Prelude to Terror (17 page)

“That was omitted. It’s a reproduction; not a fake. Unnecessary, anyway: people don’t usually ask about it—they take the experts’ opinion on the date.”

“What about the man who bought the reproduction? Didn’t he notice the omission?”

“No. I didn’t bother explaining it to him—wasn’t given the opportunity, in fact: he was in too great a hurry to order a suitable frame.” Fischer turned over several pages of the reference book and found what he wanted. “Here is an exact description of the picture, and a small photograph. Gives you an idea, anyway, of Ruysdael’s composition. No date visible, as you see.”

“Thank you,” and Grant meant it. “What was your customer’s name?”

Fischer stared slightly. “He avoided that. A very abrupt type, everything strictly business. However, he had to leave his name with Joachim so that the picture could be safely collected by messenger.” A faint smile spread over Fischer’s lips. “He gave the name of Smith, John Smith.”

“American or British?”

Fischer looked at Grant with an appraising eye. “This man worries you, I think,” he said very gently. “He spoke German quite well—with an accent.” Fischer paused and considered, then added, “He was older than you—perhaps in his late forties, blue eyes, fair hair—grey at the temples, really quite handsome, but very serious. Oh yes, and medium height.”

There was a small silence. Grant stared down at the book in his hand.

“You know him?” Fischer asked.

“I’ve met him.” The description fitted Gene Marck.

“You don’t sound enthusiastic. A competitor, I presume? At least, I don’t imagine you have much in common. He wears the most disastrous bow-ties. Now, why don’t you take the book into my office and make some notes at my desk? Just push all the ledgers aside. I’ll go and see what Leni is arguing about.” For her voice, abrupt and authoritative, was now carrying clearly into the corridor. With visible annoyance, Fischer hurried away.

Lost in his own thoughts, Grant closed the reference book. As he replaced the volume on the shelf, his mind flashed back to the Albany Hotel in New York—Lois Westerbrook—Gene Marck. Wearing a bow-tie? Grant couldn’t recall. If one was worn that night, it had been unobtrusive: Marck’s clothes had been discreet to the point of dullness. Then the memory vanished, as a voice he knew snapped his attention to the front room. Yet it seemed so much louder, clearer than he had heard it yesterday in a rose garden.

Quickly he moved to the door. Yes, it was Avril Hoffman. Her eyes met his. She seemed to relax as she saw him—as if she had been watching for him to appear—a brief moment before she returned all her attention to Fischer who was explaining, with considerable pleasure and utmost patience, that it was unfortunate he could show her nothing by Tanguy. Perhaps some Dali drawings? Or a reproduction of Magritte? Now, if she were interested in Klee—

Grant interrupted, addressing Avril directly. “If you are trying to track down a Tanguy, there’s an excellent reference library here. Helmut, would you mind?”

Avril was quick to take her cue. “May I?” she asked Fischer.

“Down this way,” Grant said, standing politely aside to let her enter the corridor. Fischer looked bewildered—the first time Grant had ever seen him completely astounded—although he recovered enough poise to follow. Grant stopped him with a broad smile. “Let me handle this, will you?” he asked very quietly.

Fischer looked at him, incredulous. Then he smiled too. “Of course, of course.” He left the corridor door open as he moved back into the main room, partly to pacify a ruffled Leni, partly to deal with a possible client who had just arrived on the scene.

Half-way down the book stacks, Avril said, “It was absolutely frustrating. I knew definitely you were here—Frank passed the word to Bob—but I didn’t know how to reach you. I had to raise my voice. Awful, wasn’t it? We have to be quick, so here’s the message. You pack tonight, and be ready to leave the Majestic in the morning. Tell the hotel desk that you are spending the week-end at Dürnstein. We’ll have a taxi at the main door—ten o’clock exactly. It will drop you near Klar’s Auction Rooms, and the driver will take your luggage to your new room. All clear?”

“All clear. But what new—”

“Just do it, Colin. Please.”

“Okay, okay.” The Majestic wouldn’t question his departure: his room was paid in advance for two weeks. “Ten o’clock sharp.”

She pretended to look at a book on the shelf beside her, glanced back along the corridor through the opened door at the room. She frowned slightly.

