Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  Irina pulled the revolver out of Jo’s grasp, raised it waveringly as she moved forward. “Yes,” she called out, “drop your gun. If he doesn’t shoot you, I will.”

  Milan’s head swerved round towards her voice. Angry eyes, incredulous, stared down at her for a split second. Instinctively she dodged close to the bank as he took a quick shot. It missed. He had to sidestep out on to the path, to fire from a surer angle.

  This time David aimed for the man and caught him on the shoulder. Milan staggered, his feet out of control. David saw him pitched forward on to his knees, his gun flying in a wide arc out over the precipice.

  David made his way down to the curve, came round it as fast as he could—cursing and swearing at each slip of stones. This wasn’t a path. At this point it was a scree. But at least he could put the Beretta back into his pocket, use his hands to grip and balance.

  Milan was still on his knees. He was at the very edge of the path. He was not moving. He just knelt there, holding his wounded arm as if to silence its pain, staring down at the chasm beside him.

  The hell with him, thought David, and then saw Irina. Irina and Jo. Both together. Both safe. Safe. A few more steps and he was beside them. He took Irina in his arms, hugged her violently. Then, he looked at Jo (dried tear stains on her white cheeks?) and hugged her too.

  He said, “Let’s get back to the car. Can you manage it?”

  Irina nodded. David kissed her, hugged her again, kissed her once more.

  “What about him?” Jo was looking at Milan.

  “We’ll leave him to explain to the police. Come on—come on—” he urged. “Jo, you first. Then Irina. I’ll be behind you.”

  “Police?”

  “Someone must have heard those shots. I just want us to get clear before anyone starts asking questions.” He picked up the forty-five, complete with silencer, that lay near Irina’s feet. Thank God Milan didn’t fire at me with that, he thought.

  Jo said, “That was Jan’s.”

  “Where is he?” David looked sharply along the path and, only now, saw its final end, abrupt, terrifying. God, he thought again, and looked at the two girls.

  “Sotto!” said Jo, and gestured to the precipice. She was recovering. She even smiled at her grim joke.

  David tested the revolver’s safety catch, found it was already in place, and threw the gun where Jo’s arm pointed.

  Irina said, “It didn’t work, anyway. It wouldn’t shoot. I—”

  “Was the safety catch off?” Jo asked.

  David said, “Get moving, both of you. Talk later.”

  They didn’t look back. They rounded the curve, taking it with the utmost care. After that, the trail seemed almost easy. They reached the high field. The little church watched them pass through the long soft grass and start down the steps towards the meadow.

  “Is that the bell?” asked Jo, listening to a shiver of sound, a gentle murmur that seemed to hang in the air for a brief moment. “There it is again! Who is—”

  “Keep moving,” David told her. “It’s just the late-afternoon breeze playing around it.”

  “Bells talk to themselves?”

  “Keep moving, Jo.” He shook his head. Women, he decided, were incredible.

  * * *

  They came on to the meadow, a peaceful place with empty tables and spreading shadows. Irina’s weight was leaning hard on David’s arm, as if she had got this far only by sheer willpower. Jo also was beginning to sag in spite of herself.

  “Don’t relax. Not yet,” he told her.

  “Couldn’t we lie down on that beautiful green grass? Just five minutes?” she pleaded.

  “You’d be asleep in three.” He started towards the Mercedes. He had parked it beside the Ford. (Don’t think of the way you swung in here, he reminded himself, or what you felt when you saw no sign of them—only that empty car and a white Fiat.) The transfer of luggage would be no problem. But the Ford itself certainly was. “What do we do with it he asked Jo, nodding towards her car, knowing exactly what he wanted done but hesitant about suggesting it.

  “Leave it. It can be picked up later.”

  “And no questions asked?” To save time, he began jamming the baggage into a back corner of the Mercedes. Irina was already in her seat, her head drooping, her eyes closed.

  “Oh yes,” Jo said slowly, “there’s always that.” She sighed. “I had better drive it out.” She hesitated. “I suppose.” She waited for him to say they could leave the Ford exactly where it was.

