Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  “Why waste time on that?” Grant asked sharply, as he hurried through the garage with Frank.

  Frank waited until they had reached a door in the rear wall. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “No.” A girl was missing, and time was wasted on two pieces of luggage. Both time and a useful man like Walter.

  “Through here.” Frank opened the door and urged him into a lavatory. “Come on, come on!” They passed into a small room, aired by a ceiling-high window heavily barred. There were a rickety table and chair, a wall-telephone, a stool, two more doors—one opening to show a shallow closet as Frank whipped off his leather jacket and hung it beside some odd pieces of clothing. Frank gestured with his head towards the other door. “Corridor and back entrance,” he said briefly. “Sit down. Get your feet up. Relax. You look pooped.” His mood had soured: there was nothing he could do with Grant except bring him into his private den, keep him out of sight. This invasion was something that went against all his rules and practices. What choice had he anyway? He was stuck with Grant until Renwick could take him off his hands. But before he called Renwick, he’d contact his two watchers in the house opposite Mandel’s place. That was his first priority. He picked up the telephone and began to dial.

  “It isn’t obvious,” Grant said. Two damned pieces of luggage, when a girl—”

  “The luggage could tell who you are. Also—” Frank was through now to his house on Schotten Allee—“you haven’t left the Majestic, remember? Keep Mittendorf thinking that way, or do you want him starting a search for you and—” He broke off to speak on the telephone, checking the time on his watch. It was one twenty, exactly.

  Grant sat down at the desk, still arguing it out with himself. If his luggage could have that importance, why hadn’t one of the three abductors taken it with him? Too noticeable, perhaps? Yes, that might be the reason: impossible to conceal the theft, caretaker’s suspicions aroused. He’d better keep quiet from now on, ask no more idiotic questions. Such as, would Mittendorf really send someone back to Avril’s apartment with a good excuse, and filch my suitcase and bag? Yes, he damn well would, just to find out who was visiting Avril and why. Grant relaxed his spine, sat more comfortably, and propped his feet up on the table. He felt drained, mentally and physically. He admitted his exhaustion as he let his body slump.

  Over the ’phone Frank was asking, his voice sharp, “No car yet? Nothing? Only Mittendorf so far... When did he get there?”

  “Fifteen minutes ago.”

  “At one five? And he’s still inside the Two Crowns?”

  “Still there.”

  “Keep watching for that car.” Did I guess wrong? Frank wondered. His brows down, he glared across the small room at a silent Grant. Suddenly, just as he was about to replace the receiver, an excited voice changed his angry scowl to a wide grin. “I’m here. Repeat that.”

  “A white Fiat approaching. Time is now one twenty-two... It’s stopping. At the house adjoining the Two Crowns. Caretaker has the door open and ready. Two men and a woman—young—entering. The girl is barely walking—supported between the men. Ill. Or drugged?”

  “Drugged. Could you see the men clearly?”

  “Yes. Got photographs, too.”

  “Is Rupprecht one of them?”

  “No.”

  Then he must be driving the Fiat, Frank thought.

  “The car is moving off. No time wasted. Picking up speed.”

  “Get its number!” Frank shouted.

  “Plate now visible. W632-546. Car now out of sight.”

  To be abandoned where? Frank said, “Got our hearing-aid beamed in?”

  “Yes. The men and girl must be in the front room. Heavy drapes across windows as usual, can’t see a thing, but we’re getting the voices. Time is one twenty-five. We’re recording. Some blurs now and again in the sound—slight blocks—otherwise clear enough... Now they’ve stopped talking, or moved into the back of the house. No, wait, I hear the girl coughing—sick, possibly. There’s a fuss. A man is cursing. Sounds of movement—something heavy upset.”

  “Keep recording.” Frank glanced at Grant, and almost sighed. “Look—I can’t get over to hear the tape. So give me the conversation up until they stopped talking.” Quickly, he drew out a note-book and pencil from his shirt pocket.

  “I’ll differentiate between the voices,” he was advised. “One was deep, the other higher in tone.”

