Rendezvous With Danger (6 page)

I hesitated, tempted to tell Gunther that I had seen and followed one of my gentlemen friends not ten minutes ago, but I would have to mention Stephen's presence, and I didn't want to spend the evening speculating about him with Gunther.

The thunder and lightning were in the far distance and the rain only a light drizzle when we finally drew up before a large hotel. I was painfully aware of my muddy shoes and rain-spattered stockings, but Gunther appeared not to care. With his hand lightly under my arm he led me inside.

A corner table and a bottle of wine appeared in quick succession. As I enjoyed the smoked salmon and then the beautifully cooked lamb that followed, coated in an exquisite sauce, all thoughts of Stephen faded into the background. I had nothing more important to think about than whether to choose the asparagus in butter or the broccoli. It was Gunther who broke this carefree idyll. Spearing a forkful of the tiny button mushrooms, he said, ‘I nearly forgot, Susan. I have a message for you.'

I looked up, surprised.

‘Frau Schmidt informs me that Mr Maitland called, saying he will be a little late in the morning.'

I coloured slightly. ‘Oh?'

‘Yes. Apparently he has gone to Koblenz tonight. It is a long drive and he doesn't expect to be back until the early hours of the morning.'

‘I see,' I said slowly, not seeing at all. ‘Gunther—'

‘Why,' Gunther continued, pouring out more wine, ‘a late night should entail him being late in the morning, I do not know. Perhaps—' he smiled—‘perhaps he is not used to them.'

I smiled back over my glass, deciding that my loyalty lay with Stephen. It may have been the wine, but I felt more resentful at his behaviour than bewildered. Koblenz indeed! I didn't like being lied to, and I was sure that any delay in the morning would be due to the fact that Mr Maitland's car was irretrievably bogged down in a field just outside Niedernhall.

Gunther dismissed the subject of Stephen and concentrated on boosting my ego. After the meal there was dancing on the tiny dance-floor adjoining the dining-room. Three or four other couples moved slowly round us, lulled by the wine and music into contented silence, or talking in soft undertones.'

‘It's a great pity, Susan,' Gunther said, his lips brushing the hair above my ear, ‘ that you are leaving so soon.'

‘I have another week yet.' I tried to keep out of my voice any inference as to what could happen in a week. I didn't want to give Gunther encouragement. He was doing very well without any. The small band played a few more bars.

‘That is good.' His hand increased its pressure on mine. Silently we revolved round the dimly-lit floor once more, then returned to our table and more drinks.

‘I'll pick you up at seven tomorrow night, Susan.'

Uncomfortably I said, ‘ I'm sorry, I'm afraid I …'

He waved my protestations aside. ‘ Your Mr Maitland? Surely he is not going to command your company all day long? I will come for you at seven. I think you will be back by then. Would you like another drink?'

I shook my head.

‘A coffee?'

‘Lovely.'

I leaned back in my chair, enjoying the feeling of well-being induced by the alcohol and good food. The coffee, when it came, was delicious. Hot and strong and served with fresh cream. Everything had been perfect.

As I put my drained cup down, I said, ‘It was a beautiful meal, Gunther. Thank you.'

‘The pleasure was mine. Would you like to dance again? They're playing your tune.'

I had the grace to blush as he led me, hand held firmly in his, on to the dance-floor to the soft strains of
‘Sweet and Lovely'.

We stayed another hour before we left. The air outside was clear and fresh after the storm, and the moon rode high and bright in the sky above us as we drove back in silence to Niedernhall.

The village was in complete darkness as the big car eased its way through the winding streets, drawing to a halt outside Frau Schmidt's. He slipped his arm along the back of the seat behind me and pulled me to him. His mouth was harder than I had expected and more demanding. It was no polite goodnight kiss. I tried to think of something to say but couldn't find the words. I pushed him away, fumbling unnecessarily with my Handbag. The tension in the car was electric, and then he gave a light laugh and opened the car door.

‘Good night, Cinderella. Perhaps tomorrow will be even more enjoyable.'

