At last they were free to go in search of beds. As they stepped into the station-yard, they got their first glimpse of Austria's destitution. Huddled against the walls was a collection of human derelicts which seemed more in keeping with Dante's “Inferno” than the city which had set the world waltzing to The Merry Widow. They were of all conditions and ages, from grandparents to toddling children, from artisans to aristocrats. In the scant light they lifted up greenish faces which snarled, while their extended hands demanded charity. The police beat them back, like huntsmen separating hounds from their quarry. They retreated whimpering into the shadows.
From the line of worn-out vehicles which were waiting, Hindwood selected a creaking taxi. Having seen Santa seat herself, he ordered the man to drive to the Hotel Bristol.
“Pretty awful,” he groaned, as he sank back against the musty cushions.
She stifled a sob. “It was nothing. It's worse than that.”
He spoke again. “I didn't see the Captain. I think we're rid of him.”
“I wouldn't be optimistic.”
Down the long, deserted Mariahilfer Strasse they bumped and rattled. It was ungarnished and forbidding as an empty house. The few people whom they met scuffled out of sight at sound of intrusion, looking less like human beings than vermin. Over all there hung a sense of evil, as though a crime lay undiscovered behind the silence.
As they turned into the Ring, which circles the inner city, Santa woke into animation. Leaning from the window, she pointed. “Do you see that huge pile like a palace, with all the statues and the steps going up to it? That's the Opera House. I danced there once at the command of the Emperor.”
“Then you're known here?” He clutched her hand.
She shook her head sadly. “I was the toast of Europe then. Whereas to-day—— It makes a difference.”