Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  “We have already done that.” She looked along the corridor again. “We shouldn’t spend too much time together. I must go.”

  “He came here three days ago. Bought a reproduction of the Ruysdael.”

  That halted her. “Are you sure it was Marck?”

  “Almost sure. I’ll give you the details tomorrow. You’ll be waiting in the car outside the auction rooms?”

  “I’ll be there. We’ll have something to tell you, too. Good news. You may not have to worry much longer about Ruysdael.” Once more, she glanced towards the room, where Fischer was talking with the man who had followed her into the shop. “I wish there was another way out of here.”

  “There is—by the service entrance. Might seem odd, though.”

  She didn’t share his amusement. “I’m afraid so.” She began walking back along the corridor. “What shall we tell your nice friend?”

  “The particular Tanguy painting that interested you is in New York. The one called Awakening—will that do?”

  “S Eveiller?” Her eyes laughed as he raised an eyebrow at her use of the original title. “Is it really in New York?”

  “Yes. Friends of mine own it.”

  “So we’re on safe ground.”

  “Solid.”

  They were about to enter the room. “Leave me,” she said softly, and touched his arm in goodbye.

  “And shock Helmut?” Grant shook his head. “We’ll enter together.”

  “As strangers,” she reminded him.

  The only thing strange about this girl, he thought, is the fact that she isn’t a stranger although it’s scarcely two days since we met. He followed her in silence into the room.

  Fischer hurried to take charge. He was delighted that Grant didn’t insist on walking with this charming girl to the door. That was his prerogative as master of these premises, and a successful one: an invitation to return whenever she wanted to pass a pleasant hour among pictures; a shy acceptance—and what an enchanting smile this girl had. Quite won over by these last minutes, Fischer closed the door behind her with one final approving look at her cream-coloured wool suit, beautifully fitted, the skirt just the right length to show a pair of excellent legs. Then he turned to the man who had been studying the watercolours. He too was about to leave, without even a civil good-day as he hurried into the street. Just someone who had drifted into the shop as several did, with only the intent to look, never to buy. Fortunate, thought Fischer, that I don’t have to depend on that type to maintain my style of living. His important clients were serious collectors, relying on his taste and judgment. His usual good mood quite restored, he reached Grant, who had been talking with Leni and was now bidding her goodbye. “Must you go?”

  “Afraid so. I’m late.” It was almost five fifteen by Grant’s watch. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had Leni call for a cab while I waited for your farewells to end. You do spin them out, Helmut. The prettier the girl, the longer they take.”

  Fischer laughed. “She was most attractive,” he agreed. “Strange—did she think I was hard of hearing? I don’t look that old, surely.”

  “Foreigners often raise their voices when they are coping with a strange language,” Grant suggested.

  That was accepted. But Fischer had another question, which—as usual—he put indirectly. “Strange, too, that at first she seemed so vague about Tanguy; yet, as she was leaving, quite knowledgeable.” He shot a quick glance at Grant, his eyes expressionless.

  “Your reference library—”

  “Of course.” Fischer’s voice was suddenly cool. “Did you plan to meet her here?” If so, he was thinking, you could have told me: I do not like being used. A romantic assignation—that I understand. A deception? No. Not from a friend.

  “I came to see you, Helmut. Nothing else was planned.”

  Fischer’s smile returned. “Not even your questions about Ruysdael?”

  “Those were,” Grant admitted. “But where could I find better information?”

  “The taxi is here,” Leni announced.

  With relief. Grant moved quickly to the door. Fischer’s questions were only beginning, and might be unanswerable. Their leave-taking was warm, even if hurried, with an invitation to dinner on Monday (Fischer); perhaps, if possible (Grant); telephone number in Salzburg (Fischer): a promise to get in touch (Grant).

  “My thanks,” Grant remembered to call back, raising his voice as he dashed towards the taxi. “Many many thanks.” Fischer closed the door. Why so many thanks? Just the exuberance of a young man? Suddenly he felt a twinge of age. “Leni,” he asked, “would you say I was hard of hearing?”