I smiled. ‘Good night, Gunther, and thank you again for a lovely evening.'

He remained in the car as I let myself into the darkened house and climbed the steeply polished stairs. Then I heard the car turn round in the narrow street and roar off over the bridge.

As I got ready for bed, I wondered idly just where Gunther lived. But I was too tired to dwell overlong on the subject. I climbed into bed, and snuggled down under the voluminous eiderdown. Perhaps it was as well Stephen was going to be late in the morning, was my last thought as I feel to sleep.

Stephen Maitland was not only late the next morning, he didn't arrive at all! Furiously angry at such behaviour I paced the wooden floor of my room. It was a beautiful day. The sun streamed through the open window and puffs of white cloud drifted enticingly across the blue sky, and here I was, stuck in the house, awaiting collection like a parcel. By lunchtime I ran out of patience. I renewed my lipstick, collected my bag and binoculars and made my way downstairs to the car. I sat behind the wheel indecisively. Should I? Shouldn't I?

It would only take five minutes and the curiosity would kill me if I didn't. I retraced my route of the previous evening. I'm not sure if I had hoped to find Stephen's car still there or not. As it was, the woods were empty. The ground was still soft and muddy from the storm of the previous night and I didn't walk right up into the trees, but the place where Stephen's car had been parked was now deserted. At least if he had still been marooned there, it would have explained his non-arrival. What other explanation could there be? It was foolish but I felt sure Stephen would not have let me down. More foolish still, I told myself, was the fact that I should let it bother me, even if he had. With growing irritation I went back to the village.

It seemed a shame to waste such a glorious day pottering negatively backwards and forwards, but I couldn't settle to making alternative plans. There was still no sign of his car in the street. Listlessly I went back to the house and sat on the bed, trying to minimize the crushing disappointment I felt as I smoked one cigarette after another.

By late he surely couldn't have meant this late. It was nearly one o'clock. Perhaps Gunther had mistaken the message. With a faint glimmer of hope I hurried downstairs to see Frau Schmidt, but her little living-room was empty. I would have to do something. I couldn't spend the rest of the day waiting. I had been stood up and that was that. Better face the truth and stop dreaming. Picking up a newspaper that was lying on the table, I went across the road to the crowded coffee-shop and sat, half ashamed of myself, at a window-table giving a clear view of the street.

Idly I flicked through the pages, turning to the society page as I sipped my hot coffee. The usual faces in the usual places stared back.

The street outside was full of busy housewives, baskets over their arms, going to or coming from market. No white Sprite drew up outside Frau Schmidt's and no dark head scanned the village street looking for me.

Angrily I turned to the front page. Across it was splashed a lurid account of the assassination of Herr Heinrich Ahlers, one of Germany's leading cabinet ministers. There were large photographs of the minister speaking at a public rally in Bonn. I couldn't read the accompanying newsprint and all I knew about the minister was that he was a liberal, pro-British, and had been active in bringing to justice many Nazi war criminals. There was a photograph of his bloodstained body spreadeagled across the speaker's platform. Lower down was a picture of his wife, taken at a recent reception. She was large and blonde and cheerful and I felt sorry for her. I pushed the cup of coffee away and spread the paper on the table.

I was in the act of turning the page when I noticed the photograph of the car. Despite the foreign background of beach and sea, it looked vaguely familiar. It was familiar!

It was the same car the thieves had crashed before taking mine. I stared at the number plate in horrified fascination, my mind refusing to take in the awful fact. But it was the same. I was sure it was the same. Frantically I tried to decipher the words below it but without success. I rose, taking the paper over to the elderly man serving behind the counter.

‘Excuse me. Do you speak English?'

‘A little, Fraulein,' he said courteously, laying down the knife with which he was buttering slices of rye bread. I pointed to the newspaper article and then to the photograph of the car.

‘Could you tell me how this car is connected with Herr Ahlers' death?'

He shook his head, pursing his lips as he did so. ‘The assassins, they take.'

