Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  She said quickly, “You are neither ignorant nor a fool. If you were, Bob would never have bothered about you. And would I have told you so much? But how else can we protect you?”

  There was that word again: the second time protection had been mentioned. “I’m in no danger.”

  She was silent. Then she rose from the bench where they had been sitting. “Aren’t you?” she asked quietly as they began walking towards the distant gate. “Can I give you a lift? Drop you not too far from your hotel?”

  “Thanks, no. I’ll stay here for a while.” And get my thoughts in better order.

  “Then I’ll leave you now. Call Bob as soon as you’ve got the name on that cheque.”

  He remembered the Ruysdael. “I won’t have time to telephone anyone until I get that damned painting stowed away safely. I’m responsible for it.” Of course, he reconsidered, the waiting time in Vienna was no longer needed. His instructions would be altered. “With Ferenc Ady dead, I might be leaving on Saturday’s flight to New York.” And goodbye, he thought, to those two promised weeks in Vienna.

  She had halted. “They may not tell you he’s dead, not until they want you to leave Vienna.” Perhaps not even then, she thought.

  “Why on earth—” he began.

  “I don’t know; it’s just a possibility. In any case, you’ll have to play along with them. Forget you know about Ady, or his name.”

  “Play dumb,” he said angrily.

  “Play it smart—as usual.” There was a brief pause. She added, “About getting in touch with Bob—you had a good point there. The picture could slow you down. I think one of us will have to meet you near the auction room. We’ll let you know.”

  Which reminded him. “I may be changing my hotel.” Or perhaps it wasn’t necessary now. He’d be leaving soon, it was hardly worth-while.

  “That,” she said with emphasis, “might be a very good idea.” He looked at her quickly, but she went on, her voice calm and casual, “What’s the new address?”

  “Nothing definite yet. Could be a small place called the Two Crowns, on the Schotten Allee. It was recommended by a friend who works at Schofeld’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Max Seldov. His brother-in-law owns it—Mandel is his name.”

  “We’ll check.”

  Was that really necessary? She was serious. His smile vanished. It was a strange goodbye: no parting word, no touch of a hand. Nothing, except that last long glance between them. And then she was walking away from him.

  Light footsteps, blue skirt swinging, slender waist and straight shoulders, smooth head held high. She seemed so carefree—a pretty girl with no thoughts except those of love and romance in a world of roses. Incredulous, he watched her leave.

  No one had paid any attention to her going, except Grant. The life of the garden went on: droves of women coming out for an afternoon stroll in the fresh air with clusters of children; old people sitting in pairs, or alone; wandering sweethearts, arms entwined; nature-admirers halting in wonder every ten paces; gardeners, working over the soil, weeding, pruning, and—near the gate—shaping the rose-trees in a bed labelled Peace. No one paid any attention to Grant, either, as he left.

  He was reasonably sure that neither Avril nor he had been followed. (Watch it, he warned himself; don’t get paranoiac about that.) Patiently he waited for a taxi, and then settled for the next bus. He had meant to explore the Schotten Ring area—he was half-way to that district, anyway—and search out the Two Crowns Hotel, see what it looked like, perhaps have a drink in the bar. Suddenly he admitted he was exhausted. Blame the long flight from New York, or the crush of today’s events, or the thoughts that were crowding his mind. He’d do better to get back to the Majestic, and allow himself to collapse in luxury for this night at least.

  8

  Because of the time-lag between Vienna and Washington, Gene Marck was able to reach Lois Westerbrook with the news of Grant’s arrival before she even had breakfast in her suite at the Shoreham. Victor Basset and his entourage, including her own secretary, his valet who was also his chauffeur, had been established there for the last week, allowing him to make easy trips to Basset Hill and inspect its structural alterations.

  Gene Marck went straight to his problem. “Did you order a car to meet Grant at the airport this morning?”

  “Of course not.” She was annoyed. Did Gene really think she had been so foolish as to engage some travel service to supply a car? “I wouldn’t think of spreading the news of his arrival.”

