Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  “Did you get it?” Renwick repeated sharply. “The name on the cheque?”

  “Henri Bienvenue.”

  “Spell it.”

  Grant did. “Also, I saw the amount being paid to him. In American money—250,000 dollars. My winning bid was 168,454 dollars. So figure that out.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes. I’m a dead man.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Renwick. “And so far we’ve done pretty well. Don’t you agree?”

  “You expected I might be—eliminated?”

  “The possibility crossed our minds.”

  “From the beginning?” Grant was aghast.

  “Right from the start.”

  Grant shook his head as he remembered Avril among the roses, hinting at danger, talking of protection, while he insisted—big man that he was—he could look after himself. Big man indeed. Without Max’s help, or without Avril’s warning about Old Closed-Lips, where the hell would he have been? “Avril—where is she?”

  “Calm down. She’s at home, waiting for you to turn up. She has an apartment near the Embassy—with a guest-room ready for any of our friends who need to stay out of sight. It’s our version of what the trade calls a ‘safe house’. How did she cope? She hadn’t much time to get down to Klar’s and warn you.”

  “She was brilliant.”

  “No suspicion aroused?”

  Grant was slow to reply. He was remembering Gudrun Klar and her eyes on the balcony—emerald ring, big and bright, rearranging her hair. At first he had thought it was a habit of hers. Now that he recalled the gesture, nowhere else, at no time, had she raised a hand to toy with her curls. Not a habit. A signal, perhaps?

  “Was there?” Renwick’s voice was sharp.

  “I saw someone move—up on the balcony—just for a split second—as Avril was leaving. A man, I thought.”

  “Could he have seen you and Avril together?”

  “Yes. With Frau Klar.”

  With Klar? Avril approached you when you were with—”

  “Look—I was stuck with Klar. Avril had no choice. I was about to move into the auction room.”

  “How did Avril leave? Was she slow?”

  “Far from it. No one in that gallery could have got down to the front door in time to follow her.”

  Except, Renwick was thinking, Avril had stopped to make a ’phone call. Yet without that call neither he nor Frank would have been in good position for Grant’s early exit. “I’ll get you to her apartment as soon as we visit the Embassy.”

  “Why the Embassy?”

  “You’ll deliver the Ruysdael to Basset. He arrived this morning.”

  “Hell—do I have to see him?”

  “Unless you’ll entrust that picture to a doorman.” I thought not, Renwick decided, as he saw Grant’s grip tighten on the carrying-case.

  “What about you? Couldn’t you deliver—”

  “I have messages to send.” The name of Henri Bienvenue, for a starter: the sooner NATO’s diplomatic approach to the Swiss could be made, the quicker they’d take action. And then there were typed copies to be made from the Korda tape. And Austrian Security to be informed. And—“Everything piles on top at once,” Renwick said. “It’s an avalanche. We could have done without Mr. Victor Basset complicating everything. He means well, but—apart from getting that blasted picture off our hands—he is one big pain in the butt. He decided he’d arrive sub rosa, so he came flying in on his own private plane. He has a couple of brawny types with him, ex-Secret Service men, and his lawyer, and a new secretary. How sub rosa is that with any inquiring journalist sniffing around the airport? The only goddamned thing he didn’t do to stir up interest was that he hadn’t the ex-Secret Service men running beside his limousine.”

  A new secretary—replacing Lois Westerbrook? “He moves fast.”

  “And the waves he’s making could swamp our boat before we haul in our catch. Replacing Westerbrook—a clear signal to Mittendorf, who has a hundred listening ears around this town.”

  “Westerbrook—did you meet her last night?”

  “No,” Renwick said abruptly.

  “Didn’t you try?”

  “Yes.”

  “She wasn’t at the Three Guitars?”

  “She left before I got there.” Renwick said no more, seemed to be concentrating on his driving, although he had angled the little car expertly enough out of blocked traffic lanes while he was talking about Basset.

  “So,” Grant made a guess, “you think it was a trap. Sorry about that, Bob. Hope I didn’t land you in real trouble.”

  “Do you think it was a trap?”