  “That’s a good idea. But only drive for a mile. I’ll pick you up at the side of the highway.” He found Jo’s handbag in the Ford too, and gave it to her. She took it, as though it had been the most natural thing to leave her handbag lying around in an unlocked car. The keys were even in the ignition. There must have been a bad moment of panic, a mad flight, he thought, and tried not to imagine the scene.

  “Driving north?” Jo asked slowly.

  “That’s the way to the border.”

  “Just making sure.” She sounded apologetic. “Funny, isn’t it? My mind is going all fuzzy.” Up on the hillside—well, I never did so much cool thinking in my whole life. “Funny,” she repeated as she got into the Ford.

  Would she manage it? David watched her back out, and leave. Then he got into the Mercedes and followed. Irina’s eyes opened. She was not asleep after all. “Couldn’t find your handbag,” he told her. He was really worried. “Did you drop it? Where?” I can’t go back up that damned trail.

  “It went over the cliff with Jan.”

  God in heaven, he thought. Had Jan got that close to her?

  “I’ve got my passport,” she told him, noticing the expression on his face. “It’s in here,” She touched a pocket of her coat. “But there’s something else—I’ve been trying to think how to tell you—oh, David!”

  “What?”

  She lifted up his map, opened it, and said, “Tarasp!”

  “I know,” he said.

  “It was an accident. I was angry and I had a pencil in my hand and I pointed at the name and the car went round a curve and I lurched and—”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Stop thinking about it, Irina.” That’s a good one, he thought, considering how I can’t stop thinking about it myself.

  “But they will be in Tarasp to meet us.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It depends on how much time we can make. Or how complicated it is for them to get there.” He kept his voice reassuring. And it worked.

  Irina relaxed. She let her head drop back against the seat. “Yes,” she said, as she saw Jo standing by the Ford at the side of the highway, “they have their problems too. They seem so invincible. And yet—” She closed her eyes. She said softly, “It was Alois who chose that handbag for me. It was his, in a way.”

  David pulled up ahead of the Ford. Jo had released a valve in a rear tyre. It was settling slowly. “Need a lift?” David asked with a grin, as she attempted a small run towards him. She settled for a walk, and not too fast either.

  At that moment, an approaching car slowed up. Three men. David’s heart missed a definite beat. Then, as the car halted beside him, he saw one police uniform. The other two were civilians—country style, with black waistcoats and silver buttons and small peaked hats.

  “Have you been here long?” the policeman called over. He was young and brisk.

  “Just arrived,” said David. He began to explain about giving a lift to this lady in distress (Jo was now standing by the Mercedes) but his Italian tipped over into French, and he ended in frustration.

  The policeman looked at Jo, and stepped out on to the road. But it was only to salute her and ask, in a gentler fashion, how long she had been here.

  “Not too long. I had trouble with my car, so I stopped. This gentleman will take me to the nearest garage.”

  “Ah, the lady speaks Italian!” the policeman said with relief. “Did the lady hear any shots from the hill behind us?”

  “Yes,” said Jo. �
�Probably hunters.”

  “Not on that hill.” The policeman’s handsome dark eyes were grave. “It is a place of pilgrimage.”

  “I could have been mistaken. I was a little distance away. And there are so many hills.”

  The farmers jumped into the discussion. This hill, they insisted, it was this hill. They knew where shots came from. Besides, it was on Santa Maria’s picnic meadow that Tommaso reported he had met two men—disagreeable types—one carrying a handgun of some kind. Tommaso was sure of that. He had seen it just as the two men were about to take the path to Santa Maria. Yes, he had seen a pistol. Tommaso had good eyes.

  David listened to the rapid flood of Italian, and caught one word out of three. This could go on forever, he thought, and leaned over to open the rear door for Jo as a delicate hint.

  Jo pulled it wide, put one foot inside, gave the policeman a warm smile. “Where is the nearest service station?” she asked. She listened to his instructions, said “Thank you so much,” and got into the car.

