“And if the Nazis pull up that box from Finstersee?”
“How can they, if they’ve scattered them? It will be a long time before any try to come back to Unterwald. Once we gut out
the nest, they won’t have a place to operate from. They’ll have to replan, rethink every bit of their organisation here. They’ll keep trying, of course, but we’ll keep watching. And they will know that. I told you in Salzburg, and I tell you now—”
“Are you coming?” Johann moved off slowly.
“We had better not go in together. When I do join you—”
“I’ll scarcely know you.”
“And take care! He has a couple of possible friends up there with him.”
Johann halted. “Who?”
“Two strangers who came here this evening. They’re putting up at the inn for a few days of shooting. Trudi’s aunt has been making beds and cooking all afternoon.” Felix grinned. “And that’s my excuse. The inn is open. I’ll have dinner there. Maybe even stay the night.”
“By God,” Johann looked at Felix with frank admiration, “I believe you would.” He turned on his heel and crossed the street, following the lines of houses until he reached the trail that branched up towards Finstersee. He climbed it for a few minutes until he reached the Waldesruh meadow with its short path to the inn’s front door. From his vantage point, he looked down on the village. He couldn’t see Felix, but Felix would be watching him, timing his entry. Did Zauner really enjoy this kind of life? he wondered. He rapped hard on the oak door and then opened it.
The big ceramic stove in the dining-room had been lit, but Frau Hitz had to wear a shawl around her shoulders while she set a table. She was in one of her cross moods. She was tired. She had been at work since Herr Grell had sent word this noon that he wanted the whole place aired and cleaned and heated,
not his room, of course—she was rarely allowed inside it, and never alone—but there was plenty to do without that and a full dinner to cook besides. “They’re in there,” she said as a return for Johann’s greeting. “Drinking.” And she nodded her head, sparse-covered with thin white hair pulled back in a knot from her white face, towards the kitchen. It was the most she would allow herself in disrespect for a man’s world where women scrubbed the floors and men trailed over them in dirty boots. She looked at Johann’s shoes, earth-caked, and went on with her work.
They were laughing in the kitchen, and warm, with their coats off and their legs stretched out. Johann loosened the collar of his cape. “I’m Kronsteiner,” he said. “Can I see you for a minute, Herr Grell?” He nodded to Karl and Max, the policemen from Bad Aussee, whom he knew well. He merely glanced at the two well-dressed, well-fed strangers who sat apart. The laughter died into silence.
August Grell, red-faced and beaming, had been refilling the beer mugs. “Come in. Sit down. Will you have some beer?” Then he halted, his expression changing to one of sympathy. “You are Herr Bryant’s brother-in-law? Herr Kronsteiner, forgive me. I didn’t recognise you in your winter clothes. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. A dreadful thing, dreadful.”
“You were the last to see my brother-in-law, I believe.” My voice is too tight, Johann thought, I’ll have to ease up. He was conscious of the strangers’ eyes studying him. He said to Max, who was the senior of the two men from Bad Aussee, “I suppose you’ve already asked most of the questions—”
“We have, Johann. There’s nothing that is any help. Herr Grell met your brother-in-law up at the picnic ground, and
invited him back here for breakfast.”
“And nothing stronger than coffee was drunk, I assure you,” Grell said.
“Was he ill?”
“No. He was cold and slightly damp. He had been caught in the mist. And he had scarred his hands on some rocks. Apart from that, he was well. A bit anxious about his wife. He telephoned her.”
“I know. I was staying with them in Salzburg for a couple of days. Well—” He just didn’t seem to be able to get an opening. “That’s all that can be said, I suppose. Where’s Anton?”
Grell’s placid face did not move a muscle. “He’s in Bozen.”
“Back in the South Tyrol?” Johann asked, startled. “Isn’t that dangerous for him? After all, he left it without permission of the Italians.”
“He has Austrian papers now. He’ll be all right.” Grell seemed amused. “He is hoping to bring his girl when he returns. At least, he is trying to persuade her to come north. They will be here next week if he has any luck. Did you have some message for him?”
“No. I thought he must be here. In that telephone call—”
Grell was watching him politely. “Yes?”
“My sister thought her husband said he was having breakfast with the Grells.”
Grell looked bewildered. “She must have got it wrong.