  13

  Of course, he was late. Grant reached the Hofburgkeller at twenty-five minutes to six, and Lois Westerbrook had been counting each overdue second. That he could tell, even as he found her waiting near the entrance, and followed her at a discreet distance—not upstairs to the restaurants and white tablecloths, but down the steps into the basement level where the vaulted beer-hall and adjacent taprooms were to be found. Annoyance was in her step as she marched to a vacant table sheltering near a stone arch, a grey-clad figure in a demure suit guaranteed to attract little attention. Her golden hair was entirely hidden, this time with a plain brown scarf twisted around her head. Her face seemed whiter, its Arizona tan covered with heavy make-up. Eyebrows were scarcely noticeable, lips were pale. Except for the excellent profile that nothing could disguise, the transformation was complete. She didn’t even need the tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses that hid her eyes.

  As for Grant, nearing her table slowly, his feelings were as indefinite as his movements. Of one thing he was certain: this was going to be a difficult meeting; too bad he had made it worse by being late. Remember, he warned himself, you are supposed to know nothing at all—neither the date of the auction, nor Ferenc Ady’s name, nor his death. Blot all that out of your mind: no slip of the tongue. You know as little as you did three weeks ago, when you last met Westerbrook. A difficult meeting? The most difficult he ever had to face, he admitted. And sat down opposite her. “Sorry I kept you waiting. Traffic...”

  Now that they were safely together, Lois Westerbrook relaxed. She had taken the chair that faced the wall, her back turned to the giant room. She glanced over her shoulder, right, then left, for a last casual survey of the other tables. She seemed satisfied. She removed her glasses. Her smile was warm. “At least, we got here before the mob scene starts. I’ll have a glass of wine.”

  He ordered a carafe—everything came out of barrels in the Hofburgkeller—along with a tankard of beer. I’ll let her make the pace, he decided.

  “You are very silent today,” she said lightly.

  “Just waiting for your news. Bad or good?”

  “Abrupt, aren’t you?”

  “Well, this meeting was your idea,” he countered. “You had something to tell me.” Which couldn’t be cabled or telephoned, he remembered.

  “Just a message from Mr. Basset. That can wait. First, what about you? Are you comfortable at the Majestic?”

  “Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Then what’s troubling you?”

  “I haven’t seen or heard from Gene Marck.”

  “Oh—about the auction? Surely there’s no need to worry about its date. It is scheduled, you know.”

  “When?”

  She dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “As soon as our refugee is safe. Gene will let you know about that. He isn’t in Vienna at the moment. Urgent business out of town.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “Soon.” The small hope she had built up—Gene possibly returning tonight, in good time for tomorrow’s auction—had been completely dashed by the Sacher’s reply to her discreet inquiry: Herr Marck was out of the city; he was not expected back until morning. Gene is cutting it very fine, she thought, her lips tightening. “Why are you so impatient, Colin?”

  He waited until their drinks were served, and took a long draught of beer. “Not impatien
t—just at loose ends. Can’t make any definite arrangements until I know what is scheduled. For instance, I’d like to spend this week-end in the country: leave tomorrow morning, return Monday.”

  She hadn’t expected that. “A week-end where?”

  “At Dürnstein.”

  “What’s wrong with Vienna? I thought your friends would be keeping you well entertained.”

  “Not at the week-ends. Vienna empties then.”

  She said quickly, “I’d advise you to stay—Gene may be in touch with you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll leave the Dürnstein address. He could ’phone there.”

  “No,” she said, her voice sharpening. “He wants you here.”

  “But Dürnstein isn’t so far away.”

  “Why don’t you keep to our initial arrangements?”

  Two weeks in Vienna?”

  That caught her off balance again. She cupped the small tumbler of wine in her hands, didn’t lift it from the table. She stared down at it, seeing and not seeing. Gene put me in this predicament, she was thinking, summoned me here to do his talking for him. How much do I tell Grant? More than Gene advised? It may be the only way to get him out of this difficult mood. “You’ll certainly be here for another week,” she said at last.

