Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  “My dress—”

  “Forget it.”

  “Do I wander around in my Roman toga?” It was slipping. She pulled it together with another laugh.

  Beautiful eyes, beautiful face, beautiful everything. He held out his arms as he ran up to meet her. She met him half-way, a step above him, lips level with his.

  A door opened and closed. Footsteps in the kitchen. His lips left Avril’s, his head turned towards the sounds. He relaxed as he identified them. “Ernst’s wife. There goes our morning.”

  “What was left of it,” Avril said, freeing herself from his arms, snatching up the bath sheet, draping it around her again as she ran back upstairs.

  “You’ll find some clothes in the next-door bedroom,” he called after her.

  “I know. I didn’t like to—”

  “Take what you need. Fischer says okay.”

  She paused in her flight. “Fischer?”

  “He telephoned.”

  “Oh?” She disappeared into the second guest-room as Frau Lackner came looking for Grant.

  Slowly, cursing under his breath, he came down into the big room. “You’re having a busy day, Frau Lackner.”

  “Just brought some salad for lunch. Some cold cuts, too. Anna, my second oldest, will come up to cook dinner tonight.”

  “That’s far too much trouble. We can manage.”

  “Herr Fischer always has Anna or Brigitte—that’s my daughter-in-law, married Young Ernst, you remember him?—well, anyhow, one or the other always cooks dinner when he’s here. Both of them, when there are guests.”

  Daughter-in-law... “Many of your children married?”

  “Children!” That amused her. “You should see them, Herr Grant. Young Ernst married last spring, the others are getting married this year. Except Minna, of course, and Willi—he’s sixteen.”

  “A couple of years to go?”

  “That’s about it.”

  In-laws, he was thinking, and sweethearts with families—the news of Avril’s arrival with me is bound to spread.

  “I see the young lady is up and around. Did she have breakfast?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I’ll get her tray ready. Orange-juice? All Herr Fischer’s guests like orange-juice. I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

  “No, please don’t bother. She will possibly combine breakfast with lunch.” He steered Frau Lackner, gently, into the kitchen.

  “Is she a journalist, too?” Frau Lackner was awed.

  For a moment, he stared at her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she rushed to apologise, her pink cheeks reddening. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s all right. What did Herr Fischer tell you?” He kept a smile in place, his voice friendly. “That I am a journalist, and I’m here to—?” He left the sentence for her to complete. She did that with a question of her own.

  “It’s these men who are after you—the ones you are writing a story about? But they won’t be able to follow you here, will they?”

  “Of course not,” he reassured her. So I’m an investigative reporter, who revealed too much. In a way that was a milder version of what had actually happened.

  “Real criminals?” Her eyes were round and innocent.

  “You could call them that.”

  “American?”

  “Some are.”

  “Gangsters—that’s what Ernst said. But don’t worry, we’ll keep our eyes open. Saturday is a bad day, though. Saturday and Sunday. There’s a lot of traffic on the road, a lot of people coming out here for the afternoon, taking pictures—nothing much else to do.”

  “The road didn’t look too busy this morning.”

  “You wait,” she told him. “By two o’clock, the streets will be filled with cars.”

  “Streets? I thought Grünau had one main street.”

  “And the side street with the new gift shops. But the government makes them close at noon on Saturdays—what good is that for the tourists? So they sit around the café, clutter up the pavement, park in front of people’s gardens.

  A café, too. “Any hotel now?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s another being planned, too. With tennis courts and a swimming pool.”

  “Changed days.” They worried him. Grünau was scarcely the hideaway on which he had planned.

  “Seven years are a long time,” she reminded him. “It’s the cars that have done it. Next year we are having a highway instead of a road down to Annaberg.”

  “Talking of roads, where does that one lead?” He gestured in the direction of the trees outside the kitchen window.

  “The one that goes past here? Over the hill, up towards Josefsberg, where it joins the main highway.”

  That worried him, too: a small country road linking Grünau with one of the major routes; more access to this place than he had bargained for.

