Cloak of Darkness

by Helen Macinnes

  The Bürkli Hotel was not, of course, on the plaza. That would have been too logical for this constantly surprising city. He left the taxi there—he hadn’t wanted to drive up to the hotel door, in any case—and, turning away from the astonishing view of lake and hills, he started back into Bahnhofstrasse. Again he blessed the tourist folder with its list of hotels and their locations. The Bürkli was on a small street branching off to his left, and should be only a two-minute walk. It was, he noted as he reached it, a close neighbour to the national bank as well as the Fraumünster post office. Lorna Upwood had enjoyed convenience. She also had chosen a quiet, self-effacing, and wholly respectable hotel. Staying here, she must have felt secure.

  He entered the Bürkli. No doorman at its well-polished entrance, and only one elderly bellboy—a porter, or both? At the reception desk, there was a young, dark-haired man poring over a heavy ledger. Clerk, concierge, and accountant? Not exactly overstaffed. Renwick crossed the immaculate floor, barely glancing at the scattering of guests—three men, two women, all separate, each in a comfortable armchair—and reached the desk. Only one of the men had paid him much attention. Okay, he thought, I’ll know you again, too, buster. To the clerk he said briskly, “I believe you have a reservation for me. The name is Brown.”

  The young man came to life. He pressed a bell, trying to disguise the movement of his foot, and wherever it sounded, it wasn’t in this lounge. Renwick studied the wall behind the desk, with its pigeonhole slots for keys and mail. Four floors, judging by the room numbers, and only ten of them to each floor: forty rooms, no more, in this hotel. Then his attention switched to the manager’s door (designation and name—Wilhelm Goss— clearly printed) that lay adjacent to the pigeonholes. It had opened. A grey-haired man in a dark suit came forward; his features bore a marked resemblance to the clerk’s, and his manner to that young man was definitely family. “I’ll attend to this, Hans! Better finish these accounts.” He turned to Renwick, gave him a quick but thorough inspection. “Welcome, Herr Brown. Glad to see you again.” His voice had carried across the lounge.

  Not bad, thought Renwick, not bad. He relaxed slightly. “Glad to be back.”

  “Formalities, formalities,” Goss said and pushed the register toward Renwick, but he laid aside the pen it held and kept it under his hand. “Passport?”

  Renwick, his back to the room, hiding any movement of signing or not signing, hesitated but reached into his breast pocket. He didn’t like this one bit: no need for the name Renwick to be left at a reception desk.

  “Thank you,” Goss said, and turned away without waiting for the passport. He reached for a third-floor key, said, “Now, if you’ll just follow me? We are short-handed today. One of my clerks was called up last week for military service, and my accountant is doing his annual two weeks back in the army. Next year, fortunately for us, he will be forty-nine and won’t need to do any more military duty. Just keep his rifle and uniform, like me, and have shooting practice once a week.” Goss was talking too much, a sign of nervousness, but at least the flow of words got them out of the lounge and into the self-service elevator. At one side, Renwick noted, was a flight of stairs; at the other, an entrance to bar and restaurant. A compact place.

  Silence broke out and lasted all the way upstairs and down a narrow corridor to its end—Room 305. “Thank you for your help,” Renwick said as he took the key and unlocked the door.

  But Goss followed him inside. Quickly he said, “You aren’t staying here overnight—just passing through.”

  “Oh?” And where do I sleep tonight?

  “Otherwise you would have to sign the register. And then— your passport?” Goss shrugged.

  Yes, Renwick on the passport and Brown on the register would have been an embarrassment. “How did you know I was legitimate?”

  “A good description of you and your clothes.”

  Keppler, thought Renwick, was thorough.

  “I understand this is of national importance?” Goss queried.

  “Of security.”

  Goss’s face, usually placid, with its broad cheekbones and square-shaped jaw, was heavily creased with worry. “I haven’t been told—except that this is an emergency measure. It won’t last long?”

  “Not long.”

  Goss lowered his voice. “There is a man from Bern—from Security—in the lounge.”

  “The man with reddish hair and a thin face?” Renwick asked quickly.

