Background to Danger (6 page)

There was no one behind the counter and he stood for a moment or two looking for some means of attracting attention. Then he heard the sound of somebody snoring close at hand. It seemed to be coming from along the passage and he moved forward, a little uncertainly, to investigate.

Two or three steps brought him to a room leading into the passage. The door was half open and he looked in. A candle, burnt down and guttering in a pool of wax, cast a flickering light on a man wearing an apron and carpet slippers, stretched full length on a red plush sofa. This, Kenton assumed, was the night porter.

The man grunted and stirred in his sleep as Kenton rapped on the door. The second knock woke him and, rubbing his eyes, he raised himself to a sitting posture on the sofa.

“Herrn Sachs?”
asked Kenton.

The man rose unsteadily to his feet and moved towards Kenton. Reaching the door, he leaned heavily against the wall and, throwing back his head, regarded the journalist through half-closed eyes. He smelt strongly of stale wine and Kenton saw that he was drunk.

“Was ist’s?”
he demanded thickly.

“Herrn Sachs, bitte.”

The man digested this information for a moment, then looked up again inquiringly.

“Herr Sachs?”

“Jawohl,”
said Kenton impatiently.

The night porter breathed heavily for a moment or two, moistened his lips and looked at Kenton a little more intelligently.

“Wen darf ich melden?”

“Herr Kenton.”

“Herr Kenton! Ach ja! man erwartet Sie. Wollen Sie bitte hinaufgehen?”

The porter prepared to return to his sofa. Kenton, it seemed, was expected to guess the room number.

“Auf Zimmer nummer …?”
he said encouragingly.

The man sat on the edge of the sofa and blinked at Kenton irritably.

“Zimmer fünfundzwanzig, dritter Stock,”
he said and, with a heavy sigh, lay back on the sofa. As Kenton started to climb the stairs to the third floor, he heard the snoring begin again.

Once out of range of the passage light, the stairs were in pitch darkness and, having failed to find any switches, Kenton had to keep striking matches to light his way.

The house had obviously never been intended to serve as an hotel. The proprietor’s efforts to create the greatest possible number of rooms, by means of extensive partitioning, had turned the place into a maze of small corridors in which doors were set at unexpected angles and culs-de-sac abounded. When he reached the third floor it took him several minutes and many matches to find Room No. 25.

He knocked and the door swung ajar with a slight creak.

Except for a shaft of light from a source he could not see, the place was in darkness. It appeared to be a small sitting-room. He listened, but could hear no sound of movements. He called Sachs’s name softly; but there was no response, and he repeated the name in a louder tone. Then he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The light was coming through a communicating-door from a single naked lamp in the bedroom. From where he stood, he could see that the bedclothes were turned back ready for the occupant. But of Herr Sachs there was no sign.

He stepped back into the corridor and waited for two or three minutes. Then he lit a cigarette, but after a few puffs crushed it out. The Hotel Josef was getting on his nerves.
He went back into the sitting-room and stood facing the light. He called once again without result and went to the bedroom door.

The next instant he stood stockstill. Into the small area of floor that had come into view beyond the bed protruded a man’s foot.

His spine crawled. With an effort he remained motionless. Then he edged forward, slightly increasing his field of vision. A second later he stepped into the bedroom.

The man was half lying, half kneeling in a pool of blood that was still creeping slowly along the cracks in the pinewood boards. The knees were drawn up. The hands were clasped tightly on the handle of the knife that had been driven hard into the right side just below the rib case. He had been in his shirt sleeves when he had fallen. On the floor beside him his jacket lay with the lining ripped out.

Kenton glanced quickly round the room.

On the floor the other side of the bed were the remains of the composition suitcase, ransacked and slashed all over with a knife. Then his eyes returned to the body.

He took one step forward. The slight movement was enough. With scarcely a sound it rolled over on to its back.

The brown eyes were no longer luminous. This time Herr Sachs had waited and smiled too long. This time he had been too late to strike.

T
HERE
are persons who can, like undertakers, adopt a matter-of-fact attitude towards dead bodies; who can touch and move them, close the eyes. Kenton was not one of those. He had been in Spain during the worst months of the civil war and had seen many, too many, corpses. But in a battle area, among buildings wrecked by gun fire and streets strewn with the pitiful debris of war, dead men (and women) were a part of the scene—shapeless patches of dark colour against the vaster destruction about them.

In the silence of Room 25 in the Hotel Josef, however, death was no longer incidental. Here it was grotesque. Kenton found that he wanted to be sick and forced himself to look away.
He knew that, useless though it might appear, he ought to find out if Sachs were still alive, and if he were, to go for a doctor. As he stood trying to overcome his nausea, he could hear the watch ticking on his wrist. It seemed that he had been there for ages. Then, carefully avoiding the blood, he went down on his knees beside the body.

