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

by Desmond Cory

  “That’s good. So far, you’re doing very well indeed.”

  That was true. Over fairly smooth going and on a comparatively gentle slope, Johnny’s easy, feather-light walk was more suited to the ground than the bigger man’s solid tramp; Biel had so much more weight to lift than he. On the other hand, over the rocks and with the gradient steepening at almost every step, experience and technique were going to tell; Johnny had no illusions about that. But the first of them to tire, he thought, would almost certainly be Martin; for all his physical hardness, he was only a boy and did not possess the others’ reserve of stamina. Moreover, in his position as leader, he had set a pace slightly too fast for his own comfort, wishing either not to appear sluggish while accompanied by the distinguished Herren Biel and Gruber, or to tire Johnny out and thereby force him to abandon the enterprise. He was breathing heavily by this stage, and his neck muscles – always the first to betray bodily fatigue – had begun to loosen; so that from time to time his head appeared to jiggle awkwardly on his shoulders.

  Still… from the point of view of miles covered, by far the greater part of the journey was over. And if the boy’s strength was less than that of the men, his powers of recovery were very much more rapid; so that when they struck off again after their brief rest, his step was almost jaunty. Gruber, close behind him, moved with a loose-limbed, inelegant shamble that nevertheless appeared capable of being sustained almost indefinitely; and Johnny was, by now, intimately familiar with Biel’s heavy-shouldered, ursine, determined gait. He was to have little further opportunity for observing it; for immediately after that halt there came the scree, and Johnny’s whole concentration became occupied with the small area of broken, treacherous rubble directly before his own feet.

  From time to time, when he came to smooth stretches where the bare rock stretched away, hard and smooth and fissured, sometimes for as much as fifty yards… then he could look up and see, growing ever nearer, the great double outline of the Lovers; already dominating the entire angle of his vision forwards. He could also glance around and note the positions of the other climbers; could see that the valley had now dropped away out of sight, and that there was nothing visible behind him but the rugged brown rock over which he had lately travelled. And yet the gradient of the ground here was steeper than ever before… Johnny couldn’t understand it; it was his first experience of the strange, freakish tricks that mountains can play, tricks inexplicable by the normal laws of topography. He regarded the land around him with fresh suspicion.

  It was very different country from that through which he had passed earlier in the day; there were still trees, growing more sparsely but still flourishing in the hollows and depressions of the mountainside… trees, but no grass, no flowers, no occasional streams whimpering beside the path – nothing but the rock, weather-beaten and brown, sometimes gleaming with peculiar quartzes and metallic glints; with here and there, prominent against the otherwise universal browns and greens of the landscape, great white dollops of mountain snow.

  … That hour passed away much more slowly than those before. Long before it was time to rest again, Johnny’s breath was coming in laboured gasps; and he was feeling the dull ache of approaching exhaustion in the muscles of his neck and calves and shoulders and in the great sinews beside the pit of the stomach. In this, however, he knew that he was not alone; the pace of the party had dropped by something like thirty-five or forty per cent, and Martin was now showing definite signs of fatigue. So much so that, when ten minutes of the hour were still to run, Gruber – who had been watching the boy closely – signalled a halt. They gathered together around him.

  “I am feeling a little tired,” said Gruber, who looked ready to go straight on to the top and was, indeed, hardly even sweating. “May we rest for a few minutes? There is, after all, no point in rushing things unnecessarily.”

  “I’m agreeable,” said Johnny, less than truthfully. “How much farther have we to go, Martin?”

  Martin looked round at him, his breath still heavy but his head pugnaciously upright. “Very little farther. Another hour will certainly see us at the foot.”

  Johnny seated himself on a rock. “Then let’s rest.”

  The others adopted various positions of relaxation around him. Johnny looked in turn at them, at his watch, and at the slowly disappearing sun. He wished that he could risk a cigarette… No. It would be most unwise.

  “We’re all right for time, it seems,” he said. Biel said, “Perfectly,” and the other two merely nodded. Mountaineering has many virtues, but it is not a stimulant to sparkling conversation; it uses up far too much breath.

