After the Fine Weather (13 page)

The Colonel looked at his watch. “We must go in now,” he said. “A proposal will be made to you. I urge you, most strongly, to accept it. It is my official duty to do so. But” – and here he came and sat on the corner of the table, and his voice sank to a soft, rumbling purr – “if you are quite unable to do so, I might be able to suggest an alternative. Come–” He got up and his voice rose to its normal pitch. “We must not keep the Hofrat waiting.”

Heinrich Humbold was alone in his office. He did not get up or offer to shake hands. He indicated a chair for Charles to sit in. Colonel Julius remained standing.

“I have to inform you,” he said, “that yesterday a very serious thing occurred. An American journalist, Keller, had apparently arranged with a photographer, Hoffracker, to forge a photograph purporting to show a gun being fired from the front of the theatre. He seems to have done this in an attempt to support your sister’s story. It is suspected that he is an agent of the CIA.”

“You have evidence of that?”

“The evidence of it is the unscrupulous way in which he has behaved. He appears to have quarrelled with the photographer Hoffracker over the division of the profits, killed him, and burned down his shop to conceal the crime. He then hired a car, drove toward the Italian border, and climbed the mountain track leading to the frontier. There he encountered, and killed, a member of the frontier control.”

“I trust,” said Charles, “that he was apprehended before he entered Italy.”

“Unfortunately, no. Strong representations will be made to the Italian government.”

“It would be most improper of them to harbour a murderer,” agreed Charles.

‘Two of Keller’s accomplices have been traced and are under arrest. One is the Lienz representative of the Trans-World Press Agency, Sandholzner. The other is the proprietor of a garage which supplied him with a car. The latter may have been acting innocently. Sandholzner, I am certain, knows more than he has told us – as yet.”

Charles said, “I know neither of these men. Nor, in fact, have I ever met Mr Keller.”

“No? He has visited your flat on one occasion at least, and would appear to have been on friendly terms with your sister.”

“You may be right. Is it important?”

“It is of considerable significance, in the light of the latest developments. Yes.”

Now we’re coming to it, thought Charles. He said, in a voice of polite interest, “What developments are those?”

“Yesterday the assassin Boschetto made a full confession.”

“Yes?”

“Have no fear, I can assure you that no force of any sort was used. He made this confession quite voluntarily. Indeed, so far as he personally was concerned, any confession was superfluous. There were a thousand witnesses to his crime.”

‘There were a thousand witnesses to the fact that the Bishop was assassinated,” agreed Charles.

Humbold looked at him sharply, and said, “What was more interesting was that he revealed to us something of the background of the crime. It was planned in Italy – to be precise, in Rome. Boschetto himself was selected as a simple-minded patriot, with a grudge. He was got hold of immediately he left prison, was given a gun, and was also given a great deal to drink. His part in the matter was deplorable, but he was only the hand, not the head nor the heart of the killing.”

“He must have been a very simple man,” said Charles, “to perform, in front of a crowd of witnesses, an act which must inevitably result in his own destruction.” And, to himself, as he spotted the gleam of triumph in Humbold’s eye, damn it, I believe that’s what he wanted me to say.

“Quite so,” said Humbold. “The plotters had, of course, considered the point. They had arranged for an accomplice to be present. An accomplice who would distract suspicion from Boschetto by swearing that he was not the killer – that the shooting was done by a mysterious, unknown, untraceable assassin concealed in the theatre.”

Charles found himself staring at the Hofrat. He opened his mouth, but no sound came.

“Boschetto’s confession has made your sister’s part in the matter all too clear.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Do you know who your sister associated with in Rome?”

“No – but–”

“Did you know that one of her closest friends was Lorenzo Vigari, a notorious Communist intriguer?”

“No.”

“It seems that you really know very little about your sister’s activities.”

Keep your temper, said Charles to himself. Whatever you do, don’t start bellowing. In a voice that he hardly recognized as his own he said, “If you have any proof, any independent proof, of this outrageous allegation, I should like to see it.”

“Unfortunately, we have no time for independent proof. Boschetto’s trial starts tomorrow. We have, however, prepared a short statement for your sister to sign.”

“I can assure you that she will do no such thing.”