What had caught her attention? Grant didn’t ask. “Avril,” he said (she had called him Colin, hadn’t she), “would you get Bob to check up on Gene Marck?”

“We have already done that.” She looked along the corridor again. “We shouldn’t spend too much time together. I must go.”

“He came here three days ago. Bought a reproduction of the Ruysdael.”

That halted her. “Are you sure it was Marck?”

“Almost sure. I’ll give you the details tomorrow. You’ll be waiting in the car outside the auction rooms?”

“I’ll be there. We’ll have something to tell you, too. Good news. You may not have to worry much longer about Ruysdael.” Once more, she glanced towards the room, where Fischer was talking with the man who had followed her into the shop. “I wish there was another way out of here.”

“There is—by the service entrance. Might seem odd, though.”

She didn’t share his amusement. “I’m afraid so.” She began walking back along the corridor. “What shall we tell your nice friend?”

“The particular Tanguy painting that interested you is in New York. The one called
Awakening
—will that do?”

“
S Eveiller
?” Her eyes laughed as he raised an eyebrow at her use of the original title. “Is it really in New York?”

“Yes. Friends of mine own it.”

“So we’re on safe ground.”

“Solid.”

They were about to enter the room. “Leave me,” she said softly, and touched his arm in goodbye.

“And shock Helmut?” Grant shook his head. “We’ll enter together.”

“As strangers,” she reminded him.

The only thing strange about this girl, he thought, is the fact that she isn’t a stranger although it’s scarcely two days since we met. He followed her in silence into the room.

Fischer hurried to take charge. He was delighted that Grant didn’t insist on walking with this charming girl to the door. That was his prerogative as master of these premises, and a successful one: an invitation to return whenever she wanted to pass a pleasant hour among pictures; a shy acceptance—and what an enchanting smile this girl had. Quite won over by these last minutes, Fischer closed the door behind her with one final approving look at her cream-coloured wool suit, beautifully fitted, the skirt just the right length to show a pair of excellent legs. Then he turned to the man who had been studying the watercolours. He too was about to leave, without even a civil good-day as he hurried into the street. Just someone who had drifted into the shop as several did, with only the intent to look, never to buy. Fortunate, thought Fischer, that I don’t have to depend on that type to maintain my style of living. His important clients were serious collectors, relying on his taste and judgment. His usual good mood quite restored, he reached Grant, who had been talking with Leni and was now bidding her goodbye. “Must you go?”

“Afraid so. I’m late.” It was almost five fifteen by Grant’s watch. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had Leni call for a cab while I waited for your farewells to end. You do spin them out, Helmut. The prettier the girl, the longer they take.”

Fischer laughed. “She was most attractive,” he agreed. “Strange—did she think I was hard of hearing? I don’t look that old, surely.”

“Foreigners often raise their voices when they are coping with a strange language,” Grant suggested.

That was accepted. But Fischer had another question, which—as usual—he put indirectly. “Strange, too, that at first she seemed so vague about Tanguy; yet, as she was leaving, quite knowledgeable.” He shot a quick glance at Grant, his eyes expressionless.

“Your reference library—”

“Of course.” Fischer’s voice was suddenly cool. “Did you plan to meet her here?” If so, he was thinking, you could have told me: I do not like being used. A romantic assignation—that I understand. A deception? No. Not from a friend.

“I came to see you, Helmut. Nothing else was planned.”

Fischer’s smile returned. “Not even your questions about Ruysdael?”

“Those were,” Grant admitted. “But where could I find better information?”

“The taxi is here,” Leni announced.

With relief. Grant moved quickly to the door. Fischer’s questions were only beginning, and might be unanswerable. Their leave-taking was warm, even if hurried, with an invitation to dinner on Monday (Fischer); perhaps, if possible (Grant); telephone number in Salzburg (Fischer): a promise to get in touch (Grant).

“My thanks,” Grant remembered to call back, raising his voice as he dashed towards the taxi. “Many many thanks.” Fischer closed the door. Why so many thanks? Just the exuberance of a young man? Suddenly he felt a twinge of age. “Leni,” he asked, “would you say I was hard of hearing?”