  “I wouldn’t have ’phoned you unless I thought there was some truth in what she told me. For instance—she accused Gene Marck of being a trained secret agent. She had found a list of addresses and a microfilm concealed in a hairbrush and a tin of talcum—tricks of the trade, she called them. She wanted to hand them over to you.”

  Renwick slowed down. “She actually said that?”

  “Yes. That’s why I thought she might be telling the truth. And yet, she’s such a beautiful little liar—”

  “Colin—if a trap was being set, she’d never have revealed so much about Marck. No, the ’phone call was for real. She thought it was a public ’phone—it is coin-operated, but that’s only a device to make the Three Guitars’ customers pay. Someone must have heard the call and reported it, and they had her picked up. She thought the guy was me. She walked out with him, smiling.” Renwick cursed softly, his face grim. “And where is she now?”

  “There’s no trace?” Marck knew about that ’phone call: wasn’t she in touch with you last night? Testing me, was he? Instead, he gave himself away.

  “Not so far. Not one rumour, nothing. My God, I did get there as fast as I could move. Finished dressing in a taxi, believe it or not.”

  For the next few minutes, neither of them spoke. They were following Währingerstrasse, a long and busy street, dodging the trolley-buses that always had the right of way, even when it meant a sudden veer across the face of following traffic.

  “Soon be there,” Renwick said. “Prepare yourself, my boy, for Basset on the war-path.”

  “If he expects me to give a play-by-play account—” began Grant.

  “He won’t have time. He has summoned quite a gathering of Austrians around him—a cabinet minister who’s an old friend, the president of Allied Electronics, and some top State Security guy. A hush-hush luncheon at the Embassy. How hush is that? I give it six hours before the gossip starts being whispered around Vienna.”

  “I see your problem. Mittendorf will be across the frontier tonight. Probably Marck and his dear Gudrun too.” Then Grant’s eyes widened and he smacked the Ruysdael. “A clear case of embezzlement! A 250,000 dollar payment for a 168,454 dollar painting, right out of Basset’s pocket. You could hold Mittendorf on that, couldn’t you?”

  Renwick’s hope stirred. “Yes, we could hold him on that.” And later slap him down with all the other charges when we get the evidence together. “The Austrians could nail him inside three hours. I think I’ll have to help you face Basset, after all, and get him to prefer a charge of embezzlement instead of marching into Mittendorf’s office and heaving him out by the scruff of his neck.” Renwick’s smile broke into laughter. “That’s what the old buzzard wanted to do. But now we’ll give him—what did he call it?—a viable alternative. He will be delighted. All he wanted was some action. Why don’t you want to see him?”

  “Because,” Grant said slowly, “he has a museum job to offer, and I’m damned if I’ll look as though I had come panting after it. In fact, I don’t want that blasted job, even if it was offered to me.” Yet a week ago I would have jumped at it, he thought.

  “Why?” Renwick eased the Volkswagen away from the heavy traffic and entered the wide curve of a quiet street, edged by eighteenth-century houses and walled gardens.

  “Because,” Grant said again, even more slowly, “eve
ry time I walked through that museum at Basset Hill, I’d see three pictures displayed there: a Monet, a Degas—both bought by Westerbrook in Vienna—and this Ruysdael. And I’d wonder where their former owners were. Murdered, like Ferenc Ady? Or shut away in an insane asylum? Or freezing in a labour camp above the Arctic Circle?”

  Renwick remained silent as they drove past the Embassy’s imposing front steps, complete with an empty sentry-box, then, almost immediately, made a right turn through large iron gates into a wide courtyard surrounded by smaller buildings. “Rear entrance,” he said. “Less noticeable. Frank and his truck should be near by, parked down the curve of the street. He’ll want to hear what you found out this morning. Look, Colin—I’ll make a swap with you. You give Frank the details, and I’ll deliver the Ruysdael to Basset. That is,” he added with a grin as they got out of the Volkswagen, “if you trust me sufficiently.”

  “I guess I do,” Grant said, handing over the blue vinyl carrying-case. “If Basset wonders about the torn muslin at the back of the picture, tell him I was just making sure.”