“There is only one alternative,” said Humbold. “Boschetto and your sister, being accomplices, will have to stand trial together.”

“I think he’s mad,” said Evelyn.

“Not sure,” said Charles. “When a man’s playing for high stakes – higher than he can afford to lose – the rules are bound to get a bit elastic.”

“Tell me again what he said.”

“If Laura would sign this confession, he’d allow her to slip out of the country.”

“Did he say how?”

“Yes. He’d got it all arranged. I’d be allowed to drive her as far as Sillian. The road’s open now. And the frontier police would have instructions not to stop us. She could be back in Rome by tomorrow night.”

“Leaving behind her,” said Evelyn, “just about the most frightful diplomatic stink imaginable. There’s going to be a big enough row, in all conscience, when young Mr Keller’s story hits the headlines. But when this one breaks, right on top of it: ‘Consul’s sister aids assassin’–”

“No one will believe it.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Evelyn. “I don’t mean,” he added hastily, as he saw Charles’ face, “that our masters will believe it. But the rest of the world is pretty credulous about undercover plots. Look at the way the CIA automatically gets blamed for any bother anywhere in the world.”

“I shan’t allow her to sign it, of course.”

“What’s going to happen if she doesn’t? Were you told that?”

“If she doesn’t, they put her on trial with Boschetto.”

“Actually on trial? Are they planning to come and drag her out of the consulate?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because if they do, there really is going to be trouble.”

“More than trouble,” said Charles. “Bloodshed. A joint services task force, led by Colonel Crocker and Commander Muspratt, is under arms already. They’ve set up their headquarters in the British Council Cultural Exhibition and they’re spoiling for action.”

“It looks as if they’re going to get it.”

“There’s one ray of hope. I’m not sure the opposition is quite as unanimous as they’d like us to think.”

Charles told Evelyn about his interview with Colonel Shatzmann.

Evelyn said, “You think Julius may have seen the red light? You could be right. It’d be absolutely in keeping with his training and character. He’d back Humbold to the hilt – as long as he was winning. And drop him like a hot brick the moment he thought he’d gone too far.”

“I doubt if he’s strong enough to stop Humbold doing what he wants.”

“Maybe not. But it’s useful to know that he’s even thinking about it. What’s your plan now? Sit tight and stick it out?”

Charles said slowly, “For myself, I’m quite prepared to stick it out. I don’t see that they stand to gain anything by antagonizing us. In fact, they’d probably as soon have us on their side. But it’s absolutely clear that we’ve got to get Laura out. And on our terms, not theirs.”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Evelyn. “Have you any idea how? And if we can find a way – something really ingenious, like doing her up as a gross of woollen underwear and dispatching her to Marks and Spencer’s – do you think she’ll agree?”

“You scout round and find a way out. I’ll persuade her to take it.”

Charles got back to the flat in time for a late lunch. He found Laura doing a jigsaw puzzle. It was one which his predecessor had left behind. It contained nine hundred and seventy-five pieces and was believed to show a party of kittens tobogganing down a slope. Laura had completed the top right-hand corner.

“There’s a bit missing,” she said.

“You always think that when you can’t do a puzzle.”

“I’ve just counted. There are six kittens and only five heads. What’s the news?”

“Nothing definite. A lot of rumour.” He gave her most of the details.

“You don’t think I ought to sign this confession. I could always deny it afterwards.”

“No,” said Charles, “I don’t. It isn’t only that I’m against signing things that aren’t true – and it’s very difficult to talk yourself out of a document when you’ve signed it in the presence of half a dozen witnesses, and probably a television camera into the bargain – and it isn’t only that the existence of such a document would cause the biggest diplomatic row since Bernstorff had his portfolio stolen in America in 1916 – I’ve forgotten how I started this sentence.”

“You’ve said ‘it isn’t only’ twice. Then I imagine you were going to say why you really didn’t want me to sign it.”

“You’ve always had a more orderly mind than I. The real reason against your signing it is that I’m far from certain they’d keep their side of the bargain. Once they’d got your confession they’d think up some reason for keeping you here, and put you on trial too.”

“What,” said Laura, trying to keep her voice at a nice, steady level, “do you think I ought to do?”

