Prelude to Terror (36 page)

Reference to Mittendorf? “Your brother will be sicker if I don’t get that address,” Marck said bitingly.

Mandel kept silent.

He’s running scared, Marck thought, afraid that his association with Mittendorf could be traced. “All right, all right. I’ll find someone else for this job.” He ended contact.

Now, if only he could advance the schedule for retrieving that bug in Fischer’s office. There was no way to reach the man who was to recover the recording device—he had already left for Graz, returning tomorrow in time to perform his telephone repairman act. Just before Saturday noon, Marck had instructed him. Then, Leni would be busy with closing up the shop, eager to get the workman out; also, she might have been—during the morning hours—in contact with Fischer. I was too damn clever, Marck thought, but how was I to foresee a telephone call from a Rasthaus? How the hell could I know what Grant was mixed up in? Grant... Two-faced bastard, double-dealing son of a bitch... Cursing Grant, he paced around the room until his rage ended and his mind was functioning again, calm enough to deal with the alarm signal that must be sent to Geneva.

That would have to be done by relay through Innsbruck. His equipment here didn’t let him reach Switzerland direct. Leo could have had the alert sounded and saved this delay. Only, Leo must be kept uninvolved, must seem to have no connection with the Bienvenue operation. But behind his instructions and information tonight, in the secrecy of this room, there had been a warning. If Grant testified, the disaster was irretrievable. The blame would be fixed on Marck: his fault entirely. Recall, disciplinary action; thrust into outer darkness. End of a career. End of a life.

The morning was idyllic: blue cloudless sky, warm sun, a faint breeze to send the tree tops gently stirring. A perfect ending for a perfect night, thought Grant, and the beginning of a new day... With one last look at the rising, falling line of mountains guarding the far side of the valley, crag upon crag, cliff and precipice high above forested slopes, he closed the door to the balcony and stepped into the bedroom. A new day and a new life.

Quietly, he drew the curtains together so that the invading light would not wake Avril. He moved over to the bed, stood watching her. It was a sleep so perfect that he couldn’t bring himself to disturb it. He touched the rumpled dark head, felt a strange mixture of emotion suddenly grip him, sheer exultation of joy and happiness, of relief and thankfulness. Gently, his lips touched the smooth curve of cheek, the firmness of her neck, the rounded shoulder. She stirred, half smiled, long eyelashes trying to open, closing again. Once more she was deeply, peacefully asleep. He tucked one outflung arm back into the warmth of the white eiderdown, covered the bare shoulder.

He’d shower downstairs in Fischer’s own suite, keep the sound of running water away from this room. Thank heaven the outside noises were smothered by woods and hills—the village was long awake and stirring. There had been church bells for early mass, bringing him briefly awake. Then a drift into sweet sleep again, her body against his, warm, trusting, reassuring. It had been no dream.

Lightly, he ran downstairs into the darkened living-room, smiling as he turned on one small light and saw the disorder. Not so funny, though, if Frau Ernst arrived. As she possibly might—it was well past ten o’clock, he noticed with surprise. He moved to pick up his clothes, Avril’s green dress, her flimsy underthings, her high-heeled sandals. One thing he wouldn’t be doing today, and that was taking her for a scramble up the hill to show her the view, not in those shoes. Everything she had worn was much too thin for this climate. So they’d stay house-bound today, and he wasn’t averse to the idea. In haste now, he found her tights and the discarded cape she hated so much. Cold as she’d be, and he himself was beginning to freeze in this unheated room, she’d refuse to wear the cape. I’m beginning to know her, he thought, and that was a pleasing idea, too. With the clothes bundled roughly in his arms, he made for Fischer’s bedroom.

In the dressing-room, he had to drop the clothes in a chair and reach for Fischer’s bathrobe and slippers: there was a definite knocking on the back door, distant but audible in the total silence around him. He made a dash back through the vast room into the kitchen. It was Ernst’s wife, a basket over her arm, her usually amiable face frowning at him. “Good morning,” she said. “The door was locked.”

“Sorry. Just woke up. Was about to have a shower.”

“The front door was locked, too.” She shook her head and stepped inside, moving lightly for such a solidly compact woman. “No one will come bothering you here. Now, I’ll just put these away.” She laid the basket on the table, began unpacking eggs and rolls, ham, milk, oranges. “There’s plenty of food in the larder, but I thought you’d need something fresh. Where is the young lady? I’ll tell her about this stove.”

