Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  “But I had this one’s number. And a man was driving. Alone.”

  “Did he see us?” A damn stupid question, David thought the moment it was out.

  “Couldn’t miss us.”

  “Then we’ll follow him for a change.” And try to solve one puzzle. The Fiat had been at least fifteen minutes behind them. “Did you see his face?”

  “Briefly. He glanced at us as he passed. He seemed startled to find us admiring the view.” Just the same silly stare he wore yesterday after I hopped on to a streetcar, Jo thought. I’m almost sure it’s the same man, fair hair ruffled and square face gaping. But I’d better be sure before I blurt it out: Irina had become paralysed enough at the mention of a grey Fiat. “All right, let’s move on,” Jo said, sounding as untroubled as possible. “I still have some things to tell Irina. Irina! Come along. We’ll plan, and let Dave drive.”

  “Perhaps,” said David as he eased the car back into the broken stream of traffic, “we may have to change our plans. If that character is waiting along the road to see whether we cross the bridge, he’ll be with us all the way to Dürnstein.”

  “But we have to get there. Krieger—”

  “To hell with Krieger, at this moment.”

  “No, no! We’ve got to keep in touch. Or else we’re—well—” Jo didn’t finish, as she noticed Irina’s taut face.

  Irina said slowly, “I was driven to the Opera House this morning. In a grey Fiat. By one of the men who met me when I crossed the border.” Her voice sank almost to a whisper. “Ludvik Meznik. He might try to follow us—to see if I were safe.”

  “That still doesn’t explain how he could be taking this road, so far behind us,” David said. “And there are plenty of Fiats wandering around. You didn’t notice the number of Meznik’s car, Irina?”

  “No.”

  Irina wouldn’t. That wasn’t the way her mind worked.

  “Well, there’s nothing waiting for us near the bridge,” David said. There was no Fiat in sight, anywhere. In the back seat he could hear Jo talking, trying to bring Irina back to their arrival at the Dürnstein hotel. He had nothing to do but drive, and keep puzzling this thing out.

  First: the man had watched them leave the Sacher, tried to follow, and didn’t manage it (Then how had he reached here a quarter of an hour behind them?)

  Second: the man had known all along where they were heading. His attempt to follow them from the Sacher was only a check, to see if his information was correct. (Possibly, but unpleasant in its implications.)

  Third: the man had given up the attempt to follow and had telephoned—or made contact with—someone who could give him their destination. (Probable, and equally unpleasant to contemplate.)

  Let’s hope, David thought as they crossed over a massive iron bridge to reach the left bank of the Danube, that there will be a dearth of Fiats of any colour in Dürnstein.

  It was a small but densely packed village, clinging on to the side of a high hill that almost pushed it from its perch above the Danube, into the water below. It had one main street, roughly paralleling the course of the river, with medieval shops and houses on either side, arches and buttresses all restored and painted, and flowers spilling from every windowsill. The street was packed too. The tourists were stopping for lunch. Cars and buses everywhere. He had to drive almost at stalling speed. “Where?” he asked in desperation. “Where, Jo, where?”

  “There’s a baroque church standing high above the river. See its tower?”

  “Hard to miss.”

  “The hotel is just beyond it—also above the riverbank. Turn left once we reach the end of this street. Krieger said it was almost a U-turn.”

  David made it, just in time to let him drive through a wide gateway into a sizeable courtyard. On one side, near the street, it was high-walled, blotting out all sight of traffic or houses; on its other side there was a low parapet edging the top of a plunge of rock to the Danube below. The hotel itself faced the massive gate and almost filled that end of the courtyard. So we must drive out the way we drove in, thought David. He didn’t much like the idea: it gave him no choice at all, and he might need it if the Fiat was anywhere among the parked cars. “Do you see it?” he asked Jo, as he concentrated on choosing a place for the Mercedes. He found one, a tight squeeze, but tucked away in the corner between the giant wall and the hotel. At least he had avoided the more open Danube side of the courtyard.

