talk. I wish Laszlo would speak Hungarian more often, only he won’t.”

“What? Why?” Ferenc frowned indignantly.

“I’m not sure. I guess we don’t come across many Hungarians in Philly, that’s all. And he won’t teach me, either. I wanted to learn, but he told me it would be a waste of time.” She leaned forward, motioning him closer with the hint of a secret. “Just between you and me, I think he’s embarrassed to speak it at home. He calls it the devil’s language.”

Ferenc burst out laughing and grew earnest again in an instant. “Oh, it is not. It is a beautiful language,” he insisted. “But very hard to spell—for Americans.”

“I’ll say,” Betty agreed.

“You have been married long?” he asked curiously.

“No, not long. A little over a year.”

“I see. You have children?”

“Not yet. One day, I hope,” she said.

“Ah. That is good.” He lapsed into silence once more, either having run out of things to say, or else reached his limits of an unfamiliar vocabulary. When he did speak up again, it was in a halting, uncertain tone of voice:

“M-my brother is... rude sometimes?” he asked.

“Rude? How so?”

He frowned deeply and tried again. “Sorry. Not rude. I mean to say, cruel? He is cruel to you?”

“Oh, no, no,” said Betty. “Laszlo is never cruel to me.”

“Ah. Good,” said Ferenc, but the anxious wrinkles never left his brow. “He... says things. Cruel things to me. Sometimes.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Oh, he… he thinks I can’t read. Words, music, anything. But I can!” His indignant pout faded away into a sigh as he rested his chin in one hand. “I did not say I was good at it. Everything was always so easy for Laszlo. Not for me.”

Betty flinched at a sting of guilt. She suddenly recalled Laszlo’s offhand comment at dinner that she hadn’t even considered before: I hear that music teachers these days must be able to read their music.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know that must have been difficult.”

“Please, it is not your fault. He was always that way to me. But you are very nice,” Ferenc added, smiling up at her like an adoring puppy. He rocked slightly to and fro and rubbed his hands on his knees, and his roughened palms rasped at the fabric of his trousers with a noise like sandpaper.

“Oh my goodness, your hands,” Betty murmured. Without thinking she reached out to examine his hand and turned it over, palm-up. She winced at what she saw.

Ferenc tensed. “What’s the matter?”

“Why, you’re bleeding,” she said, wiping away a drop of blood smeared on her thumb. She traced the deep breaks in his thickened skin from his palms to the pads of his fingers, callused and cracked over and over again like parched earth.

“It is nothing,” he mumbled. He withdrew his hand, clasping his fingers together in a tight fist.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Betty apologized, tenderly letting go. “Does it hurt? It looks so painful, is all.”

“No pain,” he assured her with a sad smile. “It happens all the time. Every year.”

“I know what you mean. My hands get so dry every time it gets cold. Ooh, hold it!” She snapped her fingers and went rummaging in her purse again. “I know what you need.”

“Please, no more,” Ferenc implored her. “You have done too much for me today.”

“Just one more thing, I promise! My last good deed for the day,” she laughed.

“I do not deserve it,” he answered dolefully.

“Well, I can’t see that you did anything so horrible. Unless you had some sinister motive in sending up a surprise breakfast earlier. That was you, wasn’t it?” she chuckled. “Ah, here it is.”

Ferenc watched curiously as Betty produced a mysterious round jar from her purse and unscrewed the lid. She showed it to him and dabbed her finger into a silky white lotion, smoothing it between finger and thumb.

“This stuff is great,” she said, taking a moment to sniff the light fragrance of rosewater. “It’s the only thing that works for my chapped hands. I don’t know if it’ll help you, but it doesn’t hurt to try. Here, hold out your hands.”

He did so with caution, like a wounded animal, but he offered no protest as Betty took a generous dollop of the stuff and set to rubbing it gently into his dry skin.

“It’s like Laszlo’s always telling me: a musician must always take good care of his hands. It’s the only thing he’s got in this world, if he wants to live,” she said. “Besides, you don’t want to risk infection or something, you being out in the cold all day long. I wonder if better gloves would help.”

He said nothing, only nodded in vague agreement or confusedly shook his head as the situation demanded, until Betty was finished.

“There, doesn’t that feel better?” she asked.

Ferenc looked down, experimentally flexing his fingers, and rubbed his palms together. The stinging pain that usually accompanied the gesture was completely gone, and the sandpaper rasp of toughened calluses had already softened, just barely, into something approaching the suppleness of skin. He lifted his hands to his nose to inhale the delicate rosepetal scent and looked to Betty in astonishment, just as tongue-tied as ever.

Betty met his gaze and was nearly overcome by its intensity, black and lustrous and unblinking. “Is… is everything all right?” she ventured.

Ferenc’s tragic expression crumpled. This time he really did dissolve into tears.

“You are too kind to me,” he said. His voice caught feebly in his throat, quivering like a broken string, and he was obliged to turn his face away.

“Oh. But I didn’t really do anything, not—” Betty blushed and bit her lip, lacing her fingers tightly in her lap, and gave him a minute to collect himself before she spoke again. “I mean, that’s very sweet of you, Ferenc. By the way, am I saying your name right?”

“Ferenc, yes,” he nodded eagerly, visibly grateful for any distraction.

“Fer-enz,” Betty repeated, doing her best to imitate the brief flick of the tongue on the “r” sound.

“Like that. Very good.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve and smiled meekly. “Francis is easier to say.”

“I know, but I wanted to try and say it right. It is your real name.”

“Oh, but I have a lot of names,” he said, waving a hand. He giggled softly. “It is so funny, every country has a name for me. In France, they call me François. In Germany, I am Franz. And here, Francis. Of course, everybody has other names for me, too. Not very nice.” His teary eyes clouded briefly before growing wider in owlish curiosity. “What do they call me in Spain, you think? I have never been there.”

“Um. I’m not sure,” said Betty. “Maybe… Francisco?”

“Francisco.” He pondered the name and smiled, rocking on his heels in a pleased sort of way. “Yes, I like that. Like Italy, where I was Francesco. Did you ever go to Italy?”

“No.”

“I did! It is beautiful there,” he bubbled happily. “Especially Venice. She is my favorite city. She is all red and white stone in the sun, and calm blue water under the moon. She is—” His round, angelic face glowed, beatific in the memory of an experience that he lacked sufficient words to express. He seemed to realize his failure and sank once more into a state of muted despair. His poor hands opened and closed in his lap to grasp at thin air, to entreat all creation in mourning the loss of something he never possessed.

“It’s all right,” Betty reassured him. “Go on.”

He shook his head. “I wish I could go back,” he finally said. “It was warm there.”

Betty quieted with him for a long moment. She watched curiously as Ferenc’s inky black eyes gradually caught fire like smoldering candlewicks.

“I wonder something. If my brother will not teach you a magyar nyelv,” he said, “he must teach you music. Yes?”

“Yes, he does! He’s given me piano lessons since we were married.”

“Will you play for me?”

“Oh, no, no!” said Betty. “I’m only a beginner. I’m not nearly good enough to play for an audience.”

“No? Every musician needs an audience,” he said.

Betty refused again, firmly shaking her head. “No, sorry. I’m not ready.”

His hooded gaze flicked towards his violin and back again. “In that case. May I play for you?”

“Oh! Would you?” Betty exclaimed. “That is, if you feel like it. You don’t have to.”

“But I want to! I love to play. Especially now, with my new hands.” He winked at her. In a flash he took up his violin once more and confidently swept the bow across the strings in an a lilting, descending scale that shivered through the whole room. “What would you like to hear?”

Betty reminisced for a moment, recalling her first arrival at the hotel when she first heard the faint, half-imagined call of a violin. “You know something, Ferenc? I think maybe I heard you play this once, back when we arrived in London. I was certain that I heard Vaughan Williams from somewhere. Would you play The Lark Ascending?”

“That? Pshh.” He looked away with an abashed grin, flushed with embarrassment. “I only play that for tourists.”

“I’m a tourist,” she said.

“No no, you are different, you are family!” he insisted. “No, you don’t want to hear that. It is on the radio all the time.”

“I know, but I like it anyway. And besides, I heard you playing it last night, just before we found you. There were no tourists around then.”

He shifted uncomfortably.

“Please, just this once,” Betty entreated. “I’d like to hear the way you play it.”

He started to shake his head, but one glance at Betty’s hopeful smile was enough to make him relent.

“Well. All right, if you really want,” he sighed.

He straightened in his chair, closed his eyes meditatively and touched the bow to the strings. In an instant all else faded into obscurity as the lone, rising song of the lark filled the room and bloomed into warm midsummer, the air thick with the nimble stirring of notes like feathered wings. It was as eternal as the flowers, the rushing brook, the high white clouds scudding like ships on the horizon, nature in all her profusion, and for a long time Betty did not move as time immemorial held its breath, rushed forward and lay still.

Chapter Text

Laszlo looked up once more with the same silent question. He received the same answer as Sam left the pub and dragged himself back to the cab empty-handed, a look of helplessness in his downcast eyes.

“No luck, huh?” Laszlo inhaled deeply from his cigarette and wearily arched his back, blowing smoke towards the ceiling of the cab. “Told you it was a waste of time.”

“And what else would you suggest?” Sam blurted. “You might at least offer some encouragement! I haven’t heard one good word out of you for the entire morning!”

“Because YOU’RE the one who took me on this wild goose chase!” Laszlo retorted. “I’d just as soon go back to the hotel, if it’s all the same to you.”

“You promised to help me find him!”

“I did, yes.” Laszlo’s eyes flashed mockingly. “And to hear you talk, I thought he was just down the street, holding a gun to his head. But he’s not, is he? Nooo. You’d think a crazed, suicidal man running around London in nothing but a dressing gown would be easier to find.”

“You’d be surprised, guv,” the cabbie interrupted, not quite sotto voce enough to go unnoticed.

Laszlo ignored him. “And here we are, still poking around every liquor store like a hopeless drunk on a Sunday, and I’m tired. I’m tired and I’ve had nothing to eat and quite honestly I could use a drink myself, right about now.”

Sam’s breath trembled on the cold air. “I see. And you think I’m not tired of it?” he said, wrenching the passenger door open to fling himself into the seat. “You think I’m not fed up with the whole rotten business? Well I am. And let me tell you something, Laszlo. I’m sick of Roger, I’m sick of YOU, I’m sick of everyone in every bloody pub in this blasted filthy hellhooole—!” His voice climbed to a shout, lingering theatrically on each expletive until heads turned in the street.

“I’m gettin’ pretty sick of it meself,” the cabbie chimed in again. He released the parking brake with an earsplitting creak and coaxed his rattletrap of a cab into first gear. “I could be collecting other fares, y’know. This time of day is peak fare. Why, some of the places you’re looking at ain’t even open yet. As a matter of fact—”

“Never mind the fare,” Sam muttered, sliding an extra tenner under the man’s nose. “Keep driving.”

