Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  “They’re a lusty crew, not one under six foot and shoulders like a barn door.”

  She looked reassured. “I haven’t seen much around here,” she reminded him.

  “Deal with Ada and Brigitte, and I’ll clear our luggage out of the way. Then we’ll take a tour of inspection—as far as the terrace. Only the Lackners know we are here. Better not show ourselves to the rest of the village.” Only the Lackners know, he thought as he started carrying cases and bags upstairs; and Gene Marck.

  * * *

  It took him two journeys to the guest-room, with Gene Marck on his mind every step of the way, before he had cleared all luggage from blocking the front entrance. By that time Avril was waiting for him at the door. She had opened it wide, breathed in the pure fresh air, said delightedly, “What a wonderful smell from those firs! Come on, Colin. Show me the sights.” A few steps outside, she halted and looked at the trees where Colin had parked the Citroën last night. By daylight, so innocent and peaceful. She shook her head in disbelief over that strange attack of fright—or nerves, or hysteria?—that had almost paralysed her in the darkness.

  “Yes,” Colin said, as if he had heard her thoughts, “it all looks very different on a sunny afternoon.”

  “No, it’s the same. I am different.” And she laughed, taking his hand as they strolled towards the western terrace. “Let’s get business over,” she said, “before we start thinking about us.” We get so easily sidetracked, she thought.

  “Have you got Renwick’s instructions with you?” He was both surprised and dismayed. “They aren’t necessary now. I’ll get you to Paris—”

  “Do you know the best route from here to Salzburg?”

  “I can read a map.”

  “But everything is worked out for us. Tomorrow is crowded on the highways.”

  Yes, Sunday was a bad day for travel. “All right, let’s see his suggestions.”

  “I’ve burned them.”

  “What?” That delighted him.

  “After some memorising,” she said with a smile.

  His own smile faded. “Okay, okay. Let’s sit down and hear them.”

  “Only the main points, now. We leave here no later than six in the morning. From Annaberg we travel south—”

  “North, surely! That will get us on to the Autobahn and a quick—”

  “We avoid the big motorways. We’ll keep to less travelled roads once we continue on the Annaberg highway north to Mariazell. From there we branch off to the west by the Gesäuse—a long, wild and lovely glen. It has no villages, little traffic—tourists hardly know it—plenty of scenery to keep us awake. Then Admont, Liezen and Bad Ischl. That’s where Slevak will be waiting for me. Got all that, Colin? I’d like your memory in on this, too.”

  He nodded. “Got it. Except you don’t leave with Slevak. You’ll tell him to clear out. You’ll stay with me.”

  “No, really, it’s much safer if we divide at Bad Ischl before we reach Salzburg. Not be seen together. Gene Marck could have alerted a watch at all airports and major railway stations, and Salzburg has—”

  “That was Renwick’s thoughts yesterday,” Grant objected. “It’s a different set-up today. He doesn’t know Marck has found Grünau. My bet is that Marck will either appear here tonight under cover of darkness, or wait for us at Annaberg. That’s our one exit from here.”

  “I’d better ’phone Bob.”

  “It isn’t!” Grant exclaimed, suddenly smiling.

  “Isn’t what?”

  “Our one exit.” Quickly, he rose and pulled her on to her feet, urged her around the corner of the house, and pointed in the direction of the road, hidden by trees, that had brought them from the Lackner farm last night. “It goes on, uphill and over, then down to join the main highway at Josefsberg. It’s miles away from Annaberg.”

  “Are you sure?” She laughed. “You’ve really been doing your homework.”

  “Oh, just a few questions here and there.” But he was delighted with the effect he had produced. How’s that, Renwick?

  “All the same, I’ll ’phone Bob. He has to be told about Marck.”

  “Okay,” he said, mustering some good grace. Then he grinned, “How will you talk—in voice code?”

  That sent her smiling into the house.