  Frau Lackner studied his face. “Don’t let that road bother you, Herr Grant. It’s hardly ever used by the tourists—too rough for all their shiny motorcars.” She had given up hope of seeing Avril, except as a vanishing bath sheet on the upper gallery at the top of the staircase. “Well, I’ll get back to my own kitchen. A lot of baking to be done.” Her voice dropped appropriately. “It’s my cousin’s funeral, tomorrow.” She paused at the door to say, “Now don’t you start worrying, Herr Grant. Ernst will keep a lookout for any strangers wandering up this way. By Monday, they’ll all be gone, every one of them. We’ll have Grünau back to ourselves again.”

  I might be in a New England village, he thought: the same words, the same tone of relief when the summer tourists had departed, God rest their emptied wallets. Monday in Grünau won’t come quickly enough for me.

  “I am starved,” Avril said behind him. He turned from the window to see a slender girl in a dark green costume, red facings at the collar and cuffs, a white shirt and a red tie.

  “How’s your hand?” She had left off the bandage, he noticed.

  “Healing. What about me?”

  “Terrific. A trifle business-like though.”

  “Ladylike is the Austrian word. Colourful but restrained. It was this or a choice of long-skirted dirndls, heavenly things, silk and velvet, and brocaded aprons. Probably been in the family for a hundred years. Who owns my borrowed clothes?”

  “Fischer’s sister.”

  “Slightly larger than I am, but not a bad fit. I’d rather be loose than bulging like a sausage casing.” She looked down at the suit, decided she’d buy one when she got back to Vienna. She tapped her feet lightly, broke into a brief dance step.

  He noticed the sandals, tights, too. “So you found them.”

  “Of course I did. I’m a detecativ, aren’t I? Sort of, at least.” She laughed as she repeated the word. “Detecativ—my six-year-old niece’s word. I rather like it.” She was over at the table inspecting the cold cuts and the salad, considering the rolls and butter, hesitating with the eggs. “I’ll have everything,” she decided. “But first, some coffee and orange-juice.” She saw him watching her with a smile. “That’s better. You were much too serious, looking out of that window. Was Frau Whosis difficult?”

  “Lackner.”

  “Frau Lackner, then?”

  “She’s okay.”

  “Sorry I left you to do the talking. I was rather scared to face her, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “How do I explain why I’m here? I hate lying to old ladies.”

  “Old? She’s middle-aged, no more than fifty.”

  “With all those marrying children?”

  “Country folk know how to live.” Grant found a bowl, searched for an egg-beater. “I’ll cook the omelette. Or what about scrambled?”

  “You’re the chef.” She leaned up and kissed him. “Oh, Colin, my heart is bursting with joy.”

  “And your stomach’s hollow. You’ve had one cup of soup and half a sandwich since yesterday’s breakfast.”

  As if we’ve been doing this for ever and ever, Avril thought happily
as they got their meal together. It didn’t take long to cook or eat. By one o’clock, they were sitting across the kitchen table from one another, drinking a final cup of coffee.

  “Why,” Avril asked, “were you so worried, Colin? Over there.” She nodded to the window where he had been watching Frau Lackner take a short-cut down through the woods. So many trails, he had thought: they criss-crossed the fields, they vanished among trees. “Colin—now you’re plunged in gloom again. Bad news?”

  “No. Fischer is coming up here.”

  “Why?”

  He grinned. “Just to see whether we are tearing the place apart.”

  “Come on, now.”

  “He feels responsible for our safety, I think.”

  “How much does he know?” Her face was as serious as his. “He’s been tapped to give evidence about the sale of a Ruysdael reproduction. Also, he heard a radio report about a bombing at the Majestic. Room 307.”

  “When?” Her eyes widened in alarm.

  “Midnight.”

  “Oh, Colin!”

  “I have to thank you for getting kidnapped,” he said lightly, “and making sure I’d be in your arms a hundred miles away.”

  “Not so funny. Who made sure of whose arms, anyway?” She took his hand. “The bomb—was that Gene Marck’s idea?”

