Background to Danger (23 page)

Zaleshoff ceased his pacing and looked at the ceiling. Kenton squirted some soda-water into a glass and drank it. Suddenly he felt the Russian’s hand on his shoulder.

“I think, Mr. Kenton,” said Zaleshoff, “that I must be getting old. Or perhaps it is that I haven’t been to sleep these three nights. I am sorry, my friend, that I insulted you.”

“That’s all right.”

“But why,” interposed the girl, “didn’t you tell us all this before, Mr. Kenton?”

“Because,” snorted her brother angrily, “I didn’t give him a chance to tell us.” He turned to Kenton mildly. “Thirty-six hours is your estimate?”

“Perhaps a little longer. I was allowing reasonable time for him to get to Berlin, see Schirmer and get back again to Prague.”

Deep in thought, Zaleshoff walked to the door. Then he turned round.

“Is there anything that I can do for you, my friend? Anything with which I can reward you? That is,” he added hastily, “apart from the matter of Ortega.”

“Yes, there is,” said Kenton promptly. “I should like a hot bath and a comfortable bed.”

The Russian turned to his sister.

“You know, Tamara,” he said, “I like this guy Kenton. He’s reasonable.”

Forty minutes later, for the first time in three days, Kenton went to bed.

For a minute or two he lay on his back, relaxing his muscles and enjoying the soothing ache of his tired body. Then he reached out and switched off the light. As he did so there was a slight creak from the passage outside and a soft
click
as his door was carefully locked. Grinning to himself in the darkness, he turned over on his side. As the warmth of sleep began to steal over him, he heard the faint sound of a car starting in front of the house. Then he slept.

Frau Bastaki was a silent, middle-aged woman with untidy, greying hair and a parched, unhealthy complexion. She sat stiffly in a high-backed chair and stared at her clasped hands. It was obvious that she found her husband’s guests as uncongenial as they found her. At half-past two, seeing that they had both finished their brandies and determined not to offer them more, she rose and suggested that she should show them to their rooms.

The man who called himself Colonel Robinson stood up and bowed slightly.

“Come, Mailler,” he said in English, “the woman is anxious to get rid of us.”

Captain Mailler muttered a monosyllabic and ungallant description of his hostess, drained his glass again and followed them.

A few minutes later the two men nodded a casual good night to one another and went in to their adjoining rooms.

Saridza made no immediate effort to get undressed but
went to one of his suitcases and got out a box of capsules, a small bottle and a collapsible tumbler. He swallowed a capsule, half filled the tumbler with water, added a small quantity of liquid from the bottle and drank the mixture. In an hour’s time he would be able to sleep. He switched out the light, wrapped a blanket round his shoulders, and sat down by the window.

For half an hour he sat there motionless in the darkness. Outside, wind-driven clouds raced across the risen moon. Then came a gap in the clouds and for a few seconds the moonlight shone clearly on the gardens. Suddenly he leaned forward in his chair and wiped the slight mist from the window. Then he got up and went to the communicating door.

Captain Mailler was already in bed when Saridza entered.

“Hallo chief, not in bed yet?”

“Go down quietly to the room next to the one in which we were sitting and switch on the lights. Look as though you’ve come down for a cigarette. That’s all. There is someone outside on the terrace. I wish to see who it is.”

“I don’t see …”

“The curtains are not drawn in that room. I want to get the light on his face. No, don’t take a gun; just do as I tell you.”

He went back to the window and stood looking down at the terrace below. A minute later, light flooded suddenly across the terrace and a short, thick-set figure moved quickly into the shadows.

When Captain Mailler returned, he found Saridza getting undressed for bed.

“Spot him, chief?”

“Yes, it is Zaleshoff, the man who took the journalist.”

“My God! I’ll soon get the little swine.” He started for the door.

“Come back, Mailler, and get to bed.”

“But damn it …”

“Do as I tell you.”

The Captain retreated rather sullenly to his own room. At the door he paused.

“I’d like to get my fingers on that little swine.”

Saridza glanced at his employee’s face and smiled faintly.

“I think you will have an opportunity of doing so. Good night, Mailler.”