The cabbie’s eyebrows ascended into his hairline but he pocketed the cash and continued down Fleet Street without another word. Sam wearily covered his face, pressing inward to shut out the jolting suspension of the cab, and hung his head in both hands.

Laszlo frowned. “Look, Sam,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. But you must understand, I am of no help to you. You know much more about Roger’s habits than I do. I haven’t left the car this whole time.”

“I know, I know, but… please. Just one more stop. One more, that’s all I ask.”

“Then what?”

“Then I’ll… I’ll let the police handle things,” Sam sighed.

“Fine. Good.” From the corner of his eye, Laszlo caught a glimpse of Sam’s defeated expression and felt a fleeting prickle of guilt. “Hey, don’t misunderstand. I don’t like cops, either, but uh… they are often a necessary evil.”

“It isn’t that. I ought to have alerted them immediately, I know,” replied Sam. “It’s just that I feel safer having someone else here. I don’t like looking for Roger alone, not when he gets like this.”

“You mean he’s done this before?”

“Oh yes. This isn’t the first time, not by a long shot.” Sam ruefully shook his head. “In the past he’s led me into some… unusual places.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Laszlo retreated slowly into his own thoughts, staring out of the window as he flashed back to another year, another frenzied chase through different streets. His gaze flitted above the dash and he fancied, dimly, that he had seen that expensive black auto with the polished chrome grill in the rear-view mirror before, keeping pace all morning in a persistent cat-and-mouse game of his imagination. He turned around for a better look. The car turned and vanished.

“Do you see him?” asked Sam, craning his neck to peer over Laszlo’s shoulder.

“Huh? No, I—I was thinking about something else.” Laszlo flicked away his cigarette ash and did everything possible not to meet Sam’s searching gaze. “Betty must be worried sick by now.”

“I’ve taken you away from her, haven’t I,” Sam said quietly. “I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you hated me. And Roger, oh.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “You must hate him even more.”

“No,” Laszlo answered calmly. “That’s the funny thing, Sam. I don’t hate him. Oh, I can’t say I like him either, but that isn’t his fault.”

“It is and you know it. He’s been perfectly beastly to you this whole time. And everybody,” Sam added under his breath.

“Maybe. But I told you before, he reminds me of me. Or at least, how I was. I see more of myself in him than I care to admit, that’s all.”

“I can’t believe you were as bad as all that.”

“If you only knew,” Laszlo sighed. “I know how badly I ruined my life, chasing after fame. Not only my life, but the lives of everyone around me. Even now, I seem to attract trouble.” He shook his head. “No, I know myself only too well. You’d be better off not signing me.”

“Oh, tosh.” Samuel leaned back as far as the seat would allow and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d hate to lose you, old chap, really I would. But I still say you exaggerate. Anyway, what happened to all that enthusiasm earlier this morning? I thought you would be willing to discuss terms, at least.”

“This morning.” Laszlo’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Sam, tell me something. When you saw me this morning, did I happen to be wearing my best evening suit?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact you were. Didn’t I say something about it? About how you seemed a tad overdressed, I mean. Not that it matters.” He blinked at Laszlo in astonishment. “I say, that reminds me. Just now you complained you’d had nothing to eat. But you did eat breakfast this morning, don’t you remember?” His eyes twinkled with a teasing smirk. “It was rather a lot, as I recall. Don’t tell me you’re hungry again.”

“Uh-huh.” Laszlo rubbed his chin. “I think I’m finally beginning to understand.”

“What do you mean?”

Laszlo smiled to himself and rested a friendly hand on Samuel’s arm. “Sam, you won’t believe this. You see—”

“Christ almighty!” With a groan, the cabbie hauled on the steering wheel and mashed the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a shuddering halt.

“Be careful!” cried Sam. “What are you trying to do?”

“Sorry about that, guv, but something’s happening on the bridge!” the cabbie exclaimed. “They’ve got the rozzers up there, blocking the road.”

“Roger?” breathed Samuel.

“No, I said—”

“Look!” Laszlo jabbed his finger against the window towards a lone, thin figure, half-dressed and bare-legged, clinging to the columned barrier of Blackfriars Bridge. “It is Roger, I can see him!”

“Oh my God.” Sam clawed at the door handle and leaped free of the cab. Together, he and Laszlo pushed past a small crowd of gawkers only to be forcibly blocked by the police.

“What d’you think you’re doing?” barked a constable. “Get back behind the line and stay there.”

“Let me through, please,” Sam begged. “That’s my friend up there, I’m afraid he’s going to jump.”

“’Course he is, we know that! Don’t you worry, we’ll get him down. Now stand back, if you please—”

“No! You’ve got to let me talk to him, he might listen.”

“I said stand back!” shouted the constable, brandishing a truncheon. “I don’t care whose friend it is, you go behind the line and stay there.”

“Don’t, Sam,” Laszlo warned, gripping his arm tight to hold him back.

Sam strained forward. “What are you going to do? You can’t arrest him, please, you can’t, he’s very ill,” he pleaded.

“You’re telling me,” replied the constable, careful to keep one eye fixed on Roger. “The man’s a lunatic. He’s already had three counts of robbery and vandalism and twice as many public disturbances only this morning. And now attempted suicide, and God knows what else. What did you say was wrong with him?”

“He didn’t,” Laszlo broke in sourly.

“Please, will you at least take him to a hospital?” begged Sam.

The constable glared. “All right, that’s enough now,” he warned, shoving Sam in the chest. “Get back or the both of you will need more than a hospital, I promise you that.”

Sam fearfully complied, but even the constable’s threat couldn’t stop him from crying out at the top of his lungs:

“Roger! Roger, it’s me. Come down from there this instant, you bloody fool.”

Roger did not seem to hear. He clung to the rail for an interminable length of time, balanced precariously between freezing waters and sky, until he looked back and saw two officers slowly closing in on either side. The crowd gasped as Roger defiantly swung his leg over the balustrade, threatening to plunge below.

Laszlo’s stomach lurched as if he were falling. “NO, don’t!” he shrieked aloud.

This time, Roger heard. The effect was electric. His lidless gaze snapped towards Laszlo in a fury. He lurched backwards and raised a defiant fist, ready to abandon his own death in favor of tearing his enemy to pieces—and his fingers slipped on the wet railing. A scream went up from the crowd as Roger lost his balance and dropped below the balustrade out of sight.

"No no, oh God, no!" Sam cried out, hiding his face.

"Wait, look!" Horrified, Laszlo watched as Roger hung from the wrong side of the bridge, dangling white-knuckled above the water.

The officers seized their chance. In an instant they pounced, dragged Roger over the balustrade, and tackled him spectacularly to the ground. Laszlo winced at the cracking of teeth against the pavement.

“Let me go!” Roger raved, kicking and spitting blood for all he was worth. “Do you know who I am? Let me goooo!”

Forgetting the police, forgetting everything else entirely, Sam ran forward, pulling Laszlo with him.

“Oh, Roger.” Sam was close to tears as he gripped Laszlo’s arm for support, unsteady with vertigo.

“We’ll take it from here, sir,” the constable assured him.

“Get a doctor,” Sam ordered. “Please, can't you see he's hurt?”

“Don’t you worry. We’ll see to him, but first we’ve got to take him to Scotland Yard. Now, don’t argue with me!” the constable warned, already seeing the desperation in Sam’s eyes. “Them’s the orders.”

“Then let me come with you. I can help, I can explain everything that’s happened.”

“All right, sir, if you want to. But he’s still going to jail, no question about it.”

“I know.” Sam’s steps dragged as he approached, heartbroken to see Roger’s lithe figure hanging limply in the grip of two burly officers. He reached out to press a handkerchief against his bloodied mouth, even as Roger feebly turned his head to avoid it.

“Oh, Roger,” Sam murmured sorrowfully. “Everything is going to be all right now, you’ll see. It’s going to be all right.”

Laszlo helplessly watched Samuel drift away, following close behind the officers as they loaded Roger in the back of the police van. He heard the sharp blast of the constable’s whistle, the wail of retreating sirens, and within minutes the traffic flowed again, swift and serene as the water below, just as if nothing ever happened.

Bewildered, Laszlo jumped at the blare of a horn and discovered that the cab driver was still waiting for him, no doubt anticipating the rest of his return fare. He waved to the driver in relief, his mind humming with glad thoughts of his return to Betty, and was just about to take his seat when he found himself unexpectedly blocked. The passenger door slammed shut in his face.

“What—?” Laszlo glared upwards. A complete stranger had just appeared, an impressively large fat man, who now stood unmoving in front of him.

“Excuse me, this is my cab,” said Laszlo, but received no reply. “Out of the way,” he ordered, and attempted to push the large stranger aside with about as much success as moving a mountain. Only then did the man seem to take notice, looking down at Laszlo from on high like a king in his unassailable fortress. A slow, oily grin spread across his corpulent features.

“My dear chap. Such a pleasure to see you,” the stranger said. Without warning he leaned forward to gather Laszlo in his arms and clap him across the back like an old friend.

“What? I—” Laszlo was nearly bowled over by the man’s sheer size, a crush of weighty, rotund flesh that kept him pinned against the side of the cab. He struggled in his inescapable embrace until he felt something else; the hard point of a cold, steely object jammed in his ribs. He froze as the stranger’s low guttural voice rumbled in his ear:

“You will come with me if you know what’s good for you. Don’t try to run.”

“Hey, wot’s the idea?” the cabbie shouted, voicing Laszlo’s thoughts exactly. “You’re holding up my cab!”

The fat man raised an annoyed eyebrow and half-turned towards the cabbie, not taking his eyes off Laszlo for a second. “Is there a problem, Toby?” he asked.

The cabbie took one look at him and paled. “N-no, sir. No, Mr. Constantine, not at all.”

“Mister—” Laszlo mouthed the name without a sound, his throat unaccountably gone dry.

“Be on your way, then. As for you.” Mr. Constantine sent Laszlo a fond glance and gestured towards his private car, all luxurious pitch black and shining chrome. “No need to bother with a cab. I would be honored to have you as my guest—Francis.” His mouth twitched at Laszlo’s look of shock, curving upwards in the barest smirk.

“Yessir, of course, sir,” stammered the cabbie. “I had no idea he was with you, sir.”

Before Laszlo could utter a word, the cabbie released the brake with a grinding screech and sped away across the bridge, leaving Mr. Constantine shaking his head in dismay.

“Poor devil,” he tutted. He shook himself and gave Laszlo another hearty slap across the back. “Well then, Francis. It’s been quite the spectacle this morning, hasn’t it? I saw the whole thing. Hm-hm, don’t worry. I’m sure you had nothing to do with it.” He paused for breath. “Well, what do you say? Aren’t you glad to see me? You must be freezing, wandering this far afield without a coat.” He draped a weighty arm across Laszlo’s shoulders and pulled him close.

In a moment of weakness Laszlo shivered and leaned into him, seeking to bury himself in the pocket of warmth beneath the man’s enviable overcoat, but he tensed again just as quickly. His arm brushed against the gun that had been in his ribs just moments before. He looked up, found Constantine beaming down on him with an oddly paternal smile, and swiftly decided it was safer not to contradict him.