  “Okay.” Frank began jotting down the words: What now?—We wait.—Here?—Here.—How long do you (unintelligible)?—Until Rupprecht leaves (unintelligible) garage at Kärntnerstrasse and drives back (unintelligible).—That could take almost an hour. At least I—Shut up. Stop worrying. He’s a good driver. Knows (unintelligible).

  “Is that the end of their talk?” Frank asked.

  “So far.”

  “Keep listening. Give me ten minutes before you ’phone me again. I’ve another call to make.” Frank hung up and waited for a few seconds before he dialled the American Embassy and asked for Renwick’s extension. Mr. Renwick was not to be disturbed, a stilted voice informed him. “Get him! Tell him Wolf is on the ’phone and waiting. This is an emergency.” Frank’s tone was savage. It must have startled the woman at the other end of the line; it certainly startled Grant; and Joe, too, who had just arrived with a large brown paper bag in his hand. With one look at Frank, Joe dropped the bag on the table, said to no one in particular, “The truck’s okay,” and retreated to the garage.

  Grant leaned forward and looked inside the bag. Sandwiches, my God. And a bottle of milk.

  “Don’t look so damned contemptuous,” Frank told him, still gripping the receiver to his ear.

  “Not contemptuous. Just don’t feel like eating.”

  “Eat! Stoke up the boiler! How the hell do you expect to get through this day on an empty belly? That’s right, just sit there and brood and let your mind sag with hunger. You’ll be useless when the action starts. Hand me a sandwich, will you? Cheese. You take the ham.”

  Action was the spur word. Grant rose and passed over a sandwich.

  “We’ve learned something,” Frank told him. “Not much. But a start.” Then he was listening intently to the telephone. “Yes,” he answered, “this is an emergency. They’ve got Sweetheart. Picked her up, one o’clock, at her apartment. We’re here at the garage. See you.” He hooked up the receiver, and checked inside the outsize sandwich. Cheese, he verified, and took a large bite through the roll’s crisp crust. “Renwick’s on his way. He will be here in ten minutes.”

  “Ten?” Grant was disbelieving. Minutes slipping away, he thought. And all we have got is some message I didn’t even hear.

  “Eat,” Frank said. “Pass the milk. Soothes the stomach.”

  “Sweetheart—is that your name for her?”

  “Not mine. Renwick’s. It fits, don’t you think?”

  Grant said nothing. At last he began eating, kept his eye on his watch.

  * * *

  Renwick’s arrival was announced by a small buzz on the intercom linked with the garage. Joe brought him into the room, and then vanished. Renwick looked round him quickly, nodded to them both. It was now one fifty, Grant noted.

  Frank played it cool. “As you see, Bob, I am breaking all my rules. Forget you ever stopped in here. You too, Grant.” With that taken care of, Frank gave a quick rundown of the last fifty minutes. “Here is what my boys overheard,” he ended, and produced his note-book. He tore out the small sheet of paper, placed it on the table for both Renwick and Grant to read.

  Renwick spoke his first words. “When was this recorded?”

  “It began at one twenty-five.”

  “And Rupprecht is driving down to Kärntnerstrasse, picking up another car and then driving back. Presumably to take the two men and Avril to another address. The house next door to the Two Crowns is only a temporary stop.”

  “That’s how I figure it,” Frank agreed. “Rupprecht is dropping off the Fiat at some garage far away from the Two Cro
wns. Couldn’t risk leaving it in some nearby street: parking regulations are stringent.”

  “Two big garages in that area. Which?—Where’s your telephone directory?”

  “This is quicker.” Frank switched on the intercom, and began speaking with the man in the glass-enclosed office. There was a short pause, and then Frank was being given the names of the garages and their telephone numbers. He scrawled them down quickly, and called the first of them. “No go,” he told Renwick. “No white Fiat parked there in the last ten minutes.” He began dialling the second number.

  “Rupprecht might have been delayed,” Renwick said worriedly. Again he calculated the timing. If Rupprecht was a good driver, he ought to have reached the Kärntnerstrasse district in fifteen or twenty minutes. But traffic jams did occur in the narrow streets. Then his face cleared, and he exchanged glances with Grant, as they heard Frank asking if his friend had managed to find a suitable car to replace the white Fiat.

