4
Hans Flüchs was allowed to go home. Inquiries were set on foot to find out if anybody had seen a van with a canvas cover (or a jeep) approach or leave the Wattmanngasse. Anthony Vanbrugh accompanied the police back to the scene of the accident to show them where he had first braked when he saw the van and where he had braked when he saw the body—and then it began to rain again: not thunder rain, but steady determined rain which washed away brake-marks and skid-marks and fallen leaves. Anthony was now in a very bad temper: he was sorry enough about Walsingham’s death, but he was furious that his own statements were subject to question.
“I’ve told you what happened,” he said. “It’s your business to find that van driver—and if the driver wasn’t drunk I shall be surprised. You’ve got all the proof you need, the marks of the van wheels on Walsingham’s raincoat.”
“There are also the marks of your own wheels,” replied the inspector—and this was true. By the time the gaberdine raincoat was spread out, the marks of Vanbrugh’s tyres showed very distinctly, together with the mud and sodden leaves left by the original impact.
By the time the police left, Anthony Vanbrugh was in a state of unreasonable fury. He went up the state staircase only too anxious to go to bed and forget his troubles, but he found his uncle waiting up for him, sitting under one of the shaded lights beside the chessmen in the salon.
“I am sorry, Uncle. It’s a wretched business,” said the nephew. “It was sheer manslaughter, nothing else. I saw what happened and that damned inspector can’t recognise the truth when he hears it. I think I’ll have a drink. I need it.”
He went and poured himself a good tot of whisky and then added, “We shall have to let Walsingham’s people know—next-of-kin, whoever it is.” He paused, and then asked, “Is he married?”
“I don’t know. I know very little about him, except as a writer,” said Sir Walter unhappily.
“But you asked him to stay here,” said Anthony.
“Yes. I met him in London when I was there in the spring,” said Sir Walter. “Northington gave me lunch at his club and Neville Walsingham was also a guest. I had been discussing my own book with Northington, particularly those chapters dealing with the Anschluss period, and Northington said that Walsingham was remarkably well informed about certain facts, and that, as a writer, he might be able to give me some useful advice. At the end of luncheon, I invited Walsingham to dine with me. I found him intelligent and perceptive, and he was most generous in offering help and advice about my own memoirs—and not all distinguished professional writers are so generous. Eventually I invited him to stay here if he were passing through Vienna—and I was very happy to have him. He was able to give me a lot of help—as a writer, that is.”
The old man’s voice was very weary, but he went on: “Neville always wrote to me from his publishers—Bennet & Walbrook. I don’t even know if he has a fixed address in London. I will telephone to Bennet & Walbrook as early as seems reasonable in the morning.” Anthony Vanbrugh put his glass down.
“Speaking frankly, it looks a fair-sized mess,” he said, and then added, “I don’t want to distress you, Uncle, but we might as well think out all the implications. Walsingham was, as you say, very well informed about a period which most Austrians are anxious to forget. For all we know, he may have come to Vienna to rout out a few more facts. Did he give you any reason for this visit?”
“He came to revisit Vienna, a city for which he had a great liking,” replied Sir Walter coldly, “and I had invited him to stay with me.”
“Don’t think I’m being offensive,” said Anthony, “but I can’t help remembering that that police inspector was quite anxious to involve me in this story—as though it would have suited him very well if he could prove that I had knocked Walsingham down.”
“Rubbish!” said Sir Walter, and there was an indignant light in his weary eyes. “The thing is distressing enough as it is, Anthony, without you making unjustified implications. It was the inspector’s duty to get all the available evidence, and while I have every sympathy with the course you took, the fact that the body was moved made it more difficult for the police. And there is the additional fact that that poor child was injured in the thunderstorm. I am not suggesting for a moment that there is any connection between these unhappy incidents, but perhaps it is not unnatural for an Austrian police inspector to take a different view—to assume too easily that something sinister has been occurring in a foreigner’s household.”