“There’s only one answer to that. We’ve got to get you out of here without Humbold’s kind help.”

“If you did, you’d be in for it, wouldn’t you?”

“He’d be very angry with me,” said Charles, “but I doubt if he’d actually do anything. There’s a prejudice against shooting other people’s consuls. And I can’t see that it would do him any good. Mind you, Evelyn doesn’t agree. He thinks Humbold’s mad. If he’s mad, he might do anything.”

From where Laura stood in the window she could see the street. The apparatus of blockade was now quite open. Wheeled traffic had been diverted at either end of the street and a troop carrier had been backed into position opposite the entrance to the building. An empty ground-floor shop immediately opposite had been taken over as a guardroom.

“Do you think there’s any real chance of getting me out?” she said. “I suppose the back way has been blocked now.”

“You suppose correctly. There’s a guard like this one in the street behind us.”

“Then–?”

“Evelyn’s out now seeing if he can make any useful contacts. It’s no good getting you out of the flat unless we can get you out of the country too.”

“I suppose not. Equally, it’s no good finding a way out of the country unless you can get me out of the flat.”

“I expect we shall think of something. All you’ve got to do is sit tight and keep calm.”

“I am keeping calm.”

“You’re doing very well,” said Charles. “I’ve got to go round to the British Council Exhibition. If Colonel Crocker shoots anyone, we really shall be in trouble. Don’t open the door for anyone except me or Evelyn.”

“All right,” said Laura. She returned to the puzzle. The fattest of the kittens was dressed in a flowered muslin smock, not perhaps the most suitable dress for winter sports. It had a smug expression. Laura found its tail and fitted it into place.

After leaving the consulate Evelyn walked down the Maria-Theresien-Strasse, entered a large store by the front entrance, left it immediately by one of its side exits, crossed the road, went into a tobacconist’s by its front door, purchased a packet of fifty of those deplorable cigarettes which are known to German students as coffin nails, and left the shop by the back door, which gave onto an alley. This took him into a quiet square, the first of a series that flanked the cathedral.

The last of these squares enclosed a tiny pleasure garden. There was a pond in the middle, and in the centre of the pond a bronze nymph. On the top floor of a building overlooking the nymph was the office and apartment of Heinrich Jensen, who described himself as a general agent, a not inaccurate description of the odd, complicated, and curious functions he carried out, and for which he was paid at irregular intervals, in four different currencies. He was tall and very thin, and when he coughed, which he did with perfect regularity every two minutes, he bent himself forward into a hoop.

“So kind of you to bring cigarettes,” he said to Evelyn. “They will kill me, of course. This or the next packet, or the packet after.”

“You told me that when we first met, ten years ago.”

“Did I?” The eyes far sunk in the lined face lit up for a moment. The fire died. “I shall not be saying it in ten years’ time. That is for sure. What do you want to know?”

“Anything you can tell me.”

“About a prince of the Church and a certain young lady whose eyes were sharper than her discretion.”

“About that, yes.”

“There is not much to tell you that you will not have guessed already. The shooting was done from the theatre, by a youth called Hans Dorf. Boschetto was used as a cover. He had been released from prison the day before. You knew all this.”

“What about the gun?”

“Like all professional criminals, Boschetto had a gun concealed. The police knew where it was. One of Boschetto’s so-called friends was in their pay. They got it out, fired bullets from it, buried them in the façade of the theatre. They planned to make Boschetto very drunk and bring him to the parade. It was a piece of good fortune for them that his brother should have been killed the previous day in the South Tyrol. When he was told that, he really was angry. He would, perhaps, really have shot the Bishop – who can say?”

“What will Humbold do now?”

“Who knows? I am not in his mind.”

Evelyn digested this in silence. Outside in the square a child was chasing a pigeon, two dogs were circling each other, and an old woman was clearing snow from the path. It seemed to him outrageous that one man, by his ambition, should have involved the whole of a contented, peace-loving people in blood and strife. Intrigue and violence seemed natural in Algiers or Ankara. They could be stomached in Baghdad or Berlin. But here, in this quiet corner of Austria, they were a foreign importation, a monstrous anomaly.

