Pray for a Brave Heart (34 page)

But had they found Francesca? Denning pointed ahead. There, lying on the sparse fine grass that led as a green trail, away from the road, up through the trees, was a small vivid blot of red. Ten more paces, and the blot took shape: it was a red shoe.

Waysmith, who had advanced farther than Denning in order to see clearly, turned and waited. But Denning wasn’t going to follow the grass trail. He signalled for Waysmith to come back, and gave a full-arm sweep towards the slope under which they had stood when they heard the cracking branch. Waysmith gripped the rifle he carried, wished again for some bullets, and decided that he was at least better off than Denning: a walking-stick didn’t even look impressive as a weapon. He retraced his steps quickly. Then, together, keeping a distance between them, they began to climb up through the wood. Here, the grass was smothered by the withered pine needles. Remembering the cracking branch, they picked their way carefully, avoiding any fallen twig or an occasional dead arm of the close-crowding trunks. The last deep yellow sunlight gave a golden cast to the stiff green pine trees. The air was still, warm, heavily scented. The silence of the sleeping wood pressed in from every side.

Suddenly, below them, from the direction of the road which they had left, they heard a man’s voice and the quick rush of boots over the gravel. That could be Inspector Bohren’s men, Denning thought. He hoped so. They had discovered the red shoe which Francesca had been able to kick off as she was carried up the hill. He hoped so, again. But he knew one thing:
if Francesca had been able to do that, then there could only have been one man who had carried her. The others must have stayed near the truck to hold off Bohren, to give that one man time. Time to escape—with dusk, this wood offered many hiding places. And if escape seemed a failure? Then the man would kill. They had killed Kahn when he had almost got free of them. The trained kidnapper was a trained assassin, too.

One man up there… Denning stood still, listening to the returned silence, as oppressive as the warm breathless air. Yes, again the silence was broken near the road. More heavy boots crossed the gravel. Then silence again.

Waysmith looked inquiringly at Denning. Bohren? he seemed to be asking.

Denning shrugged his shoulders, gave a wry smile. I hope so, he seemed to answer.

Waysmith pointed through the trees in the direction that the grass trail must follow.

Denning nodded. The newcomers were using that trail.

Waysmith made a circling sign with his arm. Do we climb up that way? Outflank?

Denning nodded again. And let’s hope, he thought, that the man hiding up there with Francesca is watching the grass trail.

Waysmith may have been thinking along the same lines. For he grinned suddenly and gave the old cavalry sign to advance.

Now, they walked half-crouching, ready to take cover, ready to drop on their faces. The yellow light was fading. A grey-green shadow was spreading coldly over the ground, rising upward gradually. Soon the trees would be in darkness, only their pointing crowns still lit by the setting sun.

One moment there had been nothing except the trees; and
then, all at once, Denning and Waysmith saw the dog. It rose to its feet, rigid, its coat bristling over its powerful shoulders as they stepped quickly behind sheltering branches. Near the dog, lay Francesca. Her legs and arms were bound; a white cloth was tied around her lips. She lay quite still where she had been thrown, helpless, unseeing, hopeless.

The dog’s low growl of warning reached the ears of the man who knelt, his back to Denning and Waysmith, only twenty paces away. He had been so intent, watching the trail from behind his thick screen of small fir trees, that he hadn’t seen Denning or Waysmith—just as they didn’t see him until he gestured angrily back to the dog.

The gesture meant silence. For the dog’s growl died away into an unhappy complaint. Its impulse to search conflicted with its orders to guard the girl, its instinct to give warning was thwarted by its obedience to a gesture. It whimpered miserably.

“Quiet,” the man whispered, turning his angry face towards the dog. “I’ve heard them. It’s all right. Quiet!” Again he made the signal—a downbeat of an arm, abrupt, imperative.

For a moment the dog was silenced. Then it whimpered again, uneasily.

Has it seen us? Denning wondered. He stood as unmoving as the tree trunk beside him. Waysmith had clenched his teeth over his bottom lip as if he were trying to silence his breathing. A trickle of perspiration ran down the side of his forehead. Denning’s eyes flickered watchfully from the dog to the waiting man, signalling violently again for silence, no longer risking even a whispered command. Were Bohren and his men, climbing up through the wood by the green trail, so near him now?