  He half smiled, shook his head. “Is that keeping to our initial arrangements?” So it was one more week, and why even that delay? He made a guess at one possible explanation: they were making damn sure that the cheque for the Ruysdael would be safely deposited in Geneva before he left Vienna.

  “One week,” she said firmly. “That’s the message I’m bringing from Mr. Basset. He had news about his friend in Budapest.” Very softly, she added, “There has been a slight delay in his arrival in Vienna.”

  “The escape is postponed?”

  “No, no. Just a small delay.”

  “Once he is here, the auction takes place?” He was openly sceptical. “Oh, come on, Lois. You know you can’t schedule an auction at a day’s notice. It looks as if I’ll be kept waiting here for several weeks. That is not in our initial arrangements. I have plans of my own, you know.”

  For a long moment she was silent, her face expressionless. “You are right. Of course the auction was scheduled in advance.” Would that hold him? she wondered, raising her eyes to meet his. No, she decided, he had to be told a little more, just enough to keep him believing her. You can handle him, Gene had said. But only in her own way; not in Gene’s. “You see,” she began, “we thought Mr. Basset’s friend would be safe in Vienna by this week-end, so the auction was arranged for tomorrow. You will attend it, even if our refugee arrives later than expected.”

  “When and where tomorrow?” How far can I push her into telling the truth? Grant speculated. Extraordinary amber eyes she has when she softens their expression as she is doing right now. Melting is the word for it. And all for me? He repressed a smile.

  “Gene will be in touch with you about that. There may be a message waiting for you at the Majestic right now. When did you leave your hotel today?”

  “This morning.”

  “You haven’t been back? Good heavens, you really must have been busy. I suppose you met your friends and time vanished. Now I see why you were late. I forgive you. Look—I thought I might give a small party in my room tomorrow evening—just to celebrate. Why don’t you ask your friends to join us? Of course, we won’t talk about the Ruysdael. It’s still Mr. Basset’s secret. We all keep quiet about it until you deliver it to him in New York.”

  “And that won’t be until his refugee is safe in Vienna?”

  “Exactly. That’s why you’ve got to spend a few more days here, once the auction is over.”

  It all sounded sweetly reasonable, until you started thinking hard into the elaborate stratagem these people—Marck, Lois, and who else?—had worked out so carefully. A few days more in Vienna after the auction, perhaps a week... Perhaps nothing. Once the cheque was safe in that Geneva bank account, would the Ruysdael be allowed to leave Vienna? Or would a reproduction take its place?

  She was saying, “The Ruysdael will be fully insured, of course. You can put it in the hotel’s storage vault, or even keep it in your own room, or leave it with the auctioneer, or whatever. In any case, just forget about it and enjoy your remaining days in Vienna. I’m sorry, really I’m sorry, that you didn’t get your full two weeks. Mr. Basset will make up for that, somehow. I know he will.”

  The hell with Basset, he thought, and the hell with you too, Miss Amber Eyes. Just forget about the Ruysdael and enjoy myself? At any rate, it sounds as though nothing unpleasant has been planned for me. Or—he suddenly stared at her as she lifted the glass of wine and took her first sip—is that what I am meant to believe? I’m just to relax, have a good time, and stay unsuspecting?

  “No comment?” she asked lightly. “Is this your day for silence? If you see any problem—tell me.”

  “There’s one thing that does puzzle me. Why doesn’t Gene Marck take charge of the picture as soon as I’ve bought it? I could hand it to him in the auction room after it was paid for, say ‘It’s all yours, pal’—let him hang around Vienna with it, until he gets the signal to climb on that plane.”

  “There must be no connection of anyone of Mr. Basset’s staff with—”

  “Oh, come on, Lois. I could hand it to him in the room where the cheque is signed. Who’ll see us there, except people he can trust?”

  “But,” she said, “Gene is leaving Vienna as soon as the Ruysdael transaction is completed. Tomorrow afternoon he will be in Switzerland. Then there’s Berlin after that. He’s a very busy man, Colin.” She looked at him reproachfully.

  He nodded. She could find a reason for anything, this girl. “Remarkable eyes you have,” he said. “Doesn’t Gene tell you that? Or is he too busy to notice?”

