Rendezvous With Danger

by Margaret Pemberton

  Gunther was already lost to view, but a few minutes later the red Mercedes reconnoitred the narrow street, drawing up opposite me. Dejectedly I opened the car door and sat there waiting for him, wondering what else could possibly go wrong.

  ‘She just stopped,’ I explained.

  Judging by the expression on his face, his thoughts were exactly the same as mine. Exercising admirable self-control he refrained from making any remark and swung the bonnet open, while I tapped my feet listlessly on the cobbles and gazed my fill at the medieval timbered buildings on either side of the street. He slammed the bonnet down impatiently.

  ‘I can see nothing wrong with it, Susan.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Gunther,’ I said miserably. ‘I shall have to stay here tonight and get the wretched thing fixed.’

  He stood silent for a few minutes, gazing malevolently at the car. Then, taking a deep breath, he said, ‘Will it start at all?’

  I turned the ignition and gave it a try. The engine coughed and the car crawled forward slowly. He grunted.

  ‘That will have to do. I’ll take it to a garage and see what they say before we make any rash decisions. I’m determined our last evening together shall be a memorable one. We don’t want to spend it amid these crumbling ruins if we can help it.’

  It didn’t seem to be the time or place to point out that visitors in their thousands came to enjoy and appreciate the ruins in question, so I silently let him take my place at the wheel.

  ‘Sit in my car till I get back. With a bit of luck it may turn out to be something quite simple.’

  As luck had seemingly deserted me since I’d set foot on German soil I didn’t share his optimism, but obediently went and sat in the comfort of the Mercedes, suppressing a smile at the sight of the elegant Gunther chugging at a dizzy five miles an hour up the street and round the corner in search of a garage.

  It seemed rather a waste of time to be sitting in the car with so many attractions outside and a few minutes later I began to stroll up the street in the direction Gunther had gone.

  Gazing idly in the shop windows, being jostled by the crowds, I began to feel like the tourist I really was. I reached the corner Gunther had rounded but there was no sign of him. Succumbing to the magic that the sights and sounds of a strange city always kindles in me, I wandered slowly down the street.

  There were many emblazoned signs hanging above the pavement and I stopped to look closer at one above an armourer’s. It was richly gilded, supported by a fine wroughtiron pole heavily ornamented with twists and curls and with painted flowers and leaves in each curve. As I stood, back to the road, studying the inn sign, some sixth sense made me stiffen and I turned my head slightly.

  Motoring down the street was a white sports car, and behind the wheel was the unmistakable figure of Stephen Maitland.

  I froze, unable to think for the panic that swept over me. The car came closer. He would be bound to see me. With mouth dry and heart pounding I turned, head down, hurrying along the crowded pavement. As I reached the corner I could see the car draw parallel with me as it slowed down to negotiate the turn. I stepped into the shadow of a doorway, my back to the road. It wasn’t until then that I realized he would have to pass Gunther’s Mercedes. It wasn’t the most inconspicuous car in the world. He would see it, put two and two together, know I was here. I choked back the hysterical sobs that rose in my throat. What was he doing here, for goodness sake? Gunther had said they’d all been arrested. All of them, Maitland as well.

  I forced myself to peer round the corner. I had been quite right. Stephen Maitland had pulled up directly behind the Mercedes and was standing like the demon king himself, searching the crowds, looking for me.

  Hastily I stepped back. I must find Gunther. There couldn’t be so many garages in Nordlingen, and he would have gone to the nearest one. Frantically dredging up all the German I was capable of, I stopped a middleaged man in working clothes.

  ‘Wo ist die nachste Garage?’

  ‘Links an der Strassenkreuzung?’ Seeing the blank look on my face he pointed back the way I had come, using sign language to indicate its whereabouts. I hardly let him finish before I was haring off up the street, dodging between the browsing shoppers.

  Further on, past the inn sign I had been looking at, was an obscure turning. I gave an apprehensive glance over my shoulder, then scurried down it. It was a narrow, winding lane, completely deserted, with no pavement or shops, and tall houses rising directly from the cobbles—the perfect place for an unfortunate accident.

