Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  Renwick, however calm and contained, must have been just as worried as Grant. He hadn’t taken the binoculars—in too much of a hurry. Nor had he examined Frank’s special compartment under the driver’s seat. Grant stepped back into the car and began searching. He found the compartment. Locked, of course. He tried the car key; it fitted. As he turned it carefully, a drawer slid out. It contained a loaded .22 automatic, two clips of extra ammunition, a silencer, a knuckleduster, and—good God, thought Grant as he stared down at a hand-grenade.

  Gingerly, he closed the drawer. Next, he examined the glove-compartment more thoroughly to see what other surprises it might contain. They were harmless enough: a small first-aid kit, a thick slab of chocolate, a compass, a flask containing brandy, another road-map—not just for the Vienna area this time, but for Austria and its surrounding frontiers. Frank, the well-prepared traveller... Where the devil was he now? or Bob Renwick?

  Five minutes passed. Three more. Grant’s frustration deepened. And then Frank’s excited voice boomed into the car. Grant lowered the volume of sound, said, “Repeat that!”

  “All sewed up at this end. Four less to worry about. Taken quietly. One in his office, three in the warehouse.”

  “What about the American?”

  “No sign of him or his bow-tie.”

  So Gene Marck was still free. “Could an alarm have been sent out?”

  “Don’t think they had time. Everything was quick, efficient.”

  “There still could have been someone around to warn him. What happens to Sweetheart, then?”

  Frank didn’t answer that “Are you alone there?”

  “Yes. Our friend went ahead.”

  “Damn fool. We’ll be at the place by five fifteen. Sorry—that’s the best time we can make. We’ll approach from the south. What’s your position?”

  “To the north—on a side road above the one you described.” Tell your friend his two boys will join you—where you’re parked.”

  “Tell them I’m leaving,” Grant said. “Right now.”

  “Secure everything.”

  “I’ll take most of it with me.”

  Frank laughed. “Okay, buddy boy. You’re a fast learner.” Silence came back to the car. Grant switched off the blue button. Quickly he pulled open the drawer and began packing Frank’s little arsenal. To make it easier, he stepped out of the car. The small automatic he slipped into his belt after checking the safety-catch; the extra ammunition went into one jacket pocket, the other bulged with the grenade; knuckleduster and silencer were stowed in trouser pockets. He lifted the binoculars—these would have to be carried in his hand—and began locking the doors. All secure, he thought, and tucked the car keys safely into his breast pocket. Behind him, a thin high voice said, “Hands up! Or you’re dead.”

  Grant turned slowly. A small boy, wooden gun pointed, stared at him intently. Grant raised his hands and said, with equal seriousness, “You’ve got me, partner.”

  The boy began to smile. He lowered the gun. “You talk funny,” he said.

  “Not as funny as I look,” Grant told him, and dropped his hands. The boy—if sizes were the same here as in America—could be ten years old.

  “What have you got in your pockets?”

  “The crown jewels.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Grant held out the binoculars. “Bird watching.”

  Another boy, older, perhaps twelve or thirteen, came out from behind a tree. A third, no more than nine, followed. Brothers obviously, with the same blue eyes and the same fair hair cut short, all three wearing grey lederhosen and checked shirts made from the same cloth. They stood there, thinking up their next questions. Grant jumped in ahead of them with some of his own. “Is that your house?” He pointed in the direction of the chalet. It seemed a safe beginning to the answers he needed. Boys roaming these woods kept their eyes open.

  “No,” said the oldest boy. “We live down there.” He pointed vaguely to the south.

  “Oh, at Waldheim?”

  There was a chorus of “No,” and a laugh.

  “Who lives there?”

  They looked at each other. The oldest boy said, “Old Gruber and his dog. They live there.”

  “Don’t you like old Gruber?”

  “Oh, he’s all right. He doesn’t shoot us with his rifle, or set the dog on us. Just gets angry and shouts.”

  “And chases us,” the smallest boy piped up. Again there was the shared laugh, covering their own secrets. He stared at the car. “What is that?”