Denning saw the man’s arm stop signalling, saw his body
go tense. Yes, Bohren must be on that trail within sight. But the man would never have chosen this small patch of trees as a stopping place if it were noticeable from the trail. At this moment, Bohren could be passing by, eyeing the trees carefully on either side, but still keeping quietly to the path where he had found a red shoe to direct him.

Carefully, Denning slid his hand into his pocket for his cigarette lighter. He felt its familiar weight in his hand, then with a quick flip of his wrist he threw it sideways. It hit a tree and laced its way through the branches to the ground. But the crackle of its fall was hidden by the sudden deep growl of the dog. The kneeling man turned in horror, and as he turned the dog barked anxiously, warningly.

From the trail came the sound of a quick command.

The man rose from his knees, came running towards the dog, cursing with a violence that matched his movements. As he ran he pulled a revolver free from its shoulder holster.

Denning saw the dog, facing its master in desperation, its haunches tense, its coat still bristling, its head jerking with each sharp warning from its powerful throat. He saw the man raise his gun, his face distorted with fury. And he sprang forward towards the man and the dog and the helpless girl, even before the quick crack of a bullet ricocheted from tree to tree.

The dog dropped with one last whimper, a brief protest of innocence and pain, a lament that died away into complete and permanent silence. As the revolver turned on Francesca, Denning’s stick struck savagely upwards at the man’s rigid forearm. That bullet hit the tapering point of the tree overhead, and now Denning had dropped the stick and gripped the man’s wrist with both hands. For one bleak moment, he realised the
man was heavier, taller, more powerful than he was. But he held on, trying to pull him away from Francesca, trying to avoid the menacing mouth of the revolver.

He heard Waysmith’s yell behind him, and—farther away— other voices, running footsteps. Waysmith was shouting, “Stand clear, Bill, stand clear!” Then he heard the crack of a bullet, and the man beside him staggered, fell. Denning could pull the revolver free from his hand.

Denning stared down at him. The man was holding his left shoulder, his face grimacing in pain. Denning gulped for breath. Waysmith was mopping the sweat from his brow. And Inspector Bohren, with Gregor, and a policeman, and a man still holding his rifle at the ready, came forward at a run.

“That was pretty good shooting,” Waysmith told the man with the rifle. “Thought you’d probably hit my friend here.” He looked down at the gun he held in his own hands. “No bullets,” he explained, and felt as foolish as he must have looked. But the man gave a friendly smile and clapped him on the back.

Bohren had pulled off the bandage across Francesca’s mouth. Waysmith was kneeling beside her. So was Gregor.

Denning heard her say, her voice weak, uncertain, yet happy, “Andrássy is alive. He’s alive!”

She’s all right, he thought. In every way, she’s all right.

Then, he thought, that’s all over now. All over. He took a last steadying breath, gave the revolver to the policeman, said, “Thanks a lot” to the man with the rifle, and began to walk slowly away.

* * *

Keppler was waiting anxiously on the balcony. Then he ran down the steps as he saw Denning come out of the wood, and hurried to meet him.

“Everything all right?” he asked, looking at the solitary figure with some amazement.

Denning nodded. “The others will soon be here.”

“Francesca?”

“Alive.”

Keppler took a deep breath. But he asked no more questions. Denning’s face was grim.

Then Denning said, “I suppose Broach is standing firmly by James?”

“Yes. But I hadn’t hoped for a conversion. Not so quickly. Habits of thought aren’t easily discarded.”

“He almost rebelled. Then James got hold of him again.”

“How?”

“By using the word ‘Committee’. Broach reacted as if it were vitriol. The name Francesca now means something evil to him.”

“Pavlov’s dog,” Keppler said, and shook his head.

“They shoot dogs, even dogs that are doing their best for their masters.” Denning’s face had that grim look again. “As soon as their will has been crossed, they shoot.”

Keppler raised an eyebrow speculatively. I’ll have a talk with Waysmith about all this, he decided. Denning’s the type who saves a child from drowning and then walks away without even leaving his name and address.

