Cloak of Darkness

by Helen Macinnes

  The inspection tour was over—no more trouble had been expected, so no more trouble had been found. The signal had been given: it was safe to leave. Renwick reached for Claudel’s shoulder, touched it. Claudel nodded, his eyes on the house, his automatic ready. Renwick released the safety catch of his Biretta. He glanced up at the sky—no clouds to cover the moon for another three or more minutes. We are in luck, he thought: enough light to see by. His attention switched back to the house. Its door had opened.

  Two men stepped out, barely pausing to look around the garden before they hurried to the car. One was white-haired, stoutly built, wearing a suit that was silver grey in the moonlight. The other was tall, broad-shouldered, his hair hidden by a chauffeur’s cap. He was appropriately dressed for the part he was playing: a white shirt under a dark-blue or black suit. At that moment, as they reached the Fiat, Renwick heard a distant hum—the sound of a car, two cars perhaps. Marchand? But the sound stopped.

  Claudel was staring. “Haversfield,” he whispered. That dear, sweet old Englishman in Djibouti. “He’s mine.”

  Renwick nodded, still listening. Only silence from the road. Perhaps the cars had been bringing people home from a Saturday-night dance, he thought wryly.

  Silence, too, from the Fiat. No response from its engine. The chauffeur must be cursing it, but his voice was held too low to be heard. Just Haversfield in the back seat, his driver at the wheel, and a car that was dead.

  Now? wondered Renwick but hesitated to move. Spring-heeled Jack was still standing by the house door. One warning from him and the other would be heading for the back field. He was looking now at the Fiat, wondering why it wasn’t moving. Then he ran to help.

  “Now,” said Renwick. Jack had his back turned, his head bent, as he argued with the driver. Yes, the car had been in good running condition all the way from Milan; Jack had checked it after he had dealt with the interlopers; Jack was sure. A quick command sent him hastening to the hood. He started raising it.

  He caught sight of Renwick and Claudel, half-way across the garden, fanning out as they approached the car. He yelled a warning, his hand reaching toward the back of his neck. The gesture was unmistakable—a throwing knife. Renwick took no chances. He fired as the man’s hand brought the knife out of its holster and threw it in one quick sweep of the arm. The blade sliced past Renwick’s head as the man fell to the ground and doubled in pain.

  Everything burst loose. At the sound of the shot, two men raced up from the road. The chauffeur was out of the car, running, firing at Renwick, then at Claudel, but unable to aim properly as he bolted toward the back of the house. He never reached either the field or the truck. Renwick’s bullet caught his hip, sent him sprawling into the grip of two more men who had just burst through the hedge at the side of the driveway. Claudel, now at the Fiat, pulled Haversfield out. “Unarmed, unarmed! No weapon!’ Haversfield was saying, his voice as high as the arms raised over his head.

  “Not worth the trouble,” Claudel said in disgust, and handed over Haversfield to a newcomer.

  Renwick slipped his automatic back into his pocket. Yes, he thought, everything happens at once: the dam broke and the torrent swept over us; danger counted in seconds. He turned to greet Marchand, who had appeared at his elbow.

  Marchand’s anger was against himself. “We parked farther along the road—wanted to give them no warning.”

  “You didn’t. It was a good idea.” And Renwick meant it. If the cars had approached any nearer, all three men would have made a dash for the field. And Claudel and Renwick, over by the dwarf tree, couldn’t have hit them. There would have been a chase after them, a scattering across the field into the woods. The Englishman, so-called, could have been taken, but the other two? Renwick looked at the chauffeur, lying on the ground a short distance away. That’s the one we want, he thought; but first things came first. “You have a wounded man at the back of the house. He needs help—fast. Claudel will show your men the place.”

  “How? When?”

  “Before we arrived. He was knifed.” Renwick waited until Marchand had detailed two men to leave with Claudel and was, himself, about to follow. Renwick caught his arm, said very quietly, “Another over here. Come!” He led Marchand to the bush under which the body lay. “Knife in the back. There’s the man who threw it.” He pointed at Spring-heeled Jack, now moaning and clutching his groin.