  “Neat,” Jo said. She was still looking around. “No, I don’t see that Fiat, but it has got to be here. Its driver is over by the parapet, watching every car that comes in.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Jo’s voice was sharp. “And you know him, don’t you?” she asked Irina. That was obvious. When she had seen the man, Irina had flinched.

  “Yes. Ludvik Meznik,” Irina said. “Oh, the fool!”

  “He’s more than that. He looks like big trouble to me.” David cut in. “I take Irina into the hotel and see her safely into her room. Right?”

  “Yes. And wait there. I’ll be along soon, with Walter Krieger. I’m going to look for him on the terrace. It’s almost one o’clock now.”

  “He’ll change his mind about meeting us as soon as he hears of Ludvik,” David predicted. “So tell him I’ll be heading out as soon as Irina has changed her clothes.”

  “Heading where?”

  “To Graz.”

  “Graz? Oh, come on, Dave. That’s right down in the south-eastern corner of Austria. Twenty miles to your left and you’ll be in Hungary; twenty miles further on and you’ll find yourself in Yugoslavia. It’s way out of your direction.”

  “Graz,” David said firmly. “And if it seems unlikely to you, then it will seem impossible to Ludvik and his friends. Couldn’t you give him a shove over that cliff, or something? Keep him from watching us as we leave?”

  “We hold one little ace. Do you see the dark-blue Chrysler over there? Between a Renault and a Cadillac? It’s Krieger’s. You’ll drive it out. We’ll give you half an hour’s start, and then we’ll take the Mercedes on to Salzburg. Where are you stopping in Graz? Any idea?”

  “There’s a place called the Grand Hotel something or other. It’s on the riverbank, near the main bridge.”

  “So you know Graz?” That was better. “Okay. Well, I’ll pass the word to Krieger. And after Graz, where?”

  “Lienz.”

  “Near the Italian border?” She was astounded. “You certainly are trying to confuse Ludvik.”

  “Or whoever replaces him.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “there is that to think of too. Well, I’ll dump it all in Krieger’s lap. He can do the worrying for us. Now, if you and Irina would just distract Ludvik’s attention from me for one small minute—Give me your bag, will you?” David nodded. He lifted the bag and his coat over the back of the seat with one hand, while with the other he presented Jo with the Mercedes’ keys and papers. He picked up Irina’s suitcase, and was out of the car in another few seconds. He took Irina’s arm, and steadied her. “Ready?” he asked as she stood beside him. She nodded, her face pale again but calm, as they began walking towards the hotel entrance. Thank God she could be cool in an emergency, and this was definitely one. He himself was glad that Krieger was around but he could imagine Krieger’s fury; all that neat planning to be discarded, and Graz suddenly thrust into his calculations.

  Irina said, “What will she do with your bag?”

  “Take it to the Chrysler.”

  “And Ludvik’s too busy watching us to notice her?”

  “That’s the idea.” And it could save time when Irina and he were leaving. They would need every moment. “We’ll manage it,” he told her more confidently than he felt. He even mustered an encouraging smile for her as they entered the hotel.

  8

  The terrace of Schloss Dürnstein (now a hotel) had been placed with a view in mind. It stretched along the side of the converted castle to overlook a sweeping curve of river. Below it a wall
of sheer rock fell to the Danube’s edge. The contrast between this northern side of the river and its opposite bank was dramatic: here, a giant bulge of cliffs and crags stood strong as a mailed fist against the fast flow of water; over there, sandy beaches had been pushed by the current into a low shoreline, bordering a far-and-wide vista of gentle fields and undulating hills and scattered villages.

  Jo Corelli reached the terrace by the safe route of the hotel’s dining-room. (The other approach was down some steps from the courtyard, and completely visible to the man who still waited up there by the parapet.) Bright sun, tables with gay umbrellas, and a host of people combining a midday meal with an admirable panorama. Food for body and soul, she thought as she stood well back against the dining-room wall, keeping out of sight from the courtyard. Among the mixture of tourists, their clothes as bewildering as their languages, she could not see any thatch of grey hair combined with heavy eyebrows, a moustache, and a pipe. No Walter Krieger.