With
the Grells? Are you sure she didn’t say
at
the Grells’? There’s quite a difference in one small word.” He turned to his guests. “It’s too bad that Anton won’t be here to guide you around tomorrow. But perhaps we could persuade Herr Kronsteiner to take his place. He knows these mountains well. You like
hunting, don’t you, Herr Kronsteiner?” He faced Johann with a genial smile, his blue eyes widely innocent.
“There will be funeral arrangements,” Johann said in a low voice.
Grell’s smile faded. “Forgive me. I am so sorry. And please convey my deepest sympathy to Frau Bryant.”
From the hall beyond the dining-room there was Felix Zauner’s voice calling. “Where is everybody? Grell?” Then his brisk footsteps echoed over the wooden floors and stopped at the kitchen door. Under his arm he had some heavy sheets of paper in a loose roll. “Glad to see the inn is open,” he said, with a polite nod to everyone. He looked at the large stove where pots were drawn to the side of the heat, keeping warm, smelling deliciously. “Makes business more pleasurable when a good meal precedes it.” He held up the roll of paper. “I had these diagrams and maps drawn to scale. They’ll prove we don’t intend to ruin Unterwald,” he told Grell. “When are you serving dinner? Soon, I hope. This autumn air makes me—” He caught sight of Johann, and his voice changed. “I was sorry to hear about the accident, Kronsteiner. Very sorry.”
Max placed his beer mug carefully on the table and rose. Karl did the same. “Yes,” said Max as his parting word, “it was a bad thing, a very bad thing. But there was one mercy, Johann. Your brother-in-law died quickly, painlessly.”
“Yes,” said Karl, “not like that other fellow in the car. It’s a wonder they didn’t hear his screams in the village.” He beamed around on them all, joined Max in his thanks for the beer, and lumbered out the back door after him.
Johann watched the grin on Grell’s broad red face, forced and now fixed, as if Grell had summoned it and could not
dismiss it. The two strangers sat unmoving. “Good night,” Johann said, and followed the two policemen into the yard. As he closed the door, he could still see that rigid parting of Grell’s lips.
Felix Zauner was saying quickly as he moved back into the dining-room, “I’ll get rid of my coat. Frau Hitz, would you be so kind as to show me where I might wash my hands?”
Grell listened to Zauner’s retreating footsteps. He said, “Don’t worry about him. He’s just a sharp businessman. When he leaves, we can talk.”
His guests had risen to their feet, but one of them had his eyes on the back door as if he were watching Johann Kronsteiner. “That brother-in-law is the one I’m worried about,” he said in a hushed voice.
“What about Bryant’s wife?” the other asked.
“We’ll have to talk over that problem,” Grell said.
“There have been two men watching her house all day.”
“Ours?”
“No. We think they were the men that Yates asked for. But who gave them Bryant’s address? Yates certainly couldn’t reach them today.” There was a thin smile on the normally pleasant mouth.
“Then there is someone in Salzburg who serves as a contact for Yates,” Grell said thoughtfully. “Someone who was alerted by Yates before we picked him up this morning.”
“That’s possible. We were only monitoring his Warsaw sendings. If he made a telephone call to Salzburg—well, that was something we couldn’t intercept. We find that he has at least two addresses in Zürich as well as his legal one. A very able fellow.”
“Who was he working for? The Soviets?”
“I don’t think so.” The thin smile appeared again. “It was a Soviet agent who tipped us off about Yates.”
“Was Yates working for the Americans then?”
“No. Definitely not. He has done enough harm to them to—”
Grell held up a warning hand as his ears caught the first sounds of distant footsteps, passing through the hall. The tight group of men separated to a more normal distance, raised their voices from a low murmur to a natural tone. “Yes,” Grell was saying as he began leading the way into the dining-room, “the chamois have disappeared. They seem to have all gone to the south of Styria. However, you never know your luck. Frau Hitz! Are you ready to serve dinner?”
Johann had halted at the corner of the inn to light a cigarette. Drawing ahead of him, the motor-cycle and sidecar bumped over the rough cart track with a last friendly wave from Karl. Then it turned right for the road down to the Gendarmerie at Bad Aussee, its coughing and sputtering giving way to a steady growl. It was a clear night, almost cloud-free, with the first stars glittering. The gibbous moon hung low in the sky; it would take another couple of hours before it was high enough to spread its light full on the mountainsides. The time couldn’t be better: the village was silent; Grell and his friends would soon be at dinner; Felix was safely occupied. And I, thought Johann, am having supper with Trudi. He threw away his cigarette and took the road to Finstersee.