“Um… o-of course I’m glad to see you,” Laszlo said, unconsciously pitching his voice a little higher in imitation of a certain brother. He met the fat man’s gaze with a look of doe-eyed, gentle exasperation and added: “You don’t have to hold me at gunpoint to say so!”

The fat man stared incredulously before he threw back his head and laughed, a rich baritone that seemed to carry across the full span of the Thames. “Come come, sir,” he said, his stout body still shaking with laughter. “We may both drop this childish charade. I know that you’re not really Francis.”

Laszlo’s expression darkened in an instant. “Why didn’t you say so before?” he growled, attempting to pull free of Constantine’s insistent grip on his shoulder.

“Because I must have my fun now and again,” chuckled Constantine. “I was curious to see how you might react. Hm-hm, I must congratulate you on a most amusing performance.”

Laszlo muttered something unintelligible through his teeth.

“Your resemblance to dear Francis is remarkable,” the fat man continued. “Even I was beginning to doubt myself, but now I’m certain you must be related. Your brother, I presume?”

“Yes, he is,” Laszlo answered reluctantly.

“Excellent, sir, excellent. How interesting that I should find both of you in London at the same time. That is what I call serendipity.” His eyes widened, glinting with a crafty glow as he tucked his pistol away in his coat. “In any case, I am quite certain Francis must have told you exactly why I’m here. But first things first. Would you be so kind as to tell me your name?”

“Laszlo Hartvany,” he answered tersely, crossing his arms. “And no, my brother didn’t tell me anything. May I ask who you are? I mean, I’ve heard your name, but who are you really?”

The fat man doffed his bowler hat. “Horace Constantine, at your service. As to who I really am, that’s not something I feel comfortable discussing in the street. Come with me. We may speak more candidly elsewhere.”

“Where are you taking me?” demanded Laszlo, mentally casting about for any familiar place that might be safer. “To Penny’s Place?”

“Ahh, so you’ve met her?” Constantine smiled to himself. “Charming woman, wonderful. Only too happy to relate all that happens down here in our so-called underworld. But no, we shan’t go there now. I’ll take you to my private club. It’s rather more discreet.”

Laszlo hung back. “Do I have a choice?” he asked.

“We all have a choice, Mr. Hartvany.” His grip tightened. “I trust you to make the right one.”

The drive was relatively brief, but without a clear idea of where they were headed, it seemed to take forever. Constantine kept up the flow of idle conversation the whole time, so pleasant and gregarious that for a moment Laszlo nearly forgot the whole trip was against his will. He gritted his teeth and did his best to ignore his own neglected appetite gnawing away at him with each passing minute, until at last they pulled up in front of a nondescript row of shops and second-floor rooms for rent. Tucked away in a narrow stone niche between two larger facades, as if some past architect had neglected to plan for it, was a plain green door.

“I take it from your expression,” said Constantine, hoisting himself from his seat, “that you expected something a bit grander?”

“I’m not sure what I expected,” said Laszlo. There were no signs anywhere to indicate the name of the place, nor that it was even a club of any kind. The only visible marking above the green door was a curious symbol in the shape of a ram’s horn, gracefully stenciled in faded gold paint.

“A former Turkish café,” Constantine explained, taking note of Laszlo’s curious gaze. “The man who sold it to me called it ‘The Golden Horn.’ I decided to keep the name, if only to preserve a sense of the old neighborhood. Now it’s my own oasis in the urban desert, as it were. Come, I’ll show you.” He smiled, ushering Laszlo through the door.

Laszlo blinked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim glow of soft orange lanterns illuminating the entryway. The front hall was narrow and barely afforded room to turn around—no small problem for a man of Constantine’s girth, but he navigated the tight passage with practiced ease. Upon reaching the carpeted, vaguely Oriental interior of the whitewashed dining room, they were met by a darkly handsome young man of probable middle-Eastern descent, impeccably dressed in a sharp-cut light gray suit and the most daring of oversized shirt collars.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Constantine!” greeted the smart fellow.

“Good afternoon, Turhan. Pleasure to see you, as always.”

“Your usual table, then?”

“Yes, indeed. Oh, and send up another plate for brunch, same as mine. I have a guest with me.”

“Ah, I see.” Turhan leaned to one side and caught a glimpse of Laszlo blocked in the corridor behind Constantine’s considerable bulk, peeking around the larger man like a small child behind his father. He laughed politely through his nose. “Right away, sir,” he said, and noiselessly disappeared through a concealed panel door like a phantom.

“I would receive you in my office upstairs,” said Constantine, “only it’s so very untidy. This is better.” He steered Laszlo towards a private table behind a dark curtain, well-stocked with plush embroidered cushions on every side. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“No thanks,” said Laszlo.

“Or would you prefer Turkish coffee? Specialty of the house.”

“No, nothing,” he refused again, still fidgeting to find a comfortable position among so many enormous cushions.

“I see.” Constantine watched him smugly. “You are wise to refuse. One never knows when a drink offered in friendship might be secretly poisoned, isn’t that so?”

Laszlo paused, glaring at him with a look of mingled confusion and dread, until his host abruptly broke character and roared with laughter again.

“Ha-ha, ha! Oh, you are indeed a suspicious man, Mr. Hartvany, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Well, I should be,” answered Laszlo with a scowl. “Listen, do you mind explaining to me why we’re here? I don’t like being pushed around at the business end of a gun. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but I still don’t like it.”

“Indeed?” Constantine’s look of mild surprise was fleeting. “Extraordinary. You must tell me more about that sometime. But rest assured that I have no wish to kill you. If I did, I would have done so already. The gun was merely a precaution. One cannot wander the streets these days without protection, more’s the pity, but such violence runs strictly contrary to our mutual interests.”

“And what would that be?” Laszlo startled as Turhan reappeared at the table sooner than expected, bearing a hot tray laden with heaping portions of seasoned flatbread, coffee and sweet rolls, and a creamy plate of something that Laszlo did not recognize but was strongly redolent of garlic.

“First we eat,” said Constantine, pouring out two little cups of frothy, aromatic black coffee from a long-handled copper cezve. “I never discuss business on an empty stomach.”

That much is obvious, Laszlo thought acidly, but at the same time he didn’t disagree with the sentiment. He acquiesced and cautiously sampled a piece of the gözleme, a flatbread brushed with sesame oil and filled with finely-minced beef and onion. It flaked apart in his mouth with a taste so savory that he unthinkingly finished it immediately and went straight for another piece. The garlic dish, as Constantine was only too happy to explain, was çılbır, a plate of poached eggs stirred into yogurt and cloves of sauteéd garlic until smooth, all topped with melted butter and hot red pepper. Laszlo had to admit it was excellent, but he refused to let down his guard completely as his host continued a one-sided discussion of nearly everything under the sun, rambling on about trifles in a low, hypnotic tone of voice, until at last he was satisfied to turn to the real business at hand.

“Now then, sir. The matter of your brother. I’d imagine there is much you wish to know,” he said.

“Of course there is,” replied Laszlo, bristling with questions after his long wait. “For one thing, how on earth did you meet? And why are you after him now? Does he owe you money, is he in debt? He’s not in trouble with the law, is he?”

“One thing at a time, Mr. Hartvany,” laughed Constantine. “I can only answer so quickly. Well, for a start, no, he’s not in trouble with the law, not yet. He does owe me money, but that’s neither here nor there.” His jovial expression turned grave. “There is the small matter of his stint in jail, in connection with a certain little incident of fraud last year.”

“What?” Laszlo’s eyes widened. “I knew he cheated the hotel, but I had no idea he went to jail for it.” His ashen face fell into a scowl. “Well, who cares. Maybe he belongs there.”

“His time in jail is of no concern to me,” Constantine intoned. “Most of my men have been incarcerated for one reason or another. It’s simply a question of loyalty and discretion whilst one is on the inside. Sadly, it would seem that Francis possesses neither quality in full measure. A shame he let slip so many secrets while he was there.” He gazed at Laszlo sidelong, one eye glittering dangerously. “There are those who would be none too pleased, if word of his indiscretions got out.”

Laszlo glared from under his brows. “What is it you want, Mr. Constantine?” he demanded.

“Want?” Constantine repeated. He sank deeper into the cushions and smiled comfortably. “More than the whole wide world can offer, sir, but that is not the answer you wanted. Allow me to explain. First and foremost, I am a man of business. I fancy myself a patron of the arts, though I suspect I have a broader definition than most of what may be called ‘art.’ But above all, I am a collector. A collector of people, to be more precise. Oh not in the way you may be thinking, it’s all quite above board. People find me just as often as I find them, nearly always in their darkest hour—serendipity, as I said before. I offer what I can, and in return they work for me. Rescue a man in dire straits, and he’ll stick with you for a lifetime, I promise you. Undying loyalty to the last. Except…” He trailed off, shutting his eyes to a distant memory. “I’ll make one thing clear, Mr. Hartvany. I want your brother to return to me. You see, he eluded me only once. Three years ago, in fact, as we were passing through Geneva. I’ve tracked him ever since, but never quite caught up with him until now. He never did like to stay in one place too long. Perhaps it’s the Romany blood in him.”

Laszlo snorted.

“I beg your pardon,” Constantine said coldly. “Is there something you find amusing?”

“We are not Romany,” Laszlo said. “Ferenc only says that because he envied them. He always wished he was a gypsy, traveling the world.”

“I see. Now that is interesting, for you might say I have fulfilled that wish for him. When I first met him, it was years ago in Venice, just before the war. In those days he made his living as a struggling musician, or at least he tried to. Naturally, I offered him a better situation, as I always do. Something of a Faustian bargain, perhaps, but our arrangement was always intended as mutually beneficial. I ensure his protection, he earns his keep through… liberation of valuables.” Constantine shrugged broadly. “I give him credit for escaping me. The man is clever, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that without guidance, he is immensely careless.”

“Hm,” was all Laszlo said, but he didn’t contradict the statement, either.

“No matter. He is still of considerable use to me. A light touch and a guileless face has become something of a lost art these days, wouldn’t you say? But Francis is a natural. Hrm-hm.” He chortled to himself at a fresh thought. “Not to be vulgar, but a light touch is desirable in other things, too. Some of the boys in the organization find his company… how shall I put this delicately. Appealing?” His smile was vaguely malevolent in the low light. “I have no wish to disappoint them.”

Laszlo suppressed a shudder. “You want me to return my own brother to that? What makes you think I would?”

“A reward for your services, perhaps?”

“Keep your money,” Laszlo sneered.

“It doesn’t have to be money. Surely we can come to some other arrangement.”

“No.”

“Be reasonable, Mr. Hartvany. Francis would only be a nuisance to you.”

“I don’t care, I’ll have nothing to do with this. Anyway, why involve me at all, when you could just as easily send your goons after him? That was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Maybe kidnap me, as well?”