  Then she saw Mark Bohn, his long strands of black hair lifted by the slight breeze, grey sideburns fluffed over tanned cheeks. He had a small table to himself, probably because it was jammed close against the hotel wall at the far end of the terrace, with no view except the backs of other guests. He was reading a newspaper and enjoying his second bottle of beer. He didn’t even notice Jo until she sat down opposite him.

  Bohn said, “You’re punctual. No trouble? How is she?”

  “Fine. Where’s Walter Krieger?”

  “Detained in Vienna,” Bohn grinned as he saw her consternation and, having had his mild joke, added, “Not to worry. I’m here.” He became serious. “Krieger had some business to finish—he didn’t say what it was when he called me at ten-thirty, but I suppose he didn’t feel like talking much over the ’phone.”

  “Did he sound worried?”

  “Not at all. Very brisk, very squared away. Asked me to substitute for him. Even sent his car round to my hotel. It was waiting for me ten minutes later. Now, is that co-operation or co-operation?”

  “When do we see Krieger?”

  “You don’t. He will call you from Vienna at one-thirty.”

  Jo glanced automatically at her watch. “Call me where? Irina’s room?”

  “Yes. It’s better than being paged around a hotel lobby,”

  Jo nodded. Her stomach muscles untightened. “Oh, damn Krieger,” she said. There we were, chasing up here to be in time, and he was still finishing some deal in Vienna.”

  “At police headquarters. The call came from there.”

  “How on earth did you find that out?”

  “Elementary, my dear Watson. I asked the man who brought the car around to my hotel.”

  “Police headquarters?” Then she remembered. “Not on business, Holmes. A farewell visit with one of his wartime buddies. These old boys really hang on to their friendships, don’t they?”

  “Knowing Krieger, it was also a useful visit.”

  “Could be,” she admitted, and smiled. “Well, if you’re replacing him, you’d better order some lunch, and be ready to move out by—” She tried to calculate. “Half an hour after Dave and Irina leave. We’ll let you know when. You’ll stay here?” Mark was a wanderer: curiosity-driven.

  He said, “Where else is there? I don’t intend to climb up that mountain behind the village to see the old castle, not even to pay homage to the memory of Richard the Lionheart. As for the cliffs—a nice plunge into the Danube? No, thanks. I’ll sit here with pleasure and think of the mobs in the main street.”

  “Wish I could sit too. But I’d better pass the news to Dave. He’ll be mad. He wanted to leave as soon as I had seen Krieger.”

  “Why the rush?”

  “There’s a man hanging around the courtyard, with an eye on our Mercedes. Which reminds me”—she held out her hand—“Dave will need the Chrysler’s keys, Mark.”

  “Oh? We’re switching?”

  “Yes. You’ll take the Mercedes back to Salzburg: here are its keys and papers. You can turn it in to the rent-a-car place.”

  “Look—I’ve done enough driving for one day. I’m not a god-damned chauffeur.”

  “But I’ll probably be with you, sweetie. Think how pleasant that would make the journey! Besides, it isn’t too far, and a nice easy highway.”

  “And then what?”

  “You’re a free man. I’ll be heading for Graz.”

  He looked at her in astonishment. “Where did you get that cockeyed idea?”

  “It’s Dave’s.”

  Bohn laughed and shook his head. “Where does he think he’s going—Yugoslavia?” Then he asked thoughtfully, “Or Italy? Is that where Jaromir Kusak has tucked himself away?”

  “I hope so,” Jo said evasively. If Mark hadn’t been told about Switzerland as their target, she wouldn’t be the one to tell him. Not that she disliked Mark. On the contrary, he had brightened up many a Washington party for her. “Then I could recuperate at my parents’ house.”

  “Where are they living now?” Her father, Bohn remembered, was a retired Italian diplomat, who had been stationed in Washington for years.

  “Rome.” She rose. Mark’s perseverance never failed to amuse her. Next he’d be asking for their address, and find himself a pleasant stopover whenever he travelled in Italy.

  “No need to hurry away. If Krieger said one-thirty, he meant one-thirty.”

