Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  Krieger nodded noncommittally. Possibly he’d have chosen a less central hotel. “Lienz tomorrow. And then where?”

  “I thought I’d cut over into northern Italy and take the road through the Dolomites to the old South Tyrol. Merano seems a good stopping place. Switzerland is just over the mountains to the west.”

  “I don’t think they’ll be watching that route,” said Krieger. “But you’ll land in a remote corner of Switzerland. Still—” He nodded again, this time with approval. “We might work out something from there. Have you called Hugh McCulloch in Geneva?”

  At the gentle reminder, David almost smiled. “I’ll do that this evening. I suppose it’s only a routine call?”

  “Just say you’ve been in contact with me, and I’ll give him a progress report tonight. He likes to be kept in touch. That’s the legal mind for you. Did he tell you we went to law school together? After that, I got stuck with blue-sky work—checking newly launched stock prospectuses against all the states’ laws. So I branched off into business; something to let me travel.”

  All this pleasant talk, thought David, is only to bring me back to normal again. He must have noticed my face freezing up when he was reconstructing Alois Pokorny’s death. David tried to lighten his voice. “And meet old friends again. Are there any others along the way?”

  “Not till we reach Switzerland. Until then, we’re on our own. No help from anyone, unless the Austrians find Ludvik. They have some pretty sharp questions to ask him.” Krieger paused at the top of the path, looked back at the ruins in the courtyard. “Man’s bloody-mindedness,” he said, almost to himself. “Napoleon had this fortress levelled—after he signed the peace treaty with the Austrians. Never did manage to take it by assault.” He resumed his steady pace, but the pipe no longer gave him much pleasure. He tapped the bowl against his heel, and then pointed its stem at David’s pocket. “Have you started smoking a pipe too?” he asked with a wide grin. It was the first time he had smiled.

  David drew out the small automatic, just enough to let Krieger glimpse it. “Irina’s. Her father’s, originally. She asked me to carry it. And I’m damned if I know where to leave it,” he said, embarrassed.

  “Not in your bag,” Krieger warned him. “It could be searched—perhaps is being searched right now.”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “I said ‘perhaps.’ It depends on whether Ludvik or his action squad has followed you to Graz. And why not? They knew where to reach you in Dürnstein. Who’s been telling them, I wonder?” The words were casual, the voice hard.

  “Not Irina! She didn’t know she was being taken to Dürnstein.”

  “Nor you. Same reason. But I knew, and Jo knew.”

  “And Mark Bohn.”

  “And that was all. Who knew about Graz? You and I, and Jo. And Irina?”

  “If she was listening. She had thoughts of her own. And I can’t believe that Jo—”

  “Nor I,” Krieger said. “I’ve known her Uncle George for years. He was in SOE—Special Operations Executive—in the big war. That’s English for secret intelligence dirty tricks. I met Jo in London, at Sylvester’s flat. She’s all right. I’m sure of that. She was a great favourite of Jaromir Kusak. He has just got out of Czechoslovakia—but she’ll tell you that story.”

  “Is there any word on Kusak? Has George Sylvester produced him yet?”

  “So far, Sylvester is only publishing him. There’s a new novel scheduled for next spring. Kusak’s first in twenty-two years, and Sylvester says it will be a major work. Prague won’t like it. It’s the opposite of what they’d been trying to persuade him to write while he was still in Czechoslovakia. All he turned out then for publication was a series of short stories about country life: no politics, no propaganda, no whitewash. So this makes one more hazard for all of us, doesn’t it? That manuscript must be destroyed, and the man who wrote it too, perhaps. Certainly discredited. Even its very title is something that Jiri Hrádek will never forgive: The Prague Winter.”

  They were coming out now on to a broad stretch of ground, with an open-air restaurant, a collection of buildings and souvenir shops, and an area for cars. It was crowded in spite of its size, and gave a feeling of safety by its constant movement.

  A feeling of safety, David thought bitterly. “Jiri Hrádek. What kind of bastard is he?”

