Background to Danger (24 page)

“Quiet now,” said Zaleshoff.

They got out.

The Mercedes had come to rest with its lights out across the entrance to a small, dark lane. By the faint light from the sky, Kenton could see that there were trees all round them. The dim, pale shape of the road along which they had come curved away to the left and was lost in the shadows. It was very cold. As he turned up his coat collar someone brushed against his elbow.

“Vorwärts,”
said Zaleshoff, “the others have gone ahead.”

As they moved into the blackness of the lane he saw the glow of the girl’s cigarette through the windscreen of the car and fancied that it moved in a valedictory gesture. Then the trees shut out the sky and they were walking forward blindly. Zaleshoff’s hand found the journalist’s arm.

“Careful just here.”

A few seconds later they left the intense blackness of the trees, the ground rose sharply and Kenton heard a faint ripple of water. The next moment he was walking on some-think very hard, and his footsteps seemed to ring. He strained his eyes, and saw that they were crossing an iron bridge over a stream.

On the farther bank, the lane bore to the left, and for a minute or two he was able to see his way fairly easily. Then a dark mass loomed up and Zaleshoff slowed down.

“Those are the gates by the trees. The others will be waiting for us.”

As he spoke there was a slight sound of a foot grating on a stone and the shadows ahead seemed to move. Someone
whispered. A moment later Kenton was alone. He walked forward a few paces, then stopped and put his hand out. It encountered brickwork. He was by one of the gate-posts. Then Zaleshoff rejoined him. With him was Grigori.

“Forward now and be silent.”

From the plan which Zaleshoff had shown him, Kenton knew that the house was reached by a semi-circular drive that enclosed a stretch of grass dotted with trees and shrubs. Zaleshoff’s route ran across this to a point beyond the end of the drive and slightly to the left of the house. It had looked very simple on the plan, but they had gone no more than a few yards from the gate before Kenton had lost his bearings. He abandoned any attempt to recover them and concentrated his attention on following the two dim figures ahead. At last they stopped and he drew level with them.

“There’s only a ring of trees now between us and the garden,” whispered Zaleshoff. “In a moment you will see the house. But we must give Serge time to reach the garage.”

For five minutes the three stood there motionless. The grass was damp and Kenton’s feet were getting numb when Zaleshoff at last signalled them on. A second or two later they emerged from the trees.

The house was built on rising ground and the garden was terraced up to a long stone balcony on to which three pairs of french windows opened from the ground-floor rooms. On the right of the balcony, jutting forward to meet the drive sweeping round from the gates, was a small wing containing the main entrance. With the exception of the light showing through chinks in the curtains of the two balcony rooms farthest from the entrance, the house was in darkness.

Zaleshoff murmured something in Russian to Grigori and the man moved silently away.

“He’s gone round the back to deal with the kitchen. We’ll give him a minute, then go for the balcony.”

They waited, then started to move up under cover of a neatly pruned hedge. A minute or two later they stood on a stone path in front and slightly below the balcony.

“Now, on your toes,” whispered Zaleshoff.

They crept along the path. A few paces brought them to a gap in the balustrade, and three stone steps leading up. Another five seconds and they were in the shadow of the wall. Zaleshoff began to edge slowly towards the first of the lighted windows. His heart beating wildly, Kenton followed.

A foot from the window, Zaleshoff stopped. Kenton leaned forward. The faint murmur of a man’s voice came through the window. Zaleshoff listened intently.

“Polish,” he muttered over his shoulder.

He listened for a moment or two longer, then turned round and gently propelled Kenton back along the wall.

“It’s too muffled to hear what he’s saying,” he whispered; “Saridza doesn’t speak Polish, but I suppose he must be there. This way.”

He moved along the balcony to the unlighted window and Kenton saw him take something that looked like an engraver’s tool from his pocket. He inserted the tool carefully in the jamb of the window and pressed. Immediately, the window swung open.

Zaleshoff stood back quickly.

For a moment or two he remained motionless.

“Good work,” murmured Kenton.

The Russian turned his head.

“They weren’t fastened,” he said. “I don’t like the look of that.” Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Come on.”

