Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  Renwick took a folder out of the safe (with a desk and three hard chairs, that was all the furniture in his cubicle-size office) and opened it. Inside, there were two sheets of flimsy paper with the details that had been gathered about the life and interests of Herr Doktor Heinrich Mittendorf, trusted treasurer of Allied Electronics. He began reading them, spurred on by Avril’s comment about the only man who had written a cheque, and hadn’t met with an accident, either. Bright girl, Avril, bless her big brown eyes.

  Yes, here was something strange... Ridiculous, perhaps. But worth some thought. Worth a hell of a lot, in fact, and some searching, too. Where did he start? With the biggest bookstores in town, and work down to the second-hand places. Mittendorf a poet when he was nineteen? Incredible. But forty-three years ago he had been published in Paris, and praised by the lesser Communist press for his “revolutionary ardour”. His pen-name, under which two of his poems had been issued, was Jacques.

  Renwick cancelled his idea about sifting through the bookstores. He would leave that until he had talked with the researcher who had uncovered this little item about Mittendorf’s youth. If it had come to light, there must be a copy of the book available somewhere. And the researcher—Ella Jameson, he saw by the initials at the foot of her neat notes—must know where to find it. She had actually read the poems, judging by her comments.

  In ten minutes, Mrs. Jameson had left her cataloguing in the reference library and was entering his room.

  He greeted her with so much enthusiasm that her natural reserve melted away. So few people ever gave her any credit for her meticulous research: she often wondered, in fact, if her painstaking notes were even read with any attention. She began answering Mr. Renwick’s questions. They veered around several of her little discoveries about Mittendorf—she couldn’t be sure which of the points Mr. Renwick raised was of most interest to him. Yes, she spent most Saturdays in small second-hand bookstores—her hobby, as it were. She had now quite a collection of curiosities, volumes long out of print. The name Mittendorf had caught her eye as she was examining a shelf of belles-lettres. It had been misplaced, of course: years ago, judging by the heavy coating of dust on that row of neglected books. Naturally she had bought it: wasn’t she working on the subject of Mittendorf? It was a first edition—the only edition, actually—published in 1934. Three hundred and fifty copies had been printed. It really was a rare find: she had checked the catalogues of several libraries, and they didn’t even mention it. She got a bargain for the three schillings it had cost her.

  “Indeed you did.” Less than nineteen cents for, perhaps, the last extant copy of Mittendorf’s youthful poems. “I’d like to have a look at it some time.” If he had gauged her correctly, it would be lying on his desk tomorrow. “Whereabouts did you find it?”

  Mrs. Jameson’s smile widened in her delight. “In the most unlikely place—a small street just off the Mariahilferstrasse. I was searching for Haydn’s birthplace and—” She stopped. “Sorry. I’m afraid my enthusiasm runs away with me.”

  “Well,” he said as he rose to his feet, ending their little talk, “it doesn’t seem to interfere with your work. It’s first-rate, Mrs. Jameson,” and he opened the door for her. “We’ll keep this strictly between ourselves. Later—well, I’ll mention your efficiency and dedication in my report.” He would too, but scarcely in such high-falutin’ words. That pleased her, sent her back happily to her reference library. People like Jameson don’t get credit enough, he thought.

  He hadn’t brought up the name Jacques. It would only have emphasised his interest in Mittendorf. If Mrs. Jameson had recorded it, then it did exist. Tomorrow morning he’d see it, anyway.

  Remember, he warned himself, like Mrs. Jameson and her enthusiasm his imagination could run away with him, take off at a flying gallop. “So control it!” he said aloud. “You may have nothing here at all.” Nothing but an interesting footnote on a lost poet.

  He closed the folder and locked it safely away.