He had read of such things, but could not remember the exact procedure. He had an idea that a “faint fluttering of the heart” was the thing to look for, but the mechanics of detecting it was another matter. It was, he knew, useless for him to attempt to feel the pulse. He had always found it extremely difficult to locate even his own. Perhaps he should undo Sachs’ grimy shirt and rest his hand over the heart. He gritted his teeth and started on the waistcoat. Then he noticed that his fingers were slipping on the buttons and realised that he had got blood on his fingers. He stood up quickly. The perspiration was running from his forehead. He stumbled over Sachs’ torn suitcase to the wash-basin, poured some water and rinsed his hands. Then he looked once again at the body. Suddenly he felt himself losing control. He must give the alarm, call the police, anything. This was no affair of his. He must get out as quickly as possible. He walked rapidly through the sitting-room into the darkness of the corridor.

With Sachs’ remains out of sight, however, he felt his self-possession returning. Outside the door, he stopped and began to think.

What exactly was he going to do? The night porter was asleep and drunk. It was no use attempting to explain things to him. The nearest policeman was probably streets away. The thing to do was to telephone to the police from the bureau downstairs.

He was about to carry out this intention when another aspect of the situation occurred to him. How was he to account for his own presence on the scene? The Austrian
police would certainly demand an explanation. They would ask certain questions.

Kenton imagined the incredulity with which that statement would be received.

He went back into the sitting-room. It was, he decided, out of the question to allow himself to be identified with the affair. Even if he succeeded finally in convincing the police that he had nothing to do with the stabbing, there would be endless delays. He would have to remain in Linz perhaps for weeks. The only thing was to go while the going was good. But first there was some thinking to be done. There must be no mistakes.

He hesitated, then walked into the bedroom and took a small shaving-mirror off a nail in the wall. Turning it glass downwards, he went over to the body, and bending down, held the mirror against Sachs’ mouth for a minute or two.
There was no trace of moisture on the glass when he looked.

Satisfied that there was nothing a doctor could do for the man, he replaced the mirror and returned once more to the sitting-room. There, he shut the door leading into the corridor, seated himself in a chair facing the bedroom door and lit a cigarette.

One thing, he decided, was evident. Whoever had murdered Sachs had wanted the envelope that was now in his, Kenton’s, pocket. The slashed and ransacked suitcase, the ripped jacket and Sachs’ own concern for its safety pointed to that conclusion. Point two; the murderer had not got it. Kenton found that a disturbing thought, for it meant that the murderer might still be in the immediate neighbourhood. Dismissing a strong desire to look under the bed, he drew his chair into the light from the bedroom.

The first thing to be looked into was the envelope. He took it from his pocket and ripped it open hastily.

At first he thought that the contents consisted of nothing but blank paper. Then he saw that, placed carefully between the folds, were a series of glossy half-plate photographs.

He took them out one by one and flattened them. There were fifteen prints in all. Two were of large-scale sectional maps, heavily marked with crosses and numbers; the remaining thirteen were miniature reproductions of closely typewritten sheets of foolscap proportions.

He examined them closely. The language was Russian and he glanced through the photographs until he came to what was evidently the title page. His knowledge of Russian was sketchy, but he knew enough to decipher the heading.

He read:

COMMISSARIAT FOR WAR

Standing orders
(
B2, 1925
)
for operations contra Bessarabia. To be observed only in the event of attack by Rumania
or Rumanian allies on Ukraine along front Lutsk—Kamenets
.

There followed twelve and a half pages of telegraphic but highly complicated instructions concerning bridgeheads, stores, communications, water supply, railway rolling stock and engines, fuel, roads and all the other essential details of organisation attendant upon a modern army on the move.

Kenton glanced through it all hurriedly. Then he stuffed the photographs into his pocket. He was, he felt, getting into deep waters. Whoever wanted Herr Sachs’ “securities” had not hesitated to commit one murder; in view of the nature of those securities, it would not be unlikely that the man or men were ready to commit another. As far as he was concerned, the affair had assumed a different complexion. From his point of view there was now only one proper place for the photographs—the British Consulate. Meanwhile, however, both he and the photographs were in the Hotel Josef with a murdered man. All things considered, it would be as well to reconnoitre the position.

He went to the window.

By drawing aside the curtains and pressing his face against the pane, he found that he could see the length of the street in front of the hotel. The moon was on the wane, but he could see enough. Standing in the partial shadow of a doorway a few yards up on the other side of the road were two motionless figures. A little farther down, drawn up facing his way, was a big saloon car. Kenton did not attempt to deceive himself. The way out of the hotel was closed and he was in a nasty corner.

He let the curtain fall and stood there for a moment. The men outside might owe their allegiance to one of two parties: the owners of the documents, the photographs of which were now in his pocket, or those who wanted the
photographs. On which side had Sachs been? Assuming that he had known what his envelope actually contained, probably the latter. The real owners would have destroyed the photographs. But as he, Kenton, had the photographs, he was an object of interest to both parties. Did Sachs’ friends know that he had them? Sachs had said that he had had business to attend to before going to the Hotel Josef. He might have told them then. At all events, one of the parties was now waiting outside in force. The other was—where?