Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  By half-past twelve, the last of the groceries were on their shelves, and the roses arranged in a green vase. Everything was in order. She tried to read—the latest copy of Encounter, then a thin book of Frost’s poems—and gave up. She chose the new recording of Dvoràk’s piano quintet for her record-player, and settled to listen. Ten minutes later, she found she wasn’t really listening, not the way this heavenly music deserved. She switched it off. Better play it later, when her mood was right. Twelve fifty... Twelve fifty-five... Had something gone wrong? Had Colin failed, or been discovered? If so—what then? He would be in extreme danger. That unholy crew down at Klar’s—he hadn’t a chance against them. He’d never emerge from that place. Just disappear. Everyone claiming he had left, all stories neatly coinciding, and such deep regret.

  Oh, why did we put him into such a position? she asked angrily. Why, why? Yet she knew the answer. He was the only one who could do this job, quickly, immediately. Any other approach might take weeks, and not even succeed. “Now or never,” Bob Renwick had said, and quoted Shakespeare. There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood... Shakespeare, that old encourager. Her natural optimism surged back. Nothing had gone wrong, she told herself. Colin had reached the Embassy by this time, and seen Basset. He would be here soon. Wouldn’t he? As if to reassure her, the doorbell rang. Thank God, she thought, and ran to answer it.

  Frau Berger was there, her pink-cheeked face set in a worried frown. Two men in white jackets pulled her aside. In that split second, one of them was already over the threshold, gripping Avril’s wrist, silencing any scream with a heavy hand clamped tightly over her nose and mouth. Behind him, the other man, holding a small black bag, blocked Frau Berger’s view as he began reassuring her.

  Avril’s attempt to scream was smothered by a sickly odour. She tried to hold her breath, but it was too late. Her legs gave way, her body began to fall. The man caught her as she went limp, thrust the small pad of chloroform into his pocket, and carried her to the couch. “She has fainted,” he called over his shoulder. “Doctor—here! Quick!”

  The doctor left Frau Berger with the sharp order to stay back. He didn’t close the door; let the old woman gape from its threshold. He took out a stethoscope, felt Avril’s pulse, looked as though he were a true professional.

  “Is it bad?” Frau Berger quavered. “Why did she not call us downstairs when she felt ill? I would have—”

  “She did the right thing,” said the doctor’s assistant, coming over to close the door. “She called the hospital and we came at once. And we brought an ambulance. She will need it.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Heart attack.”

  “I knew it,” Frau Berger said, “all that luggage she carried upstairs, and the groceries too. Running she was, hurrying; she wouldn’t leave anything for her cousin to bring.”

  “Cousin?”

  “He’s expected later.”

  “When?”

  “Later,” repeated Frau Berger helplessly. Then her native common sense reasserted itself. “Why do you ask?”

  The doctor said, “You will have to tell him that Fräulein Hoffman is in hospital. Not to worry: we shall keep him informed.”

  “Is she—”

  “Fräulein Hoffman will have intensive care. Thomas—we’ll need the stretcher up here,” he added as he folded the stethoscope into his bag. “No more to be done meanwhile.” He laid a gentle hand on Avril’s brow, shook his head. But Thomas had ideas of his own. “Get down to the front door,” he told Frau Berger, “and signal to the ambulance driver. Give him the apartment number. Quick, quick!”

  Frau Berger obeyed, shaking her head, saying, “She doesn’t eat enough, poor soul. These girls today, they don’t listen.” Her comments faded along with her footsteps as her solid girth hurried downstairs as fast as it could.

  The man playing doctor was annoyed. “Why didn’t you go? She’s a slow mover, that old woman.”

  “I need a little time up here,” said the man who had been given the name of Thomas. That still amused him. Why pick Thomas out of the air? Does he think I’m a doubter? He’s the one who’s nervous.

  “For what? The sooner we leave, the—”

  “I want to see this luggage—find out who her cousin is.” Thomas moved to Avril’s bedroom, discovered nothing. He drained the chloroform pad down the toilet bowl in her bathroom. The trouble with that stuff was the smell it could leave around, but a needle in the wrist would not have been so certain or quick—not with the way she had tried to pull her arm free. She might look fragile enough, but she had been an unpleasant surprise in those first few seconds. Nearly got a scream out, too. He crossed the living-room, entered the other side of the apartment, and found what he was looking for. He took out some keys.