For a moment, Keppler laid a hand, on Denning’s shoulder. Then he began talking about the Herz diamonds which Le Brun had found in the safe, hidden behind the radio’s cabinet. “The greatest pile of stones you ever saw,” he said. “But they
are only fit for a locked case in a museum. Tiara, dog-collar and necklace with loops hanging in every direction, rings to weigh down any hand, bracelets broad enough for a Ubangi woman, earrings… There was a thirty-carat yellow diamond which Le Brun said was worth two hundred thousand Swiss francs alone. That’s fifty thousand dollars, for one stone. And there were blue, pink, and even green diamonds. Ever heard of that? And some had radiance, and others had definite cast.” He shook his head, but more in amazement than in admiration.

“A definite cast of blood,” Denning said.

Keppler nodded. Then his eyes caught sight of the slow-moving group which was coming out of the greying wood. “There they are,” he said, with a relief he no longer disguised.

Denning watched the little procession. Francesca was walking—had she insisted on that? Gregor had one of her arms, Waysmith the other. Her dress was ripped at the hem, her hair had fallen loosely over her shoulders. She was talking too much, and there would be bruises where the ropes had bound her legs and arms, but even if she walked slowly, a little painfully, she could smile. Denning thought, then no one has yet told her that those woods or this house belong to Broach.

Bohren gave a wide wave of his arms when he saw Keppler. “Three!” he called, and pointed back to the brewery truck now lumbering slowly out of the woods. A policeman stood on its running-board, another policeman was at its wheel, and two more men followed it along the gravel driveway. It was a procession of exhaustion, of exhaustion and triumph.

“I wish,” Denning said quietly, “I wish Max could have seen this.” He turned and went over to Waysmith’s car.

* * *

Bohren broke into a run. “So you got a truck, too?” he said as he reached Keppler. “How many men?”

“We’re even. Three men: one man waiting with the truck near the Blümlisalp trail; two inside the house.”

“Then two are still missing.”

“They’ve gone up the trail to get Andrássy. Gauch and his party will deal with them.”

“I’ve left a couple of our men back in the woods, keeping an eye on a hut that’s built there. Strange thing—we found two stretchers inside it. Looks as though they were preparing to receive Andrássy and then carry him and the girl over the hill trail down to the Interlaken road. Our blocking of Falken bridge wouldn’t have been worth much to us, then.”

“It’s paid full dividends. Do you think they’d have rushed this operation, changed its tactics, if they hadn’t seen they couldn’t leave Falken even by truck?” Keppler looked at Francesca, walking so surely towards him. “She’d have been in Bern by this time if you hadn’t blocked the road. And I give you two guesses where she’d have been taken.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Mr. James is inside. He’s claiming diplomatic immunity.”

“What?”
All the broad smile disappeared from Bohren’s face. His eyes narrowed. “We’ll see about that,” he said grimly, but there was a look of frustration around his lips. He moved quickly into the house.

“Andrássy must be alive,” Francesca said excitedly as she halted in front of Keppler. She was laughing now. Laughing, and still talking too much. Next would come tears, Keppler
thought: better get her to a doctor as soon as possible. “He’s alive,” she repeated, “he
must
be. Or they’d never have had two stretchers ready. Would they? He’s alive, isn’t he?”

“There’s a chance, a good chance,” Keppler said gravely. He took her arm to lead her to Waysmith’s car.

She calmed down a little. She looked around her. “So this is where they brought me,” she said in wonder. “And it’s such a pretty house.”

Then suddenly she looked at the house again, she looked at its view of the village as if to make sure, she looked back at the house. She had recognised it at last.

Gregor said quickly, “Come. We go to the village now. This car?”

Keppler nodded.

Francesca was staring at the house. She shivered. “It’s cold,” she said.

Gregor put his jacket round her shoulders and helped her into the car.

She stumbled. Denning put out an arm and steadied her. She looked at him, hardly seeing him. Then she recognised him. “You came, too?”

That was all she said.

“I’m going back to the village with you,” Keppler told Waysmith, pushing Gregor into the car, following him. “We’ll leave this house in charge of the experts.”

Waysmith looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. Then he started the engine.

It was ten o’clock, a clear calm night with rich dark blue sky and brilliant stars. The evening breeze had fallen. Now the shadowy trees stood motionless, waiting like black sentinels, waiting like the quiet village. People were astir, but they moved with soft footsteps, stood together at lighted doorways, spoke with low voices. Only Falken’s rushing stream chattered and clattered with noisy confidence over its rough course of boulders and pebbles.