  He went back to sit on the terrace, and as he waited he pulled out the envelope that Prescott Taylor had given him. Air space to New York via Zürich, all neat and nicely connected. The hell with them. He wasn’t under orders to Renwick. Paris was where he was headed. For how long? The cheque he found in the envelope answered that nicely; for a couple of weeks and plane tickets for two. The amount was generous, more than generous. Victor Basset had really come through. Five thousand dollars. “For additional expenses and personal losses,” someone had written on a slip of paper attached to the cheque. A one-liner was added in a different script: “This should cover the cost of a necktie. B.R.” Renwick—and Grant had to smile. Dammit, I like that guy, he thought. Finally, he opened the small sealed envelope that had also been enclosed. “In Basset’s own handwriting,” Taylor had said, amazement mixed with a touch of awe.

  Indeed, the letter was handwritten without benefit of secretary, A gesture? Yes, Grant conceded. He responded by reading it instead of jamming it back in his pocket. First came thanks, many thanks. Then disappointment at not having been able to talk with Grant himself. Next, his deepest regrets for having endangered Grant and immersed him in a perilous mission about which I knew so little. Please accept my sincere apologies.”

  Apologies from Victor Basset? Grant raised an eyebrow and went on to the last paragraph of the letter. “I would like to see the Basset Hill Museum controlled by a man of taste, judgment and decision. Recent events have convinced me that you are the best candidate for that job.”

  Oh no, that’s too much, thought Grant. Taste, judgment, decision? Embarrassed, yet pleased, he read on. “I have heard of your objections to three of the paintings which will be exhibited. I agree with you, now that I have learned about the methods employed in bringing them to auction. The original owners have disappeared. My old friend, Ferenc Ady, is reported dead. I shall try to trace any legitimate heirs, residing outside of the Communist bloc, to whom the pictures can be returned. In the meantime—for the search may be long or non-productive—I shall have a plaque placed under the Ruysdael stating On Loan from Ferenc Ady. The same procedures will be taken with the Monet and the Degas. In conclusion, I would like to have the pleasure of meeting you to talk over my proposals. I shall be in Washington for the next three weeks, completing the final arrangements for Basset Hill. After that, I bow out, and leave it to the new Director to make it the best museum of its kind in our country. Please call me at your convenience. Sincerely, Victor Basset.”

  Well, thought Grant, well... Victor Basset, who prided himself on never exhibiting a picture On Loan. Never a borrower or a lender be. That was Basset.

  Avril said, “You look as if someone had just struck a neat karate chop right there.” She touched the side of his neck.

  “Sorry,” he said, rising in haste. “I didn’t even hear you come up behind me. You walk lightly, my love.”

  “Or you were lost in daydreams.” She noted the smile on his face as he carefully placed a small envelope back in his pocket. “Pleasant ones?”

  “Surprising ones. I’m still a little dazed.” He showed her the cheque, heard her exclaim, said, “That solves a lot of problems, doesn’t it?”

  “Not all of them. I couldn’t reach Bob. He had just left the Embassy. Prescott Taylor hasn’t arrived yet—must be still on the road.”

  “Of course he is. Don’t worry, love. Nothing’s going to happen to him when he’s driving a Police Commissioner to Vienna.” Grant glanced at his watch. “Almost five. Give Taylor another hour.”

  “I’ll try around six thirty. He’s bound to be there by that time.”

  “Is it so necessary—”

  “Yes,” she said, “it is. He can te
ll me where Bob is.”

  “It’s funny—” He paused, stared at the valley. The cars coming towards Grünau were now few and far spaced. The traffic flow was beginning to ebb back to Annaberg.

  “What is?”

  “I’ve been offered a job.”

  “That isn’t funny. That’s wonderful! Or isn’t it what you want?”

  “It’s what I’ve always wanted, I guess.”

  “Then what is so strange—”

  “If I take it, then I have Bob Renwick to thank for it.”

  She couldn’t follow his meaning. “Is that so bad?” she teased. He was thinking of Basset’s letter. I have heard of your objections to three of the paintings which will be exhibited...

  Only Bob Renwick could have told Basset about that. Grant wondered just what language Renwick had used—direct quotes? Suddenly, he laughed. “No,” he answered, “not bad at all.”

