The Salzburg Connection

by Helen Macinnes

  “Yes.”

  “See you in Unterwald,” he said to Nield as he began unchaining the door.

  “But no sign of recognition,” warned Nield.

  “Not even in front of Zauner?”

  “In front of no one. Good luck.”

  And to you, thought Mathison. He opened the door. The hall was lit by its one bulb. A man, leaning against the wall opposite the garbage cans, glanced at them briefly, noted the blue coat that was being draped around Lynn’s shoulders, looked away. Silently, they left.

  22

  As Nield had predicted, the drive to Unterwald was made in record time. The road, apart from a short stretch of work-in-progress and a jolting slowdown, was well paved and lighted, easy to handle in long bursts of steady speed. The Mercedes, elderly, but capable of a comfortable seventy miles an hour, settled for an average of fifty allowing for the occasional small town they passed through; it paced them accurately, never allowing them to come too near, never letting them drop completely out of sight. The Fiat, with a more powerful engine than its undramatic exterior suggested, kept at a circumspect distance behind them. Mathison did not have to ask Lynn Conway to study the map that was spread out, ready with a pencil flashlight for emergencies, over her knees.

  They talked much. He had the first twenty minutes, once they dropped the driver at a garage just outside of town and the Mercedes slid on to the highway ahead of them. He had so often thought of what he would tell her, from Finstersee to Zürich, that it came out clear and sharp. There was no glossing over the unpleasant truth. And he noted that she was no longer putting up small objections, openly or silently; no longer searching for arguments. She was reaching the same stage as he had last night in Zürich. She was listening. At the end of his account of international realities, there was a little silence. Then she drew one long audible breath. Then a quiet, “Well, there go some of my best preconceived ideas.” A small sigh of regret (for them? for herself?) and the beginning of questions—the kind that did not set out to criticise, even by implication, but honestly asked for more clarification, more elucidation; the kind that were a pleasure to answer. From there, it became a sympathetic interchange of ideas, a trust in each other as they talked about what they felt and believed. Something she had suggested quickened his mind; something he had said seemed to stimulate her intelligence. Good God, he thought in amazement, for the first time in my life I have met a woman who is as exciting to talk with as to watch, as to be able to touch and sense and feel and possess. Here also go some of my own preconceived ideas; here is a woman to live with forever. Good God, he thought again, and almost missed the left turn into the narrow road that climbed toward Unterwald.

  They slowed slightly, as the Mercedes had done, as they neared a lonely house, solitary and dark. “What is he trying to tell us?” Mathison asked, watching the car ahead pick up speed again. “Is that Johann’s house, d’you think?” It could have been. It looked desolate, abandoned, an empty black box with a steep rippling lid, set down on a silver-grey meadow. Saw-toothed outlines of trees semi-circled a background that rose into rough hills. Light shadows took form, lost shape, drifting over the grass as the clouds veiled and unveiled a moon shrinking into its last quarter.

  “Will he ever be found?” Lynn asked softly, as her eyes returned to the twisting road with its side slopes of trees and its dark hints of rising hills, of vast stretches of farther mountains.

  “If he is under cover of a roof—yes.” That would only be a matter of a careful search.

  She rolled up the short gap of opened window. The air was bitingly cold now. “Wouldn’t that be too easily discovered?” Houses and barns seemed few. This road, after Johann’s place, was a dark piece of nothing. Except scenery. “Wouldn’t the Nazis choose something safer? Yet it’s too cold at this time of year to keep Johann out in the open. It would have to be some place with shelter. A climber’s hut? Or a forester’s shack deep in the woods?”

  “The people around here must know every bit of possible shelter, so the huts and refuges will all be searched. I’d think that any caves were known, too.”

  “A cave would have to be deep. There is bound to be a guard with Johann.”

  “At least one,” he agreed.

  “I don’t see the Nazis freezing to death. They’d want a fire.”

  “And some light,” he added to that. Time was short for the Nazis; they might be keeping Johann awake around the clock to help loosen his tongue. “Something with a bright glare. Yes, the cave—if they use a cave—would have to be deep. And with an entrance that could be covered and show no glow from a fire or a lamp.” Mathison changed into first gear for the last steep pull. The Mercedes ahead of them was slowing slightly, as if the village was around the next turn. “I expect the Austrians have already started quizzing the small boys in the village. If anyone knows about caves, they do.”

