Ride a Pale Horse by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online

bag, pulled it wide open, then shook its contents onto the table. “Passport, thank heaven. And wallet, with money and charge plates intact. Driver’s licence, too. A book of traveller’s cheques. Room key. Cosmetic purse. And my notebook— am I glad to see that!” It was small and black, could conceal nothing. She picked up her pen, pencil, eraser, package of Kleenex, all the small items that didn’t need to be enumerated, and returned them safely to her bag with her cigarettes and matches. “Everything is here,” she said and began replacing the other items.
    “What about the zippered pocket inside?” Rita asked. “Was there anything valuable there?”
    “Emergency cash—dollar bills. And my airplane ticket home.” She unzipped the pocket and emptied it, too. “Okay,” she said as she checked and found everything as it should be. The notebook was the last to be returned to her bag. “Today’s work,” she told Waterman, who had been eyeing it with interest.
    “An interview?”
    “Really an informal meeting, but he allowed me to jot down some notes.” The small book dropped into the bag. “Read all about it in next month’s issue,” she said and gave him a very sweet smile. She snapped the bag’s fastener and hoisted its straps over her shoulder. “Must go. Tomorrow, I have an early start.”
    As she rose, Waterman said, “I was surprised to hear you were in Prague. Lectures and speeches aren’t in your line.” He grinned, added teasingly, “Sure you didn’t get any interview, too?”
    She didn’t have to act out any disappointment. Her lips tightened. “No interview. Oh, I thought there was one arranged, but it didn’t work out. Some snag or other. Never put your trust in a wink and a nod from any embassy, Sam.”
    “Never did,” he told her with an easy salute. Rita beamed her goodbye. Kellner got to his feet and shook hands. “A pleasure, Miss Cornell.”
    “Goodbye, and thank you once more.” She could feel three pairs of eyes watching her progress to the door. The air outside was warm, but she took a deep breath and rejoiced in its sweet smell of safety.
    Tonight, she decided, she would open that envelope. She must. Because if it had been stolen from her handbag today, who in Washington could ever have learned what threats it contained? Yes, Josef Vasek, clever, clever man, you didn’t think of that, did you?
    * * *
    She entered the Sacher with her confidence restored. Tomorrow at 7:10 A.M. she’d take the TWA flight (the only one) for New York. No direct route to Washington, alas. But she’d do the next best thing—a TWA flight from Kennedy at 3:59 P.M. , arriving at National by 5:04. Between planes she’d be able to get through customs, grab a sandwich, telephone Hubert Schleeman to expect her that evening in his office around six. Expedite was one of his words. Okay, Hubie, I’m expediting. I will have to delete any mention of Vasek’s letters meanwhile—even his name, and that may be tricky in every sense—but in the end you’ll have such a story, Hubie, that all will be forgiven. I hope.

5
    The Washington Spectator had taken off for the week-end. Only Hubert Schleeman was still in his office, its door open and waiting for her. Karen walked through the large empty room with its cubicles silenced—no night desks needed there; no hectic last-minute rush of a daily newspaper. A monthly periodical was a fairly peaceful place until the week before publication, when hell, in the best traditions of the press, could break loose.
    Schleeman, in shirt-sleeves, was marking a copy of the proposed layout for next month’s issue with scores and arrows and question marks in thick red ink. He glanced up as she entered, waved her to the chair in front of his desk, put down his pen, removed his heavy glasses. Sitting, he seemed big: broad shoulders, burly, large head, formidable brow heightened still more by increasing baldness and the close cut of what remained of his greying