Dead Man Falling: A Johnny Fedora Espionage Spy Thriller Assignment Book 3

by Desmond Cory

  Johnny didn’t move. Marie-Andrée reached backwards, hooked the telephone up by the cradle and handed it over. Harry sighed, dialled a number and spoke tersely into the receiver.

  “Listen. The Oldsmobile running smoothly, huh?… Fine. Yeah, I’ve made the deal just now. Fuel her up and give her a check, will you?… Uh-huh. Sure, for today.” He placed his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Johnny, “What time would you like to pick her up?”

  “Say an hour’s time.”

  “… In an hour’s time. Uh-huh… Right.” He hung up; then took a card from his breast pocket and scribbled busily on the back of it. “Here’s the address. Just knock on the door and she’ll be ready for you, all done up in a nice big brown-paper parcel.”

  “Fine.” Johnny stood up. “Some day, Harry, I may do as much for you.”

  “Oh, sure you will, Johnny. You’re one of the fellers I always rely on. How ’bout another little drink?”

  “Thanks, no. Thanks a lot, but no, thanks.”

  “… There’s the little question of the money, y’know. I must have cash, of course.”

  Johnny turned. “Still trying to make conditions?”

  “You know how it is, old man. There’s no other way—”

  “Okay, I’ll pay cash. When I get the ’bus, not before. If you want to take it in person, you’ll have to be there yourself… I’ll be seeing you, Harry. Keep out of jail.”

  OBERNEUSL

  THE CAR WAS all right. In fact, it was more than all right; it was definitely a beauty. Johnny tested it with extreme caution; not wishing to take it over the mountain roads of Austria without having first ensured that the ignition wouldn’t blow up in his face and that the brake cables weren’t liable to sudden fits of the sulks. Harry often played these little practical jokes on people… However, after thoroughly overhauling the engine and putting the car through various stimulating if exhausting traffic trials, Johnny decided that the deal had, after all, been straight; in a crooked sort of a way.

  He and Marie-Andrée enjoyed a very late and very leisurely lunch at the Stadtkrug; and spent the afternoon inspecting the shopping streets and making divers purchases. These included a golliwog, three pairs of silk stockings, a tube of toothpaste, a pair of binoculars, an all-weather jacket, a pair of jeans and a most peculiar hat. And eventually, at half-past four, a wicked-looking grey car travelled swiftly out of Vienna, heading for Wiener Neustadt and the Semmering Pass.

  They excited no comment; even when, at the outskirts of the city, they passed a single file of marching Russian soldiers. Johnny, however, eyed them with interest and some trepidation. “I hope,” he said conversationally, “I certainly hope our papers are all right.”

  … The road snaked away out of Neunkirchen into the foothills; winding upwards and westwards until it reached a point where the green hills fell away and, high and appallingly close, the first white mountains of the Alpine chain clutched at the clear blue sky. Far away, far to the west, the great peaks of the Schneeberg were just visible; ethereal and pale as though floating in the air, unconnected with the earth.

  At precisely this point the Russians, a practical and unimaginative race, had established their zonal road-block… For ten minutes, therefore, Marie-Andrée was free to admire the view and fidget with her handbag, while a grey-clad corporal with a forehead of primordial narrowness meticulously examined Johnny’s passport, papers and personal appearance. Johnny was not really worried. His contacts were not only reliable, but were highly-skilled craftsmen of an old and rapidly-vanishing school; their products would deceive any number of anthropoid Soviet corporals.

  Sure enough, the guard eventually returned the papers with a vaguely approving noise, saluted politely (thereby surprising them considerably) and waved them onwards again. Johnny let in the clutch and the car, gradually picking up speed, rode the approaching gradient and shifted into top gear. Trees closed in on the road from either side and began to flash past in an indistinguishable blur of green; and great masses of land crawled slowly up and away from them, towards the evening sun. It was an exhilarating drive.

  The road became steeper and slightly narrower, turning from side to side. Johnny slowed down to a conservative thirty, and said:

  “Somewhere around here we ought to take a right-hand turning. Have a look at the map, will you?”