  “He did?” Frank was saying, his voice as smooth as silk. “Excellent! What make was it? A Fiat 132/2000, black—yes, just as I ordered. Good! Four-door, of course... Its licence number? Thanks. Thank you very much.” The call was over, and Frank turned back to face the room. “Nice girl there,” he observed. “The Fiat is the 1977 model with a two-litre engine. Plate number: W531-735.”

  “When did Rupprecht leave?” Renwick wanted to know.

  “A few minutes before I telephoned, she said. She was sorry I missed him. The Fiat was rented for him soon after one o’clock today. Nice girl, but slightly mixed up. She thought I was the one who had ordered it.”

  Renwick almost smiled. “You gave a damn good imitation of that. Now what do we have? Rupprecht heading back to the Schotten Allee, and my watch says it’s now five minutes past two. Think I’ll leave, Frank—get in position. What about you?”

  “Staying here. I must.” Frank pointed to the telephone. “Expecting reports from my boys over on—” He broke off, looked blandly at Grant.

  “What car can I borrow? I drove here in an open two-seater—useless for tailing.”

  “The Mercedes,” Frank suggested. “It’s—”

  “Dangerous,” Grant warned.

  They stared at him.

  “They had me under surveillance when I arrived at the airport. So I gathered from Lois Westerbrook.”

  Frank swore. “How far did they follow the Mercedes?” They lost us. Or else Westerbrook wouldn’t have been sent to question me about it.”

  “Take my car,” Frank told Renwick. “You know its gadgets.” He spoke into the intercom once more, arranging for the brown Porsche to be ready to leave.

  Renwick looked at Grant. “You stay here. Your job is over, Colin.”

  That’s what I thought before Frank’s truck turned a corner into a quiet street, and I saw an ambulance. “Like hell it is. Do you need extra help, or don’t you?”

  “I could use it.”

  “Then come on,” Grant urged. The feeling of uselessness was gone. “See you around,” he told Frank, and left.

  Frank took out his small transceiver, laid it on the table. “I’ll keep that turned on,” he said. “You remember what button to press in the Porsche?”

  “The blue one for sending and receiving.”

  “That’s right. We’ll stay in touch.”

  “I’ll need your help to alert—”

  “Sure. Talk with me about that from the car. Good luck!” The telephone rang, and Renwick halted at the door, his eyes questioning.

  Frank took the brief message, passed it on. “Mittendorf has left the Two Crowns. On foot, as usual.”

  Renwick nodded and hurried to catch up with Grant, who was already in the Porsche. “Mittendorf is leaving the scene.” Wily character, Mittendorf, timing arrival and departure so that there would seem to be no connection between him and the Fiats.

  “Let’s go,” Grant urged, as Renwick studied the car’s dashboard with its various coloured buttons.

  “We’ll give Mittendorf time to get clear of Schotten Allee. Anyway, Rupprecht isn’t expected for the next ten minutes—maybe fifteen,” Renwick predicted.

  “How d’you know?”

  “Mittendorf. He intends to be well away before any action begins.” Renwick pressed the blue button. It glowed. “Frank—can you hear us?”

  “I hear you,” came Frank’s voice from a small strip of gauze concealing a speaker over the rear-view mirror. “Hey, Bob—one thing I forgot. What the devil do we do with Grant’s luggage?”

  Which means, thought Renwick, that Frank doesn’t want it dumped here. “Too hot to handle?” he asked with a laugh. “Okay. Send it to Prescott Taylor at the Embassy. I’ve left him in charge of the chores.” Renwick turned on the ignition, and the Porsche moved smoothly into the narrow street. “A couple of minutes more,” he told Grant, “and we’ll be in position on Schotten Allee. Then—” He paused, restrained himself, said quietly, “we wait.”

  * * *

  Their position, Grant had to admit, was excellent. Renwick parked in front of two other cars, a short distance away from the Two Crowns, yet near enough for a clear view of the hotel and its neighbour. Could the black Fiat have arrived and left, wondered Grant, while Renwick had been making his cautious approach? Then he realised that Frank’s men would have ’phoned in the alarm, and Renwick would have been alerted. “He’s well organised.”

  “Frank? He has to be. This is his field of operation.”