  From the living-room the other was calling, “Did you give her enough to put her right out? I think she’s coming round.”

  “She isn’t,” Thomas told him. “I gave her just enough. We want her up on her feet and walking after we ditch the ambulance.”

  “What’s that you said?” The doctor had come to the guest-room door.

  Angrily—for not even his special key was of any use on the small locks of the suitcase and overnight bag—Thomas repeated his information while he took out his knife.

  “What are you doing? Don’t break it open, you’ll have the police—”

  “Shut up. The cousin won’t call any police. I’m not breaking anything, just persuading.” The gentle probing with the knife was having no effect. “It’s one of those damned combination locks—set by numbers like a bloody safe.”

  “Combination? Then leave it!” For it looked to the doctor, more nervous with each added minute, as if Thomas in his sudden rage would try to slice through the lid of the suitcase. “Leave it, I tell you.”

  “Get back to the girl!”

  “You, too. I hear Rupprecht’s voice. That old bitch is coming up here again.”

  Thomas rose from his knees, took an angry swipe at the rosebud in its slender vase as he passed it, sending them both spilling.

  “Now why that? Look at the mess—”

  “Blown over by a draught from the window.” Those damned combination locks, Thomas thought again as he followed the doctor into the sitting-room. People usually set them by numbers they’d remember easily: day, month, year of their birth. Except that he didn’t know who the cousin was, so how the hell could he know the birthday? We’ll find out, he promised himself as they came to stand beside the girl; I’ll get that luggage somehow, see what it contains. He had just time to say, “Don’t use Rupprecht’s name again. Remember!” before Frau Berger was at the door.

  “It was for your ears only,” said the doctor under his breath. Then smiling, he said to the woman, “That’s all, thank you. We’ll get Fräulein Hoffman safely downstairs.” He signed to Rupprecht to unfold the stretcher.

  Frau Berger didn’t leave. “I’ll get a blanket from her room.”

  “No need. We have blankets in the ambulance. You can go now.” She didn’t seem to hear him. She kept standing there, fascinated, as the three men strapped the girl on to the stretcher.

  The doctor led the way downstairs. Thomas and Rupprecht did the carrying. Frau Berger brought up the rear. She was shedding a few tears, wiping them away with her apron. The two stretcher-bearers worried her: clumsy men. If Fräulein Hoffman wasn’t so tightly tied in place, they could have tipped her out at the turns on each landing.

  In the hall, Herr Berger was at the door of his office, a napkin still tucked under his chin although he had finished his second helping of veal stew with dumplings. “Your dinner is cold,” he told his wife, but she only wiped away her last tear and followed the men out to the pavement. There were few people around at this time of day—just some parked cars and a light truck that had turned the corner and was lumbering along the street.

  “What hospital?” she remembered to call, as the stretcher was loaded into the ambulance.


  “Damned bitch makes me nervous,” Thomas muttered. He tapped Rupprecht’s shoulder, gestured towards the driver’s seat. “Get on with it,” he told him, and climbed into the ambulance. His friend the doctor was already inside, and feeling safe enough to peel off the white linen jacket which had irked him—too tight over his tweed jacket, too warm in this weather. Thomas closed the doors behind him, locked them securely. There were no side windows in this ambulance. The old woman out there could see nothing at all. He rapped on the panel to let Rupprecht know they were ready. There was a brief wait, while Rupprecht fumbled with the unaccustomed gears, and at last they were off.

  “A piece of cake,” said Thomas and he got rid of his own white jacket. The girl was stirring now, moaning slightly, but her eyes were still closed. “It’s all right,” he assured the other men. “Everything is under control.”

  * * *

  “Avril’s place is just five doors down,” Frank was saying as he steered the small truck round a corner into a residential street “I’ll drop you before we get to that ambulance.” Then he gave a second look. “It’s standing at her apartment-house. That’s the caretaker’s wife, out there on the pavement.” Three men, two of them wearing white jackets, were carrying a stretcher. At this distance, all Frank could see of the patient was a green dress. No blanket?