  Renwick’s eyebrows lifted. “I’d like to hear—”

  “Later. You have messages to send. Now, what about Avril? What’s her address?”

  “Frank will take you there.” Renwick nodded to the street outside. “He’s waiting and ready and bursting with curiosity. “See you soon, Colin. Take care.” He paused, said very quietly, “And thanks. Thanks from a lot of people.” Swinging the Ruysdael case in his hand, he hurried away.

  “Hey!” Grant called after him. “Take it easy with that case, will you?” With a wide smile, he went looking for Frank.

  17

  Three blocks away from her apartment, Avril Hoffman paid off the taxi in busy Währingerstrasse. She still wasn’t sure if someone had tried to follow her out of Klar’s Auction Rooms. It could be more than likely: Gudrun Klar had eyed her peculiarly, as though trying to identify her face. From some photograph, perhaps? Again a possibility.

  But of one thing Avril was certain: Gudrun Klar hadn’t understood a word of her message to Colin. And even if someone was ready to follow her, she had made such a quick exit that she was sure—almost sure—he had lost her. Unless, of course, when she stopped to telephone, the man had picked up her trail. By sheer luck. That could happen, too. After all, Avril herself had had two pieces of good fortune today: arriving just in time at Klar’s; seeing that imitation Memling portrait. She had no prerogative on luck, she reminded herself. And she had been damned forgetful after her ’phone call. Still chiding herself for that, she took extra care now.

  She had a quick cup of coffee in a small café, choosing a table near its window, where, screened by a flourishing rubber-plant, she could have a safe view of Währingerstrasse. Nothing out there to worry her, she decided. After the café, she visited a flower shop and bought some yellow roses; next a stationer’s shop for a newspaper. Still watchful, she made a small detour before she reached her apartment.

  It lay on a quiet street, in one of several similar houses, all fairly modern, agreeable, thoroughly reputable and not too expensive. There were other buildings—the University area was just south of it, the medical centre and hospitals to its east—which gave a feeling of solidity and security. Many of her neighbours were professional people, or research students, or even Embassy employees like the two secretaries from whom she had rented the apartment while they were on leave. The Embassy itself was less than ten minutes away, which was the biggest advantage of all.

  She entered the brick-tiled hall and stopped at the ground-floor apartment, its door wide open, as usual, in the daytime hours. Here an elderly couple lived rent-free in exchange for their services. Mail and packages were delivered to them, and collected by the tenants. Old Man Berger, with the useful excuse of a bad back, had a rule of carrying nothing: he was a permanent fixture in his small office, listening to the radio or reading the daily newspaper, while he guarded letters and boxes until they were safely picked up. Frau Berger kept the hall and staircase scrubbed and immaculate, eking out her husband’s pension by “obliging” some of the tenants who needed extra help. Avril trusted them: they were decent and honest, and not overly curious. Their lives were placid and self-contained. They did their job, and kept the house in neat order.

  “Good morning, Herr Berger,” she called as he lowered his radio. “Anything for me?”

  “Soon be afternoon,” he told her. The aroma of midday dinner cooking in their kitchen was savoury. “Yes, Fräulein Hoffman, here are two pieces of luggage. A suitcase and a bag, delivered by a taxi driver.”

  “I was expecting them. My cousin will be arriving later today. I’ll take them upstairs now.”

  Frau Berger had heard the voices, and made her appearance, white-haired and smiling, wiping her hands on her large apron.

  “Too heavy for you, Fräulein Hoffman. And there are also some groceries.”

  Avril tested the suitcase, found it was portable. “I’ll manage.” When Colin Grant arrived, she wanted no delay down here. She laid aside the roses and newspaper along with the box of groceries, and carried the two pieces of luggage up the stairs to her apartment. Then, slightly breathless, she ran down to collect the remaining items. Berger had been eyeing her newspaper, so she left it with him.

  “How late will your cousin arrive?” Berger worried about strangers entering his apartment-house. How will I know her?”

  “He,” Avril said with a smile, “is tall, dark-haired, with grey eyes. His name is Grant—an American. Just send him right up, will you?”

