Prelude to Terror (31 page)

Grant glanced at his watch. “Five thirty-two,” he said softly. And that, he told himself, is the last time I’m going to check on the passing minutes. I’ve had enough of it today to last me for ever. God, I’m exhausted... They were reaching Höhenstrasse, the road that climbed and twisted along the heights in this section of the Vienna woods. Here, there was a choice of routes; they took the right fork; behind them, followed closely by the Porsche, Frank’s camper turned left. One short subdued bleep on its horn bade them goodbye and good luck.

* * *

The Höhenstrasse wove its wave along the roll of wooded hills. Densely packed trees, thin trunks elbowing each other for growing space, would empty out, here and there, to show a down-stretching view towards the grey curves of the Danube. Below the road lay patches of deep green forests, sloping fields golden in the evening light, far-off clusters of red-roofed houses, and then—to the east, visible on its flat plain—Vienna. Take the first cut-off to the west,” Renwick instructed Braun, breaking his long silence. To Slevak, who had a map out and ready, “We are aiming for Purkersdorf—two kilometres this side of the town. You’ll see a sign: Rasthaus Winkelman.”

Braun nodded, squared his shoulders, tightened his grip on the wheel, and increased speed. A stolid capable type, thought Grant, not given to comment or suggestions. Slevak was even more impassive and imperturbable. Yet, Grant remembered, both had moved with unexpected speed and efficiency back on the meadow, even if they had come in totally unprepared for what they had found there. One moment of surprise from Braun, quickly mastered, and the two of them had piled in to help: not men to be underestimated, he reminded himself.

“Just ten minutes more,” Renwick was encouraging Avril. Her white face, dark eyes larger than ever, were as worrying to him as her complete silence. “We’ll get you to that rest-house where we can wash and brush up and get something to eat.” And, he thought, have that wrist attended to. What then? He added, “We’ll have to get you both as far away from Vienna as possible.”

Grant’s head jerked round to face Renwick.

“Yes. You, too, Colin. Especially you. You’ve been a witness to just about everything.” The Bienvenue cheque, the Ruysdael substitution, the information about Gene Marck as an Intelligence agent in that last ’phone call from Lois Westerbrook... “Just about everything,” he repeated. He didn’t have to explain the details. Grant had got his message. So had Avril.

I might have known it, Grant realised; the danger isn’t over, as I told Avril. Not for me at least. Once Gene Marck learns that the real Ruysdael is already in Basset’s possession and out of Austria—he will learn, all right: too many people now know about Basset’s quick visit to Vienna and they will talk, discreetly of course, but the talk will start leaking around, it always does—I’ll be moved to the top of his priorities list. This morning, I suppose, he still thought I was fairly negligible—perhaps just the unsuspecting and blundering amateur he had hoped I’d be, someone (even if a bad choice on his part) to be tolerated until that Bienvenue cheque was signed and on its way to Geneva. But when I don’t appear at the Majestic tonight—and why the hell did he arrange that time and place? Was it to be a last questioning and my last chance? Hadn’t he already decided that I was expendable? Anyway, whatever the reason, I am now a prime target. No quarter for me from now on. “Okay,” said Grant grimly, his face tense, “I’ll remember that.” He controlled his emotions, mustered a reassuring smile for Avril whose eyes—so large and dark and luminous—had opened in sudden fear for him.

“You’d better remember it,” Renwick advised him. Then lightening his voice, trying to make everything more normal, “Once we’ve had an hour at the rest-house—it’s safe, I know the people who run it—I’ll have Braun drive Avril and you to a hotel just outside of Kitzbühl.” He tried not to think of all the urgent business he had dropped when the world had reached him about Avril’s disappearance. “Sorry I can’t go with—” Avril exclaimed, “Hotel? Oh no!”

“It’s safe. The owner’s a friend. He’ll take good care—”

“I haven’t a passport or anything.” Not even a comb or a handkerchief, she thought, her misery deepening.

“It’s safe.” Renwick was obdurate. “And far enough from Vienna.”

Grant said, “Too far for either of us tonight. Avril is—”

“I know, I know.” Renwick’s impatience was growing.