They stepped into the dark room. Kenton felt a thick carpet beneath his feet and his outstretched hand touched a small table. He experienced a sudden desire to retreat. For some reason that he could not fathom, a phrase was running through his mind. “Breaking and entering”—the
dusty legal cliché creaked and rattled with rhythmic persistence. At that moment, as his fingers moved over the polished surface of the table, everything was abandoned to the desire for flight; he must get out, away from that soft carpet and polished table that belonged to somebody else, away from the warm, faintly scented darkness of the room into the lighted streets of a town with people hurrying by. He took a step forward.

“Zaleshoff …” he whispered.

The Russian gripped his arm.

“Mind that chair. Have you got your gun ready?”

Kenton’s hand went to his side pocket. The gun caught in the lining as he pulled it out. His hands were hot and slippery. He fumbled with the smooth, cold metal and cursed under his breath. Zaleshoff already had the door open and was peering into the dark hall. Kenton hesitated, then followed him.

They were in a large hall. Zaleshoff shut the door carefully behind them and moved to the left. A few feet away there was a door with a thin strip of light showing beneath it. Again they could hear the murmur of a man’s voice. Kenton saw Zaleshoff lean against the door-post and turn the handle of the door slowly. The blood racing in his head, he raised the hand holding the automatic. Suddenly, Zaleshoff’s arm moved. The door flew open and the light from a chandelier flooded into the hall, dazzling him. A split second later Zaleshoff was in the room.

A fire blazed merrily in the grate. The scent of a cigar hung in the air. On one side was a large radiogram. As Kenton entered the room the voice speaking in Polish ceased and a faint hum came from the loudspeaker. But the journalist barely noticed these things for he was staring stupidly at the sole occupant of the room. It was the man Serge. He was lying on the floor, his mouth open and his eyes
glazed. Sticking from his back between the shoulder blades was the handle of a knife.

Zaleshoff was the first to move. He stooped quickly and gripped the dead man’s wrist. Just as suddenly, he let it go and stood up.

“Quick,” he muttered huskily, “something has gone wrong. We must get out of here.”

He started for the window. Kenton put one foot forward to follow him. He got no farther.

“Keep perfectly still and drop your guns.”

There was a second’s icy silence. Then he loosened his grip on the automatic, and it thudded to the carpet. The blood had drained from his head and there was a singing in his ears. He saw Zaleshoff’s revolver fall to the floor, but did not hear it.

“Turn round.”

The sharp order sounded as though it were coming through layers of cotton wool. He turned slowly.

In the doorway, a yellow smile on his lips and a heavy revolver in his hand, stood Saridza.

S
ARIDZA
motioned them away from the windows with the barrel of his revolver.

“Get away from those guns and put your hands behind your head,” he ordered. “That’s better.”

For a moment there was silence. Saridza released the hammer of the revolver slowly and leaned across the back of a chair.

“This,” he continued, “is a pleasant re-union, Comrade Zaleshoff; I hope you won’t spoil it by making any foolish attempt to escape.”

Zaleshoff shook his head.

“No. Saridza has a reputation for accurate revolver shooting,” he added to Kenton.

Saridza beamed.

“What a memory you have, Zaleshoff! I wonder if you remember our last meeting in New York. It was New York, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right, in nineteen-thirty.”

Kenton listened as if in a dream. The two might have been business acquaintances talking over old times.

“What has happened,” Saridza was saying, “to that man of yours in New York? What was his name? Something beginning with R, I think. Ah yes, Rogojin, that was it. Where is he now?”

“In Moscow.”

“How extraordinary! I must be getting confused. I thought he was now your Bâle agent. Another man of the same name perhaps.” He grinned and his eyes flickered towards the journalist. “And Mr. Kenton, isn’t it? I am a little surprised to see you here. You see, I really believed your story about meeting Borovansky on the train—a cruel deceit. However, Mailler will be glad to know that the Austrian police were unsuccessful after all. He is very anxious to see you again, and you too, Comrade Zaleshoff. You must excuse him for a moment. He is attending to a friend of yours whom he found wandering in the servants’ quarters. There seem to be quite a lot of people wandering about Frau Bastaki’s house to-night. This poor fellow here on the floor Mailler found tampering with the cars in the garage. The body was brought here by way of a little surprise for you. Mailler’s idea. A trifle macabre perhaps, but then Mailler’s tastes incline that way. The idea appealed to me for a different reason. You know the old Mosaic conception—an eye for an eye? I am glad to know that Borovansky’s soul can now rest in peace, avenged.”