  “Someone knew he was coming.”

  “He was met?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  “That’s what we must find out.”

  “But if there was someone who saw him being met—”

  “There was. He tried to follow—but lost them somewhere on the highway into Vienna.”

  So Grant’s car must have taken a cut-off. “One of your men?”

  “No.”

  One of Jack’s then. She avoided saying the name. “One of our friends?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes. But he’s so damned mad he is blaming us for not having a car ready to follow Grant’s Mercedes. His man was stationed at the airport as a porter, wasn’t supposed to leave unless there was an emergency.”

  “We can’t be blamed—who’d have expected it?” Obviously Jack had not, or else he’d have had a back-up man waiting in a car outside. Jack always seemed to have several helpers available.

  “That doesn’t make him any less angry.” Marck sounded morose, worried.

  Grant’s arrival was to have been standard, no big deal. A taxi was all that was needed. “Did Grant arrange this Mercedes?”

  “I’ve tried to ’phone him at his hotel. Twice. His line was busy each time. Then he was out—a late lunch in the Kärntnerstrasse. He arrived alone, left alone. He evaded—”

  “Evaded? He may only have gone into a shop, browsed around. Didn’t the man you had tailing him think of that?”

  “Too many shops in that district.”

  “Open at that time?”

  Marck said angrily, “Some were.” He softened his voice. “You’d better visit Vienna and have a talk with Grant.”

  “Why not you?”

  “I’m leaving for Graz right now.”

  “Darling, I’ve a lot to do here! The old man has already decided on two more alterations, and I’ve got to soothe the architect and the electrical expert and the—”

  “When can you get away?”

  “But I wasn’t supposed to be in Vienna. My third trip within eight months—too much exposure.”

  “You can handle that. And Grant. Can you be here by Friday?”

  In forty-eight hours... “You’ll be seeing him on Friday, at the auction,” she objected. Much ado about nothing, she told herself.

  “Only briefly. You’ll spend more time on him, keep him in Vienna for another week.”

  “How?”

  “Tell him there has been a delay in that departure from Budapest.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Plenty—if we don’t use that week to find out more about Grant’s connections: has he been in contact with the opposition?”

  “Ridiculous—he has only old acquaintances in Vienna.”

  “That’s for you to find out.” There was a small laugh as he added, “Orders, my sweet. I’m following them—as you will.” Jack’s orders? She was startled. She had never met Jack, only knew him as the man who could give Gene advance notice of especially valuable pictures that might be coming on to the Vienna market.

  Gene was saying, “Or else, my pet, we’ll lose all future advantages. Understand?”

  She understood. “I’ll try to be in Vienna on Friday morning.”

  “Be here,” he insisted. “See Grant that afternoon, after the auction. Meet me that evening.”

  She thought of Gene’s abortive attempts to ’phone Grant after his arrival. “How did you let him know about the time and place of the au
ction?”

  “I haven’t. I won’t until tomorrow evening.”

  Just the night before? She frowned. “That’s cutting things fine. He won’t like it.”

  “I’d like it even less if he knew in advance. Not until we are surer about him.”

  “You are adding too many worries to—”

  “Better start sharing them,” he told her, and ended the call.

  She had no appetite for breakfast. She drank some coffee, black and bitter, and began preparing her excuses for Victor Basset. Part truth, part falsehood always made a reasonable explanation. It would have to be a good story—Basset would soon detect any flaw and would think she was asking permission for a pleasure jaunt just at the time he might need her in Washington. What would she tell him?

  Gene Marck had ’phoned her from Vienna. He needed her there to make sure everything went smoothly at Friday’s auction. He himself was unable to attend—he was in the middle of urgent and intricate negotiations with his Prague source about the sale of a Renoir in the near future—a sound investment—a real acquisition for the French Impressionist room at Basset Hill. So could she leave tomorrow evening from New York?