  “Highly intelligent, cold, calculating, thoroughly dedicated. He is also a charming man when necessary, with a sincere smile and a warm handshake. Very ambitious, and almost at the top. He seems completely loyal to the present regime, but he always has been farther to the left than they are. If the old-line Communists, the hard-nosed boys, ever take power again, then Jiri will be right among them. Physically—tall, dark, strong-featured, very attractive to women. I’ve heard. He’s forty-one and—” I Krieger glanced at David. “Had enough?”

  “You’re convinced that Hrádek is Ludvik’s boss?”

  “Jiri Hrádek’s first job was in the propaganda section of state security. From there he moved into state security police, which has its agents abroad as well as at home. With that background he could be responsible for more than Ludvik.” Krieger halted by some trees, nodded to a row of parked cars in an open space. “See that green Mercedes? I hired it in Vienna. It’s yours. I’ll, pick up my old crate at the garage. All we have to do is change keys and papers.” They did so. “I’ll meet you—and Irina—in Merano. There’s a hotel called the Bristol, big enough to lose ourselves in. See you there. On Sunday.”

  The roads would be hell on that day, David thought. Yet he had no other choice. It was just possible that the Sunday drivers would choose easy highways to picnic areas and avoid mountain routes. But after all, that was the least of his troubles.

  Krieger noticed his hesitation. “Any problems?”

  “We have enough, haven’t we?” he asked with a slight smile.

  “Don’t worry too much about Ludvik appearing at Dürnstein. It could be that Jo let something slip in Vienna when she was picking up your car at the garage. She might have inquired about the best route to Dürnstein, or wanted a map of the town. If someone came asking questions at the garage—well, that’s how information gets leaked quite innocently. Most people talk too much. Including me, these last forty minutes.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “Can’t work in the dark,” Krieger agreed with a firm handshake. “Now I’ll take the cog railroad down the cliff to the street. Ever tried that kind of travel?” He was off, making his way round the busy tables of the dining area to reach a neat little station beside a souvenir shop, and was lost in the flow of the crowd.

  11

  David reached the hotel ten minutes later. The Mercedes handled well, and it was compact enough to manoeuvre easily. Its colour was good too: the subdued dark green that he favoured. He left it at the kerb, just beyond the front entrance. (That would cause less speculation than driving into the garage with another car. Besides, he might meet Krieger coming in as he was going out: funny, but stupid.) The street outside the hotel was now quiet, almost deserted: the frenzied traffic of late afternoon had vanished. And the Mercedes did not look lonely, parked beside a couple of other cars. It didn’t even look noticeable.

  The small lobby was empty: the café beside it had only one table occupied; the dining-room, out of sight, was busy—a clatter of plates, a waft of goulash and paprika came floating around the corner, reminding him that, as far as food was concerned, this was Balkan territory. He glanced at his watch. Almost seven o’clock. People ate early in Graz. David looked again at the café, wondered if he had time for a quick Scotch, and then decided not. He had better get up to Irina; she might have started to be anxious about him, and he was certainly anxious about her.

  There was one clerk at the desk (everyone else being still at supper, presumably), now doing double duty at the switchboard. David waited for his room key. Only for a few seconds, surprisingly. As soon as the clerk saw him, he put down the earphone and came hurrying
. “There was a call for you, sir. I told them you had gone out. Then they asked if they could speak with the lady and give her a message. She is talking with them now. I hope I didn’t disturb Fraulein Tesar.”

  “A call from where?” Hugh McCulloch? or Jo?

  “A local call—from the airport, I think.” The clerk handed over the key at last. “They said it was important. But perhaps I should not have disturbed—”

  David was already on his way into the hall to the rear of the desk, leaving a startled man behind him. The solitary elevator was up at the fourth floor. He didn’t wait, but ran up the staircase to the second. The desk clerk’s eyes, if they could have seen him, would have popped even more.

  David tried the handle of Irina’s door—locked, of course and then knocked. The call might have come from Krieger: some afterthought, or a warning? And yet there hadn’t been time for Krieger to get to an airport. He knocked again, his worry growing. At last Irina opened the door, white-faced and tense. He glanced at the telephone. The receiver was back in place.

  Irina did not look at him. She moved over to the window, opened it, stood watching the dark river.

  He closed the door and locked it. “Did you get any sleep?” he asked. The pillow on one bed was slightly hollowed. The other bed had the opened suitcase and a few clothes scattered over its white eiderdown.