“Really, sir. Certainly I might send my ‘goons,’ as you so eloquently put it, but the truth is I am not a violent man. There is no reason we cannot discuss the matter like civilized men. I am simply giving you a choice. You can make this easier on him, or not, that’s up to you. But I always collect what’s mine, one way or another.” He leaned forward a little too intimately across the table, slowly pushing closer as Laszlo shrank away by degrees.

“Look, Mr. Constantine.” Laszlo fumbled with a cigarette to stall for time, mentally grasping at straws. “There’s another reason I won’t do it. The truth is, I can’t. My brother has just signed a new contract for an international concert tour. I was helping him work out the details only this morning. So you see, it’s quite impossible for him to return. His contract rules out any... freelance work.”

“Is that so?” Constantine glowered across the table. “With whom did he sign this agreement?”

“Vanne Records. I can get a copy of it for you, if you like.” Laszlo lied with uncommon fluency and ease that would have done Ferenc proud, but Constantine scarcely blinked. He shook his head with a heavy sigh.

“I’m disappointed, Mr. Hartvany,” he said. “A brave attempt at a story, but feeble.”

“I tell you, it’s true!”

Again Constantine shook his head, a self-satisfied smile spreading across his florid face. “No, sir. But I believe there is another way out of our little conundrum, if you’d care to hear it.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t suppose you would be interested in taking your brother’s place?” Constantine spoke just as casually as if he had suggested meeting up for drinks at the pub. “The resemblance between you is truly uncanny. And you are very much like him in other ways, I can tell. I can always tell when something is missing from a man’s life, something he wants desperately. I could give it to you. Money, fame, the recognition you reached for with both hands but always failed to grasp. I gave Francis the same offer. I offered him everything he could ever want, and just look how he repays me with ingratitude. But you, sir. This little chat of ours has already revealed considerable promise. Perhaps joining me, in fair exchange for your brother’s freedom...”

Laszlo stared back in utter horror. “No!” he cried aloud, almost a shout.

Constantine broke his unblinking eye contact and shrugged, jutting out his lower lip. “In that case, we have nothing more to discuss,” he said. “You have twenty-four hours. Tell Francis to meet me at the usual station. He’ll understand what that means.”

“And if I don’t?”

Constantine laughed to himself, his generous jowls contorting in a smug smile. “Hm-hm. I would consider that most unwise,” he replied. “It should be clear to you that I have eyes and ears all over the city. I shouldn’t be surprised if someone comes to call, should your brother not return of his own free will. And I can assure you, they will be rather less hospitable than I am. And should you choose to call the police—well, I wouldn’t, if I were you.” He rose ponderously to his feet and drew the heavy curtain aside, motioning Laszlo towards the exit. “I leave you to it, Mr. Hartvany. I would accompany you myself, but I have other business to attend to. Turhan will see you out. Oh, and my driver will conduct you back to the hotel. No, no, I insist. Consider it a personal favor. There’s no sense in wasting any more of your precious time.” His eyes turned hard as steel but his fleshy smile never wavered, fixed in place. “Or mine, for that matter. Good day to you.”

Laszlo wandered towards the door in a daze. He was only dimly aware of Turhan’s gracious farewell as he was led outside. He recalled nothing whatever of getting into the car. He remained silent for the entire uneventful ride back to the hotel, mulling over all possible outcomes of the next twenty-four hours until he couldn’t think straight. Mechanically, he drifted through the revolving door of the Midway and paused at the front desk for the clerk to hand over his room key. He stared at it for a while, his right hand trembling. His fingers curled around it in a fist.

“Betty?” Laszlo called out the moment he was in his room again. “Ferenc? Where are you?”

No one answered. Sunlight filtered through the open curtains into an empty suite, seemingly untouched since the moment he left. He made another sweep of the rooms, a sick sense of dread building in the pit of his stomach, until he discovered the handwritten note pinned to his pillow:

Dear Laszlo,

I hope everything is all right. You left in such a hurry this morning, I didn’t know what to think. If you read this and I’m not here, don’t worry. Ferenc and I went downstairs to the Rose Room. Please come find me when you get back.

Love, Betty
xoxo

P.S.—Your good suit is at the cleaner’s.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know about this.”

Ferenc ceased humming the opening bars of the Lark long enough to notice Betty’s worried face. “What’s wrong?” he questioned.

“I changed my mind,” Betty said, backing away. “They’re working in there, let’s not bother them.”

“Oh, they don’t mind!” Ferenc smiled brightly and urged her to peek into the ballroom once more. Hanging back in the glass doorway, they watched the cleaning staff busy themselves with the rose gold draperies, steaming out wrinkles and vacuuming away layers of dust ingrained in the musty carpet. No one took any notice of them.

“Now, watch me,” Ferenc whispered, his eyes sparkling with childish mischief. He straightened the front of his shirt and assumed a placid expression before making his way towards the stage, unhurried but purposeful, a light bounce to his step. He nodded graciously to the cleaning crew as he passed, like a smiling little prince greeting his subjects.

“We are here to rehearse,” he assured the only one who bothered to give him a second look. The woman rolled her eyes and continued pushing the vacuum cleaner with supreme disinterest as Betty and Ferenc claimed their places on the stage.

“See? It’s easy! I get into any place that way. Oh, don’t worry, we will leave if anybody says so,” Ferenc added, scooting in next to Betty as she took a hesitant seat on the piano bench.

“It isn’t that,” she said, hovering her fingers in a silent B-minor chord above the keys. “I’m worried about Laszlo. It’s already one o’clock and he still hasn’t come back.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Ferenc sighed. He clasped his fingers together, nervously scratching the back of one hand. “I am worried, too.”

“Don’t you think we should go out and look for him?”

A forlorn look pooled in his eyes. “But we can’t go now,” he reasoned. “He said not to leave the hotel. What if he should come back, and we are not here?”

“Well. What if I went to look for him, and you stayed here?”

“No, please!” he implored her, catching her hand softly between his own. “Too dangerous to go alone. I have a better idea. Stay here, just a little longer. I know my brother, he never could stay away from a piano for very long.” He shot a meaningful glance at the keys. “You play it, he will hear it and come back to you.”

Betty laughed and lowered her eyes with a shy smile. “That’s almost crazy enough to work. All he needs to do is hear my mistakes and he’ll come running.” She nodded. “All right. We’ll stay. But if he doesn’t come back in the next hour, I’m sending a search party to look for him.”

He beamed in agreement. “Good. And I go with you. But for now…” Ferenc paused to admire the view of the Rose Room from center stage. “Nice, huh? I never saw it from up here before.” He held his violin tight, bouncing one leg in anticipation as he shaped silent notes upon the strings with his left hand.

“Have you ever played onstage before?” asked Betty.

“Yes.” He nodded distantly. “But never like this.” He spread his arms wide, gesturing towards the vast emptiness of faded grandeur at his feet.

“Not for a big audience, you mean? A real live concert hall?”

“Uh-huh.” He lowered his head, studying the floorboards in sudden shame.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance to play for a real big crowd someday,” she said brightly.

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it. You play beautifully, and someone’s bound to notice. Anyway, it doesn’t matter how many people you play for. You’ve already made me very happy.” She smiled to see his cheeks turn a glowing shade of pink under the stage lights. “I know. Let’s rehearse something right now. Together.”

His eyes lit up. “You want to play?”

“Yes. I just thought of something I’ve been practicing. Do you know this one?”

Her lips pressed together in concentration as she hammered out the familiar descending, four-note opening motif to Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto in B-flat Minor, and was grateful to see Ferenc recognize it at once.

“Ahh! Pyotr Ilyich, my old friend,” he giggled. He set his bow to the strings. “That’s good. Again, from the beginning, please!”

“I should warn you, the beginning is the only part I know,” she admitted, but she obligingly started over, this time with the benefit of Ferenc’s stirring string accompaniment. Together they triumphantly sent a sweeping, bright clear clarion call into the furthest corner of the Rose Room, and smiled to watch the bowed heads of the cleaning crew snap to attention in the presence of something heartfelt, familiar and alive. When she moved uncertainly into the first solo passage for piano, Ferenc continued playing pizzicato, acting as a guide for her faltering notes until she regained her confidence and moved easily into the reprise of the opening theme. It was only afterwards that Betty stumbled again and paused to reorient herself.

“You play very well!” Ferenc beamed.

“Not really,” Betty said. She covered her mouth, blushing at the sudden attention of so many people watching her every move. “This is the tricky part. I can never remember it.”

“Please try.”

She did, slowly picking her way through the difficult notes. They were so engrossed that neither of them noticed a shadow stealthily enter the ballroom, padding with muffled steps over the carpeted floor, until it stood upon the stage directly at Betty’s back. The figure leaned over her shoulder and lightly placed its hands on hers, guiding her unsure fingers. She looked up with a start and fairly melted with relief.

“Laszlo!” she gasped. “Oh, thank goodness you’re back. What happened?”

Laszlo didn’t answer. He sat beside her and took up the strains of the music where she left off, expertly navigating the arpeggio-laden middle passage without pause. She sat spellbound and allowed him to finish the rest until he reached the logical end of a darkly romantic phrase and stopped playing, the final shivering high note fading away into silence as he stared at the keys in melancholy thought.

Ferenc edged closer with a cautious smile. “Hello, brother. So good to see you again,” he murmured softly. “We were just talking about you. Betty was worried, and… I was only trying to make her happy,” he added, a hint of reproach seeping through. “She is lonely because you are not here.”

In another time, Laszlo might have loosed one sharp remark after another like darts. Now, he merely nodded slowly. He let out his breath and reclined his head on Betty’s shoulder in exhaustion, gradually resting more weight on her as he nuzzled into her neck, until she supported most of him in her arms like an overlarge baby.

“Darling—oof. I’m so glad to see you. But what happened?” She was slowly slipping off the piano bench. Determined to sit up, she pushed and prodded her husband’s inert form back into shape, like a despondent beanbag doll with half its stuffing gone, until he balanced more or less upright under his own power. She moved in closer for a kiss only to pull back with a curious frown.

“Mmm. Garlic,” she said, sniffing at him. “Say, was all this just an elaborate excuse to have lunch without me?”

“Huh? Oh.” He wearily shook his head. “Kitten, you know I wouldn’t do that.”

“Then where have you been?”

He sighed again and grazed the keys delicately with his little finger. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he murmured.

“Try me.”

In answer, he began to play again, a slow and listless glissando stringing his thoughts together. “Well. You’re right about one thing,” he said. “I did have lunch. Oh, and Roger Vanne tried to commit suicide.”

“What?!”

“Oh, don’t worry, he’s fine. The police caught him on the bridge. Sam’s with him now, but that’s not important.” His gaze rolled in Ferenc’s direction. “You see, I didn’t come back because I was met by a very distinguished gentleman. And I had a long talk with him, too, yes. A certain Mr. Constantine. Does that ring any bells?”

Ferenc startled at the name. “Y-you told him nothing, yes?” he stammered. “You did not tell him where I am?”