  And as a matter of fact, Johnny reflected, Gruber’s kindly-meant but perfectly transparent little speech had been the only indication yet received that that gentleman was able to string two sentences together. He was a quite remarkably silent type. That, and the obvious fact that he was physically rather harder than a bag of nails; was all the information Johnny had acquired about him since the commencement of their climb. A very rum customer; but not unlikeable… Johnny’s curiosity as to Gruber’s business and motives was deep, though adequately concealed. The one certain thing was that he was definitely concerned in the mysteries of the Hunting Horn. The fact that he had showed up there so soon after his spectacular escape from the Munich train seemed quite beyond the reach of coincidence, though Johnny had learnt many times that that, too, was a reach only too easily underestimated.

  But it was likely, to put it mildly, that he was mixed up in the Mayer affair. What was so difficult was visualising how.

  He could be a Nazi, of course; he could be a member of von Knopke’s little organisation. So, for that matter, could Biel; and even Martin. The risk Johnny was taking in that respect was great, and he was fully aware of it. On the other hand… the point against that, the unarguable point for the defence, was that Mayer had gone up the Old Man alone, and common sense suggested he wouldn’t have done that – wouldn’t have exposed himself to the very many pitfalls that beset the most experienced of solitary climbers – had he had a reliable ally to accompany him.

  … The fire crackled, suddenly and loudly; and Johnny raised his head slightly, peering across the flames towards the dark, inert mass that was Gruber… Gruber sleeping peacefully. Biel, too; Biel was stretched out like a log; the sound of his deep, regular breathing was just audible to Johnny’s ears.

  Johnny moved slightly, looking over his left shoulder.

  There, within the patch of shadow cast by a nearby boulder, Adolf Hitler’s son lay; open to the gaze of a thousand incurious stars.

  … Johnny resettled his head on his rolled-up rucksack and, this time, went to sleep.

  Marie-Andrée, however, was still wide awake; she stood at the window of her room and watched the snow on the mountain beginning to glow, the moon rising higher and higher. Behind her, tucked comfortably into the big double bed, Eva Hitler was fingering nervously at the sleeves of an ultra-glamorous bed-jacket and trying to read a paperbacked novel entitled Wolves of the Sea. She had reached page four of this considerable work, and had been becalmed there for almost twenty minutes.

  She was now gazing abstractedly at a word of approximately twelve syllables on the right-hand page; and, from time to time, shooting glances towards Marie-Andrée’s back. She thought she rather liked Marie-Andrée. It had been kind of Marie-Andrée to share this room; it was so much more companionable when they were alone in the house – and besides, it was obviously impossible to use her own room, in which the corpse of von Knopke was still ensconced… Eva’s enthusiasm might have been slightly tempered had it occurred to her that Marie-Andrée had received the firmest instructions not to let the late Führer’s wife out of her sight for so much as an instant; but, perhaps oddly, this reflection had not troubled her. Eva was in many respects a charmingly simple soul.

  And she was feeling sorry for Marie-Andrée; the poor girl was obviously worried almost to death. Which was silly. Herr Videl was certainly an attra
ctive young man; but not, Eva considered, all that much of a catch.

  She placed the book on the bedside table, firmly dog-earing her page before doing so, and then addressed Marie-Andrée in a sad, sweet voice.

  “I shouldn’t worry about him too much. I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

  “Um,” said Marie-Andrée.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  Marie-Andrée turned tiredly from the window. “Not a bad idea,” she said. “You pour.”

  Eva reached for the enormous thermos flask that stood beside the book; while Marie-Andrée crossed the room and seated herself at the other’s feet.

  “… Don’t you worry about Herr Mann?”

  Eva shrugged. “If he is unfortunate, somebody else will be sent to look after me. I’m not greatly concerned.”

  Marie-Andrée looked disappointed. “And Martin?”

  “Martin will be all right.” Glug, glug, glug. “If I had thought otherwise, I should never have let him go.”

  “Herr Videl can be very… persuasive, when he wishes.”