  “A Porsche, silly,” his oldest brother said. He scrutinised it critically. “Doesn’t look much.” He walked over to the window, tried to see the dashboard. “How many kilometres?”

  “Thousands and thousands—it’s old,” Grant said. “Next time I’m going to get a Fiat, a nice new Fiat. Black.”

  “Like the one we saw?” the youngest boy asked.

  “Where did you see it? At Waldheim?” Grant kept his voice easy. “When old Gruber chased you?” he added with a smile.

  “It wasn’t at Waldheim,” the oldest boy corrected Grant. “It was over at the little house.”

  “Not a house,” said the boy with the wooden pistol, taking aim at a tree. “A barn.”

  “It’s a house!”

  “It isn’t!”

  “People live in a house. Not a barn, stupid!”

  Grant decided on one last probe. “And it belongs to Waldheim? Is it near the big house?”

  The boy nodded. Questions bored him unless he did the asking. “Fritz!” he called to his younger brother who was heading for the woods further north, his gun banging away at some invisible quarry.

  “How near?” Grant persisted.

  “On the hill behind it. In the trees.” The blue eyes were studying him closely. “Why do you ask? What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for a house to rent for August.”

  The answer was acceptable. Curiosity died. The boy’s attention switched to the hunter, who was now out of sight. “Fritz!” he yelled. “Wait!” He grabbed his youngest brother by the hand and followed at a fast run. Soon they had vanished from sight.

  One long deep breath of relief, and Grant was heading in the opposite direction. He paused to look back as he reached the clump of firs that Renwick had selected as his starting-point. The brown Porsche, its colour blending with the tree trunks, its body sheltered by the spread of boughs, was unobtrusive. Nothing stirred. The voices had faded into silence. Reassured, he stepped into the trees.

  20

  The small group of fir trees led Grant into the wood itself. Branches were thick, heavily leaved. There was no regular trail, only a natural path where maples and beeches receded enough to give space to move. Renwick must have followed this, he decided, and started down the gentle slope. Underfoot the earth was soft and moist, giving little grip for smooth-soled shoes. Twice Grant skidded. His pace eased, but not his anxiety. He pulled off his tie, jammed it into a pocket, opened his shirt, let his skin breathe. Too damned eager, he told himself: Renwick may have taken another trail back to the car—he could be reaching it right now. He halted, wondering if he should return to wait by the Porsche. And lose more time? Or be accosted by someone from the chalet, who’d be more curious than the boys? Just at that moment of mounting worry, he saw Renwick walking slowly uphill towards him. “What kept you, damn it?”

  Renwick’s face was taut, his words clipped. “It’s no go.”

  Grant stared at him blankly.

  “No Fiat. Only a jeep parked at the side of the house. One man sitting at a table under a tree, reading a newspaper. A dog, sleeping at his feet. That’s Waldheim,” Renwick ended in disgust.

  “He was in front of the house? How about the back?”

  “All windows shuttered tight except for two—his room and the kitchen, probably. No one is there. Nothing stirring. Not a sound.”

  “What lies behind the house?”

  “A meadow.”

  “
No hill?”

  “Beyond the meadow, yes. A small hill. Mostly wooded.”

  “Come on, come on,” Grant urged. “We’ll talk as we go. Plenty to tell you. Frank came through at four fifteen. Here, help me unload some of this arsenal. Take these.” He handed over the automatic and its extra clips; the silencer, too. “I’ll keep the knuckle-duster. And this.” Briefly, he showed the grenade. That shook Renwick out of his mood. “Where the—”

  “You were sitting on it.” Grant was already starting down the slope.

  “Okay, okay,” said Renwick as he caught up with Grant. “I’ll let you see for yourself.” The sooner this was over, the better. “This way.” He changed their direction. “We head to the west, or else we’ll strike the Waldheim road—it’s down there, south of us. There’s no one guarding it. I checked. Crossed over, in fact, to get to the wood on its other side and see the house from that angle. Better lower our voices. We’ll be there in three minutes.” Their voices had been low enough. Now Renwick’s approached a murmur. “You had plenty to tell me?”