  Yes, she thought as she showered quickly, it was perfectly plausible. Except, Basset might point out that if there was any delay in her arrival at Vienna, she would be too late for the auction. (He’d ask its time; of that she could be sure.) Then why shouldn’t she leave Kennedy this evening? Arrive Thursday morning? Basset couldn’t find fault with that. It would be better, every way: she could see Grant ahead of the auction. If there was anything disquieting to be found out—well, Gene would be all the more pleased to have advance warning of it.

  She made up her face carefully, dressed with all speed. Basset was always up and around at an early hour; she’d catch him before he left for this morning’s appointments. As for her own schedule here in Washington, she would see the architect at eleven thirty, and the lighting expert at two o’clock. Her secretary could easily handle the engagements already made for Basset. He was moving soon to New York, anyway: a few days in a three-room suite at the Regency—he had never liked Albany’s air-conditioning system—to await the arrival of his precious Ruysdael. He’d fume over any delay in Grant’s arrival, but that was for Gene Marck to explain—if it happened.

  She picked up the ’phone and asked for Mr. Basset’s suite. She found, to her surprise, that she was just in time: William, now acting as valet, told her Mr. Basset was leaving in ten minutes for an appointment. What appointment? she wondered. She was responsible for all of them, and the first was at ten o’clock. It was now just after nine.

  Basset didn’t say what the appointment was either, and she had more sense than to question him. He listened to her explanation of why she was needed in Vienna—she emphasised the importance of making sure that the Ruysdael was acquired. Gene Marck had heard—in spite of all precautions—that an art dealer from Amsterdam, a very keen businessman, had learnt of the auction and would be there. The price might be forced up. Quite high, in fact.

  Basset had only nodded. He seemed preoccupied, even a little distracted. This she attributed to yesterday’s decisions at Basset Hill: he had disliked the lighting in the main gallery, found fault with the ice-cold temperature, and objected to the dividing walls in two of the rooms.

  She went on explaining. His sharp blue eyes studied her as she talked, but a mask had slipped over his face—she had seen that before, when he was listening to someone who might be a competitor—and she could read nothing from those closed lips and frowning brows. A really bad mood, she thought; that dinner party with old State Department friends last night must have been a dismal bore. She felt a growing sense of failure: he will tell me to stay here and take charge of Basset Hill’s final changes; Vienna is out.

  But as she ended her little speech, he only said, “When do you leave?”

  “On the seven o’clock flight from Kennedy. There’s nothing direct from Washington to Vienna. If, of course, you agree... Miss McCullough can deal with your engagements—I’ve got them all arranged. I’ll talk with the architect and the lighting expert, and make them understand precisely what you want. There is really nothing else. The Regency expects you on Saturday, I should be able to join you there, Mr. Basset. My trip to Vienna will be short.”

  “When does Grant get to New York?”

  She glanced at William, impressing on Basset the reason for her discretion, as she answered, “As soon as there’s a safe arrival in Vienna.”

  “When is that?”

  “Any day now.” She smiled and added, “In fact, it could be any hour.”

  He glanced at his watch and said to William, now about to turn chauffeur, “Have the car at the door in five minutes.” To Lois Westerbrook, he nodded. And went into his bedroom.

  She left with William. In the corridor, she said, “He’s in a difficult mood today. What’s wrong? Didn’t he enjoy the party last night?”

  “It went on too long. You know how he is about late nights.”

  “Where are you taking him now? To have his hair cut?” she asked, to lighten her first question.

  “State Department,” William corrected her, enjoying the reflected importance of that visit.

  She stared at him. Why all the secrecy? Basset could have told her. She forced a smile. “Well, just remind him he has an appointment at the Mellon. Ten o’clock.”

  “That’s been cancelled,” William said, and took the service elevator. Miss Beautiful doesn’t know everything, he thought with a grin as he adjusted his chauffeur’s cap. Nor did he, for that matter, but that never troubled him.

  Lois Westerbrook walked slowly back to her suite. It’s nothing, she was thinking, nothing at all. But State Department? At last, in her search for an explanation, she found one possibility that satisfied her. Could Basset be thinking of an ambassadorship? Was he seeing his friends in the State Department to drop them a hint of his next interest? Last night he had got nowhere. But this morning? Trust Basset to keep charging on. He had never accepted a reverse. For him, defeat was an impossible word.