  “A little.” She drew a thin dressing-gown more closely around her neck. She had taken off the brunette wig and was back to her own blonde hair.

  “I saw Krieger. I’m sorry if I’m late. We didn’t really waste any time.”

  “How is he?” she asked listlessly.

  “Full of information,” he said, keeping his, voice light. “And we’ve got a new car. I guess he missed his own.” Talk and keep talking, he told himself. He glanced again at the telephone. She’ll tell me, he kept insisting. Why shouldn’t she?

  “I suppose so,” Irina said.

  “We’ll have dinner. Then, after we eat. I’ll pass on Krieger’s news.”

  “No,” she said, facing him quickly. “No! I don’t want to hear it.”

  He stared at her. “Not even about Alois?”

  She was quite silent, her eyes wide and shadowed.

  “Better come away from that window. The air is chillier now. I don’t want you coughing and sneezing your way through the mountains.” He had kept his voice normal, but his depression was deepening.

  She said nothing. But she did leave the window. She came slowly over to the bed, pretended to be interested in the clothes that were strewn there, picking up a light-green wool dress, dropping it. Then she went over to the dressing-table and lifted the wig. She stood with it in her hand, looking yet not seeing.

  David waited. Still she said nothing. She wasn’t going to say anything about that telephone call. Who had made it? The call had never been intended for him: his name had only been used to find out if he were around. As soon as that was established, the caller could speak safely with “the lady.” Did that mean the man wasn’t sure what name Irina was using? Only one thing was certain: Irina should not have received any telephone call whatsoever.

  David said, “I’ll order dinner up here. It will be safer—as you said.”

  “Safer?” The word whipped across the little room. She threw the wig down. “Useless—all useless. Everything we’ve done has been useless.”

  “No,” he said quietly. “Don’t ever let yourself think that, Irina.”

  “Oh, David—” She ran to him, caught his hands, looked at him despairingly. “There is only one thing for me to do. I’ll go back. I’ll leave—”

  “You’ll leave with me. And soon.” He put his arms around her. She was trembling. He held her tightly. “There now, there,” he said as though he were speaking to a lost child. Gradually the trembling stopped. “What do you think, Irina? Should we leave tonight?”

  “Yes,” she said, her face almost smothered against him. “Yes! Let us leave. Now!”

  “Now? What about putting some clothes on first?” He heard the beginning of a small laugh. “That’s my girl,” he said. I’ll order some food—we need that too, you know—and get things squared away. You pack, and be ready.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll only be gone ten minutes, perhaps less. You won’t start being scared again? Promise me.”

  Once more she nodded, her head still lowered.

  He lifted her chin with one finger. “Keep that well up, will you? And lock the door.”

  “Yes. But—”

  He gave her an embrace that squeezed the breath out of her body and silenced her completely. “Lock this door!” he warned, and was gone: Again he used the staircase, his mind racing as fast as his feet. He glanced into the sombre dining-room, with an elderly waiter moving slowly around, and abandoned all hope. He tried the café across the lobby. Here, there were two waitresses dressed in black sateen, plump middle-aged women, waiting with crisp white aprons for after-dinner customers. He picked the one with a bright eye and a quick step. For a brief minute, she listened to him. “If you just bring a tray for two—goulash is fine—anything that’s ready in the kitchen,” he said.

  “Well,” she began, her round face perplexed. “I don’t know. The dining-room is busy, there is no room service now. Later—”

  “I can take the tray upstairs. Just get the food on it. Please.”

  That horrified her. “I’ll bring it,” she told him. “If I can get away.” She glanced at the other waitress.

  “I know you’ll manage it. Room 204. As quickly as possible. My sister isn’t well, she hasn’t eaten all day.” He gave her a warm smile and slipped her a hundred Schilling. “I’ll pay now and save some bookkeeping.”

  “That’s too much! Seventy Schilling would be—”

  “Keep the rest for your trouble. And thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said to his retreating back. He gave a wave of his hand as he hurried out.

  “Poor man, his sister’s ill,” she told the other waitress, and bustled into the kitchen. “Keep an eye on my tables, will you? I’ll share the tip.” There was no argument about that.

