Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  Krieger glanced out between the curtains. And of course, he would have to see the white Fiat to remind him that life wasn’t a matter of shaded lights and a comfortable chair and a pretty girl watching him with a sympathetic smile. “You saw me arrive?”

  “Of course. I was waiting for you, wasn’t I? You were alone in the Chrysler. You parked out of sight. And then, a few minutes later, you came zigzagging through the cars towards the front door. You looked sad, Walter. Even grim. Why?”

  “I always look a touch grim when it’s midnight and I’ve been on the move since early morning.” Particularly, he thought, when I’ve just driven almost four hours with enough anger in me to last for four weeks. “But if you saw me arrive, why did you look so startled when you met me?”

  “Because you made me feel like a complete idiot.”

  “I did?”

  “You did. Here I was planning all kinds of little stratagems—how I’d let you notice me in the lobby without drawing anyone’s attention to our meeting—and there you were, walking into a place where you were known, asking for Jo Corelli without batting an eyelid. Really, Walter—after the way we dodged around Vienna—I ask you!”

  “And I’d say there has been a change in tactics. I’ve decided we’ll play things a little differently.”

  “So has Dave,” Jo said angrily. “He chose Lienz, didn’t he? He brought us here—and one ghastly journey it was, too—and now he isn’t going to turn up.”

  “Isn’t he?” Krieger’s eyes were thoughtful as they studied Jo’s face. “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “Hugh McCulloch telephoned from Geneva.”

  “When?”

  “Eleven-fifteen. With an urgent message to be given to you as soon as you arrived. He had just heard—very briefly—from Dave. Not to worry. Dave and Irina are safely out of Graz. Dave will contact you in Merano.”

  So McCulloch had mentioned Merano. Inescapable, of course. Lines of communication had to be kept clear, but with every clarification came another break in security. “Where did you take McCulloch’s call? Not, I hope, from the desk in the lobby.” And had she repeated Merano, just to let McCulloch know she had got it correctly?

  “Oh, come on, Walter. I’m not all that stupid.”

  “Sorry,” he said abruptly.

  “I should think so.” She looked at him, both puzzled and hurt. “You’re acting like a stranger.”

  He watched her unhappily. “Who has broken security, Jo? Frankly, someone has been careless.” Or worse. But he left that unspoken. “Too much talk, perhaps.”

  “Not me!” she said emphatically. “I wasn’t in the lobby when Geneva telephoned. I was in bed. I took the call there. Then I got up and dressed and fixed my hair and came down here to wait for you. Of course, I checked Mark’s room first, to tell him about McCulloch’s latest bulletin, but he wasn’t in. He’s still out—”

  “Mark Bohn? How did he get to Lienz?”

  “With me.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t care either. We saw an awful lot of each other today. You know what? Mark is great fun for ten minutes at a cocktail party, and amusing for the soup course at dinner, but—” She shrugged her shoulders. “We arrived here just after sunset, and Mark decided we’d split up and come in separately, stay apart. Then you breeze in, changing all tactics. And Mark and I have custard pie all over our faces.”

  “What good were our old tactics?” Krieger asked quietly. “You were followed to Dürnstein, in spite of all our secrecy. And what about your journey here?”

  “Partly followed.” She was worried now, and trying to hide it.

  “Partly?”

  “It was strange—I just can’t fathom it. When we left Dürnstein the grey Fiat had already gone. I thought we were safe. Then I saw it as we were about to cross the Danube, just below Melk. There was a crowd of cars, but it was the last one getting on to our ferry. And Ludvik was driving. Mark said, I must be crazy. But he’s nearsighted, and no help at all. I saw the Fiat once more—as we drove into Salzburg.”

  “And then?”

  “Nothing. I turned in our car, while Mark went to inquire about chartering a small plane. I wanted to fly to Lienz—save time and energy. I also thought that was one way we could really shake Ludvik. But—” She broke off as Krieger’s hand pressed lightly on her arm. The innkeeper was making his way towards them with the broad smile of success curving over his ruddy cheeks. Behind him was a girl, tired but willing, with a large tray on her thin shoulders.