“Better tell me. Miss Hoffman is still asleep.”

At this hour? the upraised eyebrows asked.

Grant remembered the old advice,
Never explain, never apologise
. Whoever had coined that dictum never had to cope with Frau What’s-her-name. Her bright blue eyes were noting Fischer’s bathrobe. They lingered for a moment on the slippers, too small, backs pressed down.

“I know,” he said with a smile. “I am not doing them one bit of good. Our luggage will arrive later today.” And a damned good thing he had covered his feet; bare toes, coldly scrutinised, wouldn’t add to a man’s self-confidence. Hair unkempt, beard unshaven, he didn’t look much like one of Fischer’s friends at this moment.

No luggage? Her question—grey head inclined, brow furrowed—was obvious.

“I’ll have that shower,” he said, escaping into the main room. “And thank you. Very kind of you.” This was only a courtesy visit; she had her own household to attend to.

“Did you let the fire go out?” she said as she followed him and caught sight of the hearth.

We watched it go out, he corrected her silently—at least down to the last glowing embers. “It seemed safer.”

“I’ll stay another ten minutes, and start it going. The lady will freeze to death in this big room.” She picked up a cushion he had overlooked, put it back in its proper place on the couch.

He thought of her return to the village. “Oh, Frau—” he cleared his throat, embarrassed by the lack of a name.

“Yes?”

“Would you be so good as to—to keep our visit quiet? Outside of your own family, that is.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “We don’t gossip,” she told him, and turned away to draw back the curtains and open the shutters. He headed for the shower, damning his lack of
finesse
. Yet how did you keep people from talking, spreading the word? Eugene Marck wasn’t sitting in a Viennese café enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee with whipped cream on top while he watched the pretty girls stroll by.

He showered and shaved, drew on his clothes and was ready to face Frau Ernst’s critical eye. Judging by the smell of coffee drifting through the house, her ten minutes had stretched to twenty. As he was about to step into the main room, he heard her voice, low and troubled. Who was with her? He entered; she was at the telephone. His tension sharpened. Who was calling? “Yes, I’ll warn Ernst,” she was saying. “I’ll be taking his lunch up to him in the high meadow in the next hour. Willi’s there, too. Hans and Young Ernst, also. They are raking up the long grass and clover before the rain sets in—” She broke off, noticing Grant, raised her voice to normal as she caught sight of him and ended, “He’s here now.” She held out the receiver to him. “It rang when you were in the shower, Herr Grant. It’s Herr Fischer—phoning from Salzburg.” She looked at him, her soft round face creased with friendly anxiety. “Must leave. I’ll be back later,” she called to him as she hurried off at remarkable speed for a fifty-year-old who must tip the scales at a hundred and sixty pounds. Just what’s going on? Grant wondered.

“Hello, hello there?” Fischer’s voice was saying impatiently.

“I’m here. All’s well. I brought a friend with me, by the way. I hope you don’t—”

“Yes, Frau Lackner told me. Of course I don’t mind, my dear fellow. Miss Hoffman, isn’t it? A charming girl.”

Ernst had quick ears and a memory for names, Grant thought. Fischer was rushing on. “Sorry to break in on you like this, but I simply had to find out if you were all right.”

“Everything is. We’re most comfortable. Can’t thank you enough. There’s only one problem—” Grant tried to sound amused, completely nonchalant “—our luggage is arriving later but heaven knows when.” He even managed a small laugh as he added, “Avril has nothing to wear. Almost literally. Three-inch heels and a wisp of a dress. She’ll be a pneumonia case—”

“Colin—” Fischer’s impatience was growing—“I’m worried. I’ve been worried ever since an acquaintance of mine—one of the top men in the Art Fraud Section of State Security—telephoned me from Vienna an hour ago. Then I sat down to breakfast and turned on my radio. Haven’t you heard?”

“No. Haven’t been listening.” Grant was suddenly alert. Had
Waldheim
broken into the news?

“There was an explosion last night at the Majestic. In a room occupied by a Mr. Colin Grant, an American, who was fortunately absent at the time. A fragmentation bomb of some kind that shattered every object in the room.”

Grant took a deep long breath. “When did it happen? Midnight?”