  “He made the midnight appointment with me to be in my room. But Mandel, Bernard Mandel of the Two Crowns, Frank’s special target—yes, I think he co-operated fully.”

  “How—”

  “Don’t know the details as yet. I hope Bob Renwick sends up a newspaper along with our luggage.” We have to expect its arrival, too, as well as Fischer’s. And the Lackner clan dotting in and out with food and encouraging words. “You know what? I think our afternoon is shot to hell.” Nothing ever went as you hoped. Except Avril. He tightened his grip on her hand. “Like some fresh air? There’s a terrace on the other side of the house. We can wait for the expected invasions there.”

  “And talk. There are still some things I don’t know about yesterday. For instance, you mentioned an appointment with Marck, and I was bewildered. You didn’t tell me about that. When did he make it?”

  “After the auction. I didn’t think it was important.”

  Everything about you is important to me, she thought. She rose and began clearing the table. “I left the upstairs presentable—bed made, everything back in place. We’ll keep Frau Lackner happy by leaving no dish unwashed. Perhaps she’ll accept me if she thinks I’m housebroken. Don’t laugh, Colin. That’s important. Keeps the peace between women. Has she found a reason why we should be here?” Avril handed him a washed plate and a dishcloth with a smile. “And that’s something else about women: they always need a reason.”

  “Fischer gave her a lulu. I’m a reporter in some danger of reprisals. She has taken that one stage further, thinks you are my girl Friday.”

  “You know, that’s true in a way,” Avril said in surprise. “Comic, isn’t it?”

  “It won’t be so funny when I start trying to explain to Fischer why I brought you here.”

  “Of course,” she said softly, “he would want to know. He’s one of those sweet men, the protective type.” She looked up. “You too, darling. That’s one of the reasons I love you.” As he stood watching her, she went on, “Let me count the ways...” She didn’t finish the quotation. He had taken her in his arms again.

  They heard a clatter of footsteps on the brick wall outside the back entrance, a girl’s voice calling excitedly. They drew apart. Grant opened the door and the girl—a younger, much thinner version of Frau Lackner—with cheeks flaming and breath panting, halted her wild run as she burst into the kitchen. Grant stood helpless: the girl’s words were coming out at such a speed that it was impossible to understand her. But Avril’s German was excellent. Of course, he thought, a translator at the Embassy: that was no feeble cover story. “I think,” Avril was saying as the girl ended her quick recital, “she’s telling us that her brother Peter is stationed down at the bridge and has stopped two cars. The men in them say they are our friends. One of them calls himself Bush. Sends his greetings to Sweetheart. Peter wants to know if they are okay.”

  “Bush is Bob Renwick?”

  “Himself, no less. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. That’s how he got this name.” In the long-ago years, she thought, something to do with his college days and track record. She had never quite understood the phrase.

  Grant was saying, “Anna, tell Peter they are our friends.”

  “Minna,” said the girl. “I’m Minna.” Avril fascinated her. She had studied every detail, from hair style to high-heeled sandals, as Avril translated.

  “Tell Peter,” Grant repeated urgently. “Many thanks, Minna.”

  Minna stepped out of doors, put her hands to cup her lips and gave a long clear call. From below the woods came a piercing whistle.

  “Message received?” Avril asked with a smile. Minna nodded, stood just outside the threshold, still lost in study of the stranger. “Auf Wiedersehen. Und vielen Dank.” Minna took the hint regretfully, began walking to the short-cut that had brought her up here in four minutes flat.

  “What did I tell you?” Grant said. “Our afternoon is shot to hell.”

  26

  The first car was dark blue and impressive with two quietly dressed men in the rear seat and its chauffeur—navy jacket, hard-brimmed cap, large anti-glare glasses—intent on parking neatly beside the Citroën. On its tail came a svelte black Thunderbird with one occupant; scanty fair hair, glasses, and—when he stepped out of the car—thin and tall. He was in tweeds and carried a briefcase.

  Avril said, “That’s Prescott Taylor! From the Embassy.”