  “I’ve got to find Irina’s room.” And that could take ten minutes, judging by this labyrinth. She glanced up at the hotel windows, noting with dismay how several wings had been added on. “See you around two o’clock,” she said, and left.

  The hotel clerk’s son (one of three small boys anywhere between the ages of nine and twelve, who were hovering around the lobby, eager to assist with baggage or questions) guided Jo along several narrow corridors twisting round an interior courtyard, until he reached the proper door. As he pointed to it, the smile of triumph on his face was as beguiling as his helpfulness.

  “Thank you. I would have been lost without you,” said Jo in her best German. She slipped him five Schilling, which delighted him. “And if you will please come back here in half an hour, I will give you another five.”

  “Here?” He touched the wall beside the door.

  “Yes, exactly here. What’s your name?”

  “Gerhard.”

  “In half an hour, Gerhard?” She showed him the time on her watch just to make sure. He nodded solemnly and left. Then she knocked on the door.

  “Who’s that?” David’s voice asked.

  “Just your little ray of sunshine.” The door opened and she slipped inside. “And ten minutes to spare,” she said thankfully.

  “Before what?” David’s tone was sharp.

  “Before Krieger telephones us from Vienna.”

  David stared at her. “Then who brought the Chrysler here?”

  “Mark Bohn. He’s waiting outside—on the terrace—in a plain linen jacket. Very with-it. But I wish he’d thin out those sideburns. They—”

  “Waiting for what?”

  Yes, Jo thought, Dave is having a rough time. “For me.” She glanced over at Irina, who was standing at the window. The suitcase lay opened on the bed, but Irina was still wearing her old skirt and blouse. Well, it’s nice that one of us really has time to admire that view. “Better change, Irina,” she warned. In a lowered voice, she asked David, “Difficulties?”

  “I don’t know. It’s as if she’s afraid to talk to me.”

  “To talk to anybody. I couldn’t get through to her at all. Well, let’s get on with the job.” Jo turned to the suitcase, picking up a blue dress and a smart chain belt. “She’s thinner than I thought. Lucky I brought something to give some kind of shape at the waist. Irina!”

  Irina came slowly over to the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” Jo asked bluntly.

  Irina took the dress, didn’t even notice it. “I am putting you all in danger,” she said, her voice barely, audible. “I should never have come—”<
br />
  “Nonsense. Let’s try these clothes on, shall we? Dave wants us to be ready to leave as soon as he talks with Walter Krieger. Right, Dave?”

  David nodded. He was watching Irina’s face. She believes what she says, he decided. She senses danger. She’s still the Irina I once knew: she is afraid for us, not for herself. “Irina—” he began gently, and didn’t finish. The telephone was ringing.

  Jo picked up the suitcase in her arms. “Come on, Irina.” She led the way into the bathroom. She called back to David, “I’d like to talk with him too.”

  It was Walter Krieger. His first question was if everything had gone smoothly. Next, had Bohn arrived? And then, was the girl all right? (The name of Irina was obviously not to be mentioned.)

  David’s replies were equally brief.

  Unexpectedly, Krieger said, “I’ve got to see you. Today.”

  “Suits me,” David said with relief.

  “Where are you heading?”

  “Graz. After that, Lienz.”

  “Oh?” There was a slight pause. “Problems?”

  “Two, I think.”

  “Such as?”

  “A man who is too damned interested. He’s in the courtyard now. He didn’t care if we saw him or not. There could be others around.”

  “Can you work something out?”

  “I think so.”

  “And the other problem?”

  “Not so easy to cope with. It’s the girl.”

  “Is she within earshot?”

  “No.”

  “Hysterical? Exhausted?”

  “No, not that. She’s worrying, and she isn’t telling what’s wrong.”

  “Then get her to tell you,” Krieger said sharply.

  “How? She’s been keeping too many thoughts to herself in these last years. She’s a locked door.”

  “Ask her—and this may be important—ask her about Alois Pokorny. Did she know him? If she did, then tell her that he was killed this morning, just a few minutes after she left the building where he lived. The police identified him, and are now investigating. Note her reaction. It could help us all.”