  “About that hill beyond the meadow. How far is it from Waldheim itself?”

  “Not too far. Scarcely a hundred yards.”

  “Any road across the meadow?”

  “The road stops at the house.”

  “No sign of a trail? Or tracks of car wheels on grass?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “There’s a small house, or barn, somewhere on that hill. The Fiat is there.”

  Renwick’s quick stride came to an abrupt halt. “Did Frank tell—”

  “No. I have my own sources.” Grant’s smile was brief. “Now let’s keep moving.” He set an even faster pace.

  “What sources?” Renwick was not amused.

  “Three kids, car-struck. I got them off the subject of the Porsche on to a nice new black Fiat.”

  “The three that were wandering through the woods? I heard them, didn’t know what to expect, jumped for cover.” Renwick pointed to his right trouser-leg smeared with drying mud. “A bad moment, actually. We were just above Waldheim, and the man down there heard them. I thought he was about to rise, come searching. Then the kid with the gun yelled. ‘Bang! I got you!’ and they ran off.”

  “So that’s the game they play. No peace for old Gruber.”

  “Gruber? Your sources are excellent. Or imaginative?”

  “Their argument was real enough. The mighty hunter called this place in the woods a barn. Older brother said it was a house—because people were there.”

  People were there... “The kids did see the Fiat?”

  “They saw it. How do we get this news to Frank? He’s aiming for Waldheim at five fifteen, approaching from the south. Your two men will reach the Porsche just about that time too, but what good is that to us?”

  Renwick tapped the transceiver he carried in his breast pocket. “No problem with them.” With Frank? That could be more difficult. “What about Mittendorf?”

  “Arrested on schedule. So were the two Klars, and Sigmund. Neat job, expert. No fuss.”

  “No alarm sent out?” Renwick asked sharply.

  “Frank didn’t think so. There wasn’t time, he said. And yet—” Grant hesitated.

  “Yes,” Renwick agreed, “there could be some joker in Mittendorf’s office—” He didn’t finish. “What about Gene Marck?”

  “He hasn’t been found so far.” Grant almost smiled as he added, “Perhaps he’ll show up at the Majestic tonight.”

  “Why should he do that?”

  “He wants to get in touch with me. He arranged it—even set the time to suit me. Around midnight.”

  At first, Renwick had been amused; then thoughtful. But he made no comment, cut off any further remark from Grant by placing a warning hand on his arm. They slowed their footsteps, came to a halt. Renwick drew Grant to the side of a large tree and knelt, gesturing to him to keep low as he pointed down the steep bank in front of them to a patch of partially cleared ground. Grant had a clear view of a large wooden house in Austrian country style. Broad eaves, two rows of balconies that stretched the full length of the walls, carved shutters that were tightly closed over a multitude of small windows. Waldheim... Grant took a more detailed look with the binoculars. The place was deserted, except for the man sitting under one of the remaining trees with a large German shepherd dog at his feet.

  Suddenly the dog was alert. Uneasy. It rose, faced the wood, seemed to look directly at Grant. He saw its hackles rise, heard the distant growl. Old Gruber (old?—he was middle-aged, heavily built) spoke to it sharply. On command, the dog sat. Another command, and it lay down, its ears still pointing, its eyes on the trees above. Gruber’s lips moved. (Those damned boys again—was that what he was saying under his breath?) For a long moment, he glared up at the wood. Then he picked up his newspaper and began reading.

  Carefully, Grant and Renwick got to their feet, slowly backed away to move swiftly along the top of the bank, keeping a safe screen of trees between them and the house. Again Renwick pointed. Down there, Grant saw, was the meadow—a green carpet sprinkled with wild flowers, stretched between Waldheim and a wooded hill. Not really a hill, more like a gentle slope that began flush with the meadow, and rose very gradually for the first hundred yards or so. Only then did it begin to push up, swell into a rounded crest. But the important thing was that its lower stretch of trees curved round to meet the wood in which Renwick and he now stood. He raised Frank’s excellent binoculars.