  Renwick left Marchand kneeling beside the body and went looking for the knife that had just missed him. The sky darkened—more of those damned clouds—he’d have to use his flashlight. A brief search, and he found the knife buried hilt-high in the earth. He handed it to Marchand. “Evidence,” he said, and went back to the driveway and reached the fake chauffeur, still face down on the ground, two men pinning his arms and back. His leg was out of commission. “Turn him over!”

  Renwick flashed his light on the man’s face and pulled off the cap. The hair was blond, but it belonged to a young man. Up close, his resemblance to Klaus Sudak was superficial. Oh God, thought Renwick, and he felt suddenly exhausted, exhausted and sick. All this for nothing, and my fault. I was so damned sure. And I was wrong.

  He turned away, walked toward the Fiat, leaned against it. The moonlight strengthened. He forced himself to watch as Marchand’s man, barely alive, was carried away; as a body wrapped in a bag was taken out; as two wounded criminals were removed along with an elderly gentleman who had nothing to say but was almost smiling in silent triumph. Renwick noticed that smirk. His depression deepened.

  Claudel, and then Marchand, joined him. “Let’s get back to the inn,” Claudel said.

  Renwick nodded, straightened up, left the Fiat. All three walked slowly down the driveway.

  “We’ve searched the house,” Marchand said. “Klaus Sudak is not there.” Never has been, said his eyes. “So tomorrow at eight I shall visit the Chalet Ruskin—as I originally planned.”

  Renwick’s voice was flat, expressionless. “He won’t be there.”

  “You still believe that?” Marchand was incredulous. Tactfully, he didn’t add, “After tonight?”

  “If you were Sudak, would you wait?”

  “I’ll telephone now. Speak with him. About the accident to the jeep.”

  “Someone else will answer and tell you that he can’t be disturbed at this hour.”

  Marchand’s anger broke. “If he isn’t there, and he isn’t down here, where is he?”

  Renwick roused himself. “I don’t know. But if you’ve watched the roads, checked the cars “We have!”

  “—then the path from the hillside down to this valley is his only escape route. Logical.”

  “Logical?” Marchand looked at Claudel for support, but Claudel was keeping silent. Besides, his arm had started acting up again: he couldn’t ignore any longer that it was far from healing, had gone on a rampage of its own.

  Renwick said, “Yes. And when he got to this house and heard that two men had been watching it, he wouldn’t stay. Sure, they had been dealt with. But the fact that they were here proved the house was under suspicion. He’d take off within a couple of minutes.”

  “Where?” demanded Marchand. He held out his hand. “My transceiver,” he reminded Renwick, and took it from him. “No more need for that!”

  “Let’s get back to the inn,” Claudel said again. “We are dead on our feet.”

  “And I have another report to make,” Marchand said grimly. Then he relented, put a hand on Renwick’s shoulder. “Mistakes can be made. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Tonight, we gained something. And lost something.” But the biggest loss was in my two men. And Renwick knows that, he realised, watching the American’s face. “Good night.”

  “A quarter to three,” Claudel said when they reached their room. “Bed—and a long sleep—that’s for me.”

  “I have to contact London,” Renwick said wearily. He was too exhausted, physically, emotionally, to make out a detailed report of today’s results and put it into code. That would have to be d
one tomorrow. Now he’d give the basic news, and briefly: about Erik; about Haversfield; about Klaus Sudak. And ask for the latest word—if any—from Washington. Nina... If something has gone wrong at Basset Hill, then I’m to blame for that, too. His depression turned into an agony of despair.

  He began to set up the transceiver. Gilman, he told himself, would be sleeping on a cot in the office: standard procedure for a crisis situation. And the delay in sending this report was possibly keeping Gilman awake with anxiety.

  He made contact. Gilman was there. Renwick, with an effort, tried a voice code. And Gilman’s reaction was one of frank astonishment. “Splendid, splendid,” he said and didn’t even let the news about Klaus dampen his optimism. But much of that came from a report he had received only two hours ago from Washington. “All is well,” he said. “The supply-room clerk has been arrested by the FBI. Everything is normal. Under control.” And with that, he signed off.

