Above Suspicion (36 page)

That had been the worst moment for her, she decided. Worse
even than the frontier and the silly boy with the exaggerated cap and salute. She thought again of when she had waited tensely with Thornley at the side of the road, when she had begun to think that Richard and Henry had been caught. She remembered the sense of haste which had almost choked her as the suitcases were lifted into the Mercedes and they had waited again while Thornley had set the American car crashing down into a ravine. Each minute, each passing car, was full of danger. Already behind them there had been a tell-tale glow of fire. Bob had said simply, “Garage too by this time, I’d think.” After that they had driven in silence towards the frontier, and she had felt sick and cold. When the Brenner was passed (if it were passed) she had told herself she could sleep. That would heal the throbbing of her eyes. But the Brenner lay behind them, and the sleep which she had resisted refused to return.

It was not until they had driven through Bolzano and all the villages in between that she felt the tension lessen. Bob even made some mild jokes about all these places called Believe, Obey, Fight, like the English stations called Ladies and Gentlemen. He got her to sip some more brandy, as she ate the dry biscuits. They tasted wonderfully. The others were eating, too. She watched them drowsily; she was warm at last, and her body relaxed.
Ladies and gentlemen ladies and gentlemen lend me your ears I come to Dreikirchen with rings on her fingers and bells where who, where who, where…

At first she thought it was von Aschenhausen holding her shoulder, bending over her, but the grip did not tighten and hurt. It was Richard. Richard trying to smile and making a failure of it.

“Fran,” he said, and kissed her.

The car had stopped in the shadow of trees. The trees were a different shape, the night air seemed milder, the ink-blue sky was more beautiful. And Richard’s arms were round her. She suddenly remembered Bob and Henry.

“Where are they?”

“Freshening up. There’s a stream over there. We’ll go when they’ve finished. We can change, too: Henry has brought our things along with him in his case.”

Frances looked at the trees again, dark islands in a sea of moonlight.

“We
are farther south,” she said.

“Almost at Verona, darling. It’s one o’clock and all’s well.”

“All’s well,” answered an American voice. “Well, Frances, how’s everything?”

She gave him her right hand.

“That’s the ticket,” he said. “I’ll get your clothes, and Bob will guide you to the stream. Here’s your towel.” He handed her one of his white shirts. “And your purse.” He handed Richard her bag.

They reached the stream, and they bathed their faces in the cool water. The bullet graze had bled a lot; it looked unsafe to disturb the bandage, so Richard hacked a piece off the shirt and bandaged on top of the bloodstained handkerchiefs. The clothes for her consisted of a nondescript belted grey coat, a grey beret, a shapeless dress and shoes and stockings. Richard had an
ersatz
tweed suit, a rough green-felt hat, and a tie of indescribable hideousness. Frances dressed her hair and disguised the bruises on her cheek as well as she could with her one hand. It would be almost impossible to get the dress on without starting more bleeding. Richard helped her into the coat, and even that was
difficult enough. The shoes were too big, but fortunately they had straps. Richard and Frances looked at each other, and she actually smiled; and then they went back to the car; carrying the discarded clothes and the rejected dress.

“Go on—laugh,” said Richard good-humouredly.

Thornley and van Cortlandt grinned.

“It’s not bad, you know,” Bob said tactfully. “I’ve seen hundreds like you travelling in Germany. Have a cigarette? How long is it since we could risk one?”

“One thing I must say for these blasted Nazis,” said Henry, and paused to enjoy his effect. “They make you damned well appreciate the simple pleasures of a peaceful life.”

Thornley drove them this time. In the swaying car they made their last plans. They were brief. They were to travel on their German passports, complete with Italian entry stamps (Schulz had earned his money), towards Grenoble. If the station would accept their marks, they could catch an early morning train. If not, they would have to wait until the banks opened. Van Cortlandt and Thornley, cutting back on their tracks, would drive through Lombardy until daylight made the car too dangerous. They would then get rid of it and make for the Swiss border, if they hadn’t reached it by that time. Van Cortlandt was confident that they would. They divided the marks they had, and van Cortlandt emptied the smaller of his suitcases to carry the dress and two extra shirts and socks for Richard. They could think of no other main points; the details would depend on quick wits and luck. They would meet in Paris. Van Cortlandt gave them the address of a hotel he knew.