  “No. That one is waiting for one of his friends. Your man is reading a newspaper.”

  “He hid well behind it. His description?”

  “Dark hair but half bald. Eyeglasses. Medium height...” Goss floundered.

  “That’s enough,” Renwick said reassuringly. “One other thing, Herr Goss. A friend of mine has been staying here—a Mrs. Upwood. What is her room number?”

  “Frau Upwood? Room 201. She had stayed with us before— three weeks ago. And then returned last Wednesday. But she wasn’t here last night, and that is strange. She was so quiet, regular in her habits, always back for dinner and the evening in her room. Oh, yes—that reminds me, Herr Brown. We aren’t supplying room service on Sunday. Shortage of help. But what can one expect these days?” He was about to leave. He paused at the door. “If Frau Upwood isn’t here tonight, I shall call the police tomorrow. Don’t you think?”

  “It wouldn’t do any harm.”

  “Very difficult, very difficult. She may have spent the weekend with friends.” Goss sighed, now concentrating on his own problems.

  Renwick said nothing at all. The door closed quietly. He placed his bag inside the wardrobe and locked it, then looked around him. It was a small room, furnished simply, with one window overlooking a courtyard, all neat and clean, a place for an overflow of guests. But there was an adjoining bathroom fitted into cramped space, and a toilet that worked.

  Almost five o’clock. Klaus Sudak must be installed in Zurich by now. Yet, even allowing for his seven o’clock start this morning—letting him cross the frontier before the alert went out—his journey here couldn’t have been simple.

  He would have to stop, once over the French-Swiss border, to get rid of the Citroën and rent another car. As he skirted Geneva, it must have angered him to know his own plane was parked at that airport. But he would avoid all airfields, all railway or bus stations: these were now under observation. Would he risk the main highways which would let him cross Switzerland at high speed? No, decided Renwick, he would calculate that they would be too easily watched. It would be safer to keep to the smaller roads where there was less chance of checkpoints. But on them he could only travel around sixty miles an hour with constant drops to thirty-five as he reached the villages. And there were plenty of villages. He would make sure he kept within the speed limits. Infringement brought instant arrest and fines: the Swiss took their traffic laws seriously. There were other delays, too, for Sudak: Sunday drivers and tourist buses.

  So, thought Renwick, probably Sudak hadn’t reached Zurich until mid-afternoon. There, at last in some apartment or house, he could safely make contact with his agent who had forced the name Karen Cross out of a terrified woman with a knife at her throat, then silenced her swiftly, permanently. Communications took time. His agent hadn’t stayed around Chamonix to send an immediate report but would have made his escape far to the west, where he’d find a safe house, secure enough for his top-secret information to be transmitted in code. Karen Cross and her Zurich poste restante were not names to be openly trusted to telephone or radio. Sudak’s planning would need time, too, before he made his move. Or perhaps he had already made it. Renwick locked his room door and set out for the staircase.

  The second floor had a wider corridor and higher ceilings, a relic of the days before elevators were installed, when lower rooms were considered superior and upper floors were only engaged by those who had less money but stronger legs. In keeping with the age of the building, there was a slight creaking at each step, which even the crimson carpet couldn�
��t quite muffle. The rooms themselves were silenced by their old thick walls: Renwick could hear no sound from any of them. There was no maid around, either; the service door was firmly shut. It was a sombre corridor, wood-panelled like the entrance foyer downstairs, decorated with carved heraldic emblems, lighted by parchment-shaded bulbs fixed to the walls, a peaceful place in a quiet hotel on a Sunday afternoon.

  He tried his room key in the simple lock and—as he half expected—it worked. No thieves were expected to wander around this family-run hotel. If Lorna Upwood had only known, she’d have barricaded her door at night with table and chairs. But no danger had touched her here. It was on a little street just off a busy thoroughfare, with people all around her, that she was in jeopardy. Had she been thinking how well she had planned everything? The numbered account in a nearby bank, growing in its tax shelter year by year; Brimmer’s little black book mailed to Karen Cross, Poste Restante, here in Zurich. And why the hell hadn’t she been content with an ill-gotten million safely banked? Another possible million or two from blackmail—had that been too big a lure for her greed?