  “If the office isn’t locked by that time,” Berger grumbled.

  “If the office isn’t locked,” Avril agreed. “Don’t worry. He knows I live on the third floor.” She was already starting up the stone staircase. Behind her she heard Frau Berger say, “Far too heavy. All that carrying. And on such a warm day.” It was the closest to a small reprimand that she would ever give her husband. But he had his rules: break them once, and they’d be broken for ever. The radio was turned up higher, and that was his answer.

  Avril reached her apartment, got everything pulled over the threshold. She closed the self-locking door and bolted it as usual. (Bob Renwick, who had inspected her choice of living quarters, had insisted she make everything secure each time she entered until it became an automatic reaction—like turning on the cold tap when you lifted your toothbrush, he had said.) Once the roses were put into a jug of water for a long deep drink and the perishable groceries were in the refrigerator, she kicked off her shoes, peeled off the jacket of her suit, flopped on the couch. Just ten minutes, she thought—Colin wouldn’t arrive until one o’clock at the earliest—ten minutes to rid herself of this sudden exhaustion.

  She had not been followed, she told herself again. She was over-worrying, a symptom of her anxiety about the success of their mission in Vienna. It was so near completion, and yet—tantalisingly—it still lacked the final piece of information. Colin Grant might just manage to find it... Had he? She looked at her watch, checked it with the clock on the wall. Twelve ten, exactly. How slowly time moved when you waited and wondered.

  She rose and began preparing. Colin’s luggage was deposited—on racks in the guest-room. Its bathroom was in order, fresh towels and soap. Its own small refrigerator had soda and beer. Scotch and glasses were on a tray. On the desk there was writing-paper, a pen, pencils, and a bud vase in which she placed one of the roses. This week’s news magazines lay beside the armchair. She remembered to change a weak light-bulb in the reading-lamp. Satisfied at last, she crossed through the central living-room to her own section of the apartment. She had ten minutes to wash, and to change the dark blue suit which she had thought suitable for a business-like session at the Embassy that morning. Not the pale blue dress—he had seen that on their first meeting. Not the white suit: she had worn that yesterday.

  Yesterday... Was that when a snapshot had been taken of her? When Helmut Fischer was bidding her goodbye? She couldn’t avert her face�
�that would have really offended his sense of good manners. Yes, she had been vulnerable at that moment: the man who had followed her into the art shop had ample time to take a quick photograph of her face as she kept her eyes politely on Fischer. What had he used—a miniature camera disguised as a cigarette-lighter, or as a watch? If so, it explained how Gudrun Klar could have recognised her today. Correlate that snapshot with previous photographs taken surreptitiously of all the Embassy staff, and Klar could even have her name. Until yesterday, when she had been seen meeting Colin in Fischer’s shop, Avril Hoffman had been only one of several little secretaries hurrying in and out of the Embassy. Now—Oh, stop this! she warned herself: you are crossing fifty bridges before you even approach the first of them.

  She forced herself to concentrate on everyday details. She creamed her face and powdered it, brushed her hair, began selecting a dress. Not the coral print—too warm for today’s temperature. She’d wear her light green silk, simple and cool. The mirror agreed with her choice: not bad at all, she thought. If only she had more time to stretch out in a swimsuit on some warm beach and give herself a glowing tan. But this summer she’d have to stay white-skinned. She added a touch of faint rose colour to her cheekbones, a light pencilling of her eyebrows for emphasis (her dark lashes needed no lengthening with mascara) and a deeper pink to her lips. Not bad, she thought again as she took one last long view of her appearance. Why all this fuss? Colin Grant was only another short-term guest. Two weeks ago there had been that rather nice but very silent man whom she had described to the Bergers as her uncle. A month before that, her “brother” had come to spend two days here. I’m running out of relatives, she thought with a smile.

  Quickly she tidied her bedroom. With her women visitors, it was easy to explain their stay here: no need to call them aunts or sisters—just friends. The Bergers accepted that. But a man living here as a friend? It would shock them into talking and tut-tutting. Gossip spread quickly and aroused too much speculation. In less innocent people than the Bergers it could stir suspicions, questions. What price security then?