“Actually, yes. How did you know?” Fischer’s voice quickened. “I am coming up to Grünau and we’ll discuss—”

“No need, Helmut. Don’t you get involved—”

“But I am. The inspector who called me—”

“Because I’m a friend of yours?”

“No. Because of a Ruysdael reproduction that I sold last week to a man called John Smith.”

Grant remained silent.

“Do you know his real name?”

“Yes.” One of them, anyway, Grant thought bitterly.

“I have an appointment here at one o’clock. The inspector is flying up to interview me and get particulars. Shall I mention the fact that you know the man’s real name?”

Grant tried to think clearly. He said slowly, “No, I think not. Not at this moment, Helmut.”

“It could be a safeguard—get you police protection.”

“It might lose us the man altogether.”

“Expect me—oh, I should say around five o’clock.”

“I said, keep out of it. This house is safe—we’re all right here.”

“I’ll make sure it’s safe. I’ve already sent a message to Ernst Lackner to stay alert.”

“What did you say to his wife?” Grant asked quickly.

“My dear boy, I’m an old hand at mystification. The knack is to warn without disclosing too much. I may be worried about you, but I’m not indiscreet. Oh—tell Miss Hoffman to look in the second guest-room’s wardrobe. She’ll find some country clothes. They belong to my sister—the one who is in Washington—saves her a lot of packing when she comes to visit Grünau.” Fischer’s voice changed. There was a slight note of sadness as he asked, “Was it wise?”

“Wise?”

“To involve Miss Hoffman in something like this?”

Grant swallowed hard. “I’ll explain when I see you.” Another piece of mystification? The knack is to talk, without telling too much?

“Good,” Fischer said with obvious relief, and the call was over.

* * *

Grant reheated the coffee on an electric ring and avoided any crisis with a recalcitrant stove. He drank it slowly; he was still under slight shock. His room at the Majestic... It could have been one fragmented art dealer. Dealer? No, he was just an adviser: didn’t sell pictures or buy them—except at one auction. That last thought sent him into a fit of sudden uncontrollable laughter. What the hell was he laughing about? The attack ended as abruptly as it had begun.

He poured another cup of coffee. Strangely, though, he could now take a cold look at the murder attempt. How had it been done—a package left in his room? Something so innocent in appearance that no one had questioned it. It should have been kept downstairs at the porter’s desk, though. But if the delivery man already knew Grant’s room number, had a key, and slipped inside when the corridor was quiet? Yes, that was feasible. How to make sure he would catch the full blast when the device went off? Eugene Marck hadn’t planned on a wounded man, twenty feet away in that oversized bedroom, or on one lying stunned in the bathroom or dressing-room.

Grant had his third cup of coffee, pushed aside the roll and honey, lit a cigarette. The problem fascinated him in a horrible way; it dealt with his own death, didn’t it? Okay, try this on for size, he told himself: a delivery man follows Marck’s instructions, places the pretty package behind the telephone so I won’t notice it when I first come into the room shortly before that midnight appointment—Marck expected me to be out on the town, didn’t he? A minute or two before twelve, he rings to tell me he’ll be ten minutes later. I just have time to hear his first sentence, if that, and whammo!—they’d be scraping me off the walls. Nice guy, Marck. Clever. Too clever by far.

One big question: why, if I
had
noticed the package when I got into my room, wouldn’t I have opened it? Of course, it must have looked innocent enough inside its wrapping paper in case it was examined. But why wouldn’t I have opened it? Because it wasn’t for me. Addressed to someone else. A package that was marked as a gift—from good old Bernie Mandel to his dear brother-in-law. By God, I wonder if he even had the value for Customs declaration marked on the outside? Grant stared at the remains of his breakfast. By God, he thought again, I could be right.

Abruptly he rose, left the kitchen, entered the main room, felt an urge to get out into the warm sun, have a walk over the fields. Better not, though: Avril was asleep upstairs, alone in a strange place, and Frau Lackner was taking Ernst’s midday meal up to the high meadow. So he stayed, now feeling the emptiness of the house, its great isolation. Was he overreacting? Probably. Marck couldn’t have any idea where he was, far less that Avril was with him. He compromised. He searched for field-glasses and found them in the logical place, on a table near the gun rack in one corner of the room which Fischer kept for his own special interests. An excellent collection of art books caught Grant’s eye—later, he thought, later. With binoculars in his hand, he left by the front door and began a tour around the house, keeping close to the outside wall and well under the protection of the overhanging balconies.