“Oh, he knows where you are, that’s the problem.” Laszlo ceased playing. A dry, joyless laugh escaped him. “He thought I was you, at first.”

Ferenc’s eyes lit up with desperate hope. “So then you pretended to be me, and you were able to trick him into—”

Laszlo shook his head grimly. “I tried that, if you can believe it. No, he wasn’t fooled. He sent me back here. Said you had twenty-four hours to return to him. He wanted me to convince you to go easily.”

“Oh but, y-you wouldn’t do that! Would you?” Ferenc’s voice faltered.

“Maybe I ought to. But no. I have no intention of negotiating with criminals,” Laszlo answered. “Especially ones who try to involve me personally.”

“But who is this Constantine?” asked Betty, thoroughly confused. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know! Well, he’s a menace, for one thing. Despicable character. Laughing while he threatens me,” Laszlo said, his nose wrinkling in a sneer. “I don’t like him. All I know is, my brother has taken up with some kind of pimp, or possibly the devil himself is after him, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Pimp?” Betty turned to Ferenc in dismay. “What’s it all about, Ferenc? Will you tell us?”

Ferenc sighed and slumped against the piano, resting his chin in one hand. “He’s… my boss,” he began. “Well, not the kind of boss you are thinking of. I work for him, yes, but…” He looked around and lowered his voice, glancing every so often into the darkened wings of the stage. “He is a criminal. International, very powerful. He has business everywhere, in every country. For years, I go everywhere he goes. I steal for him. Sometimes I do… other favors.” His cheeks reddened as he lifted his head defiantly. “But not anymore! He promised to make me famous, that I would play my music for the whole world, and I would be rich. But that did not happen. He used me, and… and I want out!”

Laszlo whistled low. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, brother,” he muttered, half to himself.

“Oh, Ferenc.” Betty reached for his hand. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

His plump fingers gently curled around hers. “I was afraid,” Ferenc admitted. “I was worried that you would leave me.”

“We’re not going to leave you,” scoffed Laszlo. “We’re going to the police. Now.”

“No! You cannot go to the police,” cried Ferenc. “He has bribed them all. They will do nothing to stop him. They will put me in jail again.”

“For what? You served your time.”

“They will find something else! They always do.”

“Then leave the country. You can come with us to France,” said Betty. “We’re leaving for Paris in only a few days.”

Ferenc’s eyes bulged. “But it’s too late, he will find you there, too! You are in danger if you stay with me! If Mr. Constantine finds out that I left the country—”

“Wait a moment,” Laszlo interrupted with a snap of his fingers. “The contract.”

“What?”

“Yes, that is a possibility,” Laszlo mused aloud. “Look. I told Constantine that you had signed a music contract with Sam Briggs. You know, that poor suffering fellow you tried to fool this morning? I thought that might discourage your boss, but it didn’t work.”

Ferenc’s mouth rounded in surprise. “Oh, yes! The contract!” he breathed. “Yes I remember. But I did not know what Sam was talking about.”

Laszlo waved a hand impatiently. “Yes, but that doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? What if you really did sign that contract? I’d fix it with Sam, he’d get his new talent, and you’d have a legally binding excuse for Constantine to leave you alone!”

“I suppose that could work.” Betty placed a light hand on his arm. “But does that mean you’re giving up your chance to sign up?” she asked.

“Yes, kitten, I’m afraid so,” he sighed. “Don’t worry, it’s not the end of the world. For me, I could take it or leave it. But for Ferenc, this might be his only chance.”

“But—” She glanced to Ferenc again and watched a hopeful glimmer emerge from the depths of his sorrowing eyes. “I suppose you’re right,” she conceded. “What do you think, Ferenc?”

Ferenc considered the idea intently for some moments before he remembered something else. His shoulders sagged. “No. That would not work either,” he sighed. He gathered up his violin and left the stage in defeat, pacing with leaden steps towards the exit.

“Hey, where are you going?” demanded Laszlo.

“Nowhere.”

Laszlo and Betty shared a worried look before hastening to catch up with him.

“Look, I know it’s not the best idea, but we’ve got to start somewhere,” said Laszlo. He draped a comforting arm across his brother’s shoulders and shook him. “Why give up so easy, huh?”

“Because Mr. Constantine would never believe me,” Ferenc answered glumly. “Even if I had a contract, he would find some way to get me out of it.”

“I say it’s worth a try anyhow,” Betty said.

“See? She’s right,” said Laszlo, careful to steer his distracted brother away from the front doors. “Now let me think. Sam was going to Scotland Yard, to look after Roger. Don’t know when he’ll be back.”

As they plodded up the stairs and into their room, Betty caught the scraps of two mumbled monologues at once as the brothers spoke past each other:

“Perhaps I’ll call him… but then who would answer? No, no, there’s got to be another way.”

“I should go. Yes, I can escape. Maybe, if I leave now…”

“Um. I don’t think you should,” Betty warned, peeking behind a curtain. She waved the brothers over to the window and pointed down at the side street, where a certain black and chrome auto idled at the curb. As they watched, the driver quit his seat and leaned on the bonnet, idly smoking a long cigar as he cased the street.

“Don’t know why, but I got a funny feeling about that car,” Betty added.

“No wonder. That’s the one who drove me here,” said Laszlo. “You recognize him, Ferenc?”

Ferenc’s eyes widened. “Bastard is still here?” he blurted, before he remembered Betty’s presence and sheepishly looked away. “Pardon me,” he mumbled. “That—that man works for Mr. Constantine. He is waiting for me to leave.”

“No one’s going anywhere,” Betty assured him. “Not until we come up with a plan.”

“That’s just what I was thinking. Well, it looks like none of us are leaving the hotel today,” Laszlo announced, lighting up a fresh cigarette. “We shall just have to amuse ourselves here. I hope you don’t mind dining in this evening.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” smiled Betty.

“Oh no, I don’t mind,” Ferenc readily agreed. “That would be very good.”

“Fine.” Laszlo stared out the window, narrowly scrutinizing the driver’s movements until he lost interest. “Tell me something, Ferenc. What did Constantine mean by ‘the usual station,’ anyway?”

“Oh, he means Piccadilly Circus,” answered Ferenc. “He always goes there.”

“Did he mean the tube station, or the street?”

Ferenc shrugged. “Both. He always likes to say: ‘pleasure aboveground, business below.’ Or something like that.”

“Interesting,” said Laszlo. A disapproving cloud of cigarette smoke swirled around him as he puffed away. He grimaced with an intrusive thought. “And vaguely nauseating. But don’t let me forget that. Piccadilly.”

For the rest of the afternoon, they immersed themselves in discussion. The first order of business, naturally, was to get in touch with Sam. When he failed to appear at the hotel by early evening, Laszlo planted himself in the phone booth with a directory and a jingling pocketful of change, but finding the missing bandleader was easier said than done. Calls to Scotland Yard went unanswered or placed indefinitely on hold. The night receptionist at Vanne Records only gave him the runaround, no doubt believing he was pulling some kind of prank. Not for the first time, the irony of the situation hit like an anvil. Laszlo never suspected that he would be so desperate to see Sam’s smirking face again, after spending his whole holiday trying to avoid him.

Dinner and coffee came and went in a fog, and still no solution presented itself.

“I am thinking,” Ferenc said quietly, in the stillness of the late night, “that maybe I should leave.”

“What, right now?” Betty exclaimed.

“Yes.” He flinched at the wail of a police siren crisscrossing the London streets. “I can’t stay here.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Laszlo murmured to himself.

“He can’t just leave. That damn car is still waiting for him,” said Betty.

“You’re kidding.” Laszlo stared out of the window in disbelief. “Does that man ever sleep?”

“Anyway, it’s cold out, you want your brother to freeze?”

“It’d be the least of his problems,” Laszlo grumbled, but his frown softened ever so slightly upon glimpsing Ferenc’s troubled expression.

“Be serious, darling,” Betty pleaded.

“I am being serious. Call the police if you must, but I think we’d all rather avoid that.” Laszlo heaved a sigh and flicked away the dead stub of his final cigarette for the night. “We can only hope Sam comes back in the morning. That still gives us a little time before Constantine shows up. In the meantime, we might as well get some sleep.”

They did so, solemnly readying themselves for the night, but sleep did not come easily. Before long another police siren pierced the night, and then another, shrieking even closer than before. Betty felt the back of her neck prickle as she curled tighter into Laszlo’s warmth.

“What’s going on out there?” she murmured.

“They’re after me,” Laszlo said, but his sardonic quip didn’t quite land with the intended levity. To Betty’s surprise, it was Ferenc who answered with more seriousness:

“It used to be worse,” he said. He spoke up from the next room, evidently still lying awake in bed. His voice floated eerily through the darkened suite. “Yes, much worse. Years ago, it was only destruction. Criminals of every kind, everywhere.”

“You should know,” Laszlo said under his breath.

“Shhh!” Betty sat up and stared into the dark. Her wide eyes returned a pinpoint flicker of streetlight filtering between the curtains. “What do you mean, Ferenc?”

“When the Germans came, the street was another kind of war,” he said, as though in a dream. “Murderers walked wherever the bombs fell. They killed in the night. No one to stop them.”

Betty shivered. “That’s horrible.”

“Don’t encourage him,” interrupted Laszlo. “He’s telling stories again.”

“What do you mean?” whispered Betty.

“He hasn’t lived in London that long. He couldn’t have been here during the Blitz, and he knows it.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause between the sharp intake of breath and a noisy rustling of sheets from the next room. “You calling me a liar?” gasped Ferenc.

“No, I said you were telling stories. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Telling stories, and play-acting. You should have been an actor,” Laszlo wearily replied.

Ferenc stumbled into the doorway and flicked on the lights with a look of such quiet venom it gave Betty a start. “You were not here either,” he said darkly. “You were not even here after András was killed, and little sis died of the fever. Not after you left us for America and got rich.”

Laszlo turned away, his chest burning with the lash of guilt. “Rich!” he snorted aloud. “Huh, that’s a good one. It was no picnic coming to America, let me tell you.”

“Was it any worse than what I had to do? You did not even come back to find out!” His chest heaved. “Not even to learn if I was alive!”

“I did look for you!” growled Laszlo. “I’m not a monster. But so much had been destroyed. No one could tell me anything, that’s all, and then there’s the fact that you could never stay put.”

Ferenc did not seem to hear. His voice reached a tremulous, panicked peak. “It was all so easy for you to leave, wasn’t it!” he cried. “Everything for you was easy, like music, and women and... and I am not a liar, you—”

Betty reached for her husband’s hand, sensing his muscles stiffen. “It’s all right, darling,” she whispered in his ear. “He’s upset, that’s all.”

“You don’t say?” Laszlo scoffed. He turned to her with a withering look. “Sure, take his side, why don’t you. Just because your father was a crook too—”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he realized his mistake. Betty stared at him in horror.

“Betty, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” he said, his blood running cold. “Please…”

Betty made no sound at all. She bit her quivering lip and retreated as far as possible to the other side of the bed, curling into a tight ball under the covers.