  “Not very adept,” Grant remarked, as they began hoisting the stretcher into the ambulance. The woman on the pavement was calling to them, but they didn’t listen.

  “They’re in a hurry.” Frank’s brows knitted. “Undermanned. Looks as if they had to recruit the driver to help as a bearer.” And he had never before seen a doctor, black bag and all, trying to steady a stretcher with his free hand. Frank didn’t ease the truck to a brief halt some four doors away from Avril’s apartment-house, as he had first planned. (Not my territory, he had explained to Grant: you go in by yourself, and I’ll drive on.) He continued slowly along the street.

  The stretcher was safely inside the ambulance, the doctor too. The other white jacket was beginning to follow. The driver, a tall thin figure in neat grey, started to move round to the front of the vehicle, halted abruptly to look back along the street. The truck’s unchanged speed seemed to reassure him, although it was drawing too close for his comfort. He ducked his head, averted his face, and hurried on his way.

  Frank heard Grant’s sharp intake of breath. “I’ve seen that man,” Grant said.

  “Where?”

  Thin-faced, dark-browed, sharp-nosed. “I’ve seen him. But I can’t place him.” The ambulance was drawing out from the kerb with a protesting screech of gears, avoiding a parked car ahead of it, and increasing its speed. Who the hell is that man? Grant wondered. I’ve seen so many strangers in these last three days—neat grey suit, where?

  Frank drew up at Avril’s house, called to the woman who was about to re-enter its door. “Delivery for Hoffman. Is she home?”

  Frau Berger turned and pointed to the ambulance, now almost out of sight. “She’s had a heart attack. They are taking her to the—” She was left with her mouth open and her sentence unfinished, as the truck suddenly roared into power and sped off.

  Grant’s face was tense, his jaw rigid. Frank kept silent too. We couldn’t have got here any quicker, he was thinking. We wasted no time. A truck can’t barrel through residential streets without raising a howl of protest. I had to drive normally. Even now we may be stopped any minute for exceeding the speed limit. Yet it’s one time I might welcome police interference, provided they believe me enough to take up the chase. Must keep that ambulance in sight, see where they ditch it. That they will do—it’s too noticeable. If we don’t see the car they take, we’ve lost them for good.

  With quiet desperation Grant searched his memory. A neat dresser, tall, thin-faced, dark-browed... Suddenly his mind focused sharply. It was the grey suit that had given him the wrong start, led him to nothing. Strip away the clothes, just remember that sharp-nosed face, that strange ducking of the head, as if the man were nervous about being too clearly noticed. Yes, yes, yes—replace the grey suit with green waistcoat and apron, white shirt, black trousers, and he’d see a man climbing a staircase, his head averted, his face turned to that god-awful wallpaper. The name, the name—what was the name? “Rupprecht,” Grant almost shouted. “That was Rupprecht.”

  “Rupprecht who?” Frank kept his eyes fixed on the busy thoroughfare ahead of him. The fast-moving ambulance was making a left turn now. He could only hope it wasn’t into a street that was banned to all commercial traffic. He’d have to chance it, though.

  “He works at the Two Crowns. He’s—”

  “Mandel’s Rupprecht, by God! Hold this damned wheel.” Frank removed his right hand as he reached quickly into his jacket for a small transmitter.

  Grant grabbed and steadied the wheel, while Frank’s left hand gripped tightly and controlled the steering. It was a precarious minute, but Frank managed to make quick radio contact. “Did Rupprecht the porter leave this morning? When? Okay. Keep an eye out for his return. Who’s watching the rear area of the Two Crowns? He may go in that way. Perhaps by car. With others accompanying. Report what you see. Have the camera ready!—What’s that? Did he now?—Keep watching. And listening!” Then he laid the transmitter on the seat beside him, and took charge of the wheel once more. “Yes,” he told Grant, “Rupprecht, wearing a grey suit, was observed leaving the Two Crowns at twelve thirty. It isn’t his day off, either.” He didn’t explain who had given him this information, or how it had been gathered, or where.

  Grant, his eyes searching for the ambulance which had suddenly vanished on the street they had just entered, didn’t waste time inquiring.