  She relaxed. Peace was breaking out, and it felt wonderful. “Can you clear your desk in Paris in three weeks? I have to be in Washington by then. At the latest If I want this Basset Hill job, that is.”

  “Three weeks? Oh, no, darling. Impossible. I said two months and it may even be three. Why don’t you go to Washington? I’ll join you by October.”

  “Or November, or December?”

  “Well, even so—we’ll be together before Christmas.”

  Even so—He saw the anxiety in those beautiful, dark eyes, and took her in his arms. “Even so, you’re worth waiting for,” he said gently, and kissed her to drive away her fears. But what about his?

  She sensed them. “I will come to you, darling. Please—trust me. Please!”

  He silenced her pleading with a long kiss, his arms tightening around her as if they would hold her for ever.

  “Herr Grant! Herr Grant! Telephone!” It was Ada calling from the front door.

  “There’s a conspiracy going on to keep us apart,” he said as he released her. To Ada, he shouted, “Komm, gleich!” and left the terrace at a smart jog.

  Avril followed him back to the house. Ada met her with a dramatic whisper. “It’s Herr Fischer calling from Salzburg.”

  “Delayed?”

  “Yes. What about dinner?” Ada wanted to know.

  Avril allowed a possible three hours from Salzburg to Grünau. Even if he left now, Fischer wouldn’t arrive here until after nightfall. “Just cook for Herr Fischer and Herr Grant, and leave their food on the stove. I’ll have a sandwich at seven o’clock before we go down to the farm.”

  “A sandwich?” Ada looked horrified. A toss of blonde curls said, “We’ll see about that,” as she hurried away.

  * * *

  “I hear Helmut has been delayed,” Avril said when Grant at last left the telephone. “What on earth was all that argument about?”

  “Did you understand any of it?”

  “Not much. I try not to listen, believe it or not.”

  So Grant repeated most of Fischer’s call. “His silver Audi has been stolen. Left it parked in the street at the side of his hotel when he got back from lunch. Went in to ’phone us and got Leni’s long call. When he went to collect the car, it was gone. No one noticed. Huge Saturday crowds. Festival and all that. He’s had half of the hotel staff, or almost, out searching for it. Been in touch with the police of course. Now they want him to go and identify a light grey Audi that is reported caught in a giant traffic block near the German border—that’s only ten or twelve miles from Salzburg. I talked him out of coming here. He could be delayed for hours. It’s possibly not his car at the border, you know. If it is, he’ll be tied up by red tape and regulations at a police station.”

  “Did you tell him we’re leaving by six tomorrow?”

  “Didn’t get round to that. He was too busy persuading me to spend the night down at the Lackner farm with you. I was to close up the house, put out all lights, leave it obviously deserted. As if that would turn Marck away.” Grant had to smile, remembering Fischer’s sweet ignorance of Marck’s methods. “I said you would go as arranged. With Ada and Brigitte. But I’d stay here with a couple of the Lackner boys for company, and keep an eye on his house. See that it wasn’t fire-bombed.”

  “That would startle him.”

  “Not too much. He knows what happened to my room at the Majestic. I guess that’s why he is so worried about his house. And so am I. It’s my fault that it could be in danger. Oh, well—” Grant repressed a sigh, took a long deep breath. “You’d better have something to eat—”

  “All arranged for seven o’clock.”

  “Eat right now. By six, anyway. And then get down to the farm.”

  “That’s too early. I don’t need to leave—”

  “How the hell is it,” he asked in complete exasperation, “that you do as you’re told when Renwick gives the orders? And all I get is one big argument?”

  That silenced her. She smiled, blew him a kiss, and ran upstairs to get night-things packed into the plastic shopping bag. It wasn’t empty—the .22 automatic and its clips and silencer were still lying under Bob’s fantastic imitation-silk scarf. She left them there until she could slip them to Colin. That wasn’t necessary, however: when she came downstairs, she found him standing in front of Fischer’s gun rack.

  * * *

  “Why can’t they make up their minds?” Ada wanted to know when Avril had left the kitchen, the new timetable established. Her grumble was half-hearted. Fräulein Hoffman had shown some politeness and good sense in not suggesting she’d eat down at the farm. What with all that cooking and baking for tomorrow’s funeral, and the boys coming in for their big evening meal, her mother and Anna had more than enough to do.