  “Kröll,” Krieger said softly. “That’s it!” Then, to the innkeeper, “My admiration, Herr Kröll—you really did make arrangements.” The tray had two large tankards of beer and a plate of open sandwiches.

  “And when you have eaten,” Herr Kröll said, his voice lowered to a stage whisper as if that could hide this infringement of his rules about serving no food after midnight, “Elsa will take you to her mother’s house. It is quite near—two minutes through the back courtyard. You will find a good bed there. It’s being prepared right now. No, no, no—” he added, brushing aside all thanks. “The least we can do, Herr Krieger. At your service.” And with a quick bow he retreated to the hall and his armchair.

  “I’ll be ready in half an hour, Elsa,” Krieger told the young waitress. He could only hope he hadn’t bumped her out of her own comfortable bed for this night. If he had, her patient smile didn’t show any resentment. “Can you stay awake that long? I’m sorry to give you all this trouble.” She melted completely, laughed, and wished him good appetite as she hurried back to the kitchen.

  “As my father, the expert diplomat, used to say,” Jo murmured, “when you apologise, lay it on with a trowel. And as my uncle, that wily Englishman, would add, there’s nothing like the old-boy level for solving the headaches of travel.” Then she said, “I wish we had had someone like Herr Kröll around to get us a small plane this afternoon.”

  “Bohn had no luck?”

  “Everything was already chartered. And of course there are no regular flights to Lienz—or rather to Nikolsdorf. The airport there takes only light planes. So we hired ourselves another car, and drove like crazy. We just managed to get over the Grossglockner while the light was still good. There was a lot of mist today—it kept falling and rising—really weird. Mark let me drive over the pass, and he took the lower stretches.”

  “Very gallant of him.”

  “Actually,” Jo said in Bohn’s defence, “He was being gallant. He wouldn’t let me set out alone for Lienz, insisted someone had to be with me.” She smiled suddenly. “Poor Mark! He hadn’t bargained for a road skating its way between ice floes. Of course, when we got down to flatter ground and he took the wheel, then it was my turn to close my eyes and suppress my groans. He’s the most erratic driver I’ve ever sat beside. Still—we got here.” Her amusement left her. Her dark-blue eyes were wide and troubled. Her voice was low. “No one followed us out of Salzburg. No grey Fiat anywhere along that entire route. And yet the first thing I saw, as we drove into this main square, was a man standing against the wall of the old Rathaus—that’s the building just across from this inn. It was Ludvik. Already here. Waiting for us.”

  Krieger paused in lifting a second sandwich. “He still didn’t care if he was seen?”

  “Not any longer. The moment he glimpsed our car, he must have moved away. At least he was gone by the time I drew into a parking place and could look around, and that was only a matter of a few seconds.”

  So they’ve changed their tactics too, Krieger thought, and took a large bite of ham and cheese.

  “It was Ludvik,” Jo insisted.

  “I believe you.”

  “But how could it be? He came into Salzburg just behind us.”

  “And once he was told about Lienz, he managed to charter one of those light planes that were so scarce.” How hard had Bohn tried? Krieger wondered.

  “Ludvik was told? By whom?”

  “Who
knew about Lienz? And who knew about Graz?”

  “Graz? Did someone follow Dave there? Oh, no!”

  “Two friends of Ludvik flew into Graz from Vienna. And as soon as they discovered Dave and Irina had left, they drove here.”

  “Oh, no!” Jo repeated softly.

  “Their car is outside,” Krieger said curtly, and pushing away the sandwich. He drank some beer, lit his pipe.

  “Which is it?”

  “The white Fiat next to that red Volvo.”

  “I saw it arrive. Twenty minutes before you did. There were two men. They came in here, stood at the door for a moment, scanned the room, and left.” Jo took a deep breath. “Who were they looking for? Dave?”

  “I don’t think they’d expect to find him and Irina sitting downstairs in a dining-room.”

  “Who were they looking for?” Jo persisted.

  “Someone who could give them information about our next move.”

  “I’ve told no one about Merano.” She was avoiding all mention of Bohn. “Oh, Walter, I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. What do we do?”

  “We find out. Definitely.”

  “How?”

  “By dropping the name of Merano and seeing if it reaches them.”

  “Too dangerous.”

  “How else do we know where they are getting their information?”

