Read Pray for a Brave Heart for Free Online

is over. Audacious but unexpected. I’d vote Keppler as the man most likely to succeed, this or any year.
    And then, as he struck his lighter and watched the orange flame curl over the note towards his thumb and forefinger, Denning thought, too bad that the note isn’t real. It must be kind of nice to get a hurried letter like that. In the spring. He dropped the burned note into the ash tray.
    Then he glanced over at Peggy’s photograph on the dressing-table. “The thought only slipped out,” he told her, smiling broadly.
    He was still amused by himself as he carried the ash tray into the bathroom and flushed the black ashes of the little love note down the toilet.
    He was excited. He was restless. I’ll get some exercise, he decided. A walk through the old streets of the Lower Town, a quiet inspection of the Henziplatz, a visit to the neighbouring cheese market or the Minster nearby would combine businesswith—this feeling of spring. He picked up his brown felt hat; but, after years of wearing an army cap, he looked all wrong. He threw the hat on a chair and went out bareheaded.
    The bagpiper on top of his fountain was blowing his silent tune. The large round clock, high on the square tower at the end of the street, was red-faced too. Who wants sleep? Denning asked himself, and began looking at the gay shop windows and the pretty girls.

3
RECONNAISSANCE
    The cobbled street widened suddenly for about fifty yards, and then contracted again into an alley. That bit of extra breadth was the Henziplatz, edged by narrow-faced houses in an endless row, with their jutting eaves shadowing the top floors, their sharply pointed roofs broken by dormer windows and covered chimneys. The sun found its way into the Square, but the arcades were shadowed and cool. No shops here. A few Cafés and small restaurants, many of them climbing upstairs to invade the second floors. A swinging sign or two, carefully lettered. A window-box here and there. A good deal of foot traffic flowing from the busy Kramgasse which bounded the north of the little street. And above the steep red-tiled roofs rose the tall spire of the Minster, a massive background in the sky.
    The Café Henzi was no more remarkable than any of the other eating places in the Square. The only remarkable thing, amusing perhaps, was the fact that the house marked No. 10 layalmost opposite. For tonight’s performance, Denning thought as he walked through the Henziplatz, we shall practically have box seats.
    His pace was steady, unhurried; he resisted the temptation to enter the Café Henzi and have lunch there. This leisurely tour of inspection was enough. Tonight, he’d reach the Square easily. And these arcades would be useful to shelter his approach. His confidence grew. But so did his sense of trouble ahead. Why had Johann Keppler chosen a room almost opposite the café? Did he expect the need for immediate action? Or was that the only room for rent on the Square? Or had Keppler—
    “Bill!” It was a woman’s voice. “Bill!—Bill Denning!”
    He felt his arm grasped lightly. He turned sharply round. And there was Paula Waysmith with a wide smile and astounded blue eyes looking out from her round merry face. A step beyond her, there hesitated a young woman, a little embarrassed, deciding perhaps that she ought to walk on, except that Paula’s other hand was holding her arm.
    “Why, you passed me by!” said Paula. “Didn’t even recognise your name. Is this the way you treat old friends? And what are you doing here, anyway?”
    “Heading south by south-west for the cheese market.”
    “I mean, what—” Then Paula laughed and shook her head. “You know what I meant perfectly well, Bill Denning.” She suddenly gave him a hug, and a kiss on the side of his cheek. Then, to her friend, “Francesca—don’t move away! I want Bill to meet you.” She pulled the girl forward. “Bill, this is Francesca Vivenzio: we used to go to school together near here, so we’re