  10

  It had been easy. Grant had stepped out of the bookstore’s doorway, avoided looking either across or along Mahlerstrasse, and halted at the window as if its display had again caught his attention. Behind him, a car stopped. He turned, saw a dark blue Fiat with its door already opened. Four steps and he was inside, and Frank was driving off. Within moments, they were swerving down the nearest side street and heading for the Ring. From Frank, there was no explanation as to where they were travelling. He merely nodded as Grant closed the car door and settled beside him. No comment, no talk whatsoever; this was a different kind of Frank, in both manner and dress. Yesterday morning, he had been the neatly tailored chauffeur of a Mercedes-Benz: now he was dressed in a leather jacket and open-necked shirt, his hair no longer brushed neatly back, his features now firmer and more pronounced. The jaw was set, the nose aggressive, the lips uncompromising.

  Either, thought Grant, he didn’t want this job, or he has just left a sharp argument, which he seems to have lost. Grant broke the silence with an innocuous, “Where are we heading? Or are we driving around?”

  “We’ll do that first.”

  “After that?”

  Frank’s lips tightened. “It depends.”

  “Have we been followed?”

  “No.”

  “Was there actually somebody waiting to tail me?” Grant asked, his irritation showing.

  “Didn’t you see him?” If not. I’ve got a fool on my hands, Frank’s eyes seemed to say as they glanced at the American.

  “Didn’t risk looking curious.” Damn it, thought Grant, does he think I’m an idiot? “What did you want to see me about?”

  “We’re driving in its direction now.”

  “That’s certainly clear enough.” Grant’s sarcasm wasn’t wasted. There was another sharp glance pointed his way. A short silence.

  Then Frank said, “First, tell me the background of Max Seldov who recommended the Two Crowns. Oh, I know the obvious details: came to Vienna with his parents from Odessa, emigrated with them to New York; public school; CCNY graduate; now co-director of Schofeld’s on Madison Avenue; lives in Larchmont; with Eunice, and three teenage daughters.”

  “You’ve forgotten his war record,” Grant said with obvious annoyance. It had been good.

  “No, I didn’t. He ended here, with the Allied Occupation Forces in Vienna. Was that when he met Bernard Mandel?”

  “I wouldn’t know. What’s this all about, anyway?”

  Frank didn’t answer that. “Does Seldov ever talk politics?” he asked.

  “Politics? He’s a Democrat, and votes. Apart from that, he reads the New York Times editorials, and then turns to its art section.”

  “So he is not political?”

  “Not the way you make it sound.”

  “What made him recommend the Two Crowns?”

  “Just trying to help me find a hotel.”

  “You didn’t ask him?”

  “No. What the hell have you got against Max Seldov?”

  “His brother-in-law,” Frank said. “What did you hear about him from Seldov?”

  “He married Max’s sister.”

  “That all?”

  “He’s a good chap—won the hearts of Seldov and his family when they stayed at the Two Crowns—ten years ago, Max said.”

  “And that was all?”

  “He said I’d like Bernie.”

  “Does Bernard Mandel know that you are in Vienna?”

  “Possibly. Max was going to write to him.”

  “Why?”

  “For God’s sake—” Grant burst out.

  “Why?”

  “Just wanted his brother-in-law to find me a room if I needed one. Asked me to have a look at the place and give his regards to Bernie.”

  “You didn’t say you were booked at the Majestic?”

  “I thought that would be tactless. It would certainly have roused too much speculation. Max knows damn well that my budget doesn’t stretch that far.” Grant paused,
then added, “Look—I’m finding this bloody unpleasant.”

  “But necessary.”

  Now it’s my turn to shoot out a blunt question. Grant decided. “Why?” he asked, as aggressive as Frank had been.

  “Because Bernard Mandel is a son of a bitch.”

  Grant recovered and said slowly, “Well, that’s really telling them.”

  “It’s no exaggeration.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “Not mine alone.”

  “Well, it certainly isn’t Max Seldov’s.” His face had beamed with pleasure when he recalled his brother-in-law. He wasn’t faking it either.

  “How often has he met Mandel?” Frank asked. “I’m talking of the last twenty years or so.”

  Probably only once, on the Seldovs’ visit to Vienna, Grant realised. “Max hasn’t done much travelling abroad since the three girls toned down his life-style.”

  “A family man? So he brought them on a trip to Vienna and Bernie couldn’t do too much for them. He’s just a good-hearted generous guy who runs a comfortable little hotel. Yes, that’s his public image. There is another, though.”