“Yes. The whole thing’s a wretched business for you, Uncle—but that doesn’t justify the inspector’s manner to me,” replied the other. “In any case, there’s something about these two accidents I don’t like.”
“Do you suppose I like it?” said Sir Walter wearily, “but the one thing I beg is that you will not start making wild assumptions. You have said that a van passed you at excessive speed: you saw the van going down the hill and you saw it swerve and bump over an obstacle—in other words you saw it run over Walsingham. You say that owing to the wet leaves-it was difficult to brake on the hill: the answer to all that seems plain—the van driver couldn’t check his vehicle in time to avoid an accident. But I refuse to admit that because we have had two accidents in one day to inmates of this house that there is of necessity any connection between those accidents.”
Anthony Vanbrugh poured himself another drink and took his time over it. Then he said, “Look here, I’m sorry, Uncle. If I’ve been talking unguardedly, it was because I was livid over the inspector’s attitude. He seemed to me to be unnecessarily aggressive. But leave that for the moment. What has been actually happening we’re not in a position to know at the moment, but credit me with enough common sense not to make sensational suggestions to the police. I’ve said whatever came into my mind to you. I shan’t say it to anybody else.”
“All right, all right,” said the old man. “These things have got to be investigated, we both know that—and to my mind the problem will have to be dealt with on a higher level than the local police. You heard me mention that there’s a Scotland Yard Superintendent staying with Dr. Natzler—Macdonald. He was round here this evening, because it was he and young Natzler who found Elizabeth Le Vendre up in the woods. Macdonald made it very clear that he was in Vienna in his private capacity, on holiday. But I don’t think he will maintain his refusal to act after this second . . . accident. Two British subjects are involved. I think the formalities can be arranged—it’s not an unknown thing for English police to co-operate in a’ foreign capital. And I can think of nobody I would be more glad to have in this investigation than Macdonald.”
“Well, that’s the best piece of news that’s emerged yet,” said Anthony. “I only wish you’d got hold of him at once: he could have kept that local inspector on the rails. What about ringing Macdonald up?”
“You know as well as I know that we can’t do things like that,” said Sir Walter. “This isn’t a case of asking a London C.I.D. man to act for us, in a friendly capacity. The thing’s got to go through the proper channels, so that the investigation will be an official one, with full recognition from the Police Commissioners in both capitals. And get this quite clear, Anthony: you won’t get any preferential treatment from a man like Macdonald. He will be entirely impartial—and rightly so.”
“I’m not asking for preferential treatment,” grunted Anthony, “all I want is fair play.”
Sir Walter raised his fine eyebrows but forbore to comment on this one: he had never had a very high opinion of his nephew’s intelligence despite Anthony’s successful career in “Intelligence.”
After Anthony Vanbrugh had gone to bed, Sir Walter sat down at the telephone. There are some advantages in putting through long-distance telephone calls in the small hours—provided the person or department you are calling can be relied on to answer. Sir Walter Vanbrugh knew that he would be given a clear line if he asked for it and at that hour speaking to London from Vienna was as easy as speaking from Vienna to Hietzing. It
was only a few minutes before he got his number—London, Abbey XIXI.
“Is that you, James? Walter Vanbrugh here. I wouldn’t have called you at this hour without adequate reason, but there’s trouble this end which needs looking into. I’ll tell you the facts as briefly as I can.”
It was about three minutes later that James grunted, “I’ve got all that: very troublesome for you. What can I do about it?”
“Put the facts before the Commissioner, James. You know him, I don’t. It happens that there’s one of his Superintendents here, staying in Vienna, on holiday. I hate to interfere with a man’s holiday, but his leave can be extended later. . . .”
While Robert Macdonald slept the sleep of the just on the good Viennese bed in Altzaugasse, the telephone service in London and Vienna disposed of his well-earned holiday. As the authorities said, “His leave can be extended later. . . .”
Macdonald was not a victim of telepathy. He slept on, untroubled. It was not until eight o’clock in the morning that the Commissioner’s Office in London called him—and then it was Ilse Natzler who uttered most of the complaints.
