Cloak of Darkness

by Helen Macinnes

  He waited in the car tactfully while they selected two warm outfits, both dark blue in colour, and made sure that there were deep pockets. Navy-blue sneakers came next. “Glad we don’t have to carry out a rolled-up mattress, even cot-size,” Claudel murmured, remembering the project of climbing over an eight-foot fence laced with barbed wire. No need for that now. They had seen Klaus, could identify him. The chalet with the shuttered windows took priority. Always the way, he thought: you plan one thing, and then something else pops up. Like Inspector Marchand.

  Renwick added a couple of lightweight turtleneck sweaters to their purchases, one navy and one black.

  “Will the expense account stretch enough?” Claudel asked slyly.

  “Barely—after your extravagance today. Three postcards when we needed only one.”

  “Couldn’t draw attention to—” Claudel began, and then realised Renwick was joshing. That’s a good sign, he thought. “Decided to trust our friend in the car?”

  Renwick nodded. “What else?” As a friend Marchand would be helpful. As an opponent, difficult. The man was no fool; no small-town lackadaisical cop taking everything with a genial shrug, well that’s the way life is today, what can you do about it?

  Marchand had the doors open for them, ready to drive away. He didn’t ask any questions about the packages, but he didn’t need to. He can easily find out what we bought, Renwick thought in amusement, when he picks up a phone and talks with his uncle.

  The distance to the inn was short. Marchand had only time enough to say that he had heard about Interintell, in fact had discussed it with Inspector Duval. They had worked with Interpol, of course—a matter of dealing with criminals smuggling stolen diamonds out of Geneva into Chamonix.

  “Why Chamonix?” Renwick asked. But at that moment they arrived at the inn. The garden was empty—too early yet for dinner to be served—just three thin waiters wandering around like stray ghosts as they laid out the place settings. Renwick saw one table near the trees, a sheltered spot, still bare of forks and knives and paper napkins tucked into thick tumblers. “Have you time for a drink?”

  “Why not?” Marchand stepped quickly out of the car.

  “What brings diamond thieves to Chamonix?” Renwick asked when three beers had been placed before them.

  “A choice of exits.” Marchand hesitated, said, “Perhaps we should speak in English, no? I was a student in London and later in America.” He broke into English. “Our talk would go quicker. Right?”

  Renwick, who had thought he was coping pretty well with Marchand’s French, only nodded. But he wondered if the use of English was to encourage him to talk more. “A choice of exits from Chamonix?” he prompted.

  “To the west you can reach Lyons, and south from there Marseilles. Or, if you go north from Lyons, quick access to Paris. If you prefer Italy, then the Mont Blanc Tunnel takes you east and you arrive in Milan. From there, Genoa or Rome. The roads are excellent and more difficult to watch than airports or railway stations. So many car changes are possible—wayside garages that can’t be observed all the time.” Marchand’s English was precise. Claudel was impressed. A good student, he thought, and glanced at Renwick. But Renwick’s mind wasn’t on accents or vocabulary at this moment.

  A choice of exits meant a choice of entries, too. Take Rome, for instance, as the starting point for a journey to this part of France. By air, Rome to Milan was a three-hundred-mile flight. Then by car from Milan to the Mont Blanc Tunnel? Not as difficult as it sounded—trucks used that route all the time. The tunnel itself, right through the giant massif of Mont Blanc, was about seven miles long. A total, perhaps, from Milan to Chamonix of just over two hundred miles—not much more. And almost a third of that distance was on the plains of Lombardy where the giant highway from Milan would let a car stay within the speed limit at eighty miles an hour. In fact, thought Renwick, I’ve travelled that autostrada at ninety miles an hour. “Interesting,” he said.

  Claudel was watching Renwick. Now what is he calculating this time? he wondered.

  More waiters were arriving. Marchand waved away two who hovered near the table. “Later,” he told them, “later.” He turned again to Renwick. “Tell me one thing—why are you interested in Ruskin’s Chair? Or, rather why did you explore the woods behind it?”