  “And what about Dave and Irina? Can we keep them out of this?”

  Krieger smiled, watching her anxious face. “Yes,” he said gently. “We’ll run some interference for them. That’s all.” He gripped her hand. “Just leave the talking to me, will you, Jo?”

  She nodded, tried to smile. Then her eyes left his, glanced towards the lobby. “Oh, Walter, let me drive with you tomorrow. Please?”

  Krieger looked towards the lobby too. Mark Bohn was standing at the threshold of the dining-room, as if he didn’t know whether to enter or to stay out. “Why not?” Krieger answered Jo. “We leave at nine.” He waved to the doorway. Bohn took his cue and started towards them. Jo picked up her handbag and left before he could reach the table. She passed him without a glance.

  Much amused, Bohn said, “Jo is really carrying the Mata Hari bit too far. I told her we’d play-act strangers here, but at this time of night—who’s watching? And what are you doing here? Didn’t Graz hold any charms?” He dropped into the chair opposite Krieger.

  “I just wanted to be sure of an early start tomorrow.”

  “Oh? And where are we bound for?”

  “Merano.”

  “Merano? Then Jo and I have both lost our bets. We thought we’d be heading into Italy.”

  “Merano is in Italy. Or are you forgetting the peace treaty after the First World War?” That was when Merano and all the South Tyrol had been ceded to the Italians; and Meran became Merano in the Alto Adige.

  Bohn mastered his irritation. “Of course not. You know what I meant: some place more central, like Rome. Merano is far to the north—”

  “But a pleasant town where we can all relax for a day or so. Irina is tired.”

  “Isn’t it something of a dead end?”

  “There’s a good road south from Merano, right past Lake Como.”

  “To Milan?”

  Krieger put a hand up for caution, glanced over at the voluble Dutch.

  They aren’t listening,” Bohn told him impatiently. “Aren’t we taking the long way round to Milan? Who thought this up, anyway?”

  “Dave.”

  “Ah—the inspired amateur. I never knew he was such a devious character. Did he and Irina arrive with you?”

  “No.”

  “They’re still in Graz?”

  “To tell you the truth. I’m not sure where they are.”

  Bohn stared. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

  “It has been a day of surprises. I thought you were heading for Munich after you reached Salzburg. What about your assignment on the Olympics? Haven’t you got some interviews lined up?”

  “The games don’t get really under way for another ten days. And I thought Jo needed company. She’s a bit rattled, did you notice? Something’s troubling her. Any idea of what is wrong?”

  “Just needs some rest, I think. I’ll drive her to Merano tomorrow. You can follow us in that car you brought here from Salzburg.”

  Bohn was silent. Either he didn’t like the idea of driving around the Dolomites by himself, or he was worrying about the meaning of this change in plans.

  “That is,” Krieger continued, “if you want to join us in Merano at the Hotel Bristol. That’s the gathering spot.”

  “I’ll be there. After all, if I’ve come this far—” Bohn shrugged his shoulders, smiled, then added, “What kind of road is it? Nothing like today’s journey, I hope.”

  “No ice floes,” Krieger assured him with a grin. “Plenty of scenery, though. The Dolomites are beautiful brutes. The road is good. You won’t get lost.” And too bad, thought Krieger.

  “I’ll make sure of that by keeping close on your tail.”

  “I’d rather have you than Ludvik.”

  “Ludvik?”

  “Yes, he’s in Lienz. And so are a couple of other murderers—friends of his.” Krieger’s calm voice was as matter-of-fact as the way he knocked out the ashes from his pipe. He pocketed it and rose to his feet, glancing at his watch. “Time to turn in, I think.”

  “Murderers?” Bohn asked. He followed Krieger to the lobby. “You are joking, surely.” His voice was troubled, his eyes grave.

  “I’ll give you the full story in Merano. It’s one for the books. But I don’t think we’ll be pestered much more by these thugs. The Austrian police will pick them up here early tomorrow.”

  “They’re wanted by the Austrian police?”

  “Yes.”

  Bohn was studying Krieger’s face. “You really aren’t kidding,” he said at last. Perhaps he was remembering Krieger’s unexplained session at Vienna police headquarters that morning.

