Prelude to Terror (24 page)

“Not so far. Not one rumour, nothing. My God, I
did
get there as fast as I could move. Finished dressing in a taxi, believe it or not.”

For the next few minutes, neither of them spoke. They were following Währingerstrasse, a long and busy street, dodging the trolley-buses that always had the right of way, even when it meant a sudden veer across the face of following traffic.

“Soon be there,” Renwick said. “Prepare yourself, my boy, for Basset on the war-path.”

“If he expects me to give a play-by-play account—” began Grant.

“He won’t have time. He has summoned quite a gathering of Austrians around him—a cabinet minister who’s an old friend, the president of Allied Electronics, and some top State Security guy. A hush-hush luncheon at the Embassy. How hush is that? I give it six hours before the gossip starts being whispered around Vienna.”

“I see your problem. Mittendorf will be across the frontier tonight. Probably Marck and his dear Gudrun too.” Then Grant’s eyes widened and he smacked the Ruysdael. “A clear case of embezzlement! A 250,000 dollar payment for a 168,454 dollar painting, right out of Basset’s pocket. You could hold Mittendorf on that, couldn’t you?”

Renwick’s hope stirred. “Yes, we could hold him on that.” And later slap him down with all the other charges when we get the evidence together. “The Austrians could nail him inside three hours. I think I’ll have to help you face Basset, after all, and get him to prefer a charge of embezzlement instead of marching into Mittendorf’s office and heaving him out by the scruff of his neck.” Renwick’s smile broke into laughter. “That’s what the old buzzard wanted to do. But now we’ll give him—what did he call it?—a viable alternative. He will be delighted. All he wanted was some action. Why don’t you want to see him?”

“Because,” Grant said slowly, “he has a museum job to offer, and I’m damned if I’ll look as though I had come panting after it. In fact, I don’t want that blasted job, even if it was offered to me.” Yet a week ago I would have jumped at it, he thought.

“Why?” Renwick eased the Volkswagen away from the heavy traffic and entered the wide curve of a quiet street, edged by eighteenth-century houses and walled gardens.

“Because,” Grant said again, even more slowly, “every time I walked through that museum at Basset Hill, I’d see three pictures displayed there: a Monet, a Degas—both bought by Westerbrook in Vienna—and this Ruysdael. And I’d wonder where their former owners were. Murdered, like Ferenc Ady? Or shut away in an insane asylum? Or freezing in a labour camp above the Arctic Circle?”

Renwick remained silent as they drove past the Embassy’s imposing front steps, complete with an empty sentry-box, then, almost immediately, made a right turn through large iron gates into a wide courtyard surrounded by smaller buildings. “Rear entrance,” he said. “Less noticeable. Frank and his truck should be near by, parked down the curve of the street. He’ll want to hear what you found out this morning. Look, Colin—I’ll make a swap with you. You give Frank the details, and I’ll deliver the Ruysdael to Basset. That is,” he added with a grin as they got out of the Volkswagen, “if you trust me sufficiently.”

“I guess I do,” Grant said, handing over the blue vinyl carrying-case. “If Basset wonders about the torn muslin at the back of the picture, tell him I was just making sure.”

Renwick’s eyebrows lifted. “I’d like to hear—”

“Later. You have messages to send. Now, what about Avril? What’s her address?”

“Frank will take you there.” Renwick nodded to the street outside. “He’s waiting and ready and bursting with curiosity. “See you soon, Colin. Take care.” He paused, said very quietly, “And thanks. Thanks from a lot of people.” Swinging the Ruysdael case in his hand, he hurried away.

“Hey!” Grant called after him. “Take it easy with that case, will you?” With a wide smile, he went looking for Frank.

Three blocks away from her apartment, Avril Hoffman paid off the taxi in busy Währingerstrasse. She still wasn’t sure if someone had tried to follow her out of Klar’s Auction Rooms. It could be more than likely: Gudrun Klar had eyed her peculiarly, as though trying to identify her face. From some photograph, perhaps? Again a possibility.

But of one thing Avril was certain: Gudrun Klar hadn’t understood a word of her message to Colin. And even if someone was ready to follow her, she had made such a quick exit that she was sure—almost sure—he had lost her. Unless, of course, when she stopped to telephone, the man had picked up her trail. By sheer luck. That could happen, too. After all, Avril herself had had two pieces of good fortune today: arriving just in time at Klar’s; seeing that imitation Memling portrait. She had no prerogative on luck, she reminded herself. And she had been damned forgetful after her ’phone call. Still chiding herself for that, she took extra care now.