“Betty!” he cried, but it was already too late. She flinched violently when he reached out to touch her and hid her tearful face under the pillow.

Ferenc watched all with a certain detachment, a dispassion that suggested he had seen it happen before, and knew it would happen again. He shook his head. “I hope you are satisfied,” he said, turning out the light. He retreated back to bed and left his brother lying awake in darkness, drowning in a pit of self-loathing, until exhaustion finally claimed him.

It was past two in the morning when Laszlo’s fitful sleep was disturbed. A sharp chill cut him to the bone, whistling in from some mysterious draft. He sat up and blearily glanced over at Betty, still huddled alone across the vast, icy gulf on the other side of the bed. His heart sank. He debated with himself for some minutes, wondering if it was better to wake her now or apologize after daybreak, when a noise caught his attention.

“Ferenc?” he mumbled. He rolled out of bed to investigate and quickly realized two things. It was snowing again. The window was open.

“Hey. Ferenc!” Laszlo hissed, but he received no answer. He arrived at the window just in time to watch his wayward brother slide to the ground on the fire escape, noisily rattling all the slats of the ladder on his way down, before he fled into dense veil of falling snow and disappeared. The suspicious car across the street purred to life and slowly followed him.

Laszlo set his jaw, gripping the windowsill in both fists before he stormed into the closet and threw on his clothes in record time. This time, he had the presence of mind to bundle up in his longcoat before rushing out the door, but before he could reach the bottom of the stairs, a light footstep quickened behind him.

“Laszlo?” Betty’s sleepy voice echoed. Her white robe fluttered about her legs. “Where are you going?”

“To Piccadilly Circus,” he said tightly, continuing into the hotel foyer. “Where else?”

“Does that mean… is Ferenc gone?”

“Yeah, out the window.”

“What?” She caught up to him and gripped his shoulders, her soft hands tugging at his lapels like reins. “I’m going with you.”

“What for? I thought you were angry with me.”

“Yes, but—”

“Betty, I’m sorry for what I said, but don’t argue, please. Go back to bed. You’re not even dressed.”

“I don’t care. Give me five minutes, that’s all. Five minutes and I’ll be ready.”

Sensing another argument, he grasped her slender wrists, seeking to untangle himself without hurting her, but she held fast. “Betty, what’s the matter with you? I told you to go to bed.”

“No.” She vehemently shook her head. “You’re not leaving without me again.”

“And just what do you plan to do?”

Her gaze shifted over his shoulder, fixed intently on a singular point across the foyer. “I think I have an idea.”

Chapter Text

He knew he was being followed. He wanted it that way. Out of breath, he ignored his bursting lungs and continued jogging through the fresh powdered snow, clutching his violin case closer to his heart. He desperately sought the edges of shadows in the riotous night life, any place where he might easily blend in and disappear. Piccadilly Circus was such a place, with its crush of traffic and flashing neon signs, but Piccadilly was so far away. Just as well. He did not want to be anywhere near Constantine’s territory if he could help it. If he could only draw his pursuer away, just a little further, and then—

Then what? His dwindling list of choices frightened him. Which was best? Return to his old life and be damned, flee and be hunted, or stay put and die? His steps faltered. He paused for breath on the next corner and heard the high-pitched barking of a news hawker for the late edition, shouting distorted headlines that sounded strangely relevant but registered only dimly in his troubled mind: CONCERT MUSICIAN ATTEMPTS SUICIDE, IN HOSPITAL AFTER DRUNKEN CRIME SPREE, POLICE SEEK WHEREABOUTS OF—

Police. Ferenc shuddered. Every muscle ached with cold but he leaned into the wind and continued on, parting the sluggish crowd of inebriated pub crawlers as they staggered and strung themselves out over the road. Some muttered vague obscenities at his passing, but most ignored him completely as he pushed his way through. The shadows sprawled obscenely before his eyes, harsh and black in the blinding headlights of an approaching car. He froze, heart leaping to his throat as he turned to see his pursuer accelerate towards him at lightning speed, devouring asphalt under the wheels.

At the last possible second, Ferenc veered aside and tumbled over the barrier into the oncoming lane, nearly sideswiping the double-decker bus headed in the opposite direction. By instinct he jumped and scrabbled for a foothold on the moving bus, clinging by his fingernails until he managed to mount the steps. He spared a single backward glance just in time to witness Constantine’s car hit the brakes, fishtail on the light coating of snow, and come to rest none-too-gently against the barrier with its grill crumpled around a lamp post.

Ferenc shut his eyes and remembered to breathe. He huddled in a darkened seat and attempted to shrink away to nothing, but no conductor appeared. After a time, he realized he was the only passenger. The bus was returning to the terminal for the night. Outside the window, past the curtain of falling snow and fog rising from the dampened streets, he could just make out a glassy sheen and the suggestion of vast machinery looming on the horizon. A moment later, and a powerful fog light cut the gloom, revealing the shapes of towering cranes and ghostly ships gliding in the distant harbor. Now he knew where he was. He was passing within sight of London’s Royal Docks. He felt a pang of recognition and dread all at once. He could not shake the idea that something awaited him out there, something finite yet unknowable at the river’s icy heart, and the thought made him tremble.

When the bus rolled to a stop behind a closed road gate, Ferenc slipped away and blended into the murky atmosphere of the docks unnoticed, still gripping the handle of his violin case with numb fingers. There was no sign of his pursuer anywhere, but he did not relax. Thoughts battled in his head, lurching between fantasies of stowing away onboard a ship or simply dropping like a stone into the water, never to be seen again. But he was so tired. Perhaps if he lay down to sleep, just long enough to let the snow cover him in a gentle shroud, and then… well, no one would ever notice.

He found a safe spot in the lee of the wind behind some empty wooden shipping crates. He was about to settle in and surrender when the sound of stamping feet disturbed him, and an oddly familiar, graveled voice carried to him on the wind. It was coming from the small paneled building on the pier, as a man spoke hoarsely into the office dispatcher’s telephone:

“Yes, you heard that right, cancel it—n-no, Marlowe, not the cruise, just my ticket. I’m not going. Of course I’m sure... yes, Norfolk. Correct. Yes, I’m sure they’ll get along fine without me. What? Oh, you don’t know the half of it. I’ve had a devil of a time just keeping the press out of this whole affair. I can only hope that Roger will be well enough to travel by then. Might take a few weeks. Yes, all right. Thank you, same to you.”

In a trance Ferenc tiptoed closer, hovering at the man’s elbow like a forlorn phantom. “Sam?” he spoke up softly.

He expected no reply. Sam hung up the phone and was already turning away, perhaps dismissing him as yet another worthless beggar in this decrepit city, when something made him look again. He stared intently into Ferenc’s shadowed face.

“Laszlo?” Sam exclaimed in disbelief. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

Ferenc coughed, bundling his coat collar tight beneath his throat. His smile was feeble. “I could ask you the same thing,” he answered.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving London, too.”

“Yes, I… huh? You are going now?”

“Oh no, it’s much too early to board now. But yes, last-minute change of plans and all that. Blasted tour has gone all to pieces now. Mind you, it’s my own fault for pushing it in the first place. All for the best, really.” Sam blew on his hands and stamped his feet impatiently in the cold, but he made no motion to leave. His frown softened. “Were you looking for me? I’m terribly sorry. This whole business has really done my head in. I should have sent word to the hotel.”

Ferenc shook his head. “That is all right. But—”

“You know, I did have something to tell you, and I may as well say it now,” Sam went on. “I never had the chance to thank you. I know this hasn’t been the best start to the year, but if nothing else I want you to know one thing. I am grateful for everything you’ve done. I do believe you may have saved Roger’s life. If it wasn’t for you when he—I say, are you feeling all right?” He reached out with a steady hand as Ferenc slumped forward, his eyelids fluttering in exhaustion.

“Sam,” he said weakly. “I must tell you something. You have the wrong man.”

“Laszlo, whatever are you talking about?”

Ferenc shook his head. “No, no. I am not Laszlo. My name is Ferenc. Laszlo is my brother.”

“Your brother?” Sam backed off a pace or two, narrowly studying Ferenc’s ashen, tired face. “Good heavens. I didn’t even know he had a brother. You look ever so similar.” His eyes widened. “Is that what this is all about? That whole back and forth nonsense about the contract? That was you?”

“Yes.” Ferenc gazed up in sorrow. “I am sorry for lying to you. But it doesn’t matter now. I am here because I had to run away, to save him.”

“To save whom? Your brother?” Sam questioned. “Is he in trouble?”

“No. I am in trouble. But he is too, if he stays any longer.”

Sam stared at him in bewilderment. “Look here, old chap, I’m afraid you’re going to have to start again. I don’t understand.”

“There is no time!” Ferenc whined. He stared into the darkness beyond the humming lights of the dock and quivered in mounting panic. “Please, I am in danger if I stay here, but I don’t know where to go.”

“You’re not in trouble with the law, are you? God, I hope not, I’ve had my fill of police today,” Sam added under his breath. “Well, I don’t know how I can help, but I’m sure your brother must be worried about you. For his sake, I’ll do whatever I can. Come along, we’ll take my car back to the hotel, and you can explain everything.”

Ferenc hesitated. His steps dragged forwards even as some unseen power compelled him back, whispering to him of deep water and freedom and the promise of rest beneath the falling snow, but he had little time to think on it. His heart plummeted at the sudden reappearance of Constantine’s gleaming black car, an inky wet streak against the snow. It turned and sped straight at him, its dented front fender scraping the ground with an atrocious screech.

“Look out!” cried Ferenc, frantically pulling at Sam’s arm.

Sam leaped back and managed to dodge the speeding car in time, but the driver wasn’t finished with them yet. With an angry thrum of the engine, the car rapidly reversed.

“Come on, we’re getting out of here,” Sam ordered. He grabbed Ferenc by the arm and ran, making a beeline for his own car, but he stopped dead at the crack of a shot. A second deafening report and Sam silently collapsed, clutching his chest.

Terrified, Ferenc watched as Constantine’s driver emerged from the car, his revolver drawn and smoking in the cold air, and kicked Sam’s body clear of the front wheel. Before Ferenc could move, the driver roughly put him in a chokehold and forced him into the back seat.

“No! No, let me GO!” Ferenc shrieked and kicked to no avail. His precious violin was wrenched from his hands and flung into the darkness. As they sped away, he could only look back in horror as nearby dock workers sounded the alarm and crowded around the stricken Sam, laid out face-down and bleeding on the fresh white snow.

“Why did you shoot him?” Ferenc sobbed. “He had nothing to do with me, I swear it!”

“Pipe down, you little shite,” the driver swore. He cocked his fist backwards and cuffed Ferenc relentlessly about the head until he stopped crying. “I’ve waited long enough for you today. You’re lucky the old boy wants you alive. Personally, I don’t care one way or the other.” His face twisted in a cruel grimace. “You and I both know where you’re going now. Don’t we, Francis?”