  Quickly, Renwick opened the door of Room 201, stepped inside, locked it. A very pleasant place with two windows and bright chintz and a large couch behind a coffee table at one end of the room. Opposite, a double bed with nightstands. On one side wall, a wardrobe and dressing-table. On the other, near the door, a small desk. Everything was in order. Yesterday’s newspaper on the coffee table was neatly folded, and beside it lay tourist brochures in a small stack close to a guide-book. Nothing looked disturbed, even to the perfume bottles and powder box that were precisely arranged along with brush and comb on the lace mat of the dressing-table.

  It would be a long search: too many drawers, too many shelves. He had a full hour of safety, perhaps an hour and a half with luck. From the Zurich police, he reminded himself. Not from Klaus Sudak—he could appear any minute.

  Renwick set to work. By ten minutes to six he had completed the unpleasant task. He had not only examined the drawers but felt their undersides for a taped passport or envelope. The wardrobe had only a row of suits and dresses, with nothing pinned to their folds or deep in any pockets. The bed’s covers and mattress hid nothing, the pillows were soft and innocent. Nothing inside the bathroom’s cistern; and its cabinet’s shelves contained only a few items that couldn’t have concealed even the US new-style passport, barely five by three inches. Nothing was taped behind two pictures of rustic Switzerland or behind the dressing-table mirror; and the hairbrush had a solid back, unremovable. The desk drawer was locked—a moment of expectation—but when opened it was only protecting Lorna Upwood’s regular passport, a bankbook, a list of traveller’s cheques, a note of purchases made and of expenditures for meals and tips. The window-length cretonne curtains concealed nothing in their pleats. Not one thing under the coffee table. The couch was firm, tightly upholstered; so were its three cushions, with no side openings, no zippers. Under the couch? Too heavy; she could never have turned it over by herself. He reached under it as far as his arm could stretch, and found not even a hairpin.

  He sat down on the edge of the couch, looked around him. Nothing. What had he missed?

  An idea flashed into his mind and was almost dismissed as fantastic, even stupid. Yet, yet... He had been searching in every place where he, a man, might have hidden something. But— with all deference to equality of the sexes—Lorna Upwood was a woman. He remembered Nina’s ingenious ploys: her solutions to a problem were always simple, seemingly ridiculous, but they worked. Nina, he asked silently, where would you have hidden a passport?

  Quickly, he reached for the stack of travel folders and guide-book. Nothing. The newspaper hadn’t even been read. Then he went over to the desk, where at one side was the usual hotel literature: prices for laundry, dry cleaning, and breakfast menus—all too thin and light to conceal a passport. There was also a leather folder, well worn, containing a shopping guide and advertisements. He had a moment of hope when he picked it up but—like the desk blotter he had already examined along with the underside of the telephone—it hid no secret. A leather folder...

  He glanced at the telephone on the other side of the writing table. It sat on top of a local directory encased in a mock-leather cardboard binder, faded, unremarkable. He set aside the phone, opened the binder. The directory was secured by two long, thin wires, attached at the top of the binder’s spine, that snapped down between the book’s pages and divided them into three sections. The first division held nothing. But spread-eagled under the grip of the second wire was the passport.

  He pulled it loose, shaking his head. Dammit all, you just searched in the stupidest, most ridiculous place and you find it in two seconds flat. No—not so stupid. Not ridiculous, either. Just so simple that it couldn’t even be suspected. The passport seemed slimmer than usual: its twelve pages had been reduced to eight by removal of its two centre folds, carefully done so that the stitching had been left intact. Who would notice except a US immigration inspector? Certainly not a Swiss post office attendant.

  He slipped the passport for Karen Cross of Wilmington, Delaware, into the deep inside pocket of his jacket. The directory, with telephone on top, was replaced exactly. One glance around the room: everything was just as he had found it.