“G’night.”

Saridza got into bed wearily. That stuff took a long time to work, but when it did,
Gott sei dank
, it worked well.

K
ENTON
was awakened by the unlocking of his bedroom door. There was a pause, then a discreet knock. He said
“Herein!”
and a man entered carrying a tray. Kenton recognised the leader of the previous night’s kidnapping party.

The man said
“Guten Tag, Kamerad,”
put the tray on a table by the bed and drew back the curtains. Then, after going into the bathroom attached to the room and turning on the water, he withdrew with a friendly nod.

Kenton ate his breakfast and went into the bathroom. A razor, a toothbrush, a brush and comb and towels were laid out ready for use.

When he returned to the bedroom he found that in his absence a suit of clothes together with clean underwear and
a shirt had been left for him on the bed. The suit was a rather Alpinesque green tweed but, to his relief, proved a reasonably good fit. He finished his dressing and made his way down to the room into which he had been led the night before.

He found Zaleshoff sitting in front of a roaring fire drinking tea and reading a newspaper.

As he entered, the Russian put down the paper and surveyed him critically.

“Quite good,” he said at last, “quite good. I’m glad you kept the moustache. You’ll find a pair of clear glass spectacles in one of the pockets. Put them on.”

Kenton did so and examined the result in a large gilt mirror on the wall.

“A little theatrical perhaps?” he suggested.

“That’s only because you’re not used to yourself that way. You ask Tamara; she’ll be down in a minute. Have a good night?”

“Very good, thanks. Your chief kidnapper is an excellent valet. He called me ‘comrade’.”

“Grigori is a mechanic in Prague when he isn’t working for the man who owns this house—or me.”

“I still say he’s a good valet. I hope you feel better after your night’s rest.”

Zaleshoff chuckled.

“You heard me go out then? I went to reconnoitre Bastaki’s house. You see, I take your deductions seriously. It’s about six kilometres from here and stands in its own grounds.”

“That tells me nothing. Where is ‘here’ exactly. I’ve looked out every window I could find and all I can see is trees.”

“Oh, we’re quite near Prague.”

“So I gathered when I was driven here. Well, well, I suppose it doesn’t much matter. What are you going to do? Launch a mass attack on Bastaki’s house, shoot Saridza and
Mailler and pinch the photographs?”

Zaleshoff winced.

“Nothing so crude, I hope.” He waved the newspaper. “By the way, you’re in the news again this morning. They’ve arrested you in Vienna.”

“They’ve done what?”

“Arrested you. The Austrian police are always working that trick. They announce an arrest, the wanted man comes out of hiding laughing up his sleeve and walks into their arms.”

“Supposing Ortega sees it?”

“He won’t. Rashenko has looked after that.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Returning to Saridza, I should be very interested to know what you are really going to do about those photographs.”

Zaleshoff poured himself out some more tea.

“I was going to talk to you about that.” He examined a slice of lemon thoughtfully. “How would you like to assist in their recovery?”

“Very much. But what can I do?”

“Various things,” was the evasive answer; “you see, I shall want more men than I have here even if Tamara drives the car.”

Kenton grinned at the Russian.

“When you say exactly what you mean without beating about three or four bushes first,” he said, “I shall know there’s something wrong. The trouble is, I suppose, that you can’t leave anyone here to keep an eye on me?”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow; you said last night that you wanted to be in at the death. Here’s your chance.”

Kenton sighed.

“Have it your own way. What do I do?”

“Carry an unloaded automatic and come with me.”

“That doesn’t sound very useful.”

“It will be. You see, although we believe that Saridza has
the photographs we do not know exactly where they are. Does he carry them on him or are they hidden in his room? We must have freedom to search. It is impossible if we have to watch people at the same time.”

It sounded a rather feeble explanation to Kenton, but he let it go. Saridza would be sure to carry the photographs on him. Still, if Zaleshoff was afraid to leave him in the house alone, all the better. It would be pleasant to renew his acquaintance with Colonel Robinson and Captain Mailler.

“What’s the plan of campaign?” he said.