Of course, he was late. Grant reached the Hofburgkeller at twenty-five minutes to six, and Lois Westerbrook had been counting each overdue second. That he could tell, even as he found her waiting near the entrance, and followed her at a discreet distance—not upstairs to the restaurants and white tablecloths, but down the steps into the basement level where the vaulted beer-hall and adjacent taprooms were to be found. Annoyance was in her step as she marched to a vacant table sheltering near a stone arch, a grey-clad figure in a demure suit guaranteed to attract little attention. Her golden hair was entirely hidden, this time with a plain brown scarf twisted around her head. Her face seemed whiter, its Arizona tan covered with heavy make-up. Eyebrows were scarcely noticeable, lips were pale. Except for the excellent profile that nothing could disguise, the transformation was complete. She didn’t even need the tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses that hid her eyes.

As for Grant, nearing her table slowly, his feelings were as indefinite as his movements. Of one thing he was certain: this was going to be a difficult meeting; too bad he had made it worse by being late. Remember, he warned himself, you are supposed to know nothing at all—neither the date of the auction, nor Ferenc Ady’s name, nor his death. Blot all that out of your mind: no slip of the tongue. You know as little as you did three weeks ago, when you last met Westerbrook. A difficult meeting? The most difficult he ever had to face, he admitted. And sat down opposite her. “Sorry I kept you waiting. Traffic...”

Now that they were safely together, Lois Westerbrook relaxed. She had taken the chair that faced the wall, her back turned to the giant room. She glanced over her shoulder, right, then left, for a last casual survey of the other tables. She seemed satisfied. She removed her glasses. Her smile was warm. “At least, we got here before the mob scene starts. I’ll have a glass of wine.”

He ordered a carafe—everything came out of barrels in the Hofburgkeller—along with a tankard of beer. I’ll let her make the pace, he decided.

“You are very silent today,” she said lightly.

“Just waiting for your news. Bad or good?”

“Abrupt, aren’t you?”

“Well, this meeting was your idea,” he countered. “You had something to tell me.” Which couldn’t be cabled or telephoned, he remembered.

“Just a message from Mr. Basset. That can wait. First, what about you? Are you comfortable at the Majestic?”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“Then what’s troubling you?”

“I haven’t seen or heard from Gene Marck.”

“Oh—about the auction? Surely there’s no need to worry about its date. It
is
scheduled, you know.”

“When?”

She dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “As soon as our refugee is safe. Gene will let you know about that. He isn’t in Vienna at the moment. Urgent business out of town.”

“When do you expect him back?”

“Soon.” The small hope she had built up—Gene possibly returning tonight, in good time for tomorrow’s auction—had been completely dashed by the Sacher’s reply to her discreet inquiry: Herr Marck was out of the city; he was not expected back until morning. Gene is cutting it very fine, she thought, her lips tightening. “Why are you so impatient, Colin?”

He waited until their drinks were served, and took a long draught of beer. “Not impatient—just at loose ends. Can’t make any definite arrangements until I know what is scheduled. For instance, I’d like to spend this week-end in the country: leave tomorrow morning, return Monday.”

She hadn’t expected that. “A week-end where?”

“At Dürnstein.”

“What’s wrong with Vienna? I thought your friends would be keeping you well entertained.”

“Not at the week-ends. Vienna empties then.”

She said quickly, “I’d advise you to stay—Gene may be in touch with you tomorrow.”

“I’ll leave the Dürnstein address. He could ’phone there.”

“No,” she said, her voice sharpening. “He wants you here.”

“But Dürnstein isn’t so far away.”

“Why don’t you keep to our initial arrangements?”

Two weeks in Vienna?”

That caught her off balance again. She cupped the small tumbler of wine in her hands, didn’t lift it from the table. She stared down at it, seeing and not seeing. Gene put me in this predicament, she was thinking, summoned me here to do his talking for him. How much do I tell Grant? More than Gene advised? It may be the only way to get him out of this difficult mood. “You’ll certainly be here for another week,” she said at last.

He half smiled, shook his head. “Is that keeping to our initial arrangements?” So it was one more week, and why even that delay? He made a guess at one possible explanation: they were making damn sure that the cheque for the Ruysdael would be safely deposited in Geneva before he left Vienna.

“One week,” she said firmly. “That’s the message I’m bringing from Mr. Basset. He had news about his friend in Budapest.” Very softly, she added, “There has been a slight delay in his arrival in Vienna.”