  Renwick’s heart lifted. Nina was safe. Josh Grable was no longer searching. Nina was safe.

  Claudel, unable to sleep, watched him. Bad news? Renwick’s head was bowed, a hand over his eyes. Then he began putting the equipment safely away. He glanced over at Claudel, saw he was still awake. “Everything is under control at Basset Hill.” That was Mac’s phrase—when he said “under control” he meant it. Then Renwick laughed, the first real laugh he had given in two days. “Nina’s okay, Pierre. The FBI have caught Grable. She’s safe.” And Renwick laughed again.

  20

  Renwick was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Claudel envied him. There was a throb in his arm that not only kept him awake, tired as he was, but worried him. For the first time he was admitting that he had better do as the doctors had told him. A six-inch cut in his arm—nothing to it, he had thought: in the past he had suffered more serious wounds than that and recovered quickly. But this time his body was being beaten. It troubled him and it angered him. He closed his eyes, tried to forget the London doctor who had said, “East Africa? You can pick up the worst infections there. You should have had stitches in that wound within hours of receiving it. Be careful!” And the Paris doctor had said much the same, adding with Gallic realism, “Be careful you don’t lose that arm.” As for the doctor in Geneva, he had prescribed two days in the hospital. Like hell I’ll go there, Claudel thought. But the next three hours were misery.

  Suddenly there was a shout from across the room. Renwick was sitting bolt upright in bed, totally awake within that split second. He looked over at Claudel, saw he wasn’t asleep. “That house next door—the one without shutters—with the windows open for air. People sleeping inside. Why the hell didn’t they wake up with those pistol shots? They didn’t even stir.” Renwick was out of bed, grabbing a towel on his way to the bathroom.

  “Didn’t want to become involved,” Claudel tried.

  “Not one light turned on, dammit.”

  “There was hardly a light turned on anywhere.”

  “In the nearby houses there were some.” A few. But in the place right next door? Nothing. “Where were our eyes, blast them?” Renwick left.

  Claudel struggled to rise. Our eyes were working, Bob, but our brains were scrambled with frustration. And disappointment. Disappointment? Too mild a word. We don’t enjoy losing, Bob. And underneath all that exhaustion—God, were we tired! A long, long night. We had our own troubles, repressed, held down, until the job was over. Then they surfaced. Mine about this blasted arm, a small thing compared to Bob’s. Deep inside him there was anxiety and fear—for Nina.

  Claudel sat on the edge of his bed, made an effort to reach his clothes, began pulling on socks and trousers. He was trying to ease his arm into a shirt sleeve when Renwick returned.

  Renwick dressed quickly, looked at Claudel. “No go,” he said quietly. “I’m taking you to a doctor.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Renwick picked up the phone, had to wait for a slow answer from the lobby before he got the number of the police station. There, he asked for information about Marchand’s home address. It wasn’t needed. Marchand was at his desk. Poor old Marchand and his reports, thought Renwick as he heard a tired and irritated voice. “Yes,” he told Marchand, “it’s me again. Where’s your hospital—or a clinic? Claudel’s arm needs attention.”

  Marchand’s annoyance vanished. “Was he hurt?”

  “A knife wound on his arm—a week ago. Yesterday didn’t help it.”

  “I’ll send someone—”

  “Just give me the directions. I’ll get him there.” A few seconds more, and Renwick could put down the phone. “Look,” began Claudel, “you may need me.”

  “I’ll leave you at the clinic. Marchand uses it for himself. Good doctors. I’m only going to have a look at the next-door house anyway. Klaus—if he was there—has left by this time. But I’d just like to check. Okay?”

  Claudel nodded. That’s a bad sign, thought Renwick as he helped Claudel with his jacket: not one argument.

  ***

  It was ten minutes to seven by the time Renwick had dropped Claudel at the hospital and could follow the right bank of the Arve, glacier grey and ice cold, into the flat spread of fields. By day, everything had changed. The surrounding hills, their peaks lost in last night’s darkness, had become mountains piling up one beside another, flying buttresses to Mont Blanc’s cathedral. Blue sky, cloudless, and the silence of Sunday spread over the valley. Few people were stirring either in the houses or on the highway.