  “Or old men who once were small boys?” She looked quickly over her shoulder. “We’ve lost Chuck! No, we haven’t. He’s driving without lights now.”

  “Using ours. And using the sound of our engine to cover his.”

  “We must be near Unterwald,” she said, forgetting about caves as she folded the map, began buttoning her coat, pulling on her heavy gloves. She had taken Chuck’s advice—what a strange man, she thought, to have noticed the weight of her clothes and worry about pneumonia—and was glad she was wearing a heavy turtle-neck sweater under her thickest tweed suit and white wool stockings with her strongest flat-heeled shoes. “I’m ready.”

  “Nervous?” That was a slight euphemism, but better not suggest being scared.

  “Excited. And some stage fright, too,” she admitted. “I’m trying very hard not to forget any of Chuck’s instructions.” They had been simple and explicit enough. And yet—

  “You won’t,” he said encouragingly.

  “He is really a very strange man, isn’t he?”

  “You mean you think he may be human, after all?” he teased her.

  She laughed.

  And that was quite a good way to enter Unterwald.

  They had passed a few outlying houses, strung along the road, separated by meadows and small clumps of trees. Now they were approaching an intersection where houses thickened into a solid group. Mathison could see two country roads branching out of it. One of them, a continuation of this route from Bad Aussee, narrowed almost to a trail and kept on climbing past a well-lighted inn to disappear into heavy woods farther uphill. The other cut off to his right, vanishing along a dark mountainside. But it was to the left that the Mercedes swung suddenly, and vanished. He made the same abrupt turn, and they were in the main street of the village. The only street. And the street was Unterwald. Houses lined it, scattered from it, but everything focused on it. Lights were in most windows; there was the sound of voices, of laughter, of distant music drifting in snatches; and along the unpaved sidewalk people were walking in twos and threes, warmly bundled in their stylised costumes. “Saturday night in the old home town,” he said, watching the Mercedes drawing up in front of a house near which a string of parked cars and an empty bus waited. “And that must be the post office.” The place looked like any other house, straight out of an Alpine calendar. If the Mercedes hadn’t marked it, he would have passed by. He lined up with the other cars and switched off his engine.

  Lynn glanced back as she opened her door and said in dismay. “We have lost Chuck.” The Fiat was nowhere in sight.

  “We always have friend Andrew,” Mathison said softly, as he saw the tall Englishman, looped with cameras, step out of the Mercedes. Others followed him. They looked like Austrians from this distance, but perhaps they were only appropriately dressed to let them melt into the local background. They proceeded to do that, quietly unnoticeably, joining a small collection of other men for some talk, then breaking away in new groupings to stroll briefly along the street before they branched off into the narrow lanes that led behind the houses. With pipes in their mouths, hands in pockets, he
avy shoes clumping in broken rhythm, the new additions were indistinguishable from the old-timers. Just how many were strangers, how many villagers? Mathison wondered. “Busy little place, isn’t it?” He checked his pockets, tried to look unconcerned, hoped that the weight of Chuck’s automatic wasn’t as noticeable as it felt. “No hurry,” he said as they left the car. “Let’s give Andrew time to make contact with Zauner.”

  “The women walk together, the men behind them. Where are they going?”

  “Sounds like preparations for a concert.” But not all of these men were following their women into a small building, brightly lighted, near the intersection. It was from there that the tuning-up came drifting along the street. “That seems to be a meeting hall. Or a school?” There was a yard beside the building, crammed with small cars. “Quite a gathering anyway.” He watched several men dropping out of the small procession to stroll at the same even pace into the lanes. The search for Johann might have begun.

  “I’ll leave it all to you,” Lynn told him as he took her arm and walked her toward the post office. “I’ll just fill in if necessary. Oh, Bill—I’m scared.”

  “No need. And so far it has been easy, hasn’t it?”