  I hugged the walls, keeping as far in the shadow as possible, knowing that if Stephen looked down he couldn’t help but see me. I broke into a run, my high-heeled sandals ringing out loudly, the sound seeming, to my nervous ears, to echo and re-echo from wall to wall.

  Ahead of me I could see an intersection, with a red-roofed inn on the corner, but still no sign of a garage. Had the man said turn to the right or left? I couldn’t remember and glanced feverishly behind me, as above the noise of my sandals I heard the soft tread of a man’s foot, but it was only a business-man, briefcase tucked respectably under his arm.

  It seemed to take me an age to reach the corner and the flower-decked exterior of the inn with its eaves and shutters, but there, not twenty yards away down the left hand turn, was the large sign of a garage. As I neared it, I saw my Morris and the comforting sight of a broad-shouldered Gunther stepping out of a telephone kiosk. At the sound of my running footsteps he looked up, his expression changing to one of alarm.

  ‘Susan, what’s the matter?’

  For the second time that day his arms were round me, comforting and protective.

  Breathlessly I said, ‘He’s here. Stephen Maitland. I’ve just seen him.’

  It was the first time I had seen Gunther visibly shaken. He looked frankly disbelieving. ‘ He can’t be: it’s not possible.’

  ‘But he is, and what’s more he knows we’re here. He’s pulled up behind your Mercedes.’

  I thought Gunther was going to choke. Instead, he issued a string of expletives that fortunately I couldn’t understand, then seized my arms.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘No! Please, Gunther, no! He’s dangerous and there are only two of us.’ Even to my own ears my voice sounded on the verge of hysteria.

  He paused, then patted my arm soothingly. ‘He can’t harm you here. It’s crowded with tourists.’

  ‘It was market day at Niedernhall,’ I cried, ‘and that didn’t make any difference!’

  He looked down at me, then said gently, ‘You’re quite right, Susan. You’ve been through enough already. Though how the hell he came to be here … I’ll ring the police, they’re the people to handle it.’

  ‘They don’t seem to be handling it very well so far.’

  ‘Hey, steady on.’ He drew me closer, his arm around my shoulders. ‘I’m here, remember?’

  I smiled sheepishly.

  ‘There’s a good girl. I won’t be a minute. The police have to be told, they’ll be looking for him anyhow. It won’t take them long to pick him up.’ He gave me a reassuring squeeze and slipped back into the telephone kiosk.

  The mechanic, unaware of the drama being enacted around him, whistled tunelessly and continued to tinker with my car. I sat on the wall, recovering some of my lost composure while Gunther spoke angrily on the telephone to the police. His face was still flushed when he replaced the receiver, but his voice when he spoke to me was as gentle and considerate as ever.

  ‘Curtains for Mr Maitland, and an unavoidable change of plan for us. It will be two hours before your car is roadworthy again. Gottfried, the mechanic here, tells me there is a new hotel that has just opened a little way out of town. I took the liberty of cancelling our previous arrangements!’

  I nodded passively. Anywhere. I didn’t care as long as the spectre of Stephen Maitland was laid at last.

  ‘You can’t go back for your car yet, Gunther. Not till … not till they’ve picked him up.’
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br />   Gunther was deep in thought and for a moment I thought he was going to disagree with me. Instead he said, ‘You’re quite right. We’ll get a cab over there and I’ll come back for my car after dinner.’

  He strolled over to Gottfried and asked him to ring for a cab for us. I took a packet of cigarettes from my shoulder-bag and lit one, inhaling deeply. I was beginning to feel better already. A nice, leisurely dinner, a bottle of wine and the knowledge that Stephen Maitland was safely incarcerated behind iron bars was all I needed to ensure a good night’s rest. I collected my overnight bag from the rear of the Morris, and within minutes the taxi arrived and we were safely enclosed in its dim and shabby interior.

