Pray for a Brave Heart by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online

here. Meanwhile. Switzerland is a good place for a cure, isn’t it?”
    Paula, for once, had nothing to say. She looked at the long table at the end of the room, where a dozen girls in Panama hats and navy dresses were chattering in peculiar French to an exhausted schoolmistress. It was only twelve years ago, she thought in distress, twelve years since Francesca and I were two of those schoolgirls over there.
    “For here,” Francesca was saying, “I have Aunt Louisa to worry over me and that is always a comforting thing, even if sometimes it’s irritating. And I have friends here, people who have not deceived me and betrayed my family and helped to kill them. And I have my work.”
    “Francesca,” Paula lowered her voice, “will you tell Andy about this work?”
    Francesca said slowly, “But I don’t want any publicity.”
    “You’re wrong there,” Paula said. “The more people know what your Committee is doing, the safer you will all be. Don’t you see?”
    “Put your trust in the people?” Francesca asked, and her sad smile was back again.
    “Yes,” Paula said stubbornly. “Some don’t listen. Some will be against you. But plenty will be on your side. And when you’re fighting something like—”
    Francesca said quickly, “Shouldn’t we start looking for yourapartment? Or do you want dessert?”
    “No,” Paula said, gathering up her gloves and bag hastily. “No dessert, thank you. I’ve had enough calories to last me for a week.” She fixed her small white hat more firmly on top of her short dark curls. Almost in the same breath she added, “When you’re fighting, you need all the help you can get. That’s all.” She looked for their waitress, but without success, so she signalled to a white-coated waiter who had been hovering vaguely in the background. Protocol, she thought with amusement as she watched the man, embarrassed, hurry to find the waitress for them. “This is my lunch,” she told Francesca firmly. “We won’t argue about that, at least. Now, here’s my list of furnished apartments. Where shall we start? What district do you think Andy would like?”
    Francesca said, as they reached the street, “We’ll walk up to the Clock Tower and take a tramcar there over to Kirchenfeld. It’s a pleasant district. Or would Andy prefer a view? Then we ought to try the north-west, perhaps… Let me see your list.” Paula handed it over in an abstracted way. “Tell me,” she asked suddenly, “did you know that waiter in the Café Henzi?”
    Francesca looked at the list. “Was it so obvious?” she asked very quietly.
    “Not to most people. But I do know you very well.”
    “You must, indeed.” Francesca bit her lip.
    Paula looked over her shoulder, but the street was quiet now. Bern was a place which took its noonday meal seriously. “Is he one of your pupils in English?” she asked in a low voice.
    Francesca hesitated. Then she nodded.
    “He escaped?”
    “Yes.” Francesca looked around her nervously. But no one was near.
    “Where did he escape from?”
    “Hungary. He’s quite a famous man.”
    “And he’s a waiter now?”
    “He has to eat, as you say. But soon his papers will be in order. And then—”
    “America?”
    Francesca glanced over her shoulder once again, but there was still no one near enough to hear. She suddenly smiled. “Remember when I wrote you at Christmas and asked if you could find some school of music interested in Peter Andrássy? And you got a friend of yours to invite him to that college in California? Well—”
    “That was Andrássy?”
    “Yes. That was why I took you to the restaurant. He did want to see you. just to see you, and say thank you by seeing you. That was all.”
    “That was Peter Andrássy,” Paula said almost to herself, “and I never guessed.”
    “We’ve dyed his hair. He calls himself Schmid. And who would expect to see one of Europe’s best composers hurrying around with a tray?”
    “I wish, somehow, he was