  Brigitte had no complaints about the change in plans. She only hoped her Ernst would be given the first patrol with Willi; three and a half hours of keeping watch, be should he in his own bed by midnight. Father Lackner and Hans would take over the eleven thirty to three o’clock shift. Dawn would be coming up after then, so Peter and August could manage easily even if the American had fallen asleep by that time. “Too bad Herr Fischer was delayed. When will he get here?”

  Ada shrugged her shoulders. She laughed and said, “Have you ever known him to be on time?” She began beating the eggs for a large omelette.

  “Is there really some danger, d’you think?”

  “No. Now get on with that salad and arrange a cheese plate.”

  “Then why all this fuss and bother?”

  Ada tested the pan, found it hot enough. “Herr Fischer gets nervous with all these strangers coming into the village at week-ends. He worries about this house. Did you hear what happened last week-end at Oberdorf? The Brenner place was filled with a bunch of hippies—just moved in when the Brenners were in Italy, left with the silver and the paintings. It’s those motorcars, they make everything too easy.”

  “Next thing we’ll all have to start locking our doors,” Brigitte predicted. “Didn’t Herr and Frau Brenner have someone to watch over their house when they’re away?”

  “Too mean.” Not like Herr Fischer, who never counted the schillings. “And noses too high in the air.” Again, not like Herr Fischer: a pleasure to work for him. “Now, how does this look?” Ada slid the golden omelette on to a warm plate. “Ready?” Together, trays borne proudly, they marched into the big room.

  “You were going to tell me about this job,” Avril said, as she halved the omelette. More eggs, she thought in dismay; I’ll have eaten enough of them today to last me for the next three weeks.

  “Was I?” Grant’s smile was broad.

  “Weren’t you?” she asked, all innocence. “Here, darling—you take some of this. Far too much for me. It’s gargantuan. If we don’t finish the omelette completely, they’ll think I didn’t like it.” He was scarcely listening, lost in thoughts far away from the food that was offered him.

  “All right,” he began, pouring from the flask of white wine—two glasses had been tactfully brought—“here’s what Basset offered me.” He talked
for the next fifteen minutes.

  “You’ve got to take that offer, Colin.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’d make a success of it.” Also, she thought, I saw the excitement in your eyes. Your voice was controlled, almost diffident; but your eyes, my darling, gave you away.

  “I wonder.” But it was a challenge. And he needed that.

  “Now you’re being too modest. Please, Colin, don’t talk yourself out of it. It’s just right for you.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” She tried to sound off-hand, concentrated on helping him to cheese and salad.

  “Yes. We’d live near the museum. It’s pure country out there.” Not Paris, or London, or Vienna. “You’re a city girl.”

  “Mostly,” she conceded. “It isn’t far from Washington, though. We could live there.” No we couldn’t, she thought, suddenly remembering his wife who had been murdered in a quiet Washington street. She bit her lip, tried to hide her distress.

  He was silent. At last, he said slowly, “Washington isn’t all a bad memory. I had a lot of friends there, quite apart from the ones I shared with Jennifer.” The name was out, calmly spoken. “Sometimes, in those last few months I thought I was too quick to leave it. Running away is never any good, I suppose. The job at Schofeld’s was only marking time. No future in it—not the kind I wanted, anyway. As for New York—well, the old Greenwich Village crowd had scattered. And new friends?—Perhaps we’re all rushing about too much in New York, too many things to do, too little time to spend on the people you really want to know. The truth is, I was damned lonely. Kept thinking about the past because I didn’t see much future.” He shook his head. “Vienna certainly broke up that syndrome. I’m alive again.”

  “Promise me,” she said quickly, “promise me you’ll stay that way. Whatever happens, now or later, you’ll put it behind you. Not keep brooding about it. Promise me?”

  “Yes.” His voice tightened. “Whatever happens? Look, you are leaving your job by Christmas. No postponements, Avril. Don’t let Renwick persuade you—”