  She nodded. All of Chuck’s arrangements had fallen neatly into place. So far. If complications develop, he had said, either use your gumption and improvise or back out gracefully, and we’ll try some other way. But at this moment, she thought, there is an awful lot depending on us. That was what scared her.

  They stepped from the cool, dark street into a bright room, small, square, businesslike. Opposite the entrance was a grilled counter, filling part of the back wall. At one end of this was a narrow door, slightly opened, showing a glimpse of living quarters, while at the other end of the counter stood a telephone booth. There was a flag—red, white, red, in three broad horizontal bands—a large map, a moon-faced clock, many notices arranged neatly on one side wall, a wooden table with bench and hard chairs. And people. Far too many people.

  “Do you think there is room for us?” Lynn asked quietly as they hesitated just inside the threshold. This was more than Bill had bargained for; of that she was sure. She looked at the jumble of faces turning to stare at the two newcomers, their argument about terrorists abruptly ended.

  “Grüss Gott,” Mathison said, bowed politely to a woman near the table—middle-aged, heavy built, grave-eyed—who was talking implacably with Andrew. So Andrew was finding the going a little rough, too, was he?

  “Grüss Gott. The post office is closed,” she announced with the voice of authority. She transferred her severe look to Lynn’s blue coat and white stockings.

  Lynn said shyly, “Grüss Gott,” and smiled warmly as Mathison tried to think of an adequate answer to the postmistress’s firm edict.

  Frau Kogel, that was her name. And the others in this room? Felix Zauner was seated at the table, a cigar in his hand, his grey eyes fixed incredulously on Mathison. Two policemen, one stationed near the telephone, the other (a sergeant or inspector of some kind, certainly of higher rank) standing beside the large bulky individual who had broken off his argument to stare at the doorway. He seemed a country-square type, red-faced, genial, with grizzled hair and well-cut clothes—dark-grey jacket with green collar and facings, trousers striped in green down the sides. His heavy shoes were polished and expensive. Close behind him, obviously cast in the role of listener, was an equally well-dressed man, middle-aged and handsome in a lean way, whose interested expression remained constant. His eyes were alert and watchful. Like a Doberman, Mathison thought as his glance swept quickly around the waiting faces. “Closed? But we only need some directions—”

  Andrew cut in quickly, saving Mathison from any further explanation at the moment. “I’m sorry,” he said crisply, “but I was here first. Do you mind?” He turned back to Frau Kogel, who now seemed mesmerised by Lynn’s beige tweed suit. “I understand quite fully that the post office is closed for telegrams. But may I at least use the telephone?” His German was good.

  “It is to be used for official business tonight,” Frau Kogel insisted. She appealed to the policeman on duty over at the phone booth. “Isn’t that right, Karl?”

  “We must keep the line open,” he agreed.

  “But,” Andrew rushed on, “this is important. I must call Berne and let my office know I have arrived here.”

  “Why?” asked Zauner quietly from the table. He had stopped looking at Mathison, his initial surprise either hidden or vanishing. The others’ interest followed his; they were all concentrating on Andrew now.

  “I am a photographer with New International Press Service. I picked up a rumour in Innsbruck this morning. Two terrorists were said to be in Unterwald.”

  Zauner raised one eyebrow. “Well, we are getting into the news these days.”

  “And that will please you,” the red-faced man observed. His face and voice remained genial, but he obviously did not share Zauner’s amusement.

  “That depends on the kind of publicity we get,” Zauner suggested.

  “It will be bad for Unterwald.”

  “Not if the two terrorists are caught.”

  “It’s all nonsense! Why should they come in this direction?”

  “Why not?”

  Andrew said, “So the rumour is fact, is it? Well, if I can’t use the telephone, where’s the nearest place I can find one?”

  “At the inn,” said Frau Kogel.

  “Good. I’ll need something to eat anyway, and a couple of rooms.”

  “Expecting more photographers?” Zauner asked. His interest in Andrew deepened.

  “I hope not. Just a reporter who is on his way.”

  “Only one reporter?” Zauner asked in mock disappointment.