  The difference was astonishing. To the naked eye the meadow had seemed virgin pure. With the field-glasses picking out texture and shades of colour, there showed faint but definite tracks where the fine short grass had been pressed down. Pressed down in one direction: parallel lines, a car’s width apart. They began where the Waldheim road ended, crossed the meadow obliquely, and disappeared into the trees that edged this side of the wooded slope. The near side to us, thought Grant. His excitement grew as his eyes found the gap between the trees, wide enough to let a car pass through them. And the small house, or barn? Surely it must be in that clearing almost at the edge of the wood, just beyond the car’s entrance. “Damn this elevation,” he said softly: it wasn’t good, the bank on which he stood was only eight feet high at this point, impossible to look down into the clearing. As his eyes searched desperately, he thought he saw the corner of an eave, a sharp jut of something more solid than the leaves that screened it.

  “Yes; that could be it.” He passed the binoculars to Renwick.

  Renwick adjusted them. He began with the meadow, traced the parallel lines to the edge of trees. There he paused, looked intently. He nodded. “A house. Definitely. Well hidden.” The car must be there too: only one set of tracks over the meadow, and recent tracks at that—the flowers in the path of the tyres were crushed but still fresh, unwilted. He lowered the field-glasses, handed them back to Grant. He glanced at his watch, lips tight, eyes worried. Do we wait, or do we move in?

  “Shouldn’t be too difficult to reach,” Grant was saying. “Come on, Bob, let’s have a closer look.”

  “Frank won’t be here for another twenty-three minutes.”

  “And headed for the wrong house. No way of warning him?”

  “If he hears Rupprecht get off a shot or two, he’ll catch on. So will Gruber.” The element of surprise would be lost, and that was what Frank had been aiming for.

  Another problem: Frank and his men would park their car and come in through those woods south of Waldheim. They’d be on foot. Like us, Renwick thought. And where will we be if an alarm is given and the Fiat starts racing for the highway?

  “Will he catch on in time?” asked Grant. “All it will take is one warning shot from Gruber, and Rupprecht—”

  “I know, I know!” They wouldn’t leave Avril behind, either. She had too much valuable information to give. Had they started questioning her? Or was she still half drugged? “We can’t wait for Frank. Let’s move.”

  Their path through the trees began t
o descend. They approached the wooded slope. Voice very low, Renwick said, “We’ll have to scout around the house before we can plan an assault.”

  Grant nodded. Plan? We are crazy, he thought, but his hopes were rising.

  “We know they have three men. There could be more,” Renwick warned. “They’ll be armed.” And with something heavier than a .22 automatic.

  “First we’ll concentrate on that Fiat.”

  Renwick repressed a laugh, shook his head. “Colin, I think you’re in the wrong profession.” They began dodging from tree to tree, keeping total silence.

  * * *

  It wasn’t much of a place. The boys had both been right: half-farmhouse, half-barn. Old and decrepit. It was two-storied, with its three small upper-floor windows all closed. Their shutters, in bad repair, hung drunkenly on their hinges. Downstairs, the shutters were less neglected; they had been swung open. So were the windows, there. The house, even if it stood within a large clearing, was cosied by the heavy woods on the hillside. The air was still: not even the breath of a small breeze stirred the leaves.

  Grant exchanged glances with Renwick. They nodded, and began to move around the trees that encircled the cleared ground. No one was on guard, at least on this side of the house. Careless, thought Grant. Or too confident that they couldn’t be traced to this hideaway? For a few moments he gave grudging credit to that wily bird, Bernie Mandel: the main house was not to be used—had that been his stipulation to Mittendorf? If anything went wrong and Waldheim was searched, neither police nor State Security would find one shred of evidence that it had been occupied—not even a cigarette-stub, or a bed disarranged, or food in the kitchen except for Gruber’s own small supply. Should the house in the woods be discovered, good old Bernie would play the injured innocent: some intruders must have invaded his property, arrived when the caretaker was out buying his newspaper and groceries, you just couldn’t trust anyone these days. An excuse for everything, and explanations galore—that was Mandel. No wonder Frank was so intent on nailing him.