  Frank was saying, “Guess who has just arrived at the Two Crowns? Your friend Jacques.”

  “Jacques?”

  “Mittendorf,” Frank corrected himself.

  “Where’s the ambulance?” Grant asked in sudden panic. “Where is that goddamned ambulance?”

  “They’ve ditched it. Watch for any courtyards with wide doorways.” There were several of them: this was a street of small shops separated, here and there, by delivery entrances.

  Well ahead, a white car emerged from a courtyard, making a sharp and dangerous turn, and then increased its speed. “A Fiat,” Frank said. “I didn’t get its number. Did you? Too bad. Let’s make a check.” He stopped the truck at the entrance, saying, “Hop out and make sure.”

  Grant dropped down from the truck, ran into the cobbled yard where a couple of automobiles were parked. Behind the cars, with two curious women and an elderly man staring at it in wonder, was the abandoned ambulance. Swiftly he returned. Frank was transmitting again, this time giving the colour and make of the car that had shot out of the delivery entrance and driven so quickly away.

  Grant climbed back into his seat.

  “Wish I hadn’t sent Joe off,” Frank admitted. “Could use him right here.” It had seemed best, when he saw Grant approaching from the Embassy, to tell Joe to leave. He had questions for Grant that were beyond Joe’s knowledge. Joe had done well at unloading timber—a good man—but he had never heard of a Geneva bank account.

  “What now?” demanded Grant. “They wouldn’t be so stupid as to take her to the Two Crowns. Bernie Mandel wouldn’t risk that.”

  “There’s a house next door to the hotel. It’s unoccupied except for one old woman as caretaker. We think there may be an entry to it through Mandel’s office. Haven’t been able to get in to prove it, though.” Perhaps today would be the time for that, Frank thought. The police? Only if their help could be engineered without drawing unwanted questions. A tricky situation.

  “Mandel has too much to lose. He wouldn’t risk it,” Grant insisted.

  “We’re in his district. Now wouldn’t you say that was convenient?”

  “Too near.” Grant’s thinking was clear, but the words sounded meaningless. “I mean—” He gave up. I mean, he thought, that it would be as stupid as hell to aban
don the ambulance so close to the Two Crowns. “Why didn’t they get rid of it earlier?”

  “That would depend on a safe courtyard, wouldn’t it? A place where they could have a white Fiat waiting. With no questions asked, no complaints made.”

  When Grant didn’t answer, Frank said, “This was a quickly arranged job. That’s for sure. Somehow they tracked Avril down this morning. They had to get men together, steal an ambulance, move fast. Snatched her when most people were indoors having their midday dinner. Apartment-house quiet, street empty. Yes, they moved fast. Which means there are loose ends. Which means, in turn, they’ll need a short interval to get their plans better arranged. This was only the first phase of their little operation.”

  Little? thought Grant bitterly. Suddenly he became aware of the streets through which they were passing. Two blocks away was the Schotten Allee. “You aren’t going to the Two Crowns?” he asked in disbelief. I wish to God that Bob Renwick was here, he thought, and not this maniac with his fixation on Mandel’s hotel.

  Frank corrected him with a shake of the head. “To my garage. Remember it? Time to get rid of this truck. Your friend Rupprecht must have seen us trying to follow him. So we’ll do as they are doing—find a breathing-space, send out messages, make a reassessment, call in more help.” Then Frank turned angry. “What else, Grant? What else do you suggest?”

  Nothing, thought Grant. Unseeing, he stared out at the narrow street.

  18

  There was a feeling of urgency, a feeling of uselessness. Torn between the two. Grant could only follow Frank into the garage, saying nothing, hoping that the right decisions were being made—and made quickly enough.

  The truck had been left a few doors down the street, and Joe, the younger of the garage attendants, had driven it away. Grant thought he recognised Frank’s helper with the precarious load of cut wood for Klar’s warehouse balanced on his shoulders—he certainly had moved speedily enough on Frank’s command. So did the man inside his glass booth at the entrance to the garage: he was now ’phoning Walter, telling him to take his taxi and pick up the two pieces of luggage from the Hoffman apartment.