  Marie-Andrée obediently fumbled in the door pocket, withdrew a map and consulted it.

  “We turn right at a place called Mürzzuschlag. If that’s how you pronounce it.”

  Johnny drove on. And turned right at a place called Mürzzuschlag, having come to the conclusion that it didn’t matter much how you pronounced it. The new road was certainly inferior to that which they had just traversed; and Johnny was obliged to concentrate on the driving and leave the scenery to his companion. The surface was steep and very slippery, and the road itself showed a remarkable lack of any apparent directional sense whatever. For the next three-quarters of an hour, therefore, Johnny’s impressions were of snow-capped mountain peaks looming violently into view, of tiny and almost uninhabited villages nestling deep in the valleys, and of a road that bucked and reared and twisted and wriggled and ran forwards and backwards and sideways and all-ways and which generally behaved in a most unsatisfactory manner. That was for the first three-quarters of an hour. After that, the road got really tricky.

  “… This is criminal,” said Johnny. “We’d have done better to fiddle a jeep.”

  The journey took about two and a half hours altogether. It would have taken fifteen minutes less had they not met a car, the only car they had seen since leaving the Semmering Pass, and spent much time in backing and shunting and jockeying for position. The other driver was a phlegmatic Austrian who was obviously thoroughly hardened to that sort of thing; he finally crawled past them with his outside wheels brushing the edge of a two-hundred-foot drop, raised his hat courteously to Marie-Andrée, rammed his foot on the accelerator and bumbled off round a hairpin bend at something like sixty miles an hour. Johnny breathed deeply.

  But a hundred and forty-five minutes after they had shaken the unpronounceable dust of Mürzzuschlag from their tyres, Marie-Andrée tapped Johnny sharply on the shoulder; thereby almost causing him to accelerate over a precipice.

  “There it is. That’s it.”

  Johnny painfully raised his eyes from their permanent focusing-point, some twenty yards ahead of his nose. “… Where?”

  “Right in front of us.”

  Johnny tramped on the brake, and the car slewed nastily to a stop. He raised himself in the seat and peered down the valley. And there was Oberneusl.

  Twenty, maybe twenty-five, small houses, a mile and a half ahead. A patch of white against the great green expanse of a pine forest; through the trees slightly to the left, a silver thread of water caught the last sparkles from the rapidly-sinking sun.

  Farther still to the left, the green slopes rose ponderously to a range of steep craggy hills. Great patches of snow clung to their utmost pinnacles, masking the bareness of the jagged heights. To the right, and, as it were, balancing those peaks, was a high, heavy mass of land, almost as high as the other, but rolling, not irregular; over the top of it the sea of green pines moved in a smooth unbroken flow, rank on rank of tall trees marching irrevocably over the hill-crest; a sheet of dark colour that the passing of centuries had never even disturbed… And in front, directly in front, reducing that clutch of human dwellings to utter insignificance, was a mountain; an unquestionable white mountain. A massive tower of dazzling brilliance with shoulders of green and brown, levering its weight upwards towards the sky with a tremendous, unrestrained power. The whole valley seemed to be bowing before it.

  “Now that’s quite a hill,” said Johnny, impressed. “If I know anything about this damned road, it’s going straight over the top. So it’s just as well we’re not going that far.” He adjusted the position of his feet, released the hand-brake and the car moved forwards again.

  Marie-
Andrée sat back in her seat and watched the white buildings of the village rolling steadily nearer. The road entered a comparatively straight stretch, following the course of a wide but shallow and fast-running stream; the stream on which Oberneusl stood, and which gathered its waters from the melting snows of the quiet mountain above it… Oberneusl came nearer and nearer, and then suddenly, almost unexpectedly, was there. Rough white houses with tiny vegetable gardens, inches of soil resting on untold fathoms of hard Austrian rock; a man working, raking that soil stolidly, his back bent over his task, not turning to look at the passing car… Standing well back from the rest of the village, a large white two-storied house, resting in the shadows of the first outposts of the great green forest behind it. At the side of the road a large white-painted sign swung uneasily in the breeze.