Ferenc slowly uncovered his head and went quite still. He knew only too well.

“You don’t suppose he went back to Penny’s Place again?”

“No. I don’t think so. I got the feeling he wouldn’t want to run into some of the regulars.”

“That’s true.” Laszlo finished his cigarette and flicked it into the gutter. He squinted into the foggy glow of Piccadilly’s neon lights, distracted by the lurid array of flashing advertisements. He shook his head and strained to hear Betty’s quiet voice over the sound of discordant carnival music from every nightclub and gin joint in the bustling street.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Betty said. “Maybe it’s for the best if he doesn’t show up. At least, not right now. Or else the plan wouldn’t work.”

“How do you know this is going to work at all?” he asked.

“I don’t,” she answered truthfully. “But we’ve got to try. Remember, all you have to do is keep him talking. Hide your face. Find a dark place to stand in, if you can. He won’t know the difference until it’s too late.” She raised the collar of his coat and pulled down his hat brim at a low, rakish angle. He stood still and gripped her tightly by the shoulders, staring into her eyes with apprehension and longing, and Betty’s heart nearly tore in two as she sensed the anxious quickening of his pulse.

“Well. So long, kitten,” said Laszlo. He drew her close and pressed his lips desperately to hers.

She sank deep into the kiss as if to drown herself, sharing breath with him until her head began to spin. “You won’t be alone,” she whispered as they pulled apart. “Good luck.”

Laszlo nodded and looked around one last time before he descended the stairs to Piccadilly’s tube station, flitting like a shadow below ground.

With nowhere else to go, Betty stepped back into the car awaiting her at the curb and sat with her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

“Don’t be nervous, miss,” the driver assured her. “Your husband will be all right, you’ll see. Care for some tea?” he asked, uncapping the top of a hot flask.

“Oh, no thank you, Mister… um…” Betty faltered as she looked at the man, closely examining the kindly, one-eyed face of the house detective for the first time, and realized with some embarrassment that she did not actually know his name.

“Call me Arthur. Everyone else does,” the detective answered with a smile.

“Arthur.” Betty sighed and pressed a hand to her temple. “I’m so sorry.”

“What for?”

“I mean that it all seemed so logical when I explained things to you an hour ago, but now that we’re here it sounds ridiculous. I can’t believe I thought we could trap an international criminal without involving the police. I must have been crazy!”

Arthur chuckled and poured himself a steaming cup of tea. “Don’t you worry. I knew from the very start that something wasn’t right about that fat bloke, asking after Francis the way he did. And then after your husband told me his story, everything started falling into place.” He tapped his eyepatch knowingly. “I may have lost an eye in the war, but not me wits. I still know the detective business, all right. Anyway, who says we’re doing this without involving the police? They’re the ones who relayed the information from Interpol in the first place. What a scoundrel, eh? Murder, blackmail, extortion, fraud, robbery. God only knows what else! Lucky for you, I still have friends in Scotland Yard after all these years. They’ll be ready and waiting for this Constantine fellow, don’t you fret.”

Betty listened halfheartedly to the detective’s endless chitchat and the overlapping static on his police radio, bringing with it the occasional bulletin or coded message from the dispatcher. After a while, she noticed the police chatter growing more frequent, then more urgent. She listened intently but caught only snatches of fragmented conversations; something about a pursuit in progress, a shooting suspect, attempted murder. Her hair stood on end at the approaching noise of several sirens, louder and louder, until it seemed that every police car in London had abruptly landed on top of them. She twisted in her seat and watched as four or five of the pursuing vehicles appeared from nowhere and flanked their quarry, forcing a large, dented black car to spin out and skid to a halt not forty feet away.

Arthur whistled. “Would you look at that!” he exclaimed. “Now what do you suppose…?”

Betty hadn’t the slightest idea. She watched the cops swarm the car and violently apprehend the driver in an instant, but to her shock, not one of them took notice of what she saw next: a small, shabby, oddly familiar man slithering out of the rear seat and collapsing flat on the ground.

“Ferenc?” she whispered in disbelief.

For several long seconds Ferenc lay rigid on his belly, hands clasped behind his head in anticipation of his arrest, but no one did. He lifted his head cautiously. He waited a bit longer and observed the ongoing fracas with the driver, not quite daring to believe the strange miracle, before he finally decided to make a break for it. He scampered to his feet and rushed into the tube station like a rabbit bolting underground.

“No, Ferenc! Come back!” Betty cried to no one.

“Who the devil was that?” Arthur blurted, narrowing his single eye as he leaned over the dashboard.

“That was him, that was Ferenc! Didn’t you recognize him?”

“You mean Francis?” The detective’s face turned sour. “That little cheat, he would have to show up just now. What’s he up to?”

“I don’t know. Why would he come here? He knows Constantine is after him.” Betty cringed in her seat, biting her knuckles. “Oh, but now he’s going to ruin everything! Laszlo won’t fool anybody if his brother actually shows up!”

The detective’s hand slowly crept towards the radio. He turned away and cupped his palm around the receiver, muttering something in a low tone. Betty could only catch a jumbled codephrase and the words “state your position, over.” There was no reply.

“I, uh… I believe they’ll be here shortly. I think,” he said.

Betty stared. “Surely the police are already here? In the station?”

The detective cleared his throat. “Well. Not exactly.” He gestured vaguely across the street. “Seems they were called away to deal with this little emergency...”

Betty’s fingernails nearly tore through the edge of her seat. “Do you mean to say I sent my husband in alone?”

Grimly, the detective reached under his coat and unholstered his service pistol. “Well, he won’t be for long,” he said, sliding the magazine out and in again with a snap. “Stay here. I’m going to have a talk with these chaps first. Won’t be long.”

Betty held her breath as the detective left the car and made a quick search of the street before crossing. She watched him saunter blithely to the scene of the arrest, only to be immediately pushed back by the impatient phalanx of officers doing their utmost to keep order. A muffled argument carried to her on the wind, and it suddenly occurred to her that she ought not be anywhere near the street when tensions inevitably broke. Time was running out. Her sweating fingers slipped on the door latch in her haste to leave the car. Pulling her coat and hat snugly around her face, she set foot in the street and hurried underground.

The station was empty. Electricity hummed and flickered from the ceiling as she crept forward, weaving in and out of the dim pools of emergency lights cast upon the tiles. A steady trickle of water followed her echoing steps as she passed the long row of automated ticket machines, each one a blind, mute watchman in the pitch blackness, silently passing judgement on her trespass.

Her heels clacked unbearably loud. She hurried on, heart in her throat, only to encounter a folding metal grate blocking the path to the escalators and the platform below. She hesitated. Pushing it timidly, she was startled to watch the gate swing open, barely held in place by a broken padlock.

“Betty?”

A soft voice curled out of the dark and Betty nearly jumped out of her skin, too stunned even to scream at the feather-light touch on her arm.

“Shh! Don’t be frightened,” the voice breathed again, tickling just behind her ear. “It’s me, Ferenc.”

“Ferenc,” Betty gasped, reaching to grip his outstretched hand. “Oh good lord, you just about gave me a heart attack.”

“I am sorry.” Ferenc moved into a spot of overhead light. The shadows drifted over his round face and deep black eyes with each minuscule change to his worried expression. “I was hiding, and then I heard someone and—oh Betty, I am glad to see you. What are you doing here all alone?”

“I’m not alone. Laszlo and I went looking for you. He’s here now.”

“Huh?”

“We had it all set up. He’s pretending to be you, to get Mr. Constantine off your trail. The cops are coming—”

“Cops?” He looked around in fright.

“To arrest Constantine, not you. Oh, but there’s no time to explain it all!” she whispered feverishly. “Where did Constantine say he would meet you?”

“Down there,” he said, pointing to the down escalators just past the metal grate. “He must be there. Always in the same place—no, don’t go! Wait!” He followed at Betty’s heels as she slipped through the gap and started to descend the inactive escalator.

“Be careful!” Ferenc hissed. He pressed down on her shoulders, forcing her to crouch against the wooden escalator slats. “He will see you.”

Betty froze in place. “I thought I heard someone,” she whispered.

They remained still as statues, breathing shallowly as they peered over the escalator handrail. Their view of darkened platform revealed nothing at first. Then, from somewhere behind a concrete pillar, a peal of oily laughter resonated through the train tunnel, and a throaty voice said:

“Why Francis, it isn’t just the money we’re concerned about. Surely you wouldn’t deny the boys the pleasure of your charming company? Come a little closer.”

A second voice, fawning and sweet, floated out of the tunnel: “Oh, I would, but could you please put away the gun first? You don’t have to shoot me, you know that…”

“Laszlo’s down there,” Betty whispered. Her heart burst with relief and fresh worry all at once.

“I can’t see him,” Ferenc said, fidgeting for a better look. He frowned indignantly. “He does not sound like me at all!” he complained.

“Shh. Don’t move.” She watched Constantine’s ponderous figure loom into view, a pistol leveled in his right hand. He seemed in no hurry to put it away.

“Hm-hmm, you are as amusing as ever, Francis,” he chuckled. “Believe me, if it was my decision alone, we would have no need for any of this at all. I never was one for this sort of cloak-and-dagger nonsense, despite what you might think.” His jovial tone dropped malevolently in a heartbeat. “However, we both know it is not entirely my decision. I understand you said a great many things in jail. Several… shall we say, incriminating things, concerning the organization?”

Laszlo gave no answer.

“Well, that in itself is no concern to me,” Constantine went on with a shrug and a casual wave of the pistol. “It wouldn’t be much of an operation if one man’s idle chatter could bring the whole thing to its knees. But it’s bad form, you understand. Loose lips sink ships and all that, if you’ll pardon the tired expression. A pity. We lost rather significant assets last year, thanks to you.”

“I won’t do it again, sir. I swear it.” Laszlo’s voice was faint. Betty couldn’t tell if he trembled from acting or genuine fear.

“Indeed. I should think not. But I’ve never been one to take a man by his word alone—especially not you, Francis.” His guttural voice dripped with contempt. Not once did he break eye contact as he turned slightly and addressed an unseen presence over his shoulder: “Gentlemen?”

Betty looked on in horror as a number of toughs emerged from deeper in the station, surrounding Laszlo on all sides. They matched his pace, advancing slowly as Laszlo began to back away, until his heels came up against the edge of the platform. Even at a distance Betty could hear her husband’s rapid breathing, the panicked rattle in his throat growing louder.

“What do we do, what do we do?” Betty muttered, fighting to keep her voice down. She reached for Ferenc’s arm and her hand closed on nothing.

“Ferenc?” she squeaked, staring wildly into the gloom. He had vanished.

“Hm-hmm. What’s the matter, Francis?” Constantine chuckled, tucking his pistol away beneath his coat. “These men simply want a word with you. Just know that it is not my place to interfere.” He nodded to the nearest goon, a hulking brute with a heavy fist, who punctuated the threat with a grin and a menacing smack of brass knuckles to his own palm.

“NO!” The scream burst from Betty’s throat, unbidden. The traitorous sound echoed as she folded both hands tightly across her mouth too late.