  Reassured, she went into her sitting-room and telephoned Trans World Airlines. As for her hotel in Vienna—the city was crowded with tourists, but she’d try pulling some weight with the Sacher. That was where Basset always stayed. Big name, big deal: Allied Electronics had everyone tugging a forelock and saying “Servus!” Gene was there, too: his room would be waiting for his return from Graz. How convenient, she thought, her cool and beautiful face coming to life as she laughed at the prospect of at least one night together: no one will have the smallest suspicion except the maids, and we’ll tip them well. Besides, all Vienna loves a lover.

  Her laughter died away. She was divided between the desire to meet Gene again and an instinctive fear. The truth was, she didn’t really want to be seen around Vienna. Not at this time. But orders were orders. She began packing. She must be ready to pick up and leave, once her chores were completed, first with an architect whose idea for a room for masterpieces was to clutter the sight-lines with dividers, and then with that glorified electrician who called himself a consultant. She’d have to draw some loose cash at the bank too: fortunately she always kept two thousand dollars in travellers’ cheques available for any emergency. And her regular passport, of course: no need for a fake identity on this brief trip.

  How easy it had all been: Basset making not one objection, too concerned with his own plans to make any comment about hers. She had expected some questions, a complaint perhaps, even a blank refusal. Now, for the next hour, she had only to deal with Miss McCullough, who liked to call herself assistant secretary to Victor Basset, and not (as she was hired to be) secretary to his assistant. She would tell McCullough how to cope, spell out everything, make sure no mistake would be made. The girl, a moon-faced calf, was competent enough—and eager. A little too eager? The responsibilities of the next few days might boost her dreams of promotion. When I get back, Lois Westerbrook thought. I’ll k
eep an eye on McCullough. Good secretaries come and go. If necessary, McCullough will be one of those who came and went.

  Small problems, however. In Vienna, they might be larger. Gene would never have telephoned her unless he feared some crisis. Where had he called from? Certainly not from the Sacher. And it wasn’t from a public ’phone, not to reach across the Atlantic. From some safe address, recommended by Jack. Jack... The one-name man. Or could it be Jacques? (Sometimes Gene softened the first consonant as if it were French.) It didn’t matter: Jack or Jacques was a background figure, extremely useful, but distant. He never intruded. Not until today, she suddenly thought.

  Frowning, she locked the suitcase, and checked her carryall for cosmetics and jewellery. Colin Grant—could he really be such a problem? She still doubted that. He’d keep his word, turn up at the auction, and bid to win. He’d never take money and then renege. Not his type. In any case, as Gene had said, she could handle Colin Grant.

  She was smiling again as she picked up her book of Basset’s engagements and conferences and luncheons and dinners, and telephoned for her secretary.

  9

  On Thursday morning, the first surprise of the day came with an early call from Zürich.

  Grant had awakened before six, completely rested, thoroughly and annoyingly alert. Breakfast wasn’t served until seven thirty. Well, so what? As he showered and shaved, he would begin sorting out his thoughts, his brain cleared by his long deep sleep; last night, they had been a jumbled mess by the time he had finished dinner and slumped into bed. He was still baffled—the man who had stepped into the middle of a conspiracy that had begun three years ago and was now flourishing under deep cover. A conspiracy, too, that intended to continue its past successes: they were much too profitable. Therefore, he deduced, it had been, was, and would be ruthless in eliminating any threat. Me, for instance? he wondered. He tried to laugh that off, but hunger had set a sharp edge to his question.

  He was dressed and more than ready for breakfast when it was wheeled in, punctual to the minute. And then, just as he had poured out that wonderful first cup of coffee, the ’phone rang. Replacing the metal cover over the bacon and eggs, he swore under his breath and took his coffee with him to the telephone at his bedside. “Yes?” he demanded.