  Das Jägerhorn Gasthaus

  “Well,” said Johnny, twisting the wheel. “We’re there. This is it.”

  Part II-The Inn

  EVENING

  THE INTERIOR OF the inn accorded very well with Johnny’s preconceptions. The front door gave directly into the main room of the building; long and narrow, with low walls and considerable window-space behind thick plum-coloured curtains. At the far end, a wood fire was crackling in a deep open hearth; the thick mantelshelf above was laden with ornaments, mostly brass tankards and decorative devices, that gleamed brightly in the light. The house was certainly clean and well-cared for, and the furniture appeared to be comfortable, if a trifle elderly. And, as Biel had stated, it had electric light.

  A man was sitting in an armchair directly before the fire; as Johnny closed the front door, he rose to his feet, laid the book he had been perusing face downwards on the arm of the chair and hurried across the room to meet them. A small man; dressed in a non-committal grey suit that was badly worn at the cuffs of the sleeves and very baggy at the knees. His face was deeply tanned and the tan extended over his whole head and neck, for he was completely bald.

  “Guten abend, mein Herr. Good evening, ma’am. Can I have the pleasure of helping you in any way?”

  “I hope so,” said Johnny. “We’re looking for somewhere to stay the night.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. That is very easily arranged. This is your baggage?”

  “Yes, that’s all we have.”

  “Excellent.” The little man seized the cases without further ado and tucked one under each arm. “If you will follow me, please…”

  They followed him through a screened door and up a flight of stairs. He stopped at the only door on the first tiny landing, lowered the case in his right hand to the floor and fumbled with a key-ring. The door opened with a sharp creak and he led the way into the room.

  “I have two double rooms available at the moment, so we must see which one you prefer. This one is frankly the better, however.”

  Johnny nodded politely. It was a small room, but equipped with a reassuringly large fireplace; and the bed looked comfortable enough. It bore only a mattress; the which he immediately tested.

  “Oh, this should do us all right.”

  “You think it will serve?”

  “I think so.”

  “Excellent. I shall arrange at once for a fire to be lit and for the bed to be made up. My name, by the way, is Helmut; I am the Direktor.”

  Johnny smiled. “I’d already guessed as much. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is entirely mine, sir. I hope that you will appreciate that – as we entertain unexpected guests so rarely this early in the season – it is uneconomical for us to have rooms in constant readiness. But we shall do our best to see that you are comfortable. If you have any immediate requirements, I shall be very happy to try to satisfy them.”

  “Well – if you could find us something to eat…”

  “Of course, of course. Doubtless you are hungry after your drive. I will have something ready for you in less than half an hour. I will also instruct the maid to bring you up some hot water. If – when you are ready, sir – you would step downstairs and go through the formality of registration… at your convenience…?”

  Johnny said, “Certainly.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you. I go.”

  And, with a formidably ceremonious bow, he went. Johnny bounced on the mattress once or twice and then bounced up on to his feet. “I like,” he said, “the way these fellows nod from the waist. It’s dignified and antique.”

  He put out a hand to the electric light switch and flicked it on and off, for no other apparent reason than to see if it worked or not. “Of course,” said Marie-Andrée pleasedly, “the Austrians are a very polite people. Or so I’ve always heard.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think our boy friend is an Austrian. Not a local product, anyway.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “His walk’s too stiff-backed and military. Men who’re bred in a mountainous country have a much looser sort of gait. My bet would be he’s a German… I wish I could tell a German accent from an Austrian.”

  “You’re quite a Sherlockomes.” Marie-Andrée was impressed. “Or maybe you were expecting him to be a German, anyway.”

  “What, you mean I’ve got Nazis on the brain? Oh well, maybe I have. But right now, providing he serves up a decent dinner, I couldn’t care much less.”

  Johnny strolled towards the door, “I’ll go down and sign his autograph album. Come on down when you’re ready.”