  The red-faced squire exploded. “Stop joking, Zauner. We’ll be knee-deep in reporters before this thing is finished.” He turned back to the police sergeant. “Now, Max,” he said firmly, “there is no need to go searching through all the houses, is there? You know the people here.”

  “I do. But Vienna does not. My report will have to—”

  “Nonsense! A waste of time and taxpayers’ money!”

  “I agree,” Max said unhappily, “but orders are orders. You know that, Herr Grell.” He went on explaining them, all over again, in his polite stolid way.

  August Grell... Mathison kept his eyes on Zauner. I can’t wait too long, he thought; Grell or no Grell, I can’t wait. He went toward the table, speaking in German as a matter of politeness. “Herr Zauner? This is a bit of luck. Perhaps you don’t remember me, but we were introduced last Monday. In Salzburg. When you were—”

  “Why yes, yes, of course. I kept wondering where I had seen you before. You’re the American lawyer. Mathewson?”

  “Mathison. And this is Mrs. Conway, also from New York. Mrs. Conway is one of the editors at Newhart and Morris. The publishers.”

  “Yes, yes, I remember now. You were in Salzburg about that Bryant contract. And what brings you here?”

  “We are still trying to finish that piece of business. We came in here to ask for directions. You’re just the man to help us.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes. You know everyone around here. Could you tell us where is the Johann Kronsteiner house?”

  All talk ceased in the small room. The intense silence was broken by Grell saying amiably to the police sergeant, “Well, Max, if you’ve got to search the inn, you’ve got to. Only please don’t cause my guests too much inconvenience. This sort of thing is bad for business, you know. Good night good night.” He bowed to everyone in general, heels together, picked up a loden cape from one of the chairs, and started out. His friend, repeating the leave-taking, followed him. But before they reached the door, one of the notices on the wall seemingly caught their eyes. They stopped to read it.

  “It isn’t in Unterwald. It’s nearer Bad Aussee, I believe,” Felix Zauner said.

  “Then we passed it,” Mathison told Lynn Conway. “Do you mind showing it t
o us on the map?” he asked Zauner, pointing to the one on the wall. “Actually, we are looking for Frau Bryant. She came up to visit her brother this evening.”

  Zauner was startled. “Are you sure?” Then he shrugged his shoulders, studied his cigar. “I thought Johann Kronsteiner was on a hunting trip.” He raised his voice, addressed Grell’s broad back. “Didn’t you mention that Franz had been hired to guide two of your guests?”

  Grell looked around. “Yes. He left yesterday with them. They ought to be returning tomorrow.”

  “Who is Franz?” Mathison asked.

  Zauner said, “Kronsteiner’s assistant. He left word at the Bad Aussee shop for Johann Kronsteiner to join the hunting party.” His eyebrows were questioning Grell.

  “That’s what he said he would do,” August Grell answered. He turned away to finish reading the notice.

  “So,” Zauner told Mathison, “I don’t think you’ll find anyone at Kronsteiner’s house.” His eyes were cold and bright, speculating quickly. There was a touch of distrust too.

  “But Frau Bryant is there.” Mathison drew Anna Bryant’s note out of his pocket, looked at it, then handed it over to Zauner. “You see, we can’t wait until she returns to Salzburg on Monday. We’ll be leaving then. We’ve got to get her signature to an agreement between her and the publishers.”

  “When did you get this note?” Zauner asked sharply.

  “Around four o’clock this afternoon. It was stuck under the door.”

  Zauner studied the note carefully, if only to give himself time. Grell’s arrival had been an annoyance. Mathison and Mrs. Conway were a nuisance; but they were negligible, obviously ignorant of Anna Bryant’s abduction or anything else that really mattered. But this press photographer? He had made no attempt to establish contact, but perhaps Grell’s presence had prevented that. It was with relief that Zauner heard August Grell and his friend moving at last towards the door.

  Grell was discussing the notice of a meeting in the schoolhouse tomorrow to consider the development of Unterwald as a winter resort. “We are getting ambitious,” he said with a laugh. “First, a ski lift. Now a resort. Soon we—” He noticed the police sergeant had picked up his coat and was ready to leave, too. “Are you going to start searching us now?” he asked jovially. “Well, come along, Max. Come along.”