  “Definitely not. I’ll be one of the witnesses against them.” They had reached the lobby. Herr Kröll had retired for the night. In his place at the desk was a thin-faced boy guarding Krieger’s bag and coat. “You actually saw—” Bohn began.

  “I did,” Krieger said, his lips tight.

  There was a short silence. “See you tomorrow,” Bohn said. “When?”

  “Nine o’clock. Prompt.”

  “Then it’s bed for me now,” Bohn did look exhausted, his face white and strained even in the warmly shaded light of the hall. He left for the small elevator at the back of the lobby, without another minute wasted on good nights.

  Krieger waited, tired elbows resting on the reception desk, while the boy went to fetch Elsa. Inside the dining-room the Dutch were still drinking beer and resisting sleep. High life in Lienz, Krieger thought. Elsa came at last, a shawl over her shoulders, ready for the night air. And as he followed her towards the back door for his two-minute journey, the switchboard was signalling. I can only hope it isn’t Bohn who’s making that telephone call, thought Krieger as he stepped into a narrow alley, cold and dark. Ahead of him, Elsa’s solid shoes clattered over the cobblestones.

  * * *

  The room was at the top of the stairs, three flights up, but clean, with a white bed that looked invitingly soft, and one small window. Elsa’s shoes creaked on the wooden steps as she started down. There was no disguising of sound in this old house, thought Krieger, no chance of a short trip outside without wakening the whole family. He was shut in for the night. He laid his bag carefully down on the wooden floor, switched off the light, and moved quietly over to the shutters to push them fully open. His luck improved: the room was at the front of the house and overlooked the square. From this high perch he could see a good deal, almost as much as from an alley or a dark doorway; and certainly less detectable. How long should he give them? Fifteen minutes, half an hour, even a full hour? He focused his eyes on the white Fiat. He took out his pipe, hesitated. Matches flared.
Better not... He replaced the pipe in his pocket. Patiently he stood, his arms resting on the sill, his coat draped round him to keep off the night chill, his shoulders within the shadow of the overhanging eaves. Every five minutes or so he’d change his balance, stretch his back and neck, tighten his leg muscles. A false hunch? A stupid expectation? He would wait until one-thirty and find out.

  Down in the square, partly moon-shadowed, partly lit by street lamps, there was little to break the night’s silence. Two motor-cycles ripped through. A small group of heavy-booted hikers, English voices rising up to his window, wandered back to their Gasthof, studying the cars as they went. A man in Tyrolean dress took off in a Volkswagen. That was all. By half-past one the square had seemingly bedded down for the night. Krieger was almost asleep himself, eyelids drowsing. He blinked them open, decided on another ten minutes to give himself every possible chance. (In the past he had found that when he had talked himself out of playing a strong hand, he had invariably lost.) Perhaps fifteen minutes, he thought, unwilling to admit defeat. But he needed only five of them.

  From the mouth of a narrow street some distance off, two men stepped out of the shadows and made their way to the cars. Their footsteps gave no echo on the pavement: they were moving with exaggerated care, lightly, quickly. They were travelling light too. Each carried a small hand case and nothing more. Their heads were bent forward, faces hidden from high windows. They had to pass an edge of light, widely cast by a street lamp, and for that moment the colour of their hair was distinguishable: one dark, one blond. Their heights were right too: medium-sized Milan and six-foot Jan. They stopped at the white Fiat, unlocked it as they glanced around them—a searching look that swept ground level and then rose to the upper windows of Die Forelle—and stepped inside. Cautiously, the engine started up, its noise controlled. Gently, the Fiat backed out of the ranks and pointed west. And that was the direction of the Italian frontier. Krieger drew a long satisfied breath.

  He still didn’t leave the window. He wanted to keep an eye on that car until it left the square. Yes, it was definitely going to take the road west. And then, to his surprise, it halted at the corner, its engine still running. A man hurried out of the last doorway on the square—how long had he been there?—and was across the sidewalk and into the Fiat before Krieger could lean out for a better view. It could have been Ludvik—the man was the correct height and breadth. And it probably was Ludvik, Krieger decided as the car moved out of sight. Ludvik would want to get out of Austrian territory just as quickly as Milan and Jan.