CHAPTER IX
“SUPERINTENDENT MACDONALD? Albrecht Nauheim; Chief Inspector, Vienna City Police. I feel very ashamed to trouble you while you’re on leave, sir.”
Standing in Franz Natzler’s small, study, Macdonald looked at Chief Inspector Nauheim “with some surprise: he did not look English: his dark eyes were too lively, his skin too olive toned, his lips too mobile, his build too lissome—but his voice and accent might have come from a young inspector of the Metropolitan Police.
“No, sir. I’m not English, I’m Austrian,” said Nauheim, responding to the unspoken thought, “but I was brought up by an English aunt and she taught me her language from the cradle, so to speak. Our Commissioner thought I might be of use to you as an interpreter.”
Macdonald laughed. “You certainly will. I’ve hardly got enough German to be ashamed of. Very decent of you to come out here to see me—I was just going to drive in to your H.Q.”
“Well, sir, the problem’s centred here in Hietzing, at the outset, anyway. Can I give you the latest facts? I gather you were only involved in the first part of the story.”
Nauheim gave a brief account of Walsingham’s death, as described by Anthony Vanbrugh, and an equally terse resume of the evidence given by Hans Flüchs. As Macdonald listened, he was able to sum up this English-speaking Chief Inspector of the Vienna police: Nauheim was certainly young—probably under thirty—but his ability was plain to Macdonald. He was pretty sure that Nauheim had been sent as liaison officer in this case not only because he spoke English like his own language but because he was an outstandingly able young officer. At the close of Nauheim’s narrative Macdonald said:
“I should be interested to know your own opinion of those two statements—off the record.”
Nauheim flashed him a smile—and became at once Viennese: his face was more mobile, his changes of expression more sudden than those of an Englishman.
“Well, sir, it isn’t an easy question to answer—and I think you’ll understand what I mean when I say my opinion is swinging like the pointer on a balance before the weights are equalised. At first I accepted that Mr. Vanbrugh spoke the exact truth as far as he saw it—which wasn’t very far, because he’s unobservant and tends to think he saw what he expected to see. I take it as axiomatic that an Englishman of his upbringing and status does generally speak the truth—he’s never had to do otherwise. It’s not only principle—it’s profit. Telling the truth pays bigger dividends in England than in some places I know.”
It was Macdonald’s turn to chuckle. “All right. I know what you mean—or I understand what you mean.”
“Perhaps I can explain that more fully later,” said Nauheim. ‘‘All my experience of Englishmen in authority tended to make me think ‘He’s a bad witness but he’s giving us the facts as he thinks he saw them.’ And then I said to myself, ‘This man Walsingham was probably murdered’—and in a murder case a detective can’t afford the luxury of assuming that any witness is speaking the truth, even an Englishman with a background like Vanbrugh’s.”
“I quite agree,” said Macdonald, and saw a flicker of , relief on Nauheim’s expressive face. “Look here,” went on Macdonald. “If you and I are going to co-operate, let’s get this clear. I hold that no persons, no matter what their birth or status, can claim privilege in a criminal investigation: if I add nationality, I am not going to assume that because a man is British he will therefore tell the truth—and vice versa, but I think I might add this. I should expect Anthony Vanbrugh to tell the truth: if it’s proved that he doesn’t, the implications would be pretty serious.”
“Thank you for that,” said Nauheim. “Now, about Flüchs. He’s a good witness, and he knows the difference between a fact and an opinion. He gave an exact description of what he saw and then added, ‘I thought the big car had knocked the man down and the driver meant to drive on and leave the body, until he saw there was a witness.’ And in my opinion, Flüchs was telling the truth—also as far as he saw it.”
“Now let’s get back to your own statement, ‘I think Walsingham was probably murdered,’ ” said Macdonald. “Why do you think so?”
