Cloak of Darkness

by Helen Macinnes

  From dupes and dopes, thought Renwick. “He’s one of the three who murdered Brimmer. Possibly by a cyanide pistol. Heart failure as usual.”

  “A team of three? Is that a fact or a guess?”

  “A little of both. I saw three of them working together: Barney, the man who drove the ambulance, and of course Grable. As the clerk in charge of supplies, he knew the floor plan of the office and could smuggle the others inside. He also could talk his way into Brimmer’s office, get its door unlocked. It took more than one man to kill Brimmer and go through all the files, yet leave them in good order as if nothing had been touched. Otherwise, Brimmer’s death might have raised questions.”

  “Will the other two turn up in Chamonix?” Pierre speculated.

  “I wish they would,” Renwick said. Then Grable would be out of Washington, with no lead to Nina discovered. “I wish they would,” Renwick repeated, and began searching for a black Ferrari.

  15

  They found the Ferrari parked among a group of seven cars at the foot of a quiet road leading off the busy main street. The road was unpaved, broad at its start, narrowing as it climbed. There had been a row of simple houses at its beginning, with a woman hanging out some family washing and another beating a rug even if this was the start of a Saturday afternoon. Farther uphill, only trees and bushes edged the road. There were no chalets in sight.

  There had to be some, thought Claudel: too many cars at the bottom of this road; or had the Ferrari been left there simply because of good parking space? A discouraging notion. He stopped, eased his arm in its sling, and waited for Renwick, who was picking up a small wooden sign that had toppled on its face along with its support. Renwick held it out, and Claudel looked. The lettering was faded but it was still legible: RUSKIN’S CHAIR. And the arrow that followed the two words had once pointed uphill.

  Renwick replaced the sign among grass and wild flowers, exactly as he had found it. Someone hadn’t wanted this hillside too easily identified. Either that or poor old Ruskin was now a defunct celebrity. Certainly this route was little travelled nowadays by anyone on foot, but on the flatter stretches of the road, where the earth soaked by recent rains had turned into half-dried mud, there were traces of several cars.

  “Must be a dozen houses up this way,” Claudel said, examining the crisscross of tread marks. “I bet you one thing: Klaus won’t have any nameplate displayed at his gate.” He looked around at the bushes and trees. “Houses, where are you?”

  “Playing hide-and-seek behind clumps of firs. We’ve only walked about half a mile. Can’t expect Klaus to choose a chalet so near the town.” Or could we? With a man like Klaus, you could never guess.

  But as they turned the very next curve, they saw a chalet lying quite openly on the right-hand side of the road with only a few bushes clustered around it. Too small,” Renwick said, and became more interested in a knee-high signpost on the left side of the road.

  Too small and too exposed.” Claudel studied it. “And no signs of life. All windows shuttered. But it’s in good repair. Possibly used for winters only. Skiers?”

  “Look at this,” Renwick said and waved a hand toward the sign. It contained no name, nothing except a definite arrow pointing uphill. In size, age, and weathering, it matched the previous signpost they had seen, but this one stood straight and firm. Six feet beyond it, a definite foot-path branched off to the left, climbing through thick bushes into a heavy fringe of fir trees. Surely that was the original direction of the arrow. Renwick was thoughtful as he looked at the sign. Yes, the arrow now pointed directly uphill. But that view on the postcard wasn’t seen from any roadside.

  “I spot two more chalets—over there, to the right—a short distance above the first one. Lots of trees around them. But,” Claudel decided with regret as he pulled out his minitelescope and focused on their rooftops, “not big enough to sleep Klaus’s guests.”

  “Let’s try this path,” Renwick said.

  In a few minutes they emerged onto a small stretch of grass that lay at the edge of a wooden cliff dropping down to the valley. And there, occupying most of this space, was a giant boulder. The view from it was identical with the one on the postcard. Renwick leaned against Ruskin’s Chair, looked across the valley at a mass of soaring precipices and ice-filled ravines. But swirls of soft grey mist had started to circle around Mont Blanc’s peak, blotting out its thrust into a sky of white clouds. “Will we ever see that mountain?” Renwick said softly. Then he turned his head to glance behind him, noted the continuing hill that was thick with giant trees. “Could it be...” he began. Improbable yet possible. Yes, possible...