  Frank’s voice came over the speaker. “You can bet on that.” Renwick gave an amused glance at Grant’s startled face. “Just remember you’re on candid radio,” he told him. “Frank—I press the green button for your no-see magic?”

  “That’s right. And there’s a map and a magnifying-glass in the glove compartment. Binoculars, too. Better check now.” Quickly Grant did so, and found them all in place. He looked up, as he heard a whirring sound. Renwick had pressed the green button: the sound came from inside windows, moving up into place around the car. “Storm windows, or bullet-proof?” Grant asked with a smile.

  “One-way. Opaque glass, light blue—as if for anti-glare. We can see out. No one can see in. From the street, this car now seems empty.”

  “What if someone walked right up to us and tried to peer in at the dashboard?” Grant’s smile was back.

  “Thank God that hasn’t happened so far. But remind me to switch off the green glow before I start driving, or we’ll have old ladies fainting on the sidewalk. A car being driven with no one at the wheel—that’s enough to start a riot.” Renwick noted Grant’s amusement. Much better, he thought: the tension was gone; Grant had even stopped looking at his watch. Keep talking, Renwick told himself: get him out of the glum silence that was smothering him back at the garage. “I expect you’ve been wondering why we don’t jump them when they bring Avril out of the house.”

  “I’ve thought of it,” Grant admitted. Rupprecht would stay in the car—he wouldn’t risk being seen and recognised, certainly not near the hotel where he worked. That left two of them: one was solid, the other a pushover. “We could take them.”

  “A knock-down, drag-out brawl, Hollywood style? Yes, that has its attractions. It would relieve our feelings, for one thing. But we’ll pass it up meanwhile.” Renwick was watching Grant’s face. “Can you guess why?” he prodded.

  “Because of Mittendorf. If we intercepted that Fiat, he would know about it five minutes later. He’d be out of Austria and across the Czechoslovakian frontier in less than an hour. If he decided on Hungary, just over an hour. But we need him right here in Vienna, sitting at his office desk at four o’clock this afternoon.”

  Grant shifted his attention from the street—a few pedestrians, an occasional car—and looked sharply at Renwick.

  Renwick said, “He will be arrested then. On charges of misappropriating company funds. Yes, everything’s beginning to move, Colin. Gudrun Klar and her husband will be picked up by the police at the same hour. The charge against them is fraud�
�attempted substitution of a reproduction for a masterpiece. And Sigmund, the expert packer, will be detained: he’ll be scared enough to testify that they ordered the substitution. He doesn’t know much else, I think: did as he was told, for money, or promotion to foreman.”

  “So four o’clock is your deadline. After that, you’ll feel free to tackle Avril’s problem,” Grant said bitterly.

  “Hey, hold on there! What do you think we are doing right now?” Renwick was angry.

  True enough. This was one way of dealing with her abduction. Perhaps the only way, Grant admitted reluctantly. “Sorry,” he said awkwardly. “It’s one hell of a time for them to stage a kidnapping.”

  Renwick checked his watch. “Rupprecht is late. Must have taken a few detours, played it safe.” He was getting restless. “Frank,” he tested, “are you still getting us?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Has something gone wrong, d’you think?”

  “Like a head-on collision, and Rupprecht breaking his bloody neck?”

  “Too much to hope for.” Renwick was smiling again. “What about that house—no more conversation heard?”

  “Some bickering. And a lot of talk about their own troubles. The one with the thin voice has ulcers; the deep voice has piles, and a mother-in-law who won’t move out. They had some difficulty with Avril. Had to drug her again. They’ve been arguing whether they gave her enough or too much. They want her able to walk.”

  Grant and Renwick exchanged glances and said nothing at all.

  “Hold on, hold on!” Frank’s voice called out. “There’s a message coming through.”

  Grant kept watching the narrow street. More people were out there now. Placid and well fed, with no thoughts beyond the opening of their shops and businesses after a long midday dinner. Tomorrow they’d be heading into the country—what had been Helmut Fischer’s words?—everyone rushing off in their little white cars. Fischer, he thought, Fischer and Grünau... “We’ll need some place safe—” he began, and was cut off by Frank’s excited voice.