  “Your telescope couldn’t follow us in there?” Renwick asked blandly.

  “Unfortunately, no. Is there something I should learn about the Chalet Ruskin?”

  “There is. But, first, tell us about its owner. What do you know of him? Klaus—what’s his name? Renwick looked vaguely at Claudel, whose memory also seemed to have lapsed.

  “Sudak,” said Marchand.

  “Sudak?” Claudel repeated. “Where does he come from?” It sounded Czech, Polish, even Hungarian.

  “Originally from Paris.” Marchand hesitated. Then he said, “A professor I know at Grenoble University—a specialist in Russian history—tells me there is a small village called Sudak on the Black Sea. Not far from Yalta.”

  “Was he born there?” Renwick asked.

  “I’ve never heard even a whisper of Russia. He is a French citizen, resident in Switzerland and completely neutral. Also, a most successful business-man. Now tell me why you are interested in his chalet. Or are you interested in Monsieur Sudak?”

  “Yes,” Renwick said frankly. “Interested in him and in the firm he now controls—Klingfeld & Sons. Head office in Geneva, I think.”

  “That’s well known.”

  “Branch offices in Paris and Rome.”

  “Oh? Klingfeld & Sons are an old established business, of course. No doubt their market is widespread.”

  “Very widespread. Recently, Klaus Sudak has merged Klingfeld with an American firm, but secretly. He controls it, too.”

  “Oh?” Marchand asked again but added no comment this time.

  “That firm, Exports Consolidated, is now under investigation by the FBI. Also, I suspect, by several other federal agencies. Its business has been the illegal export of armaments. Recently, since its amalgamation with Klingfeld & Sons, it has been supplying weapons—and instructors—for international terrorists in certain Communist training camps.”

  Marchand’s dark eyes stared at Renwick, then at Claudel.

  “Yes,” Claudel said, “we have every reason to be interested in Klaus Sudak. And in his Chalet Ruskin. And in—” He hesitated, glanced at Renwick. Are we spilling too much? he seemed to be asking.

  “And,” Renwick finished the sentence for Claudel, “in the little chalet opposite the path to Ruskin’s Chair. It’s apparently closed.”

  “It is. It was bought recently by an Englishman, but he isn’t taking up residence until the winter season starts.”

  “Klaus Sudak is occupying it.”

  “Sudak?”

  “We saw his Ferrari arrive there, along with a black Mercedes. There was a woman, a caretaker perhaps, who opened the chalet door for two men from the Mercedes. They carried a bundle of some kind. Klaus Sudak waited until one of the men returned. They spoke. The Mercedes headed downhill. Sudak then drove to his house. The small chalet is still shuttered, looks completely closed and empty.”

  “But what—how—”

  “We don’t know as yet. But we’ll keep you informed. If arrests are necessary, we’ll need your men.”

  “You may need them before any arrests are made.”

  Meaning what? Renwick wondered. Marchand offering to help in our search, or Marchand giving a polite warning that we don’t break the law? Suddenly the little coloured bulbs above their heads were turned on although daylight was as yet strong. “We can take a hint,” Renwick said, playing on words, and rose.

  They walked back to the Renault to pick up their packages. Renwick said, “I needn’t add that all this is definitely in strictest confidence. We aren’t the only Intelligence agency who has become interested in Klingfeld & Sons.”

  “Strictest confidence,” Marchand agreed. “But I should inform D
uval.”

  “Agreed. But inform him quietly. Very quietly.”

  “We do exchange top-secret information.” Marchand’s serious face relaxed into a small smile. “About jewel thieves. Not about terrorists.” The smile faded. He stared again at Renwick, then at Claudel. “Can all this be possible? A reputable business-man like Sudak?”

  “Not only possible but true. Tell me one thing. Why did he use the name Ruskin for his chalet?”