  Claudel said impatiently, “Come on, Bob. We didn’t climb up here to look at a view. Let’s get back to the road, start searching—”

  “There’s an easier way to find Klaus’s chalet. Safer, too.”

  “How?”

  “Just answer me two questions, Pierre. Why was that arrow pointed uphill? It was meant to mark the path. But it pointed straight up that road.”

  “Someone angled it, fixed it firmly in place.”

  “To alert any visitor—anyone who is a stranger to that road—who is driving up to Klaus’s chalet.”

  “A direction post? Warning him to be ready for the next opening he sees?” Claudel’s voice had quickened.

  “Next opening on his left,” Renwick said.

  “Why on his left? The next driveway could be on his right.”

  “Could be—except for the second question. How was Vroom going to end the sentence you interrupted, when you called us over to the window in his office?”

  Claudel concentrated. Two men at a fourth-floor window opposite the Bruna Building, myself watching, Renwick and Vroom talking. “I heard Vroom name Klaus and then the Chalet Ruskin. As I called to you, he was saying, ‘It stands above.’ Right?”

  “That’s what I heard.” Nice to be confirmed, Renwick thought. “Stands above—what?”

  “The town.”

  “I thought so, too, until we came up here.” Renwick patted the boulder against which his shoulder still leaned.

  “Stands above Ruskin’s Chair?” Claudel’s voice quickened. “Could be, could be. The first driveway on the left would lead to a house just up there—above where we are standing now.” He looked at the rise of land behind Ruskin’s favourite perch. “Nicely wooded. Good protection for a chalet.”

  “And good cover for us. Let’s have a look.”

  The climb might be steep, but it would have been easy enough if they hadn’t been wearing leather-soled shoes. Underfoot, a heavy layer of dried-out pine needles coated the soft earth. It will be hell coming down, Renwick thought as they stepped into the wood; we’ll be glissading all the way. Trees could be avoided; they were spaced enough, but there were scattered outcrops of rock. Pierre’s wounded arm? We’ll damn well have to take care, Renwick told himself: no headlong rush to lower and perhaps safer ground.

  Suddenly, the dead silence was broken by a car at full throttle. They halted, concentrated on tracking its progress. It was travelling uphill, drawing nearer. And then it must have swung into a driveway just above these trees. It stopped abruptly. Claudel pointed straight up the slope in front of them. Renwick nodded: there was definitely some chalet ahead of them. In spite of the pine needles, their pace increased. Five minutes more and they were reaching the last of the trees, and beyond them a fence. Not a wall, thought Renwick in surprise: just an eight-foot fence of thin iron railings, blocking nothing from sight.

  They took cover behind the drooping branches of a larch and studied the house. Everything lay open, totally innocent. Three chalets joined together and modernised with wide picture windows, rising above a terrace fronted by a narrow garden; below that, a broad sweep of alpine grass and wild flowers reaching down to the fence. At the side of this converted group of chalets was a garage where the driveway ended. A four-doored garage was open and empty except for a small yellow car—could be a jeep, Renwick judged—while a black F
errari stood outside, carelessly parked. At the other end of the house there was a tennis court; behind it, a screen of well-trimmed bushes. It must shelter a pool: sounds of splashing, of diving, of applause and merriment, and the excited barking of small dogs joining in the fun. Yes, thought Renwick again, everything open and totally innocent. Look at me, the house said, I’ve nothing to hide. He signed to Claudel. Carefully they backed away, made a safe retreat down through the wood.

  Renwick went first, insisting that Claudel grasp his shoulder in case of a slip. “Sure, you’re indestructible,” Renwick told him once they were out of earshot from the house, “but just hang on to me, will you?” Claudel’s annoyance was showing, partly due to his arm in that confounded sling—he’d get rid of the damned thing before tonight—but mostly because of his disappointment over the chalet. How do we get near enough to the place with all those picture windows? Bright lights in every room, no doubt, and a collection of yapping poodles who might not prowl around like Dobermans or German shepherds but who’d start barking at the slightest shadow. Renwick felt the same way: no more words were exchanged until they came out into the clearing. There they paused for some estimation of the scene.