  He clattered cheerfully down the stairs and into the main room. After walking round it in a more leisurely manner, he found the Visitor’s Book resting on a table close to the front door; a heavy leather-bound volume; little more than a quarter full although the first entry therein was dated 1924. Johnny turned to the last page of entries and took a fountain pen from his pocket. In his almost unreadable handwriting, he added:

  M. and Mme Paul Videl. Paris. French. Musician. Feb. 22nd, 1950.

  Then he replaced his pen thoughtfully and read the entry immediately preceding his own.

  Johann Biel. Zurich. Swiss. Banker 21st Feb., 1950.

  So it looked as though Biel had got there all right.

  Johnny ran his eye quickly over the previous entries, looking for any other present residents. He was still trying to decipher a particularly venomous scrawl at the top of the page when he heard the door close; he looked unhurriedly round. Helmut, having presumably fulfilled his managerial duties, was once more in the room.

  “You have finished, sir? Then if I might see your passport, that will complete the necessary formalities… Thank you, that seems to be perfectly in order.” He returned the passport after one swift, practised glance, and bent down to examine the register. “You’re from Paris – just so. And I see you are a musician. A most interesting and praiseworthy calling. May I ask upon which instrument you perform?”

  “I play the piano,” said Johnny. “I’m sort of a genius.”

  “Well, you are wise to come to Austria. This is the country of music, is it not? Now, I wonder if you would care to join me by the fire, Herr Videl, until dinner is served? Allow me to offer you a cigarette…”

  Johnny obediently followed the bobbing bald head across the room and allowed himself to be placed in an armchair facing Helmut’s own. Helmut himself fussed around attentively, lighting Johnny’s cigarette and placing on an adjacent table a tankard full of healthy-looking dark-brown liquid; then seated himself and fumbled absently for a pipe.

  “… I was wondering,” said Johnny in a mild, careful little voice, “how many people are availing themselves of your excellent accommodation.”

  Helmut looked perplexed.

  “I’m sorry, my accent is very bad… I mean, I wanted to know if anybody else is staying here.”

  “Ah!—Yes, no doubt we shall have company for dinner. Herr Mann, his wife and his son – a very pleasant family who reside here permanently. At the moment they’re enjoying the evening air, bur they should return very shortly. Herr Mann is a very punctual man; very punctual indeed.”
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br />   “I look forward to meeting them. I imagine things are pretty quiet here in the winter.”

  “Delightfully quiet.” Helmut beamed vacantly into the fire, began to fill his pipe – a curved monstrosity of formidable aspect – with a black mixture resembling dirty sawdust. “This is a small inn, as you can see. Twelve guests are the most we can ever accommodate; and there are only three double rooms. But, in the summer, tourists quite frequently stop here… a single night; maybe two; maybe a week or more. And a few mountain-climbing gentlemen, of course, though very few since the war. On the whole, I think that the Russians give us most of our summer trade.”

  “Russians?” Johnny was startled. “Surely this place is within the British zone?”

  Helmut chuckled. “Oh, yes. That’s precisely the point. Excuse me.” He struck a match, and lit his pipe with an air of solemn deliberation. “… The present frontier lies less than five hundred yards up the road, where it meets the byroad to Mariazell,” He puffed. “It quite frequently happens that people touring in their cars – especially Americans – are taken by surprise at this; surprisingly few of them seem to take the trouble to consult a map before they set out. And so – if it chances to be late in the evening, most of them prefer to remain here, rather than drive on or back. The local mountain roads at night are, of course, no laughing matter… Oh, yes. The Russians have undoubtedly brought me a considerable amount of trade since the war; I am thinking of paying them a small commission.” He chuckled again, to indicate that this was a joke.

  “During the war, I suppose, you did next to no business at all.”

  “The inn did no business, true. But at the time I was not the innkeeper. No, indeed. I have only lived here since 1944.”

  “Do the local people come here often?”

  “Almost never. I sometimes have the pleasure of entertaining the pastor; a most worthy man – he lives in the neighbouring village. But the local villagers… no. They have their own keller down by the stream.” Helmut sighed windily. “The Austrians are a very… What is the word?… Let us say a self-centred race. They do not take kindly to strangers, especially to strangers of my nationality,”