He shook his head. “Don't understand.” Then, catching sight of Santa, he beckoned. “The fellow's trying to say something. Find out what's troubling him.”
The cashier repeated more earnestly the words that he had previously uttered.
“He wants to know whether you really think you can leave Vienna,” Santa translated.
“What's to prevent?” Then he caught her arm, lowering his voice. “Perhaps they're on to you.”
The Kârtner-Ring was extraordinarily deserted. Against the curb a wheezing taxi was standing—the only one in sight. Its engine was running. The bags had been piled on the front seat beside the driver, evidently very much to his annoyance; he was doing his best to tumble them back on to the pavement. The hotel porter was vigorously restraining him. An altercation was in progress which threatened any minute to develop into a fight.
“What's the matter?”
The porter replied across his shoulder, still holding the bags in place. “He doesn't want to drive you.”
“Tell him I'll give him five times the legal fare.”
When the offer had been translated, the man seemed mollified.
The porter opened the door. “Quietly. Jump in before he changes his mind. He promises to do his best.”