“It’s run by an American who stayed over from the last war. You’ll feel safe enough there. Just lie low until we get there. And then we’ll celebrate. Better catch up on your sleep before we arrive.”

His confidence and high spirits were infectious. Frances found herself laughing. And then the tears were running down her cheeks; even the pain they caused in her eyes couldn’t check them.

“Well,” said van Cortlandt, “well, now.”

Thornley switched on the wireless tactfully. The overture of
Aïda,
badly recorded, swelled scratchingly into the car. Thornley tuned it down.

“Goes well with the writing on the wall,” he suggested, and pointed towards the house they were passing. The lights from the car pointed the lettering on its wall. “‘Who touches the Duce touches death.’ Dear me!”

“One up on the Victorians,” said Richard. “They only hung banalities round the house. Now we get totalitarian mottoes in two-feet-high letters all over the gable ends.”

Van Cortlandt, keeping his eyes away from Frances, tried to think of something to add to that but he could only think of the silent way in which she wept. He peered out into the darkness.

“Houses are getting closer now,” he said at last. “Better waste no time.”

Frances had regained her control. She made a pretence of powdering her face.

“I’m ready,” she said, “any time. We’ll see you in Paris.” She managed a smile. “I’m sorry. It was all my fault. I’ve ruined all your plans.”

The American shook his head. “My plans were going to be
ruined anyway, although I kept persuading myself that they wouldn’t be. We all have our wishful thinking but it’s just as well to come out of it.”

Thornley switched off the motor carefully, and turned to face Frances.

“I have no plans either, Frances. Don’t worry about that. I had a letter from Tony this morning.”

“Tony?”

“Yes. He’s on his way home to enlist.”

“And the girl in Czechoslovakia?” Frances could have bitten her tongue. Thornley examined the back of his hand.

“Suicide,” he said, too coldly.

Frances saw the three men exchange glances. So they knew. Bob must have told them as she had slept. It must have been something which they thought would have sickened her, unnerved her. As if the man Kurt, when he had tried to break her silence, had not described in detail her possible future. As if she couldn’t guess… But knowing evil could be worse than guessing. When you guessed you could always hope that evil things might not be so bad as your worst fears. But when you knew, then there was no hope left. Then you knew this and this, and the evil of it drove away all hope.

She said nothing, only remembering the look on Thornley’s face when he had looked down at the man Kurt. He had spoken as if to himself, and the words had made no sense then. Now they took shape. One for Maria…the first one for Maria. Frances leaned forward and touched Thornley’s shoulder with her right hand, and then van Cortlandt’s.

Richard helped her to step out of the car. The savageness of his voice did not startle them.

“Yes. I’m all for international understanding:
real
understanding.” He looked at the other two men and voiced their thoughts. “This isn’t the end for any of us. It’s just the beginning.”

They were all silent for some moments, and then Thornley switched on the engine and the car moved into the night.

Richard picked up the suitcase and gripped Frances’ right arm. They walked softly through dark streets, guided by scattered lights. At last they saw the station. Frances pressed his hand to her breast, and held it there.

Helen MacInnes, whom the
Sunday Express
called “the Queen of spy writers”, was the author of many distinguished suspense novels.

Born in Scotland, she studied at the University of Glasgow and University College, London, then went to Oxford after her marriage to Gilbert Highet, the eminent critic and educator. In 1937 the Highets went to New York, and except during her husband’s war service, Helen MacInnes lived there ever since.

Since her first novel
Above Suspicion
was published in 1941 to immediate success, all her novels have been bestsellers;
The Salzburg Connection
was also a major film.

Helen MacInnes died in September 1985.