He made it in a quick fifteen minutes. Walking was as easy
as breathing to him, and the night held no problems once he had cleared the lights of Grell’s kitchen out of his eyes. The liar, he thought bitterly, liar and liar and liar. So Dick was having breakfast at the Grells’, was he? Anna didn’t make mistakes like that, and she had been quite definite: Dick was having breakfast with August and Anton Grell. Those were her words. Perhaps, he decided, it was lucky for me that I didn’t tell them that. They didn’t like me much.
He halted at the edge of the picnic ground, studying the moon. Its light was even weaker here, cut off as it was by the mountain peaks that rose high above the lake. The first thing to do was to reach the small clump of trees and boulders on its north shore and try to find out if Dick had really been there. With the careful use of the flashlight that now weighed down the pocket of his cape, he might find some traces, some tracks. (He had enough experience in finding lost climbers who had strayed in the mists and been trapped in blind corners.) And if he found any sign that Dick had been crazy enough to visit the spot just above the ledge in the lake? Then that would have been enough for his death warrant. I’ll know it really was murder, Johann thought. And if Felix won’t take action, then by God I will.
He crossed the meadow, intending to cut up through the wood towards the track along the mountain’s lower slope. His eyes, scanning the shadows around him, rested on the black shape of the picnic table. So this was where Grell had met Dick, was it? Another lie, possibly. He halted his steady pace, wondering what actually had happened, feeling the impossibility of ever reaching the truth through the maze of lies that Grell would invent. But at least there would be one piece of testimony from
Anna about who was actually at the inn this morning. Anna didn’t lie, Anna—
Incongruously, his mind jumped from Anna to the burned-out car. Yet logically, too. Anna said Dick took his diving gear with him. But the gaping mouth of the car’s trunk had held only four blackened remains: the hub and twisted rim of what had been a spare tyre, a jack, a wrench. Nothing else. In the back seat of the car, there was a crumpled small box that had once been the metal frame of a camera. Much of any diving gear would burn into ashes, but what about the weights in a belt, or a buckle, or clamps? What about a knife, a flashlight, or any metal parts in the scuba tank? The knife at least couldn’t have burned to nothing.
Had Dick thrown his gear away? Not likely on the kind of money he made. Not likely with a job still to be done. Still to be done?
Johann walked slowly over to the picnic table, put his foot up on a bench, rested one elbow on his knee as he stared across the short stretch of lake towards the hidden ledge. He was remembering now the marks on Dick’s palms. Rope marks. He had seen that kind of scar often enough; it happened to him if he slipped on a rock face and dangled briefly over a sheer drop, or when he was easing out a rope for a partner’s descent and lost his grip for even one second. “God in heaven,” he said softly.
His thoughts raced. Dick had done the job, had thrown the diving equipment away. And Anna had told a lie. She said Dick had found nothing... Wait a minute, wait a minute, he reminded himself. You said Dick would never have been having breakfast at the inn with that chest lying in his car.
You
said that. And
you asked, “Would he?” And her answer was “No.”... The chest had never been hidden in the car. Dick had hidden it some place else. Where?
Not on that bleak bare mountainside. Not in the wood that led there: it was too vulnerable with hunters around; it was too close to the trail, too obvious. Dick was a cautious man. He would choose a hiding place that could be easily reached without attracting suspicion when the time came to retrieve it. Or rather, a hiding place that his friends the British could find without too much trouble. A place that Anna could identify for them, if things went wrong. Anna...
Suddenly he remembered this morning in the shop, remembered the way she had frozen beside him when that American had stopped at the detailed picture of Finstersee. He had frozen, too, because of his growing suspicions about the American. But was that Anna’s reason? Or was the American looking at the hiding place? As I am doing now? he wondered in disbelief. He stared at the three boulders, silvered grey in the spreading moonlight.
Impossible, he kept telling himself. I’ve passed that picture in the shop a dozen times, thought nothing of it, it’s a—what did the American call it?—a study in texture to show what a damned artistic photographer Dick could be. And to display it right there in the shop? Madness, complete madness. Except, he reminded himself,
you
passed it and thought nothing about it. And you wouldn’t be giving it a second thought right now if you hadn’t been standing close to Anna in the shop this morning, or if you had found one trace of diving gear in a ruined car.