  A crisp salute, a wave of Jo’s hand, and David was driving off. Once they were out of sight, he put on speed. “And who the devil is Tommaso?” he asked.

  But Jo had collapsed in her corner of the back seat, and Irina was drifting off into real sleep. All we’ll ever know, he thought, is that Tommaso had good eyes.

  Jo said, “Just give me fifteen minutes, David. I’ll tell you then. You’ve been driving all day, and—” Her voice merged into silence.

  He let them both sleep until the Italian frontier post was almost in sight. Passage through it was painless. Then the Swiss border with its small formalities; and that too was behind them. There was still plenty of daylight, an hour at least, possibly more, and Tarasp less than thirty miles south.

  21

  Walter Krieger stepped on to good Swiss earth a few minutes after six o’clock and paused briefly to watch the light plane that had brought him from Bolzano. It was still bob-bobbing its way, this time into the wind to take off for the flight back to its own nest. But it had got him here; and that was something he wouldn’t have bet on fifteen minutes ago, when they were skirting the massive peaks that marked the Italian-Swiss frontier. Next time he had to make a journey between agonised ridges, he’d hire himself a nice compact jet—like that one over there, at the side of the airfield—and no more vintage two-seater jobs. He gave an amused glance at the little plane as it rose and headed away from the broad green valley back towards the tormented shapes of sheer rock. Well, he thought, if hummingbirds can make twice-yearly flights between Brazil and New England, who am I to doubt we could, make it to Samaden?

  His attention switched back to the small jet. It had completed its landing as his plane was approaching the Samaden airport; now it was drawn neatly out of the way. There were still two crew members standing beside it. On guard? He studied the plane for a moment, and his frown deepened. Then he continued his way towards the formalities: passport and papers and general proof of innocence. They wouldn’t take long. His legal residence was in Switzerland, and his firm in Vevey was practically a national institution. Besides, he used this small airport for occasional week-ends at St Moritz. He wasn’t exactly a stranger. All of which were little drops of oil to help the machinery of officialdom turn smoothly. He was not disappointed. He had no luggage (his bag was still in Merano, he hadn’t even gone up to his room once he had picked up Dave’s message) and that hastened the process. There was only one delay. The car, complete with driver—he had radioed ahead for them—had not yet arrived. “It should be here any moment, Herr Krieger,” said the man in charge of passengers’ predicaments. “There is a village festival today. Processions make traffic—well, uncertain. You understand?”

  Krieger nodded. He consoled himself with the fact that Samaden was on the highway that led north, straight to Tarasp. Thirty-three miles... With luck he could be there in half an hour. With luck, and no more processions or Saturday slow-ups.

  The man glanced at Krieger’s bandaged hands. “I can see why you requested a driver with the car,” he said sympathetically.

  “Nothing serious. Just slight burns.” Nothing to what it could have been, Krieger thought, and certainly nothing compared with what had been intended. He looked at the man’s quiet, strictly Swiss-movement face, and wondered what would happen to it if he was to say, “Back in Merano, in a peaceful courtyard behind a reputable hotel, the door of my car was fixed so that when I got in and closed it, the driver’s seat would blow up. But a couple of ten-year-olds came wandering around, opened the door just to find out what the inside of a big American car looked like, and then saw me approaching, and slammed the door shut. Yes, that did it. How was that for a send-off? As for the boys—no damage to one; a partly burned jacket on the other. The flames didn’t get full hold, could be soon beaten out. So he was left with only a scare, and I with some skin off my hands. And a problem. How to get out of Merano? Solution: a twenty-mile ride by taxi to the Bolzano airport.” But Krieger refrained. Instead, he looked at the bandages, thoroughly soaked in good old bicarbonate of soda (courtesy of the hotel kitchen), and said, “The damnable thing is that I can’t fill my pipe.”

  The man lost some of his worry about the delay. The American was taking it well—not like those others who had arrived just before him. “I’m truly sorry about this inconvenience.”