  The question was so unexpected that Marchand actually showed astonishment. “It’s always been used—ever since the first chalet was built there, one hundred and thirty years ago. It burned down, was replaced. That one also burned. Then three adjoining chalets were grouped on that site. The name has always remained the same. In fact, when Sudak bought the chalets three years ago and had them converted for his use, the people here would have been scandalised if he had not kept the Chalet Ruskin name. It’s part of the history of that hillside. Sudak understood that.”

  “He was told? Politely, of course.”

  “Yes. And he listened. He wishes to please, shall we say?”

  Which made it all the more difficult for a young police inspector to deal with this situation, Renwick thought as he shook hands and thanked Marchand for his patience. Claudel put it more bluntly but in his admirable French accent it sounded almost diplomatic. “We’ll be glad of any assistance you can render us, direct or indirect.”

  Marchand nodded, looked at the packages they carried, and reached into the glove compartment of his car. He produced a hand-size transmitter. “This will find me wherever I am. Within five miles of course. It’s set on the wavelength I use.”

  “We’ll keep it there,” Renwick assured him.

  “Remember, any difficulty at all, any problem...” Marchand shrugged, got into his car.

  “We’ll remember.”

  Claudel had taken out his note-book and pencil, was scribbling rapidly. He tore the page loose, gave it to Marchand. “Number of black Mercedes. Zurich registration.” Marchand raised an eyebrow, but he slipped the page into his pocket. The car left.

  Early diners, footsore and cold, were trickling into the garden. On the road outside, a line of excursion buses moved into place, reminding those on a package deal they would be leaving within the hour. There was a blare of rock-and-roll from hidden loudspeakers, a dazzle of little lights strung among the trees.

  “Wild night life,” Claudel said as they approached the inn. “We’ll bribe a waiter to bring us hot food in the dining-room. Chilly out here.” And it would be colder on the hillside. “Wonder if we’ll be alone tonight,” he speculated once they had reached the privacy of their room. Everything, he noted, was in place; nothing disturbed.

  “Marchand won’t be far off.” Renwick was busy setting up communication with London.

  “We surprised him. He didn’t expect to be told so much. Too much?” That worried Claudel.

  “We need his help, and he needed to know. Don’t believe in treating an ally as if he were the enemy.”

  “You’re trusting him a lot, Bob.”

  “He’s trusting us.” Renwick pointed to Marchand’s neat little transmitter, all set and ready to go, now lying on top of the bureau.

  “He must have known we had a couple of our own,” Claudel speculated, then added, “But not on his wavelength.” He left to take a shower in the bathroom at the end of the hall. Renwick was already in contact with London.

  ***

  “Good report?” Claudel asked when he at last came back into the room. “No shower. I soaked in the tub instead, with one arm held high.” He had removed its sling.

  Renwick finished packing the transceiver into its leather case. “Mixed.”

  Something’s wrong, Claudel worried. “You had plenty to tell them.”

  “That, yes.”

  “Any news of Erik?”

  “Reported seen in Rome, in Naples, in Milan. Take your pick.”

  “And William Haversfield?”

  “In Rome. Under surveillance for two hours. He dodged it.”

  Expert, thought Claudel: we’re dealing with a real professional here. “Then Erik was in Rome, too. Disguised as a priest. Or perhaps a nun?”

  Even that didn’t raise any response from Renwick. “How’s Washington?” Claudel’s voice was as casual as possible.

  “Grable is hanging around.”

  The supply-room clerk... “Where?”

  “The FBI spotted him. Lost him. In Georgetown—near O’Connell’s house.”

  “Nina’s father isn’t there, is he?”

  “No. In Maryland. Grable probably tried that, too.”

  “When was he seen in Georgetown?”

  “This morning.” Then Renwick roused himself. “I’ll have that tub. Won’t take long.”

  So the search for Nina was on. Claudel swore softly as he opened the parcels and began examining the clothes for tonight’s job of work.