  “He seems to have made his wife happy enough when she was alive.”

  “Easy. She shared his politics.”

  Politics... back to that again. “Are you going to tell me what you are hinting around, or are you just leaving me dangling?” Grant demanded. He was beginning to sound truculent. He made an effort to control his rising temper.

  “I thought I had given you enough hints.” Frank half-smiled. “Unless you really are as politically ignorant as most Americans.”

  “You sure know how to make friends and influence people.”

  “No, now—no need to get mad. Can’t you take fair criticism?” Frank asked, his voice mild, his smile spreading.

  That was always unanswerable. “Why don’t you let me out right here?” They had turned away from the Ring, and were now taking a route through crowded commercial streets.

  “I might have done that if your answers had been different.” That stopped Grant, who had his hand on the door-release, ready to make a quick exit at the next blocked intersection. He turned his head towards Frank, attempted to read the man’s expression. He’s been goading me, Grant thought, trying to catch me off balance. He said, his voice tight with anger, “Nice to know that one’s trusted.”

  “Not at the beginning. Why should I have taken you on faith? I don’t know your friend O’Malley whose word counts with Renwick. But think how you appeared to me, Grant. Did you come to Vienna to do an honest job, or were you specially sent here to uncover who we were and how much we had found out? In other words, were you with us or against us?”

  They came to a halt in a jam of traffic. Grant didn’t open the door. He released his grip on the handle, slowly, almost unwillingly, but definitely. “I get your point.” His anger had left him, but his ego was still bruised.

  “What did Avril tell you yesterday?” Frank asked.

  “Briefed me on the financing of terrorists.”

  “You believed her?”

  “At first, no,” Grant admitted. “Later, when I thought more closely into it—yes.”

  “You could back out right now. Fake illness. Why don’t you?”

  “She didn’t leave me much choice.”

  That startled Frank. He had to swerve to avoid rear-ending the car in front of them, and cursed himself under his breath. “Are you telling me sweet Avril twisted your arm?”

  “No, just told me the facts.”

  “And made a request,” prompted Frank.

  But Grant wasn’t talking.

  Frank nodded his approval. “I’m as interested in that cheque as Renwick is,” he said very quietly. “You know what you’re getting into, of course? These guys we are up against play rough—for keeps.”

  “Trying to scare me off? You’re doing a good job.”

  Better now than later, thought Frank, when he could mess up weeks of work. I told Bob Renwick that he was taking a risk with Grant.

  Grant was saying, “Well, if you can’t tell me what the danger might be, I’ll have to keep on making a guess or two.”

  “Such as?” Frank asked quickly.

  “The Ruysdael painting could be sold for a high price to swell the Geneva bank account and then snatched. After all, the Hungarian government considers it the property of the state. And if Victor Basset complains about its loss—too bad. They’ll say he was trying to steal it. I’ll be implicated somehow. End of career. Could be?”

  “Could be.” Perhaps worse, thought Frank. “So how do you safeguard the painting?”

  “I’m thinking about that. I’ll begin with Bob Renwick’s suggestion, and make a smooth getaway from Klar’s Auction Rooms. I asked him why. He told me that you’d explain.”

  “Do I need to?”

  “I think you’ve already answered it. These guys play rough—for keeps. You meant that.”

  “I meant it.” Frank’s voice was harsh, his eyes grim. “You are still with us?”

  “Still hanging in.” Grant tried to sound more cheerful than he felt. “Say, haven’t we been down this street before?”

  “Just marking time. Wanted to be sure you were in the right mood before you brought greetings from Max to dear old likeable Bernie. There’s a garage not far from here. You can leave me there. I’ll point you in the right direction—you’ll find the Two Crowns easily, it’s only a couple of blocks away.”

  “The hell with Bernie. I’ve got problems enough without adding him to than.” Another thought struck Grant. “Or is he involved in the campaign to help our needy terrorists?”