  “It’s so goddamn innocent,” said Renwick. “Something is strange about that whole setup. We’ll get a closer look tonight.”

  “Not too close, I hope.”

  “Just enough to let us see Klaus. He wouldn’t have invited these guests if he didn’t mean to be there.”

  “What about an alarm system? I could see nothing.”

  “None around the fence as far as I could make out.”

  “Just barbed wire laced neatly along the top. How do we get over that?” We’re travelling light, thought Claudel, we haven’t got the equipment for any assault.

  “A small mattress.” Renwick had walked over to the edge of the clearing. Its drop was steep but not impossible. But by night? And with Pierre’s arm out of real commission? “The local kids probably climb it every Sunday afternoon.”

  “We’re not local. We’re not young mountain goats, either. And Sunday afternoon is not full of black shadows. Tonight, we’ll have to use the road again.” And damn this arm.

  “Let’s get back to it now. We’ll have to do some shopping in town.” Rubber-soled sneakers, for one thing; dark sweaters and jeans for another. Night work would leave tweed jackets and flannels looking fit only for scarecrows.

  They had almost reached the road. They stopped abruptly as they heard the sound of cars coming uphill. “Two?” Renwick asked.

  “Two,” Claudel agreed. “Both high-powered.”

  Quickly, they chose the largest bush with a view of the road, stretched out under its cover.

  “Look at that, will you?” Renwick said softly, his eyes on the small chalet opposite. Its shutters were still firmly closed but its door had opened. A woman stood waiting just inside the threshold and half emerged as the first car reached the path that led to the house. It drew up expertly—a silver-grey Ferrari. Its driver stepped out, looking around him, checking the road, and then signalled to the Mercedes that had stopped behind him. Tall, fair hair neatly cut, tanned face, strong features, decided movements. Klaus? Could be, thought Renwick. But we are not close enough to make sure of his age. From here he looks younger than fifty.

  Renwick’s attention swung away to the second car. Its door was open, but there was a delay. Why? Then he understood. Someone was being lifted out of the Mercedes by the driver and another man, someone wrapped in a concealing blanket. No movement at all. The still shape was being carried quickly up the path and into the chalet. One minute passed; almost another. Too distant a shot for his lighter’s little camera, Renwick judged, and concentrated on photographing the face and build of the Ferrari’s driver in his memory. Beside him, Claudel was doing the same thing, his brown eyes gleaming with excitement. He had his heavy-rimmed eyeglasses out, ready to slip in place as soon as the men reappeared and possibly started to talk.

  But only one man came out, hurrying down the path to stop at the Ferrari. He reported briefly, was given in turn several instructions. Then the man—definitely young, strong-shouldered, quick in his movements—hastened to the Mercedes while the other slipped back behind the wheel of the Ferrari. The Mercedes made a precarious but competent reverse on the narrow road, drove downhill, almost grazing the bank on which Renwick and Claudel lay. The Ferrari’s engine had started as the other car completed its bold turn and was about to continue its ascent. And at that moment a woman came racing wildly down the road. “Klaus! Klaus!”

  The Ferrari braked. The driver stepped out, caught her wrist. “What’s wrong?”

  “I had to see you alone. Oh, Klaus, he knows! He telephoned! He said—” But whatever had been said on the telephone was silenced as Klaus shoved her into the car, took his seat, began driving. The Ferrari roared uphill, turned left within seconds, and soon came to a stop.

  Claudel rolled onto his back, pushed aside some leaves from his face as he removed his glasses. “I got both car numbers. But couldn’t hear one mumbling word of those instructions. Too far away.” He pocketed the glasses carefully. “Didn’t need anything to hear Annabel, did we? My God, she was terrified— hysterical. Wonder what Vroom did say on the phone.” He sat up, drew a long breath. “What’s next?”

  “For us or for Annabel?”

  * * *

  To avoid being noticed by someone in the chalet opposite them, Renwick and Claudel had two choices. They could wait until darkness fell—possibly three or more hours—before they stepped onto the road. Or they could cut over the rough ground on the bank where they lay, reach the road a short distance downhill. “We’ve seen enough now,” Renwick said softly, watching the chalet, which looked completely deserted once more. “Tonight we can risk a closer look.” For that was where the real action was. The big house was a front, a cover, where Klaus played the country gentleman to a pack of informers and sycophants. But that woman at the chalet’s door had looked more than a caretaker: as tall and strong as the man who had stayed with her.