Laszlo froze in place. “Did you hear that?” he gasped.

“None of your tricks, Francis,” Constantine warned. “Don’t think you can worm your way out of this.”

“No tricks! I wouldn’t—no wait, wait a minute!” Laszlo shrieked. “I—I know I heard someone scream, that way.”

“Don’t take your eyes off him!” barked Constantine, as the others began looking around warily. “Just what are you playing at this time?”

“I? Nothing, I would never do anything!” Laszlo leaned against a pillar in a near faint, teetering on the edge of a real nervous breakdown any second.

“The devil you wouldn’t. Who’s there? Come out where I can—”

Constantine fell silent. He fumbled for a second or two, sweat trickling down his fat face, as he searched every pocket of his coat for a gun that was not there.

“Hands up, Mr. Constantine,” a sing-song voice purred.

Betty finally dared to look. Ferenc had reappeared on the platform as if by magic, smiling triumphantly as he pressed the muzzle of Constantine’s gun straight into its owner’s broad back.

“I said, hands up,” Ferenc repeated through his teeth, digging the gun barrel deeper.

Constantine grudgingly obeyed. “Francis? Is that you, or have I been so easily fooled by that brother of yours?”

“You have,” Ferenc cheerfully informed him. “Tell him, Laszlo.”

Laszlo could only swallow in a dry throat, unable to answer.

“Get back, you idiots!” Constantine snarled as his men advanced on Ferenc with knives and bludgeons drawn. “He’s lifted my gun. Kill the other one, he’s an impostor!”

“You do and I’ll shoot!” Ferenc shouted.

Before the gang could react, a great commotion sounded from the upper level and the station was awash with police. They poured in from every escalator, every lift, sounding whistles and brandishing service rifles and pistols from a time of war not so far removed. Betty covered her ears, not daring to move a single inch as the detective’s furious shout rose above the din:

“Hands up, all of you!” Arthur bellowed.

Outnumbered and outgunned, the gang stood glowering on the platform with hands in the air, sullen and resentful as they were placed in cuffs. Even Ferenc dropped the gun and held out both hands, meekly awaiting his arrest as a matter of course, but the detective intervened.

“Ah-ah-ah! Not those two,” Arthur admonished, as the junior officers attempted to manhandle Laszlo and Ferenc to the floor. “This man’s the one who helped orchestrate the whole thing, and this one—”

“Yes, Mr. Officer, sir?” Ferenc innocently questioned.

For once, the detective didn’t try to hide his amusement as he looked Ferenc over with a smile. “Well now, Francis. I never thought I’d see the day when you helped me solve a crime, for a change,” he laughed. “But I’m glad you did. Well done.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Ferenc demurred.

“Not at all. As I understand it, authorities all over Europe have been searching for this Constantine bloke, or whatever name he goes by these days. Isn’t that right, Horace? Or should I say Eustace, or is it Eugene? There’s an awful lot of aliases in your file, from what I saw.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Constantine grumbled.

“We’ll see about that. You’ll sing a different tune before very long. They always do,” Arthur gloated. “Anyway, didn’t I tell you?” he added importantly, patting Laszlo’s shoulder. “I told you we’d catch him—unnecessary delays notwithstanding.” He laughed nervously as every uniformed officer turned his way with a decidedly offended glare. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, good work, lads.”

Betty let out her breath, finally gathering courage enough to stand up. Her legs shook. “Laszlo!” she called, emerging from her hiding place.

At the sound of her voice, the fire rekindled in Laszlo’s deadened eyes. “Betty!” he cried. He rushed into her arms and crushed her yielding body close to his chest, so tightly that it hurt.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re safe,” Betty sighed. “I saw the whole thing. I couldn’t help screaming, I was so frightened...”

Laszlo cupped his hands deftly around her face, reverently fondling her cheeks and neck before he lost himself in another embrace. “Betty, what were you thinking, you could have been killed,” he murmured into her hair.

“Me, what about you?” She trembled, holding back the tears at the corners of her eyes. “But I’m all right now, darling. Everything is all right.”

Constantine observed the scene with a jaundiced eye as he was led away in cuffs. “Officer. I’d like to have a word with these gentlemen, if you don’t mind,” he said to the detective.

“Certainly. You can talk all you like over at Scotland Yard,” Arthur huffed.

Constantine chose to ignore the comment and addressed the brothers directly. “That was rather ingenious of you, Francis,” he said. “Foolish, of course, but evidently I’ve grown far too complacent. I must congratulate you both.” He inclined his head politely, seemingly just as sanguine about the whole affair as he ever was. “Yes, you’d do well in this business, there’s no doubt of that,” he mused. “Perhaps I’ll see the two of you again someday.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” Laszlo scoffed.

Ferenc’s only reply was a dark and unwavering stare, but there remained a hint of something else, a suggestion of wistfulness even in accusation. “If you do, it will be onstage,” he answered dreamily. “A real stage, where I can play my music for the whole world.”

Constantine shrugged, his chains clinking as he was led away. “Maybe so, my friend. One never knows. As I’ve always said: fate and serendipity are mysterious things indeed. Good luck to you.”

“Good luck,” Ferenc echoed quietly.

“Come on, let’s go,” Laszlo muttered.

Ferenc looked back only once, staring after Constantine with mingled hurt and pity before he finally turned away.

“Why, Sam, you didn’t have to come all this way! I thought the doctor said—”

“Oh, hang doctors, I needed the excitement,” laughed Sam. He leaned on the deck rail of the ferry and winced a bit as he felt the tender spot at his immobilized shoulder, where his left arm was tightly bound up in a sling. “I’m feeling much better now, believe it or not. Besides, Roger and I were bound for Dover anyway. I wouldn’t miss saying goodbye, not for anything in the world.”

“I’m so glad.” Betty glanced away nervously as Roger’s cold gaze fell upon her, but to her surprise, there was no trace of his usual arrogance and disdain. He looked tired, and above all greatly humbled, as he reached out to shake her hand.

“I want to apologize to you and your husband, Mrs. Hartvany,” he said.

“Oh. No need to apologize,” Betty mumbled awkwardly.

“No, I must. I wish I could say I had an excuse, but it goes beyond drinking, I’m afraid. Far beyond that.” He rubbed his sallow face, pinching his fingers across his sharp cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. “Just know that I refuse to blame everything I’ve done on a disease. I’ve behaved quite shamefully, not only to you, but everyone in my life. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I only want you to know that I am doing my best to get well. And… well, I suppose that’s it. I don’t know what else to say.”

“In that case… I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Vanne,” Betty replied, squeezing his hand. “And thank you.”

Roger’s thin face, pallid as it was, glowed warmly in a rare and captivating smile. “Well. I’d say we’re all lucky to be alive after what we’ve been through,” he laughed. “Is it really true what the doctor said, Sam? If the bullet had been a couple inches closer, it would have pierced an artery?”

“Yes, that fellow was a decent shot, all right,” quipped Sam. “But I’m a stubborn old fool, and it’ll take more than that to be rid of me. Of course, we will be going away for a while, Roger and I. You might not hear from us for some time. How do you like that, Rog, both of us out of commission at once? Ah well, if one must be ill, better to be ill together.”

“Yes. I’d say we’re both a couple of sick men.” Roger’s mustache twitched, ever so slightly, in a cryptic smile.

“Oh, but what about Ferenc?” wondered Betty. “If you’re not at the studio, what’s he going to do in the meantime?”

A burst of lively violin music answered her from the aft deck. She couldn’t help but laugh as Ferenc, reunited with his instrument and looking cheeky and bright as a new copper in his own tailor-made suit, launched into a wild prestissimo rendition of Enescu’s Romanian Rhapsodies while his deeply annoyed brother struggled to hear the other end of the ship’s telephone.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him,” Sam chuckled, leading the three of them in a little stroll towards the aft deck. “Think of this as... rehearsal.”

“What?” Laszlo barked, plugging a finger in his ear. “I can’t hear you, Phil, say that again? Is Nixie okay? How should I know—oh, you want me to tell her! Good, she’ll be glad to hear that. Yes, I’m sure the cat misses her too.” He looked up, acknowledging his wife with a distracted nod. “What do you mean, what was I thinking? I had to let my brother take that record deal. And anyway, Sam never ruled out the possibility of both of us on the label someday.” He made a face. “Y-yes, but—”

Sam drew closer, sidling his way into the conversation. “Are you talking to Phil?” he asked with a knowing smirk.

“Uh huh,” said Laszlo. He frowned. “Wait a minute, how did you know?”

Sam grabbed the receiver. “Oh, let them alone, Phil,” he laughed down the line. “It’s their second honeymoon, after all!”

A high whistle pierced the morning air. “All ashore who’s going ashore!” rang the announcement over the tannoy.

Betty startled at the warning blast of the ferry’s horn and scrambled for something in her purse. “Oh wait a minute, Ferenc, I almost forgot! Before you go, I have something for you.”

Ferenc paused in packing up his violin and tilted his head curiously. “For me? What is it?”

“Here.” She eagerly handed him a miniature paperback book, just the right size for his jacket pocket. “I bought it at the travel shop. I hope it’s all right.”

“Hungarian-English Dictionary,” he read aloud from the front cover. He blinked rapidly as he thumbed through the pages. “Ohhh. You mean I… I can keep it?”

“Of course! It’s all yours!” Betty reassured him. “I thought it might come in handy. You know, in case you need to look something up for your new job! Or if you wanted to write to us,” she hinted. “Um. If you have the time, that is.”

His lips trembled. “I will write. I will write to you!” he cried, throwing his arms about her neck.

“I bought one for her too,” Laszlo added slyly over Betty’s head. “She insisted.”

Ferenc smiled at them through happy tears as all three fell together, arms wrapped around each other in loving farewell. “M-maybe someday I will see you in America,” he wept, muffled in Laszlo’s shoulder. He raised his head to look his brother in the eye. “I hope I will make you proud.”

Laszlo embraced him tighter. “You already have.”

“Excuse us, madame, messieurs. Make way, s'il vous plaît.” interrupted a crewman, breezing past to delicately shoo the departing group down the gangplank. He turned his head and shouted more rudely to the dock crew: “Bien, allez, j’ai tu dit! Qu'est-ce que tu attends maintenant, hein?”

The crewman continued shouting orders as a rig of ropes and pulleys were hastily set in place. At the last minute, amid much excitement, one final bit of cargo was hauled aboard—a gleaming grand piano, ready to resume its place in the ship’s dining room. Laszlo watched its precarious descent with deep suspicion.

“Betty? Will you promise me something?” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“If we should happen to hit rough weather along the way, and you ask me to play something to calm the other passengers…”

“Yes?”

“Don’t.”

Betty laughed, nestling comfortably in his arms. “Not for the rest of our holiday, anyway.”

They waved goodbye to the shore as the ferry pulled away, further and further into the sea, until the last joyous sparkle of sunlight in Ferenc’s shining eyes could no longer be seen.