  “Not your fault I just chose the wrong time to get here. By the way, what’s a Russian-built plane doing in Samaden? Don’t tell me they are now jet-setting here for a week-end in St Moritz!”

  The Swiss laughed. “Just a short visit.” He dropped his voice. “They aren’t Russians. Czechs. Three Czechs and one American.”

  “You don’t say.” Krieger was casual.

  “From Innsbruck, I understand.”

  Krieger was all innocent astonishment. “I’d have thought Prague more likely.”

  “I believe the flight originated there.”

  “Ah, they just stopped briefly at Innsbruck?” Odd, distinctly odd, thought Krieger. He looked around him. The place was almost empty. Most week-enders had arrived either yesterday or this morning. They seem to have left. They must have been luckier with their transportation than I was.”

  “No, no. They are still waiting. For two cars. Nothing to do with us, of course. We didn’t make the arrangements.” (But that didn’t keep them from blaming me, as if I were responsible for a traffic jam.)

  “Two cars?” Krieger was amused. “They travel in style. Where are they now?”

  “In a waiting room.” The Swiss was unable to repress a small grin. “Quite by themselves.”

  “Diplomats, possibly. Who else would be so discreet, and retiring?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said the man, something of a diplomat himself. So far I’ll talk, his polite smile seemed to say, but no farther.

  “Well,” Krieger said, “I think I’ll, step outside and try a little willpower on my car—hurry it up. Or have you the telephone number of the garage? We might jog them a little.” The Swiss gave him its number, and then had second thoughts. “But your car is on its way. I’m sure of that. There’s really no need to call.” And it’s possibly my brother-in-law who is driving, he worried. “It might just complicate—”

  “Of course,” Krieger agreed. “I don’t want to get the driver into any trouble.”

  “It really, is not his fault. Believe me, Herr Krieger.”

  “I do, I do.” Krieger gave a preoccupied smile, and moved towards the front entrance. His mind was giving him no rest: it jumped from one guess to another. Cut it out, he told himself. Innsbruck, plus an American, doesn’t necessarily mean that Mark Bohn was instructed to get off the train on his way to Munich, just so that a new team of Hrádek’s experts from Prague could pick him up there and bring him along. Why should they? Because they think we still trust him? Because he’s their pet Trojan horse? Cut it out, he told himself once more: why the hell would Hrádek’s boys be coming to this part of the world, anyway? They didn’t know an
ything about Tarasp. Switzerland, yes—if Bohn had added up his observations correctly. But Tarasp? No. That was something else again.

  Yet Krieger still couldn’t persuade himself; not fully. The question mark at the back of his mind was too big and bold, an instinctive doubt that cold calm reason could not answer. When his car arrived a minute later, he told its driver to wait; he had forgotten something.

  The driver was philosophic. All that rush for nothing, he thought as he watched his passenger step out of sight. Then he drew the car farther along the kerb to leave plenty of space for two new arrivals: high-powered jobs, these were, and not a local hire at that. The chauffeurs were not known to him either. Stolid-looking men, but—at this moment—rattled. One of them was running inside to look for his clients. What was all the hurry? “Take it easy, du Kerl; you’ll live longer,” Krieger’s driver called out. He shook his head, pulled out a tattered German paperback, and found the dog-ear that marked his place in chapter eleven of The Oregon Trail. How was that fight around the wagon train going to end?

  * * *

  The four men left the waiting room, with the chauffeur leading the way to the two cars. He was full of explanations. “That’s enough!” Jiri Hrádek said. “Keep moving.” He was dressed in quiet dark grey, unobtrusive; but he was tall, straight-backed, and carried himself well, and nothing could disguise a certain authority in his manner. The Swiss, watching him leave with his two subordinates on either side, considered him a handsome man—strong features, carefully brushed dark hair, a healthy colour in his tanned cheeks—not like the other Czechs who had arrived with him, big potato faces. But they were neat enough in their dress and in their movements. The American who walked closely behind them was a mess by contrast, his hair ridiculous, his jacket wrinkled.