“That would be at least a five-hour journey,” Grant persisted. He eased his voice: we’re all exhausted, he thought, and too sharp-set. “What about this rest-house? Isn’t it safe enough for an overnight stay? We leave in the early morning and—”

“It’s a short-visit place. Not a hotel. You can get a shower, a cubicle with a cot, your clothes cleaned and pressed, something to eat. Good for brief stops and a quick rest.” His mouth tightened as he added, “It’s too near Vienna.” Even if Grant didn’t realise what a dragnet Gene Marck and his willing helpers could throw around the city, Avril certainly did. There were more foreign agents and their hired spies packed into Vienna than even Geneva could claim nowadays: the price of neutrality, Renwick thought bitterly. He glanced at Avril to get her backing, but her face was unnaturally pale, her body drooping. Grant was right, he had to concede, and offered a compromise. “There is another inn. Not quite as comfortable, but it isn’t so far—just this side of Traunsee.”

Grant only shook his head. “We would be bound to attract attention. Look at us. Bob! A couple of refugees from a disaster area. I haven’t my passport either. We are foreigners, can’t sign into a hotel without—”

“Where the hell’s your passport?”

“In my suitcase with my American Express cheques.”

“That was a damned silly place—”

“And I was damned glad I wasn’t trundling them around when I was clambering through these woods. Seems to me I was loaded down enough with Fra—”

“Sure, sure,” Renwick cut in quickly, made an effort to hold his temper in place. Temper? It was worry, deep and sharp, that was twisting his guts. “This hotel at Traunsee is safe—”

“That’s three hours from here. Still too far.”

“Well, have you a better idea?” demanded Renwick. Goddammit, he thought, this isn’t my territory. How the hell do they think I can trot out a list of safe houses to let them pick and choose?

“Yes. If I can get to a telephone as soon as we reach the rest-house, I’ll call—” Grant noticed the slight tilt of Braun’s head. Listening? And watching me in the rear-view mirror, too. Grant’s expression didn’t change; his voice stayed neutral as he said, “Oh, let’s argue about this over dinner, Bob. I’m so damn tired and hungry that I can’t think straight. Have we much further to go?”

“Almost there.” Renwick leaned forward, gave Slevak and Braun some last directions. After that, he relaxed again and said to Grant, “We can’t spend too much time on discussion.”

“We won’t.” Covertly, Grant kept a careful eye on Braun.

“I’ve got to leave for Vienna by seven at the latest.”

Grant nodded. Perhaps, he was thinking, Braun is just naturally inquisitive. The man might seem to be absorbed by the traffic which was now thickening on this highway, yet there was still that strained tilt to his head.

Renwick said, “You needn’t worry about heading for the Traunsee. With some expert driving, you will get there in less than three hours. I’ll ’phone the hotel’s owner—a good, reliable man—he will look after you. You didn’t think I’d send you to some place I know nothing about?”

Grant shook his head. So Braun is inquisitive. And I’m suspicious. And Renwick is talking too much. Strange the after-effects of crisis on different men.

“Also,” Renwick’s voice became strangely defensive, “I’ll arrange for Avril’s clothes and passport and every damn thing to be packed up tonight. They’ll be delivered—along with your luggage—first thing tomorrow morning.” If there was anything he hated, it was to explain the obvious. Did Grant really think he was the type to dump them in some benighted place and forget about them until his own business was over? His rancour vanished as he remembered the long grim day that lay behind them all. They ought to be celebrating, not fretting about details that were so damned small in comparison with what they had been through. “There it is!” he told Braun and Slevak, pointing ahead to a large sign at the edge of the highway. Not too late, either, he thought with relief. It was barely six o’clock.

* * *

The rest-house, standing back from the busy main road, was two-storied, square shaped and simple, sparkling white, with one romantic touch in the red geraniums that spilled from a dark wood balcony. It stood, severely alone, in a large stretch of rough grass devoid—as yet—of trees and bushes. Everything spelled new. Neat and clean and business-like. The gas pumps stood a safe distance to one side, a garage and repair shop to its rear. There was even a small booth attached to the filling station. Grant noticed, for the sale of candy and small items that a traveller might need. “Pretty complete,” he observed as they clambered out of the car, “except for customers.”

“It’s the slow period of the day.” Renwick’s normal good humour was returning. That’s precisely why I chose this Rasthaus, he thought. They should see this place in the morning or early afternoon—everything from trucks and commercial travellers to Volkswagens loaded with tired children. “Come in and meet the Winkelman family,” he said as he helped Grant to get Avril into the house by its back door. Braun and Slevak followed instructions to see to the car: gas, oil, and water. And the Winkelman family—a widow, three teenage girls, two older boys, an uncle who superintended their efforts—were rallying around. Grant relaxed as Frau Winkelman took charge of Avril and made his way into the front hall where he was told he’d find a telephone.