  It seemed to take a lifetime for the taxidriver to negotiate the narrow, busy street. From the depths of the corner where I had buried myself I searched the crowds, dreading to see the familiar, dark head of hair among the swarms of carefree villagers and tourists. At long last, without any further sight of Stephen Maitland, we shook the dust of the town off our heels and I slowly relaxed.

  The sun was beginning to set now, spilling its rosy light on the fields of vines that spread out on either side of us, deepening into a fiery red glow as it silhouetted the still woods of fir and pine that crowned every hilltop. On one, a ruined castle clung tenaciously, the slit windows keeping watch, as they had for centuries, on the winding road below. Only now there were no bands of starving peasants or richly dressed nobles to frown down upon, only the cars of indifferent tourists speeding unheedingly by to more spectacular attractions.

  Our destination turned out to be a tiny hamlet in deserted countryside, some two miles from Nordlingen. A handful of pretty, but uninhabitable sixteenth-century cottages surrounded the newly-built hotel that had been deposited in their midst. Its steel and glass frame rose incongruously against the gently sloping hills. Three solitary apple trees, like sentinels, grew on the steeply rising high ground behind it, their spare branches and dark green leaves doing their utmost to soften the building’s harsh, metallic lines.

  Gunther gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘It looks as if we may have struck lucky after all.’

  I kept my thoughts to myself. It didn’t matter how monstrous an exterior the hotel presented; inside would be safety and a chance to recover my badly shaken equilibrium. Tomorrow morning would see me setting off well rested and composed, instead of in the state of nervous collapse I seemed so frequently to be nearing.

  Austria, with its beautiful scenery and remnants of a great empire, lay temptingly before me. Gunther squeezed my shoulder gently, and from my reverie of the splendid and magnificent palaces of the Hapsburgs, I was faced with the stark reality of the hotel’s ultra-modern and garish entrance hall.

  Chapter Eight

  Gottfried hadn’t been exaggerating when he had said the hotel was brand new. Amid the angular furniture and expensive draperies were signs of a very recent retreat by the builders. The smell of sawdust still hung in the air and ladders and tins of paint were stacked in one corner.

  But when I had been shown to my room, and felt the luxury of the sprung mattress after the archaic one at Frau Schmidt’s, and when I had seen the mauve and lilac bathroom and the unending hot water that gushed from the freshly plastered taps, I forgave all. To slip my tired body into the depths of the fragrant water was sheer bliss. I lay back, eyes closed, taut muscles gradually relaxing.

  After a long soak I wound one of the large, thick bath towels provided by the proprietors round my damp body and padded back into the bedroom. With infinite care I made up my face, disguising the signs of strain that still remained, brushing my hair into a high, sophisticated chignon, concentrating on each single action and refusing point blank to dwell on Christina’s hideous death. There would be plenty of time for that. Too much time. But later … later I would be able to cope better. If I surrendered to the memory now I would be finished. So I sprayed perfume behind my ears and on my throat, took a deep, steadying breath, and went in search of Gunther.

  He was in the cocktail bar, staring out of the large picture-window at the shadowy depths of the valley and the opposite hills, now barely discernible in the dusk. He turned at my approach.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said, eyeing me appraisingly. ‘I like your hair like that. It is very becoming.’ His arm slid round my shoulders. ‘ Dinner is ready whenever you are. We can have an apéritif at the table.’

  ‘Good. I’m ready for dinner now. I’ve not eaten properly all day.’

  He laughed. ‘Come along then. You’re too beautiful to go hungry.’

  Taking my arm he led the way through an arched doorway into the dining-room. It, too, showed signs of recent completion.

  ‘I’m not the first guest they’ve had, am I?’ I asked dubiously, looking at the otherwise empty room.

  ‘Not quite, though when it comes to signing the register I think you will find yourself on the first page.’ He passed me the menu. ‘The hotel opened officially a week ago. They had a few guests then. Whether they are still here, I don’t know. I’ve seen no one but staff while waiting for you.’

  I handed the menu back to him. ‘You choose, Gunther. I trust you entirely.’