  Seven minutes past six. He was about to unlock the door. Outside, he heard the creak of a floor, a tentative fumbling at the keyhole. Police? They were prompt. Too prompt, unless Keppler had called them earlier than he had promised.

  Soundlessly, Renwick stepped well to the side of the door. No escape by the window: no balcony, no ledge out there. The bathroom? A trap.

  The hall floor creaked again. A smothered curse. Then a man called in German, “Room service!” There was a knock.

  Renwick slipped his Biretta loose from his belt, held it behind him.

  “No one there,” the voice said more quietly, and the lock was burst open. Two men entered. One was ferret-faced, with reddish hair, gaunt cheeks. The other—tall, hair now darkened, but with that unmistakable profile—was Klaus Sudak. He pushed the door shut, looked around the room, saw Renwick.

  He stared, backed a few steps, kept his eyes fixed on Renwick. “What are you doing in my room?” he demanded, his hand slipping inside his jacket. Ferret-face, keeping parallel with Sudak, was quietly reaching for his gun, too. There was a fixed smile on his lips.

  Renwick shot twice as two long-nosed pistols were whipped out and took aim. Their shots, muted by silencers, missed: Sudak fell even as he fired, the other man crumpling in pain as he pulled the trigger. But he would live.

  Renwick kicked the red-haired man’s pistol clear of his loosened grasp, sent it spinning across the room. There was no fight left in him anyway. And in Sudak? None at all. His hand still gripped the revolver, but he would never fire it again.

  Renwick placed the Biretta in his pocket and closed the door behind him. Along the hall a man came running at full speed. Dark-haired, half bald, eyeglasses, medium height, well built. He couldn’t have been waiting downstairs, must have posted himself on this floor. Renwick relaxed his grip on the Biretta, ignored the revolver in the other’s hand. “You’re Keppler’s man?”

  “Security,” he answered abruptly, showing his identification as he replaced his gun in its holster. He turned his head to glare at two opening doors, answered a jumble of alarmed questions. “No need to worry,” he called to them. “Just a car backfiring.” And then to Renwick, quietly, “One shot, it sounded like. One shot and an echo.”

  “Four shots. One in the chest, one through the heart, two in the wall behind where I stood.”

  “Who was killed?” The question was quick, angry.

  “A man who had listed nine men for assassination. Klaus Sudak.”

  Keppler’s agent stared. “Well, now—we’ve been searching for him.”

  “Better get your cleanup squad here—as fast as possible.”

  “Won’t take long. We were expecting some trouble—and whe
re do you think you’re going?” He stopped Renwick, who was about to leave. “Give me the facts. You saw them enter the room?”

  Renwick nodded. “They broke the lock.”

  “So you were suspicious?”

  “They could hardly be the Zurich police.”

  “They had their guns out?”

  “You’ll find one in Sudak’s hand. The other is under the wardrobe.”

  “Who fired first?”

  “Well, let’s say they were just a split second too late.” Gently, Renwick disengaged his arm from the restraining grip. “I’m going up to my room. You’ll find me there if you have any more questions.” He added impatiently as Keppler’s agent still blocked his path, “Look—last night I had three hours of sleep. Today I’ve travelled across Switzerland. And five minutes ago it was kill or be killed.”

  The man nodded, walked quickly along the corridor toward Room 201. His transmitter was already out in his hand.

  Renwick reached his room, sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. Suddenly, he was exhausted, so drained of physical energy that he couldn’t move, couldn’t even draw off his clothes to lie down and sleep. He sat there staring at the thin carpet at his feet. The first time he had ever had to kill a man.

  Not planned. And no choice offered. A split-second reaction that had saved his own life. He had nearly packed it in. He drew a deep, long breath. Yes, a moment’s hesitation and he would have been dead—as dead as if Brimmer’s Minus List had been given the chance to become a reality.

  The first time, he thought again as he drew out his Biretta. He looked at it. Then he threw it onto a chair across the room. The hell with it, and the hell with a report I should now be encoding to send to London; or this waiting for questions now from Bern Security; or with this room which I’m supposed to leave—pack up, get out, walk into a cold street. The hell with all of it.