Then came the first snag. He had jotted down the Salzburg number that Helmut Fischer had given him, jammed the piece of paper into his tweed jacket pocket and it was still there. “Dammit,” he told Renwick, “Fischer’s number is in my suitcase.”

“You’ve a mania for packing things away. Why call Fischer?”

“I’ll explain later.” Grant thumbed through the Vienna directory, found the number of Fischer’s shop. Leni should still be there.

Renwick looked at him in alarm.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. My neck’s at stake, too, isn’t it? See that Avril is okay.”

Who’s in charge here? Renwick wondered. He didn’t make an issue of the telephone call; this wasn’t the time for squabbling. He left, telling himself that Grant was a stubborn bastard but not an idiot; he’d be careful. “Keep it short!” he called back as he started up the staircase to the upper floor. “Don’t waste a minute!”

As if I didn’t know that. Grant thought, and got through to the Singerstrasse shop. Leni was there. And recognised his voice. He cut short her sudden flow of words. “Leni, please give me Herr Fischer’s telephone number in Salzburg.”

“I’m sorry. That number is not to be given out to anyone.”

“I got it yesterday—”

“I’m sorry. Herr Fischer doesn’t want ’phone calls—”

“Leni—” A movement behind him caught his attention. It was only one of the Winkelman girls entering the dining-room.

“I’m sorry,” Leni’s precise voice was saying. “His orders were strict. Why don’t you have his number if he gave it to you?”

Better not mention that he had packed it away. “Would you call Herr Fischer for me? This is important, Leni.”

“He may be leaving for the opera. It begins early in Salzburg and—”

“Then call at once. At once! Tell him I am taking him up on his offer, this week-end.”

“Is that all? You are taking him up on his offer, this week-end?”

“Yes. Call him, please.”

She said quickly before he cut her off, “Herr Grant—there was a man here this afternoon—just as soon as I opened the shop. He was asking for you.”

“For me? What man?”

“Your friend who bought the Ruysdael reproduction, Mr. John Smith. You didn’t tell us you knew him. He wondered if you had visited Herr Fischer earlier today just before we closed for lunch. I told him I hadn’t seen you, and that Herr Fischer was out of town for the—”

“Leni! Call Herr Fischer right now!” Grant jammed down the receiver, raced for the staircase and a quick shower. Half-way up the stairs, he realised the full meaning behind Gene Marck’s visit to Singerstrasse. Marck had half expected Grant, once he was out of the Klar warehouse, to head for Fischer’s shop. There, he could have left the authentic Ruysdael for secure keeping in Fischer’s safe. As I probably—no, certainly—would have done, Grant thought, if Renwick hadn’t been there to help me escape with it. He wished he hadn’t been so quick to end his call to Leni—God, how that girl liked to drag out explanations. Had she told Gene Marck that Fischer was out of town “for the Salzburg Festival”? Or had she merely said “for the week-end”? But this small puzzle was lost in the rush to get cleaned up, check on Avril, come back downstairs for food and final plans. By that time, when he thought over Leni’s unfinished sentence, there seemed little importance to it. Leni was adamant about keeping Fischer’s privacy intact If she wouldn’t give out his Salzburg telephone number, she certainly wasn’t going to mention his address.

Grant had no way of knowing, nor had Leni, that the effusive Mr. John Smith had managed—quite easily, when he had followed her into her office with a friendly afterthought—to slip a small recorder under the edge of her telephone table. It would not hear incoming talk, but everything outgoing (including her dialling) was registered on its miniature tape.

It was astonishing, thought Grant, how quickly a good shower and a hot meal could bring a man back to normal, especially when the one Scotch he had allowed as a pick-up (he would be driving and needed to keep all senses clear) was excellent, and his jacket was being cleaned and pressed.

Neither Renwick nor he had taken the time to stretch out in a neat cubicle with its spotless linen. There was too much to discuss and arrange. In shirt sleeves, they sat alone in the simple dining-room. Avril was asleep upstairs, her burned wrist nicely attended to, her dress washed and now being carefully ironed. She had, wisely, refused solid food, but had sipped broth from the excellent
Leberknödel
soup that the Winkelmans were having for supper. And then wrapped in a rough bath towel, she had collapsed on a narrow cot. She was asleep before Grant had taken three steps away.