  His hand gripped mine. ‘Enough to ask me to stay tonight?’

  To my annoyance I felt myself colouring. ‘Not … the way you mean.’

  He said softly, ‘You may change your mind before the evening is over.’

  To my great relief the waiter came and the subject was dropped, at least temporarily, as Gunther ordered the meal and the wine.

  The food was delicious. A delicate, clear soup, followed by trout and then small pieces of tender chicken in a spicy sauce with asparagus tips and button mushrooms, then a concoction of meringue and fresh strawberries followed by a cheeseboard that satisfied even Gunther. He finished the last of the Camembert and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  ‘This is the part I do not like,’ he said.

  I looked up, surprised.

  ‘This leaving you and going for the car,’ he explained, rising to his feet, a slight frown on his face. ‘It’s a damn nuisance. Still, it shouldn’t take me more than half an hour.’

  His blond hair gleamed under the soft lights and he looked every girl’s idea of a Prince Charming. ‘Where will you wait—in the cocktail bar or the lounge?’

  ‘The lounge, I think, with a coffee.’

  While I settled myself before the fire in the otherwise deserted lounge, he telephoned for a cab, and when the waiter had brought me a tray with a silver pot of coffee on it, he reluctantly left me.

  It was very comfortable sitting, coffee in hand, gazing into the fiery depths of the log fire, but it gave me too much opportunity for thought. I rose restlessly, pacing the room, coming to a halt before the window. The tail lights of Gunther’s cab had already disappeared down the narrow, winding road to Nordlingen, there was nothing to be seen, only the inky blackness of the fields and woods.

  I was just about to turn and pour myself another cup of coffee, when far down the hillside a light bobbed unevenly, then disappeared. I strained my eyes into the darkness, not sure if I was imagining things. A few minutes later it appeared again, this time nearer. Apprehensively I stiffened, watching intently. The speed and movement indicated that it wasn’t a vehicle, in fact it was too far to the left to be on the road at all. Someone was climbing by the light of a torch, up the hillside towards the hotel.

  I stepped back quickly, the now familiar feeling of panic mounting. I would go to the manager, ask him to call the police. I hurried across the room, then hesitated, hand on the door-knob. What if it wasn’t Stephen Maitland? I didn’t relish the thought of the fuss and the explanations, and surely … surely it couldn’t be him?

  I re-crossed the room, carefully avoiding the windows, edging along the wall until I was hidden by the heavy folds of velvet curtaining. Steeling myself, I lifted the near edge of the material away from the wall and peeped through the chink. The torchlight had vanished. Several seconds passed
, then, just as I was beginning to hope it had all been a figment of my imagination, the light topped the brow of the hill, making straight for the hotel. I held my breath as the blurred outline came nearer and nearer. Even at that distance there was no mistaking him.

  I let the curtain fall and ran out into the hallway and to the reception desk. The young man behind it stared uncomprehendingly from behind rimless glasses as I said breathlessly, ‘The police, quickly. Schnell.’

  From behind me came the calm authoritative voice of the manager. He raised a hand to silence the receptionist and smiled benignly at me.

  ‘Was haben Sie gesagt?’

  ‘The police, rufen Sie die Polizei, bitte.’

  Again he smiled, patting my arm soothingly.

  With an effort I controlled the shaking in my voice and said, ‘Rufen Sie die Polizei, bitte. Bitte.’

  Between the manager and the receptionist passed a look of resigned understanding, but instead of doing as I’d asked, the receptionist rang the desk bell and two maids hurried down the stairs to where we were standing.

  The manager spoke to them in German, still patting my arm irritatingly.

  Before I knew what was happening I was being politely but firmly, very firmly, escorted towards my room. The generously-built young lady who had taken a firm grip of my left arm was making suitably sympathetic noises and all in all I was being treated as if I was in a mental home, not a hotel.

  The more insistent I became, the more force was exercised. The receptionist hurried up with a large brandy and a shaky smile. Angrily I pushed the glass away, the golden drops scattering over the brand new carpet.