  Eva shrugged again, imperilling the cup of coffee that she held in her right hand. “He is not a very important person. Power is the only true persuader; I have heard the Führer say that, oh, so many times, and it is very true.”

  “It must be true,” said Marie-Andrée evilly, “if the Führer said it.”

  Eva held out the cup towards her. “Don’t let us argue. Don’t let us talk of unpleasant things. You know – it’s a very long time since I have been able to talk like this, to talk with another woman. I’ve almost forgotten how. I do not mean to be objectionable.”

  “I suppose it must be strange, having to live like this… after what you were used to.”

  “Very strange.” Eva nodded. “At times it is not so bad. I am an Austrian, after all; I am at home here. But the loneliness… Sometimes when I think of the old days, of all the parties and all the uniforms and the young men… you know… well, I feel I could cry. Especially when von Knopke’s spinning out his eternal reminiscences… And then I think of those days in the bunker at Berlin and the bombs and the Russians and… oh well, then I think I’m very lucky after all… But I don’t know.”

  “What was it like?” asked Marie-Andrée softly; “The bunker, I mean?”

  “Hell on earth. Those last few days before I left… I’ll never know how I stood them. We all knew it was over, of course; that everything was finished. We all knew it, even Goebbels. I thought I was going to have to die.”

  “Would you have – if it was necessary?”

  “Oh yes. Of course.” She said it matter-of-factly. “No one ever disobeyed Hitler. But I was told I must escape, and go to Austria to look after the child… and we were married. I was so flustered, I couldn’t really believe it. Two days after that Kurt Mann arrived, and that night… we… Why, what’s the matter?”

  She spoke the last sentence in a penetrating whisper, for Marie-Andrée had suddenly turned and held up her hand in a gesture that commanded silence.

  “Be quiet,” she said.

  For a moment there was absolutely no noise, except for the quick breathing of the two women; and then, faint and uncertain but appallingly close by, the sound came again. The gentle creak of a floor-board, giving way under the pressure of a human foot…

  “There’s someone in the house,” said Marie-Andrée, in a voice that hardly rose above the sound of Eva Hitler’s breathing.

  She put her cup soundlessly on the floor and rose to her feet; stepped swiftly to where her handbag rested on top of the dressing-table. It opened with what seemed a breath-takingly loud click; she felt inside and hurriedly pulled out Johnny’s well-worn Mauser automatic. There was another, softer click as she pushed the safety-catch forwards, and a smooth sliding noise as she pumped a round up into the chamber. She could not handle Johnny’s bigger and heavier weapon with the same ease as her own lightweight Walther, but to Eva her movements looked alarmingly professional; and had Johnny been there to see her, he would not have disapproved.

  She moved silently across the carpet towards the door; and her hand was actually extended towards the doorknob when it rattled and moved slightly. She took three quick steps sideways as it began to turn, watching it with her lips parted and the tip of her tongue protruding between them; watching with the concentration of a cat crouching outside a mousehole.

  The handle completed a full half-circle of rotation, and stopped. For three long seconds it seemed as if the door would not be opened at all; then it flew inwards with a sudden rush of air and the solid thunk of a boot driving into the woodwork.

  Kurt Mann stood framed in the pitch darkness of the corridor.

  He was holding a gun in his right hand; and Marie-Andrée took rather fewer chances with him than she would have done with a ravening tiger. She shot him three times through the head with remarkable speed and dexterity; and Mann, whose eyes had screwed up involuntarily against the sudden light in his face, stared vacantly towards the Old Man and went down to the floor like a tree falling, all in one piece. He stayed there, too; and while this was hardly surprising under the circumstances, Marie-Andrée could hardly believe it. She remained riveted into the firing position, her whole body almost as still as Mann’s was, but with the blood pounding unpleasantly in her temples. It was the first time she had ever shot a man dead, and she wasn’t at all sure that she liked the feeling.

  Eva was frankly horrified. When Marie-Andrée finally lowered the pistol and looked in her direction, she was pressing the palms of her hands over her face and rocking to and fro on the mattress.

