The Death of Achilles

TWO

First his butler, Archibald, brought him a calling card — a piece of white cardboard with a gold coronet and a name in ornamental Gothic script: Baron Eugenius von Steinitz. A brief note in German was attached to the card:

Baron von Steinit requests Mr. Welde to receive him today at ten o ‘clock in the evening on a confidential matter.

Achimas noted that the top edge of the sheet of paper had been torn off. Apparently the prospective visitor did not wish Achimas to see his monogram, which meant that he might perhaps be a genuine ‘von,’ but he was certainly not Steinitz.

The visitor arrived at precisely ten o’clock, not a single minute earlier or later. With such punctuality, it could safely be presumed that he was indeed German. The baron’s face was concealed by a velvet half mask, for which he apologized politely, citing the extremely delicate nature of his business. Achimas noted nothing special about von Steinitz’s appearance — light hair, neat sideburns, blue eyes w ith a troubled expression. The baron was dressed in a cloak, top hat, starched shirt, white tie, and black tails.

They sat on the veranda with the lake glittering below them in the moonlight. Von Steinitz didn’t even glance at the peaceful view; instead he scrutinized Achimas continually through the openings in his operetta mask, seeming in no hurry to begin the conversation. He crossed his legs and lit a cigar.

Achimas had seen all of this many times before and he waited calmly for his visitor to make his mind up to begin.

“I am applying to you on the recommendation of Monsieur du Vallet,” the baron eventually began. “He asked me to give you his most humble greetings and to wish you the utmost… no, it was the most complete prosperity.”

Achimas acknowledged the name of his Paris intermediary and his password with a silent nod.

“I have come on a matter of immense importance and absolute confidentiality,” von Steinitz declared, lowering his voice.

“Precisely the kind of matter that is usually brought to me,” Achimas remarked impassively.

Until this point the conversation had been conducted in German, but now the visitor suddenly switched to Russian, which he spoke perfectly and correctly, with only a slight burring of his r’s.

“The work has to be cawwied out in Wussia, in Moscow. The job has to be done by a foweigner who knows the Wussian language and is fa-miwiar with Wussian customs. You are ideally suited. We have made in-quiwies about you.”

Made inquiries? And who might ‘we’ be? Achimas didn’t like the sound of that. He was on the point of breaking off the conversation immediately, but then his lisping visitor said: “For performing this difficult and delicate task, you will weceive a million Fwench fwancs in advance, and on the completion of our… mm… contwact, a million wubles.”

That changed matters. A sum like that would be a worthy consummation of a brilliant professional career. Achimas recalled the whimsical outline of Santa Croce when the island first hove into view on the horizon — exactly like a bowler hat lying on green velvet.

“You, sir, are an intermediary,” he said coolly, speaking in German. “And it is my principle only to deal directly with the client. My terms are as follows. You immediately transfer the advance payment to my account in Zurich. After that I meet with the client at a place of his choosing and he recounts all the ins and outs of this matter to me. If for some reason I do not find the terms acceptable, I shall return half of the advance.”

‘Baron Eugenius von Steinitz’ indignantly fluttered a pampered hand (an old sapphire glinted on the middle finger), but Achimas had already risen to his feet.

“I will speak only with the principal. If I cannot, you must find another man for the job.”