“You still talk as much as ever,” said Zaleshoff.

The smile on Saridza’s lips faded a little.

“Yes, Zaleshoff, I still talk. I still act also. That fact has probably not escaped you.”

“It has not. I am curious to know how you knew I was calling.”

“I have insomnia to thank for that.”

“You mean you saw me last night. That was when Mailler switched on the light, I suppose. I thought I was quick enough.”

“Not quite. I could have shot you easily but I thought you might come again and bring your friends. I took the precaution of installing a small garrison and of sending Frau Bastaki and the maids into Prague. I was right, although I did not count on this young man’s presence. You seem strangely silent, Mr. Kenton. Is it the moustache or the glasses that worry you? The last time we met you had quite a lot to say for yourself.”

At that moment there was a crackle of speech from the radiogram and a second or two later, with a roll of drums and a flourish, an orchestra burst into a noisy rendering of “The Blue Danube” waltz.

Zaleshoff laughed.

Saridza backed to the instrument, touched a switch and the noise ceased abruptly.

“A curious touch of the grotesque,” he commented seriously. “A dead man on the floor, two condemned men with their hands behind their heads and a Strauss waltz for a funeral march—what could be more entertaining? By the way, our little jest with the loudspeaker was my idea. You responded magnificently. It is a pity, however, that you had to come so early. That lecture from Cracow was the best we could do. It was about the folk dances of Galicia. Half an hour later you would have had Doctor Goebels speaking from Leipzig. What I should have liked, of course, would have been the Moscow station. But a sense of humour can be a dangerous thing. It would have been embarrassing if they had struck up the Internationale. Your
suspicions might have been aroused.”

Kenton barely heard what was being said. Serge was dead. The mechanic, Grigori, might be dead too. What had happened to the other two, the man at the gate and Tamara? Even as these thoughts flashed through his mind there came the distant sound of three shots fired in quick succession. There was a pause, then one isolated shot that seemed louder than the others.

He glanced out of the corner of his eyes at Zaleshoff. The Russian’s face was quite expressionless. Kenton looked at Saridza. The man was still smiling but there was a tautness in his expression that showed that he was listening intently. For fully a minute there was dead silence in the room.

Then Zaleshoff cleared his throat.

“How unfortunate if Captain Mailler has been shot,” he remarked.

“Unlikely, I think.”

“I shouldn’t be too sure, Saridza. My sister is a swell shot and she has good cover in the car.”

Kenton jumped. What on earth was the man saying?

“You surely don’t think we came here unprepared for emergencies,” went on Zaleshoff calmly.

Kenton coughed warningly, but the Russian took no notice.

“Of course it may be the man I left at the gate. Mailler and his party may have been outflanked.”

The journalist glared fiercely at his fellow prisoner. Then he saw something that made him turn his head quickly and look straight ahead. Zaleshoff was working his way almost imperceptibly towards one corner of the mantelpiece, and the fingers of his hands held behind his head were outstretched to grasp a small brass vase. Kenton held his breath.

But at that moment there was the sound of footsteps in
the hall and Mailler walked into the room.

The ex-Black-and-Tan glanced quickly at the two prisoners.

“Get away from that mantelpiece, quick,” he snapped suddenly.

Zaleshoff stepped forward a pace and Kenton’s heart sank.

“Well, chief,” said Mailler, “you’ve got the swine all right. There’s another wired up in the kitchen. I had to bash him a bit.”

“What was that shooting?”

“There were a couple more of them with a car. Took a few pot shots at the sky and cleared off in a hurry. I tried to get their petrol tank, but it was too dark.”

Saridza grunted angrily.

“You ought to have stopped them, Mailler. They may come back. We shall have to get these men away. Hold them here. I will make arrangements.”