  “No, not directly. But indirectly? He can always be called on for support.” Frank hesitated, and then plunged in. “He’s an old-time Communist, joined the party secretly in 1935 when he was twenty, headed for Moscow as soon as Hitler’s troops appeared in Vienna, stayed in Russia during the war. We have proof of that—from others who were there at the time. He was back in Vienna by 1945, saying he had been in Maidanek, the camp that got rid of most of its prisoners as the Soviet army was approaching—shot them and threw them into mass graves in a final frenzy of killing off all evidence. Out of thousands and thousands, a few escaped. He claimed he was one of them. It makes a good story, and unverifiable. The camp records were destroyed.”

  Listening to the hard, controlled voice, Grant began to understand something of this man: he lived in three dimensions: the bitter past, with dates and facts permanently engraved on his memory; the realistic present, filled with alarms and dangers; the unpredictable future, with its hopes and fears and determined dreams.

  They were reaching the garage. It was a quiet place on a narrow street, unpretentious, with a small office near its entrance where a man sat in shirt-sleeves behind a stretch of glass windows. He looked up as Frank negotiated the entrance, returned his brief hand-wave, and went on telephoning. Deeper inside, there were the usual oil-stained cement floor, solid walls of dingy white brick, cold lighting from naked bulbs suspended from the rafters and a mechanic, in grease-stained overalls, too busy checking a carburettor to give them a second glance. There were about ten cars around the sides of the garage, leaving the back wall for a jumble of equipment, tools, tyres, and spare parts. One parking space was free. Frank took it neatly, and the Fiat came to a rest.

  He switched off the engine and sat staring down at the wheel. Suddenly he broke his silence. “I can manage—if I try hard enough and put aside my own beliefs—to find the reasons why our enemies want our destruction. But for one of our own people to join our oldest enemy in destroying us—” He didn’t finish. He drew a long deep breath, and said, “It’s almost noon. You’ll catch Mandel just before he starts lunch, may he choke on his goulash.”

  “Must I see this guy?”

  “He will be expecting you.”

  “Perhaps Max forgot to write to him,” Grant tried.

  “You think so?”

  No, the ever-dutiful Max wo
uld have written. Grant said, “I’m damn well not taking a room there.”

  “Too bad. I’ve always wanted someone nicely installed in that hotel.”

  “Haven’t you?” Grant was disbelieving.

  “Nothing that lasted. Mandel was too well-informed. But you, now he will welcome you like a long-lost brother-in-law. For a good reason: he could have been instructed to find—if he got the chance to meet you—just who has contacted you. Look out for that. You might have some fun with it.”

  “Do I come back here?” An idiotic question. “No, of course not Mandel may have me followed.”

  “You’re learning.”

  “One thing more—I hadn’t time to tell Renwick about Lois Westerbrook. She arrived in Vienna this morning. She wants to see me at five thirty this evening.”

  “Didn’t know she was coming to Vienna,” Frank said. He thought over that, but he made no comment. “Where do you meet?”

  “At the Hofburgkeller—her choice. Probably her idea of undercover work.”

  Frank was not amused.

  “You’ll let Renwick know about La Belle Westerbrook?” Grant opened the car door. “And before you ask me, I’ll be spending the afternoon with an old friend, Helmut Fischer. He’s an art dealer on Singerstrasse, just off Kärntner. Now what direction do I take?”

  “Turn left. At the first cross-street turn left again, walk a block and you’ll hit the Schotten Allee. Look for a gold sign over a doorway, red geraniums at the front steps. And look out for yourself!”

  Frank Krimmer watched Grant leave the garage. Then he moved too, heading for the doorway in the rear wall. He passed the lavatory, reached the ’phone in the small room beyond. His call was answered at once by the man who had been installed, for the last few weeks, on the top floor of the home opposite the Two Crowns. “Much traffic?” Krimmer asked. Just the regular hotel guests, he was told; and one visitor earlier this morning. “You had the camera working?” Yes, it was all fixed, in good order again, the photographs were now being developed. “Let me know when another visitor arrives—that should be in about five minutes. He’s in his late thirties, black hair, tall, wearing a grey tweed jacket and dark flannels.”