‘They what! But that's impossible! It's …'

He shrugged his shoulders, wiping his hands on the large apron round his waist. ‘Is possible, Fraulein. The car belong to … a—' He struggled to find the word. Then with a triumphant rush … ‘An official, not important, you understand. He did not report it missing till long after. The police, they have not found it, so it possible the killer took it. Who knows?'

I knew. With sickening clarity I remembered their panic. The angry words that passed between them after they had crashed. The frantic looking-back along the road. Their desperate dash to my Morris. The men who had stolen my car had murdered Heinrich Ahlers.

Slowly I went back to my seat and spread the paper once more on the table in front of me. It didn't make sense. It didn't make sense at all.

If the whole country was looking for them, how come the police hadn't descended on me like vultures when Gunther had reported the crash and subsequent theft of my car? Mechanically I lifted the cup and took a sip of coffee. My car must have been abandoned locally. Perhaps it had been towed in, left in a restricted area, so that when Gunther reported the loss it was there. And, of course, until they went to the scene of the crash they wouldn't realize the car was the one every police force in the country was looking for. I hadn't thought to take its registration number, and I was pretty sure Gunther hadn't either. That must be it, and the men I saw …

I stared at the paper numbly. There were no pictures of the wanted men. Slowly it dawned on me that the police didn't know who they were or what they looked like. But I did. And I knew where they were hiding, or at least where one of them was hiding. And so did Stephen.

I closed my eyes, ridding my sight of the hideous picture of the dead man. Stephen had to be told. Now. Straightaway, and so had the police.

Clutching the paper, I went out into the street and the bright sunlight.

I was in the telephone kiosk before I realized that I didn't have Stephen's number. What was the guest-house called? I drummed my fingers on the directories but it was no use. I'd never noticed the name of it, and I didn't know Christina's surname. I scrabbled hastily through my bag for the card Gunther had given me bearing his telephone number, and dialled the number with shaking hands. It rang only once before he answered.

‘Gunther, thank goodness you're in.' Then, unnecessarily: ‘It's Susan.'

‘Good morning, Susan. This is an unexpected pleasure. I thought you would be buried deep in the countryside with your fellow countryman by now.'

‘Gunther. The men who took my car were the men who killed Heinrich Ahlers.'

‘Were the men who did what? This line is bad, Susan. You will have to speak up a little.'

I said as calmly as I could. ‘They killed Heinrich Ahlers. It's in all the papers. He was assassinated in Bonn yesterday, and the car the police suspect the killers left the city in, is the one my car thieves crashed.'

‘Susan—,' his voice was patient—‘the car may be the same model, but it isn't possible that it's the same car.'

‘But it
is!'
I insisted, feeling hysteria rising within me. ‘The number plates are the same. I'm sure of it.'

There was a slight pause at the other end of the phone, then I heard the rustle of newspaper. His voice, when he spoke again, was brusque. ‘Stay at Frau Schmidt's. I'm going straight to the police. And, Susan, don't worry. The men in question are probably in Austria by now, but at least you will be able to give a description of them. I'll see you shortly.'

‘Gunther, just a minute! They're not in Austria. At least one of them isn't. There's a lot more I haven't told you yet. Yesterday evening, before I met you, I
saw
one of the men. In the village.'

He drew in his breath audibly. ‘You must be imagining things,' he said finally.

‘No, I'm not. It
was
him. I followed him.'

Now it was his turn to raise his voice. ‘You did
what?'
he said. ‘And didn't even tell me! For God's sake, Susan, why?'

I didn't attempt to answer that. I said, ‘He went to a large farmhouse about two miles from the village.'

‘Could you find it again?'

‘Oh yes, I already have.'

‘You've already
what?'

‘Well, you see, last night when I followed the man with the moustache, I saw Stephen's car nearby, and then I saw them talking, not very clearly because of the rain and it was getting dark, but I'm sure it was Stephen. He didn't arrive here this morning and so I thought the car must still be bogged down, so I went back to have a look. This was before I read the papers of course. I can't get in touch with Stephen to warn him because I can't remember the name of the guest-house where he's staying.'

‘Susan, one thing at a time. You say Maitland's car was parked at this farmhouse last night?'