Zaleshoff produced a rough sketch-map of a house from his pocket and talked for ten minutes.

“It’s quite simple,” he concluded; “all you have to do is to follow instructions. Serge will take the garage, Peter will keep a look-out at the gate, Grigori, you and I will look after the inside.”

“Supposing Saridza has his bunch of thugs there?”

“He hasn’t. There are only he and Mailler there apart from three maidservants and Frau Bastaki. Grigori will look after the women. You and I will attend to the real business.”

“I don’t see how I can attend to anything with an unloaded automatic.”

“There must be no shooting. You are already wanted by the Austrian police for murder. It would be unfortunate if you really did kill somebody. Automatics are tricky things if you’re not used to them and an unloaded one looks just as dangerous as a loaded one.”

“All right, when do we start?”

“About ten o’clock, I think. I don’t want to wait till they’re in bed. We’ll leave here at about a quarter to ten.”

At that moment Tamara came in.

“I was just explaining to-night’s programme to Mr. Kenton,” said Zaleshoff. “He is disappointed because I say his automatic must not be loaded. I tell him he might kill somebody.”

“Mr. Kenton looks quite capable of it in that outfit,” said Tamara. She herself, Kenton noted, was looking extremely attractive in a blouse and skirt.

“Your brother said that you would approve of the disguise.”

She smiled.

“If Saridza’s wearing dark glasses he may have to look twice before he recognises you.”

“That doesn’t sound so good.”

“You needn’t worry,” said Zaleshoff; “Saridza won’t get into touch with the police. He’d have too much explaining to do.”

Kenton was silent for a moment.

“I wonder,” he said at last, “what Saridza will say when he loses his photographs.”

Zaleshoff looked at his watch.

“Nine hours from now,” he remarked, “we should be hearing the answer to that question. Come, Tamara, we have work to do.”

Left to himself, Kenton lit a cigarette and wandered over to a book-case in the corner of the room. Most of the volumes in it were in Russian. Poking dismally among them in the hope of finding one printed in a language he could read easily, he came across an odd volume of Florio’s
Montaigne
. He carried it to the light and opened it at random. Half-way down the page a sentence caught his eye.

He shut the book with a sigh and put it back in the case.
Then he walked slowly to the fire and stood watching the flames hissing from the side of a soft, tarry coal. If only Herr Sachs had chosen a different compartment.

A little after nine-thirty that evening, Zaleshoff inspected the magazine of a large Luger automatic, made sure the breech was empty and handed it to Kenton.

The journalist slipped it into the pocket of the leather raincoat with which he had been provided and felt better. It might be unloaded, but it supplied what he had so far missed—a touch of the dramatic.

During that day he had had plenty of opportunities of letting his imagination get to work. He had pictured the scene—the grim, purposeful assembly in the hall, the final instructions from Zaleshoff, the silent, tense atmosphere as zero hour approached—and the fact that the real thing did not conform with his picture in the slightest, was upsetting him.

They might, he thought, have been setting out on a picnic. Tamara produced, with some pride, a Thermos flask full of hot coffee, Zaleshoff could not make up his mind whether he should wear a scarf or not, the two men, Serge and Grigori, wrangled over their places in the car. Kenton, whose nerves were by this time thoroughly on edge, was on the point of losing his temper with all of them when Zaleshoff, looking at his watch, announced that they would leave immediately.

Any hopes that Kenton had entertained of surveying the neighbourhood in which Zaleshoff’s headquarters were situated, were dashed. The girl climbed into the driving-seat and drew the blinds over the partition behind her. Grigori repeated the process with the remaining windows. Kenton was placed beside Zaleshoff in the back seat facing Grigori and Serge. The third man, Peter, sat in front with the girl.

“Not taking any chances, are you, Andreas?”

Zaleshoff chuckled but did not answer, and started talking in Russian to Grigori.

The car turned to the right on to the main road, but, after running for a short distance along it, swung left on to a secondary road with a poor surface. For fifteen minutes or more the Mercedes leapt and slithered among the pot-holes, then it slowed down, the engine was switched off, and it coasted to a standstill.