  “The one whose specialty is defectors?” Grant was amused. The formal briefcase was hardly the correct accessory for the country-style suit.

  “Other things, too—such as handling Victor Basset.”

  “Where’s Bob Renwick?”

  “That’s his Thunderbird definitely.” She was perplexed. Then, nudging Grant gently, she began to smile as the chauffeur, a newspaper tucked under an arm, followed the others towards the house. The smaller of the two strangers, their dark suits beginning to look like a restrained uniform, was in charge of a black case, handling it with care. His companion, matching Prescott Taylor’s height, had a leather envelope in his hand.

  “An official visit?” Grant had time to suggest. Important too. Renwick wouldn’t have driven from Vienna disguised as a chauffeur for his own amusement.

  “Could be.” Avril retreated into the room and Grant, after a moment of surprise, joined her. So we meet our visitors indoors and away from curious eyes, he thought, even from friendly eyes. Avril hurried into the kitchen to lock its door. She was back beside him before Taylor made the introductions. They were brief, discreet: Assistant Director Schwartz from the State Prosecutor’s office, who placed the small black case on a table before he bowed and shook hands; Commissioner Seydlitz, State Security, Criminal Division, and looking—at close hand—more like a benevolent Herr Professor of Criminal Law about to examine a doctoral candidate. Then the two Austrians and Taylor, professing an interest in this astounding room, drew close to the central hearth. By prearrangement, thought Grant, as Renwick was left alone with him and Avril.

  “Got your hair cut, too,” Grant observed. “What you fellows won’t sacrifice for the sake of your art.”

  Renwick wasn’t in a joking mood. “Avril, go and join the nice gentlemen. How’s your wrist?”

  “Merely a reminder not to make any more foolish mistakes.” She had been watching Renwick nervously, wondering what reason had brought him here. Was their mission over, successfully? Was it a failure, and through her fault? Or, she thought, could he be sending me away, dismissing me for good? She turned on her heel, made her way towards the fireplace.

  Grant was startled. Any more foolish mistakes? Surely she had made her choice—last night she had made the choice, hadn’t she? This ass
ignment was her last, and it was over as far as she was concerned. Or had he assumed too much?

  For a brief second, Renwick studied Grant’s face. He said, “I’m leaving immediately. Just came to make sure this place was safe for another night.”

  Grant looked at him sharply. Renwick didn’t explain, went on, “How did you get the local talent organised. Simple idea, but good.” He smiled, remembering the roadblock down at the bridge, the tractor stuck in the middle of the narrow trail up to Fischer’s house, and a husky young farmer with his sister beside him acting dumb until Renwick had got out of the car and talked with him. At a nod from her brother, the girl had taken off like a bullet, disappeared into a wood at the back of the farmhouse. Five minutes later, her call had ended all obstructions. Young farmer friendly, four city slickers regaining their cool. “Not my idea. Fischer’s.”

  “When did he get into the act?”

  “This morning. Put one and one together: my interest in the sale of a Ruysdael reproduction, plus the blast at the Majestic last night.”

  “Ah—you know about that.”

  “Bare details only.”

  Renwick indicated the newspaper lying beside his jacket. “There’s not much else known. Seydlitz—” he glanced towards the tall Viennese—“is interested in the fact that Marck had made an appointment with you for midnight. I didn’t tell him more than that, left the rest for you to explain. Any further thoughts on the matter?”

  “The bomb could have been disguised as a present from Mandel to Max Seldov, his brother-in-law.”

  “Mandel,” Renwick said thoughtfully. “Careful how you deal with him. And for God’s sake, don’t mention Waldheim. In your deposition, keep strictly to the Ruysdael events—from Victor Basset and Lois Westerbrook to Marck, Mittendorf and the Klar couple. Nothing, but not one word, about Avril’s kidnapping. Not one mention of Frank or of Israeli Intelligence. Or about our stopover at the Rasthaus. Got that?”

  Grant nodded and looked pointedly at the black case. “Deposition? That sounds as if you all expected a sudden end for your chief witness.”