  With some difficulty, they made the scramble through the bushes, taking extreme care not to start any branches shaking. Soon they reached the curve that hid the chalet and could step down from the bank onto the road. They set out briskly.

  Renwick was thinking about plain board shutters, no louvres, everything inside lit by electricity. Ventilation? Possibly at night when the back windows could be safely opened. “No dogs at least.” No car visible, no bicycle, either; nothing to give the show away.

  “Thank God,” said Claudel. “Either they attack or they yap. Bloody nuisance. What shall we find in there? Two people on their feet, someone bundled in a blanket. But perhaps that third person is on his feet, too, now that he has been smuggled safely inside. What d’you think?”

  “It’s worth finding out.” Renwick looked at his watch, slackened their quick stride to a more normal stroll. It was just after four o’clock. Ahead of them the road began to broaden. A little distance farther downhill, there was a cluster of parked cars, and then the busy main street.

  “Well,” Claudel said, “we can at last put a face to the name Klaus.”

  “We still need his second name. And not garbled this time.”

  “What about a visit to the local cop—get his help with that?”

  “Later. We’ve plenty of suspicions, but Inspector Marchand will need more than them.” So would Duval, his friend and mine, back in Geneva. So would Keppler in Bern. “Might be an idea to call Duval at once, get him to run a check on the grey Ferrari. You got its number—Geneva, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. But the Mercedes had a Zurich plate.”

  Renwick raised an eyebrow.

  “That doesn’t mean it drove from Zurich today,” Claudel reminded him.

  “No. But it had collected more dust than the Ferrari.” There had been mud spatters, too, above the wheels.

  “Hate to spoil a good assumption. A black car does show more dust tha
n a grey one.”

  Renwick’s attention switched to the group of parked cars which they were now approaching. Against a white Renault, a man was leaning, watching them. He was of medium height, well proportioned, a neat figure in a tweed jacket, corduroy trousers, and turtleneck sweater. A cigarette was held in one hand while the other smoothed back a thick crop of black hair as he stepped away from his car and intercepted them. Dark eyes, quick and observant, studied them. Then he nodded.

  “I’m Marchand,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you since our Friend Inspector Duval called from Geneva this morning. His description of you,” he told Renwick, “was accurate. I don’t think we need to use the word ‘Victor’, Colonel Renwick.” He bowed slightly. “Major Claudel.”

  “We don’t use rank, either,” Renwick said, keeping his voice friendly, repressing both surprise and annoyance.

  “Nor I,” agreed Marchand. “I hope I’m not interrupting your plans.” He paused, his eyes watchful.

  You know damn well you are, Renwick thought.

  “But,” Marchand went on, “I am curious why you’re here. We have no terrorists in Chamonix.”

  Claudel said, “Let’s walk while we talk. I feel naked just standing around. Perhaps a drink somewhere? After all, you’re out of uniform.” But always on duty, he thought.

  “Saturday,” Marchand said as if that explanation was enough, and opened the Renault’s doors. “It is quite comfortable,” he told them, noticing a slight hesitation. “No abduction, I assure you,” he added, “I’ll drive you to the inn where you are staying and save you a little walk. You’ve had enough exercise for one afternoon.”

  Smooth, thought Renwick, smooth; and he probably is a cop. With a telescope trying to follow us ever since we started up this damned road? “Thank you, but we’ve some shopping to do in town. Didn’t bring a change of clothes with us.”

  “I think you’ll find what you need at a place I know.”

  Claudel climbed into the back seat; Renwick sat beside Marchand. That way—if Marchand weren’t Duval’s friend, if he did try to drive them to some remote house—they’d be able to control him more easily. Marchand just nodded at this small manoeuvre, as if he himself would have done the same thing. The shop he had chosen for them was excellent: a small establishment that sold ski clothes in winter, climbing and hiking outfits in summer; and the sign over its door was ETIENNE MARCHAND. “My uncle,” Marchand said as he noted Renwick’s eyes on the name.