  She laughed and said, “Oh, we are only professional associates. We keep it that way.”

  “But you do choose his ties?” Perhaps not as subtle as Sherlock Holmes in probing for a lead, but it might do.

  “Oh, that’s part of my job. It’s best to restrain his taste. Mr. Basset likes quiet colours.”

  “And Gene’s taste is wild?” He finished his beer, looked around for the waitress to order another tankard. It was thirsty work juggling with Westerbrook. Sharply, he looked again—not at the waitress, but at a man and girl who had walked into the room arm in arm. Now they were taking one of the last vacant tables, only thirty feet away. The girl was a buxom brunette. The man was Gene Marck. He wasn’t wearing any tie; a polo sweater was tight around his neck. Grant’s smile broadened. So much for your Sherlock Holmes effort, he told himself.

  “Not really,” Lois Westerbrook was saying. “His taste is usually good. But he has no colour sense.” She looked severely at Grant. “Tell me—why did you advertise your arrival by hiring a Mercedes-Benz?”

  Grant’s smile vanished. They had put him under surveillance even at the airport, had they? Suddenly all the fuss and bother that Bob Renwick and Frank and sweet Avril, too, had taken, no longer seemed unnecessary or ludicrous. “You said first-class all the way,” he counter-attacked. “What did you expect me to do? Take a bus, arrive at the Majestic on foot?”

  “There were taxis—”

  “Find them! And if you are worried about my mistakes, what about yours? Booking me into the Majestic! That’s not on my budget, and all my friends know it. If anyone advertised my arrival here, it was you. What excuse do I give them for my sudden affluence, I ask you?”

  “Your friends have been questioning you?”

  So she was back to that subject again. “No. They’re too polite, although they must be raising an eyebrow about the Majestic. You goofed, Lois. Admit it. Or was it Gene?”

  “Really, Colin, you are impossible.”

  “Well, not as impossible as to be in two places at once. Like dear Gene.” Grant was smiling again. “He’s just to the right of you, across the room, thirty feet away. You can look. He wouldn’t noti
ce. He may not have much taste in bow-ties, but he knows his women.” Grant decided he had said enough. Lois Westerbrook’s eyes opened wide in angry disbelief. She glanced over her shoulder to her right, and went rigid.

  She looked back at Grant. “When did he come in?”

  “Five minutes ago. A fast worker. He’s been nuzzling that bouncing brunette ever since.” Grant had been deliberately frank—one way of working out his own anger against Marck, perhaps. But he hadn’t expected Lois Westerbrook to crumble. She had a second look at Marck, his hands entwined with the girls, his lips at her ear and then at her neck before he drew apart with a laugh. She turned her eyes away and sat in silence, one elbow on the table, her hand covering her face, her head bowed.

  At last she said, “Get me out of here.”

  “Past his table?”

  “No. Through that door behind me.”

  He called the waitress and paid. Lois Westerbrook stared again at Gene Marck. With his back to the room, he seemed to be feeling quite safe from anyone’s scrutiny. Perhaps the crowd of strangers around him, or the medley of voices and laughter, or his green jacket and mustard-yellow sweater, gave him a feeling of complete anonymity. Or he just hadn’t expected anyone who knew him to be there. Yes, thought Grant as he walked beside Lois Westerbrook, shielding her from Marck’s table, we all make a mistake at times. This one, judging from Westerbrook’s arm, tense, under his guiding hand, was enormous.

  She refused a cab, walked away, without one more question about the friends Grant had met in Vienna.

  He dined at the Majestic, and then went upstairs to begin packing.

  It was approaching midnight when his telephone rang. Grant was in bed but not asleep. He rolled over and reached for the receiver, cursing it silently. “Hello,” he said roughly.

  “Colin?” It was Lois Westerbrook. “Colin—are you there?” He sat up, became fully alert. She must be calling from some café—there was the distant sound of Schrammel music in the background. Her voice sounded blurred, no longer clear and decided. “Yes, I’m here. Better speak up—it’s difficult to hear you.”