“I think,” said Jensen, “that you will have to take the girl out of the country.”

“Easier said than done. Have you any ideas?”

“In the summer it would have been easy. Now I don’t know.”

“Who is the best man to go to?”

“You are prepared to pay?”

“Yes,” said Evelyn. “I think we should be prepared to pay quite a reasonable sum.”

“In the old days – before all this trouble was stirred up – the best man to go to would have been Rudolf Engermeyer. He is a South Tyrolese himself. He has a watch and jeweller’s business. There were many occasions on which it was not convenient for him to trouble the customs authorities, and he would make the journey on foot. It was thought, too, that he had friends in the Grenzpolizei.”

“He sounds just the man.”

“I fear that he may have become ideologically involved. He was never a declared member of the Tiroler Boden Bund, but many of his friends were in it. On the other hand, if the sum of money you were prepared to pay was large enough, I think he might forget politics. He would have to be very carefully approached.”

“We haven’t time to be too careful. Could you ring him up, do you think?”

“If you think it wise.”

“It’s far from wise, but we’ve got so little time.”

Jensen shook his head sadly. “There is always time to do things properly,” he said. He got up and went into his bedroom. Evelyn heard him dialling, heard the murmur of voices, punctuated by Jensen’s time-signal cough. The conversation went on for a long time. He moved to the window. The pigeon had flown onto the head of the nymph, the child was chasing one of the dogs, and the old woman had cleared three more yards of path.

Jensen reappeared, and said, “Engermeyer didn’t sound very keen, but he said that if you go round in about half an hour he will see what he can do for you.”

“It’s very good of you.”

“I hope it will prove to be good. Do you carry a gun?”

“I’ve got one somewhere. I don’t carry it round with me. Why?”

“I think that for the next few days a gun is likely to be more useful than a clear conscience.”

Outside, the red sun was curtsying to the Hochgrabe and the Gölbnerjoch. The sky was mother-of-pearl. In an hour it would be dusk. Evelyn walked slowly through the town. His mind, which should have been devoted to the problems in hand, was running on quite different matters. He was thinking of a villa, which he had rented two years before in the outskirts of Innsbruck and which he had now been told was up for sale. It had a garden, cut out of the side of the hill. And a flat roof on which a couple of wicker chairs could stand, with a table between them, and from which you got a breathtaking view of the mountain peaks running up toward the Brenner.

The address which Jensen had given him was in the suburb of Bad Leopoldsruhe, at the western end of the town. It turned out to be a five-storey block of white-stone flats, standing between two other blocks, all built since the end of the war but already beginning to reflect their age and the inferior materials out of which they had been constructed. It was the sort of building, thought Evelyn, in which the central heating constantly broke down, none of the doors fitted properly, and the lift was always getting stuck.

In this last particular he was proved wrong. There was no lift, and Herr Engermeyer, as he discovered from the tablet in the hall, lived on the fourth floor. He climbed eight short, steep flights of stairs and rang the bell. There was no response. He rang again. The bell was working all right. It gave a harsh, purring note, like a cat about to spring. Evelyn bent down, opened the letter flap, and looked through. No light in the hall; no sound.

It was at this moment that he heard footsteps coming up the stairs which he had just climbed. They were coming up cautiously, but quite steadily. There were two, or perhaps three, men walking close together.

In the seconds that followed, Evelyn found time to marvel at his own inefficiency. He had let people know where he was going. He had given them time to prepare for his arrival, and he had come out without a gun.

The footsteps continued to mount.

Evelyn looked again at the door of Engermeyer’s flat. It offered no way of escape. Engermeyer, having betrayed him, had either taken himself off or was sitting smugly in the darkness waiting for the executioners to arrive.

Behind him, the stairs led to a fifth storey. Evelyn turned, and ran up them. His heavy, English rubber-soled walking shoes made little noise.

There were two doors on the top landing. One led to the roof, and was locked. The other belonged to the flat above Engermeyer. Evelyn bent forward, in the gloom, to read the visiting card pinned to the doorpost. It said “Falwasser”. Evelyn pressed the bell. This one had a tinkle, like fairy bells or a cascade of ice going into a long glass.