  David stopped once more at the desk in the lobby. There wasn’t a public telephone in sight, but with some care his call to McCulloch would be harmless. The clerk was still fretting about having disturbed the lady. Possibly that made him excessively obliging. Certainly he could reach Geneva in a few minutes. “Just get the main exchange,” David told him. “I’ve left the Geneva number in my room, so I’ll handle the call from there.” And before the clerk had reached the switchboard, David was on his way upstairs.

  He braced himself to face Irina. She would tell him about that ’phone call, he was still persuading himself; she would tell him of her own free will. Whatever the message was, it had terrified her. Never had he held anyone in his arms and felt their fear pressed against him like that. That was a moment he would like to forget. At her door, he paused. Then he took a deep breath and knocked.

  Irina had changed her dress for the green one. She was a brunette again, pulling the stray curls into place with light fingers. “I’ll soon be packed,” she told him as she turned towards the suitcase.

  “Good,” he said a little too hastily. No mention of that ’phone call; and there never would be, he realised. She was asking now where they were going, how long would it take, wouldn’t he mind driving for another three or four hours? He answered easily, keeping his voice unworried, even conjuring up a small joke or two. But she wasn’t the Irina he had once known. He resented the idea even as he forced himself to accept it; and doubt kept rising.

  It was with relief that he heard the telephone ring next door. “It’s all right,” he told her as he made for his own room. “I’ve been expecting this call.” The irony of the phrase struck him as he left her, standing very still, her eyes inquiring. And he realised, as he picked up the receiver, that he hadn’t even mentioned Hugh McCulloch’s name or Geneva. God, he thought, this isn’t the way I
hoped it would be.

  It was only a matter of seconds, once he had given the Geneva number to the Swiss operator, before a woman’s voice answered with “Holz, McCulloch and Winterhouse.” Conscious of the open switchboard down in the lobby, David said, “Mennery here. I’m calling from Austria. I’d like to speak with a member of the firm, or leave a message if no one is available.”

  “Ah, Mr. Mennery? I think one of the partners is still here. A moment, please.”

  David’s confidence began to reassert itself. The woman had played along with his little subterfuge so neatly that his despondency lifted. And when McCulloch’s voice came on the line, with no identifying name attached, David’s attack of pessimism was over. Here were people who knew what they were doing.

  “Mr. Mennery? So you are in Austria.”

  “In Graz, at the moment.”

  “Your business arrangements are going well?”

  “Partly. The export problem is causing a few unexpected headaches, but I think I’ll have them cured before delivery date.”

  “Have you discussed them with your business partner?”

  “Most of them, I saw him this evening. He will probably be calling you tonight, and give you a progress report: By the way, when you speak with him, tell him I’m speeding up the transit of that shipment. I’m advancing it by one day.”

  “One day ahead of schedule?” McCulloch sounded puzzled.

  “It’s advisable. Be sure to tell him, won’t you?”

  “I will. And I’ll have the full agreement drawn up at the end, ready for final signature.”

  “The quicker the better.”

  “Right away,” McCulloch said, and ended the call.

  Well, thought David, I got that signal through all right: Saturday, not Sunday, in Merano. He picked up his raincoat and took out the map. He’d study the next stretch of road while he was having supper with Irina: a good excuse to keep from forcing conversation. A few unexpected headaches. And then some, he added bitterly. He drew out the small automatic. It was a .22-calibre Beretta, and about as useful as a peashooter beyond close range. It was loaded. He checked its safety catch again before slipping it into the depth of his raincoat pocket. There he found the red tie. He thrust it under a sweater in his bag—he ought to have remembered to ditch it when he had dropped the bundle of Irina’s old clothes in a thicket on that deserted stretch of road. Or perhaps he’d wear it someday—if he got through this journey with memories less bitter than his feelings were now. If he got through this journey: period. He chose a plain dark tie, inconspicuous and safe, and slipped it under his collar. Now the desk clerk would approve of him—he had glanced severely at David’s open-necked shirt—and their abrupt exit would be more acceptable. What excuse for that? David prepared one as he knotted the tie; but only for use if absolutely necessary. Explanations too often sounded like evasions; and sometimes they were.