  Renwick’s furious speed slackened as he approached the last two houses on the road. He hadn’t been quite accurate when he had told Claudel he was coming here merely to look at the place. Klaus might be still around, using a two-way radio—communication was a necessity—to receive the last possible reports. He had never been alone here, never isolated. He must have installed one or two of his people in the town to keep him informed of any interesting newcomers or developments when he was absent in Geneva. Or in Paris. Or in Rome. Renwick could hope that no details of yesterday were being bruited in Chamonix, but even the best of Marchand’s men—not knowing what was at stake, only what had actually happened—could let a few words slip. So could a nurse or a medic, and they had plenty to talk about. Impossible to seal all lips: curiosity, excitement, speculation made sure of that. Our one advantage was in speed, he decided. In one day we arrived and the action was begun. By tonight, even this afternoon, whispers will be circulating.

  He passed the house without shutters. Its windows were open. And the car was gone. Too late, he thought, and drew the Audi into the driveway where the white Fiat still stood. Then he walked back to the neighbouring house and strolled around it.

  No signs of any caretaker, no movement or sound from the kitchen windows. The back door was locked and, although he dealt with that easily enough, it was also bolted from the inside. He would have to try his skill on the main entrance and hope that no early hikers were on the road.

  Breaking and entering, he thought as he loosened the lock on the front door; now what would Marchand say to that? He began looking into each room. All was in order, barely furnished, a light film of dust on the wooden surfaces, but nothing disturbed. No food in the kitchen, no signs of cooking, just the stale smell of disuse. And a two-way radio.

  He mounted the narrow stairs, treading softly. The upper floor, thanks to the open windows, had fresh air circulating that held the cool touch of night. Three small rooms were neat, unused. The fourth had been occupied: the bed was rumpled. Heavy clothes—flannel shirt, thick sweater, loden britches, wool stockings, strong boots—were dropped in one corner. So Klaus had come down from the hillside dressed like one of the local guides—except that all these items were dark in colour. No white stockings, no yellow plaid shirt here. On a chair was a rucksack, empty. Last night he had backpacked a change of clothes down the hill path. Something to transform him into a gentleman of leisure? Or into a business-man in his town Sunday best?

  Possibly the business-man, Renwick though
t as he entered the bathroom. There was the scent of lemon and traces of lather in the basin. Inside the cabinet above it, a barely used tube of shaving cream and a discarded razor lay on one shelf beside a small bottle, half empty, of verbena toilet water. Trying to get rid of the smell of blood on his hands? But not all the perfumes of Arabia... Renwick went downstairs.

  He was shaping last night’s scenario in his mind. Klaus had reached the house next door safely and planned to change clothes there and use the Fiat. Which meant he had given Erik up as a total loss—perhaps had tried to reach the shuttered chalet by its two-way radio after he had heard a rifle shot: no response. And if he had risked a telephone call, there would only have been a dead line. More than enough to warn Haversfield and Spring-heeled Jack to expect him within the hour instead of Erik this early morning. He arrived. And left as soon as he heard two men had been watching the house. So he slipped over here, played possum, congratulating himself on always taking extra care, extra precautions: a neighbouring house readied for any emergency. Possibly, thought Renwick, the bastard even had four hours of solid sleep—one more than I got. So he is now in that car—it looked either black or dark blue—and travelling. Where?

  At that point the scenario ended. He opened the front door and faced Marchand.

  “Good morning,” Marchand said. He had discarded the stained windbreaker he had worn last night and was now back into his dapper tweed jacket, but he wasn’t a pretty sight. He had an arm in a sling to take the pressure off his collarbone. The weal on his cheek was covered by a broad strip of plaster, the swollen jaw was turning black with jaundice-yellow undertones. His eyes were ringed and heavy from lack of sleep.

  “Good morning,” said Renwick with equal politeness.

  Marchand’s attempted smile was lopsided but friendly. “Claudel told me you were here.”

  “Talkative this morning, isn’t he?”

  “He was afraid you would run into danger.” Marchand looked at the patch of fresh oil stain on the driveway. “You might have.”