She had a quick cup of coffee in a small café, choosing a table near its window, where, screened by a flourishing rubber-plant, she could have a safe view of Währingerstrasse. Nothing out there to worry her, she decided. After the café, she visited a flower shop and bought some yellow roses; next a stationer’s shop for a newspaper. Still watchful, she made a small detour before she reached her apartment.

It lay on a quiet street, in one of several similar houses, all fairly modern, agreeable, thoroughly reputable and not too expensive. There were other buildings—the University area was just south of it, the medical centre and hospitals to its east—which gave a feeling of solidity and security. Many of her neighbours were professional people, or research students, or even Embassy employees like the two secretaries from whom she had rented the apartment while they were on leave. The Embassy itself was less than ten minutes away, which was the biggest advantage of all.

She entered the brick-tiled hall and stopped at the ground-floor apartment, its door wide open, as usual, in the daytime hours. Here an elderly couple lived rent-free in exchange for their services. Mail and packages were delivered to them, and collected by the tenants. Old Man Berger, with the useful excuse of a bad back, had a rule of carrying nothing: he was a permanent fixture in his small office, listening to the radio or reading the daily newspaper, while he guarded letters and boxes until they were safely picked up. Frau Berger kept the hall and staircase scrubbed and immaculate, eking out her husband’s pension by “obliging” some of the tenants who needed extra help. Avril trusted them: they were decent and honest, and not overly curious. Their lives were placid and self-contained. They did their job, and kept the house in neat order.

“Good morning, Herr Berger,” she called as he lowered his radio. “Anything for me?”

“Soon be afternoon,” he told her. The aroma of midday dinner cooking in their kitchen was savoury. “Yes, Fräulein Hoffman, here are two pieces of luggage. A suitcase and a bag, delivered by a taxi driver.”

“I was expecting them. My cousin will be arriving later today. I’ll take them upstairs now.”

Frau Berger had heard the voices, and made her appearance, white-haired and smiling, wiping her hands on her large apron.

“Too heavy for you, Fräulein Hoffman. And there are also some groceries.”

Avril tested the suitcase, found it was portable. “I’ll manage.” When Colin Grant arrived, she wanted no delay down here. She laid aside the roses and newspaper along with the box of groceries, and carried the two pieces of luggage up the stairs to her apartment. Then, slightly breathless, she ran down to collect the remaining items. Berger had been eyeing her newspaper, so she left it with him.

“How late will your cousin arrive?” Berger worried about strangers entering his apartment-house. How will I know her?”

“He,” Avril said with a smile, “is tall, dark-haired, with grey eyes. His name is Grant—an American. Just send him right up, will you?”

“If the office isn’t locked by that time,” Berger grumbled.

“If the office isn’t locked,” Avril agreed. “Don’t worry. He knows I live on the third floor.” She was already starting up the stone staircase. Behind her she heard Frau Berger say, “Far too heavy. All that carrying. And on such a warm day.” It was the closest to a small reprimand that she would ever give her husband. But he had his rules: break them once, and they’d be broken for ever. The radio was turned up higher, and that was his answer.

Avril reached her apartment, got everything pulled over the threshold. She closed the self-locking door and bolted it as usual. (Bob Renwick, who had inspected her choice of living quarters, had insisted she make everything secure each time she entered until it became an automatic reaction—like turning on the cold tap when you lifted your toothbrush, he had said.) Once the roses were put into a jug of water for a long deep drink and the perishable groceries were in the refrigerator, she kicked off her shoes, peeled off the jacket of her suit, flopped on the couch. Just ten minutes, she thought—Colin wouldn’t arrive until one o’clock at the earliest—ten minutes to rid herself of this sudden exhaustion.

She had not been followed, she told herself again. She was over-worrying, a symptom of her anxiety about the success of their mission in Vienna. It was so near completion, and yet—tantalisingly—it still lacked the final piece of information. Colin Grant might just manage to find it... Had he? She looked at her watch, checked it with the clock on the wall. Twelve ten, exactly. How slowly time moved when you waited and wondered.