  “Come now,” said Marie-Andrée severely. “You’ve seen corpses before. Or if you haven’t, you certainly should have. Your opportunities for practice have been extensive.”

  She sat down hurriedly on the near side of the bed, to conceal the fact that she herself was sagging at the knees.

  “All v’well,” said Eva indistinctly, “but everywhere… first von Knopke and now poor Karl… everywhere I go… I’ll never get a moment’s peace…”

  Marie-Andrée’s eyes opened wide. Incredibly, in the excitement of having killed a man she had almost forgotten just what man she had killed. And it was Mann. It was Mayer. Mayer, the most dangerous man in the whole of the neo-Nazi Intelligence organisations. Mayer, who was supposed to be halfway up the Hunting Horn…

  Oh, but something had gone wrong, something had gone terribly wrong.

  … And even as she stared horrified at the recumbent Mayer, there was another noise; this time a distant one, but for all its distance plain and unmistakable. The sound of a motor engine revving sharply down in the village.

  She turned. “Did you hear that?”

  “Yes. Motor engine, wasn’t it?”

  “… What’s a car doing round here at this time of night?”

  “Heavens only knows. I don’t.”

  Marie-Andrée stood up again, abruptly. “It sounded as though it might be coming this way. I’m going to have a look.”

  “No!” Eva sat bolt upright, her hands clutching frantically at the sheets. “For God’s sake don’t leave me alone here. What am I going to…?”

  “Don’t be silly, it’s perfectly all right. I’m only going downstairs; you can’t see anything of the road from this window. I won’t be long.”

  And, disregarding a plaintive squeal from the bed, Marie-Andrée stepped over the late Karl Mayer and out into the darkness of the corridor. She thumbed a switch to throw a light on the stairs, wondering as she did so why Mayer hadn’t done that. Well, that was a thing she’d never know… She picked her way delicately down the wooden steps, opened the lounge door, and put out a hand towards the light switch, there… then paused…

  No. Better not. See without being seen, that was the ticket.

  She withdrew her hand and flitted silently over to the windows. She pushed back the curtains slowly and cautiously…

  There were headlights out there, headlights coming her way. And any n
umber of them; eight or ten or twelve pairs, or even more… It looked like an army of trucks on the move. She pressed her nose against the window-pane, trying to decipher something of the dark shapes behind those glaring headlamps that dazzled her eyes.

  In less than a minute she was sure. They were jeeps. They were too small and squat to be anything else; and the sound of the engines was clear now and distinctive… Yes, they were certainly coming to the inn. Dozens of them.

  For a moment Marie-Andrée fought with something approaching panic.

  Then she turned and made her way back to he stairs. And, as she neared the door, a tall figure moved out from the shadows beside her, not a foot away, and said in a pleasantly ingratiating voice,

  “Excuse me. Would you mind…?”

  The figure spoke in English; and that was the one thing that saved its life. Marie-Andrée’s finger was so tight on the trigger that, later, she was quite unable to fathom why the gun had not gone off. The negative reflex that stayed her was completely unconscious; Johnny spoke English, she loved Johnny, and therefore it did not seem quite right to shoot this English-speaking person down like a dog. On the other hand, this development was unexpected and probably highly dangerous. What she actually did was completely instinctive and was carried out with a smooth, flowing efficiency that not even Johnny could have bettered. She jabbed the barrel of her gun with all her force into the pit of the dark figure’s stomach and, as he doubled up, swung it violently upwards at his chin. It made a hard sharp noise like the sound of an auctioneer’s gavel; and the figure crumpled soundlessly at her feet.

  She stood stock-still for five seconds and then, when nothing else moved, pulled open the door. The light from the staircase bulb gleamed through the door and showed, though as little more than a hazy shape, the outstretched figure of a lieutenant of the British Army.

  Young Basie, in fact, was sleeping on duty again. Marie-Andrée hesitated no longer, but went up the stairs like a flash. “Quick,” she said, as she threw open the bedroom door. “We’ve got to get out of…”