“When he was asked the question point-blank, Mr. Vanbrugh could not say that he saw a pedestrian crossing the road,” said Nauheim. “What he actually did see was a van bumping over an obstacle and then skidding across the road. My own belief is that Walsingham was lying in the road before the van approached and that he was not crossing the road. The marks on his coat suggest that the van ran over him rather than knocked him down—but you will be using your own judgment about that.”
“You are satisfied that another vehicle was involved?”
“Yes: I think he was hit by another vehicle at some stage. If the body hadn’t been moved it would have been much easier to have seen what happened: when Vanbrugh and Flüchs lifted the body on to the path, they laid him on his back in the puddles and the coat got soaked. It is now very difficult to say from the traces exactly what happened—and when it happened. It was Mr. Vanbrugh who insisted on moving the body, though he could have ascertained for himself the man was dead.”
“It’s hard to blame him for moving the body,” said Macdonald. “It goes against the grain to leave a chap lying in the road—but the result certainly confused the evidence. What are the chances of getting a line on the other vehicle?”
Nauheim shrugged his shoulders. “We are trying, but the chances are not good. A van or a converted jeep—no number, nothing to distinguish it by.”
Macdonald nodded: he realised without being told that Anthony Vanbrugh had not endeared himself to the local police. “Before we go any further, would you like to sum up your impressions?” he asked.
Nauheim replied, “I’d like to state what seems to me to be the’ outstanding facts, sir. There were two ‘accidents’ in one day: both occurred in Hietzing, a neighbourhood generally free from crimes of violence. Both victims were English, both were staying in Sir Walter Vanbrugh’s house. Neither victim was robbed: Mr. Walsingham’s purse, passport and note-case were still in his pockets. Of the two victims, one was secretary to Sir Walter, who is known to be working on his memoirs; one was a well-known writer, who may have been giving advice to Sir Walter on the same subject. When Mr. Walsingham was at the Grünekeller he was trying to get any comments he could on the first accident. One feels that the two accidents must be connected in some way—and that the problem involves the English as much as the Austrians.”
“I think that’s very moderately put,” said Macdonald. “I might add, for your information, that the victims of both accidents left London on the same B.E.A. plane last Monday, the plane on which I travelled myself, though Walsingham left the plane at Zurich and came on to Vienna later.”
Nauheim looked at Macdonald thoughtfully: “You yourself would make a very good and interesting suspect, sir,” and Macdonald replied:
“You’re perfectly right, I should. I talked to Miss Le Vendre at Zurich, I followed up the acquaintance by talking to her in the Schönbrunn gardens, and I went out with Karl Natzler and found her unconscious in a place in the woods which I had described to her myself. I’m just the sort of person you’re looking for—the obvious suspect.”
“And you concealed from the Herr Rittmeister Brunnerhausen that you were an officer of the London C.I.D.,” grinned Nauheim. “Brunnerhausen is very much hurt.”
“Sorry about that: I’ll see him and apologise,” said Macdonald. “If you had been in London on holiday you would probably have done just what I did. However, now we’re working together we’d better determine the best way we can correlate activities. Now you are obviously better equipped to deal with the local inquiries.”
Nauheim nodded. “The van—or jeep—mentioned by Mr. Vanbrugh: the activities of Mr. Walsingham between eleven o’clock (when Flüchs and Schulze left him) and midnight: the activities of Flüchs and Schulze in the same period: persons in the Hietzing Woods when the storm was coming up: the identity of the cameraman who evaded Brunnerhausen when he was talking to you.”
“Ah, he hasn’t been traced then,” observed Macdonald. “My own guess is that that cameraman is named Webster, and that he also came to Vienna on the B.E.A. plane on Monday.”
“What did he come for?” asked Nauheim promptly.
“What did any of them come for?” asked Macdonald. “I suggest that I make it my business to follow up my fellow-countrymen and to find out exactly what brought them to Vienna and what they have been doing since they arrived: that holds for other passengers in the plane in addition to those already brought to our notice.” He paused for a moment and then asked, “Have you seen Sir Walter Vanbrugh and his sister yet?”
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