She rose and began preparing. Colin’s luggage was deposited—on racks in the guest-room. Its bathroom was in order, fresh towels and soap. Its own small refrigerator had soda and beer. Scotch and glasses were on a tray. On the desk there was writing-paper, a pen, pencils, and a bud vase in which she placed one of the roses. This week’s news magazines lay beside the armchair. She remembered to change a weak light-bulb in the reading-lamp. Satisfied at last, she crossed through the central living-room to her own section of the apartment. She had ten minutes to wash, and to change the dark blue suit which she had thought suitable for a business-like session at the Embassy that morning. Not the pale blue dress—he had seen that on their first meeting. Not the white suit: she had worn that yesterday.

Yesterday... Was that when a snapshot had been taken of her? When Helmut Fischer was bidding her goodbye? She couldn’t avert her face—that would have really offended his sense of good manners. Yes, she had been vulnerable at that moment: the man who had followed her into the art shop had ample time to take a quick photograph of her face as she kept her eyes politely on Fischer. What had he used—a miniature camera disguised as a cigarette-lighter, or as a watch? If so, it explained how Gudrun Klar could have recognised her today. Correlate that snapshot with previous photographs taken surreptitiously of all the Embassy staff, and Klar could even have her name. Until yesterday, when she had been seen meeting Colin in Fischer’s shop, Avril Hoffman had been only one of several little secretaries hurrying in and out of the Embassy. Now—Oh, stop this! she warned herself: you are crossing fifty bridges before you even approach the first of them.

She forced herself to concentrate on everyday details. She creamed her face and powdered it, brushed her hair, began selecting a dress. Not the coral print—too warm for today’s temperature. She’d wear her light green silk, simple and cool. The mirror agreed with her choice: not bad at all, she thought. If only she had more time to stretch out in a swimsuit on some warm beach and give herself a glowing tan. But this summer she’d have to stay white-skinned. She added a touch of faint rose colour to her cheekbones, a light pencilling of her eyebrows for emphasis (her dark lashes needed no lengthening with mascara) and a deeper pink to her lips. Not bad, she thought again as she took one last long view of her appearance. Why all this fuss? Colin Grant was only another short-term guest. Two weeks ago there had been that rather nice but very silent man whom she had described to the Bergers as her uncle. A month before that, her “brother” had come to spend two days here. I’m running out of relatives, she thought with a smile.

Quickly she tidied her bedroom. With her women visitors, it was easy to explain their stay here: no need to call them aunts or sisters—just friends. The Bergers accepted that. But a man living here as a friend? It would shock them into talking and tut-tutting. Gossip spread quickly and aroused too much speculation. In less innocent people than the Bergers it could stir suspicions, questions. What price security then?

By half-past twelve, the last of the groceries were on their shelves, and the roses arranged in a green vase. Everything was in order. She tried to read—the latest copy of
Encounter
, then a thin book of Frost’s poems—and gave up. She chose the new recording of Dvoràk’s piano quintet for her record-player, and settled to listen. Ten minutes later, she found she wasn’t really listening, not the way this heavenly music deserved. She switched it off. Better play it later, when her mood was right. Twelve fifty... Twelve fifty-five... Had something gone wrong? Had Colin failed, or been discovered? If so—what then? He would be in extreme danger. That unholy crew down at Klar’s—he hadn’t a chance against them. He’d never emerge from that place. Just disappear. Everyone claiming he had left, all stories neatly coinciding, and such deep regret.

Oh, why did we put him into such a position? she asked angrily. Why, why? Yet she knew the answer. He was the only one who could do this job, quickly, immediately. Any other approach might take weeks, and not even succeed. “Now or never,” Bob Renwick had said, and quoted Shakespeare.
There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood...
Shakespeare, that old encourager. Her natural optimism surged back. Nothing had gone wrong, she told herself. Colin had reached the Embassy by this time, and seen Basset. He would be here soon. Wouldn’t he? As if to reassure her, the doorbell rang. Thank God, she thought, and ran to answer it.

Frau Berger was there, her pink-cheeked face set in a worried frown. Two men in white jackets pulled her aside. In that split second, one of them was already over the threshold, gripping Avril’s wrist, silencing any scream with a heavy hand clamped tightly over her nose and mouth. Behind him, the other man, holding a small black bag, blocked Frau Berger’s view as he began reassuring her.