The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

in front of Frank. Frank caressed the glass with a smile of approval at what looked a little more like the beer he was used to and put it to his lips.

“That’s good. It’s got a real kick.” Smacking his lips, he placed the glass back down in front of him with a look of pure satisfaction.

“It’s a speciality I picked up from a friend of mine,” Jack said. “Wheat beer with a shot of gin. He calls it dog’s nose.”

Frank gave a nod of approval. He raised his glass in appreciation to the waitress. She smiled. And the three of them settled into an evening far removed from anything Frank might originally have had in mind. It was several glasses of wine and dog’s nose later that the three ventured back out into the night air. The breeze from the river was already making its mark on the street. Frank shivered with the chill and buttoned up his jacket. By now, his date with Rösti had faded into oblivion. And the dog’s nose had sniffed its way so deep into his skull that he was glad of the support his companions gave him as first Baschi and then Jack draped an arm around his shoulders with the words “You come along with us old chap.”

Frank barely noticed Jack’s soft voice. There was certainly no way he could detect whether it still carried any of the mischief or villainy he had sensed earlier. For now, he felt only the succour of those two guiding arms as they steered him back along the street. Where they were taking him, he had no idea. But he knew they were retracing their steps when the cold air from the Rhine hit him in the face as they crossed the bridge.

Perhaps it was the vibration and rumble of the trams over the bridge. Or the sight of the water that flowed beneath. Whatever the reason, Frank felt his gut suddenly heave. He pulled himself free of those guiding arms and leaned over the parapet of the bridge to throw up. Behind him Jack and Baschi laughed, exchanging garbled jokes. Then slapped him on the back.

Frank looked up. Facing him on the far side of the river, a host of lights flickered out across the water. He fancied he could hear their sparkling glitter, as they celebrated the night. Dancing and singing before his eyes. The motion threatened to send his mind into a spin.

“Is that a palace or what is it?” Frank asked. He hoped his words might foil the spin. Jack laughed and slapped him on the back again.

“Quite right,” he said. “A palace fit for three kings. The best hotel in town.”

“And the most dangerous,” Baschi added darkly. And left the words to hang mysteriously, without elaborating further.

Still leaning over the parapet for fear of further heaving, Frank looked up at Baschi. Jack saw the glazed bewilderment in Frank’s eyes.

“That was thirty years ago,” Jack reassured him. Frank was not reassured.

“The bridges here were packed with explosives back then,” he explained. “In case the Germans invaded. The button for this bridge was in that building.”

“That’s not all,” Baschi said in a sinister tone.

“He’s not wrong,” Jack added in an effort to lighten the darkness. “It’s one of the ironies of history that the building was home to Mr Herzl during the first Zionist Congress, while the hotel opposite,” he said, gesturing towards a white, neoclassical building behind them on the other side of the river, “was built by the grandfather of Mr Schicklgruber’s personal astrologer.”

These words only added to the confusion in Frank’s head.

“Come on,” Jack said, putting an arm around Frank to steady him. “It’s time to move.”

With his companions either side of him, Frank let himself be guided on across the bridge to the heart of the city. As he found his step and settled into the rhythm dictated by Jack and Baschi, the sounds of the street took over.

It was not until these sounds were shut out by a door closing behind him that Frank regained at least a vague sense of his whereabouts. He caught the creak of boards as Jack and Baschi guided him up two flights of stairs, pushed open a door and escorted him into a dimly lit room. Then he heard Jack call out: “Hello girls. Are you decent? We have a guest tonight.”

“Here you are old chap,” Jack said, as he and Baschi steered Frank across the room and eased him gently into a sofa. Frank surveyed the scene in the room through the bewilderment wrought by the dog’s nose. He sniffed the air and caught the faint trace of ammonia. Mingled with tobacco smoke. He was trying hopelessly to work out where he was. What he was doing here.

Although dimly lit, it was a room made comfortable by heavy dark-green drapes that hung over the windows. On the right of him stood another sofa and opposite him two armchairs that had seen better days. Behind these stood a grand piano.

Jack still stood in the doorway to his right. Baschi alongside him. As Frank was trying to make sense of it all, he became aware of a new fragrance entering the room from behind him. A feminine fragrance that wafted around the sofa as its owner walked over to Jack. She carried a cigarette packet in her left hand. A slim woman, not much shorter than Jack, with long red hair that fell in thick curls over a green velvet, figure-hugging dress. It lent the contrast of the orange cigarette packet in her hand the air of an accessory.

She looked down at Frank with bewitching green eyes that were a perfect match for her outfit, cast a glorious warm smile over him and held out her hand as Jack said: “Frank, meet Esther.”

Frank stumbled to his feet and shook her hand.

“Your husband has been kind enough to show me round your city,” he mumbled in the best German he could manage with the