  16

  At half-past eight they were ready to leave. They made a rear exit through the inn’s vegetable garden to reach the car park. It was deep in shadow. The buses had left, but over at the tables there were still a few determined romantics, local people with the sense to be well bundled up against the night air, drinking red wine by the light of coloured bulbs, listening to a selection from Gounod. Overhead, the crescent moon was swimming through a sea of white clouds. Lucky for us, thought Renwick as he took the driver’s seat: five days later and we’d have run into a full moon.

  He eased the Audi into the road, took the direct route to town. Beside him, Claudel was in high spirits, sling abandoned, his left arm free and less noticeable. Like old times, he was thinking, the two of us setting out, not knowing what we’ll meet. Initial plans had been discussed, of course over dinner in a dark and empty dining-room with one small lamp to let them see what they were eating. As Renwick had said, “All we can do is to plan our first moves, but once we’re up at the chalet, we’ll play it by ear. There’s always something you don’t expect.” The Audi would be left at the foot of Ruskin’s road—what else did you call it when it wasn’t even named on the town map that Claudel had picked up at the concierge’s desk? From there they would use the road itself—probably unlighted—and be ready to drive for rough ground if they heard any car approaching. The silence of the hills would give them ample warning.

  “Almost there,” said Renwick as they came through the town, two figures in dark clothes that weren’t noticeable. (On foot, Renwick had said, they’d make a weird sight: two joggers in the main street at this hour? Pockets filled with equipment, too?) A left turn and they were into the small parking space at the foot of the road. “What the hell’s going on?” He had expected to find a couple of cars at this time in the evening. There were seven, and three of them almost blocked the Audi’s way. Renwick edged through them, stopped just ahead of the leading car in the group. It was, of course, a small white Renault. He turned off the lights, switched off the engine. Marchand hadn’t come out of his car to greet them, hadn’t even looked at them as they had passed.

  “Cool,” said Renwick. “We’ll play it cool, too.” Without one backward glance, they started uphill past the row of houses with faint lights and sounds of television coming from their windows.

  “Did you notice the two men standing at the car behind Marchand?” Claudel asked. “And the two inside the car behind them? No uniforms.” The men, who had let themselves be clearly seen, had worn checked shirts, sweaters, britches, heavy stockings, and boots.

  “One of them sold us our tennis shoes today. Marchand has drafted his cousins. “ And he is hedging his bets: tonight may not be police business, but in case of action—then Marchand will be there. “They look as if they know their way around a rough hillside.”

  “He didn’t give a damn if we noticed him or his troops.”

  “I like his style. He’s reminding us to remember.”

  “But will you?”

  “I’ll try hard.”

 
; ***

  By the time they cut away from the road and travelled over a field of grass, small boulders, and bushes to reach the blacked-out chalet, their eyes were accustomed to the broken darkness. The moon in its first quarter was muted by passing clouds: now and again, a bright beam; then, just as suddenly, deep shadow. They moved carefully, taking cover behind a bush or beside a boulder whenever the half-moon’s spotlight was turned on.

  The structure of the chalet was simple. The first floor was raised slightly above ground level by squat supports; therefore, no cellar. No terrace; no garden, either. Just a pair of windows on either side of a front door reached by three steps. On the upper floor there was a balcony with three long windows under the overhanging roof. Two chimneys, but not even a trickle of smoke. The house was exactly as they had seen it that afternoon: shuttered tight. A desolate place.

  They separated. Remembering the lie of the land, they would circle around the chalet and meet at the first line of trees some fifty feet on the slope behind it. Sparse trees, thin and small, but with enough cover to let them study the back of the house. Claudel, a few minutes late in reaching Renwick, was much entertained by something.

  “Side windows?” Renwick asked softly.

  “Two above, two below; all boarded up. No balcony.”

  “Same as my side.” Nothing original about this place. Its rear view had three windows above, two below with a narrow door between them.

  “Just over there”—Claudel repressed a laugh, pointed back to a group of bushes—“I nearly stumbled into their garbage dump.”

  Of course, thought Renwick, the people in the chalet might do without heat even on a cool night, but they needed food, and food meant garbage. “Small or large?”