Prelude to Terror (18 page)

“The escape is postponed?”

“No, no. Just a small delay.”

“Once he is here, the auction takes place?” He was openly sceptical. “Oh, come on, Lois. You know you can’t schedule an auction at a day’s notice. It looks as if I’ll be kept waiting here for several weeks. That is not in our initial arrangements. I have plans of my own, you know.”

For a long moment she was silent, her face expressionless. “You are right. Of course the auction was scheduled in advance.” Would that hold him? she wondered, raising her eyes to meet his. No, she decided, he had to be told a little more, just enough to keep him believing her.
You can handle him,
Gene had said. But only in her own way; not in Gene’s. “You see,” she began, “we thought Mr. Basset’s friend would be safe in Vienna by this week-end, so the auction was arranged for tomorrow. You will attend it, even if our refugee arrives later than expected.”

“When and where tomorrow?” How far can I push her into telling the truth? Grant speculated. Extraordinary amber eyes she has when she softens their expression as she is doing right now. Melting is the word for it. And all for me? He repressed a smile.

“Gene will be in touch with you about that. There may be a message waiting for you at the Majestic right now. When did you leave your hotel today?”

“This morning.”

“You haven’t been back? Good heavens, you really must have been busy. I suppose you met your friends and time vanished. Now I see why you were late. I forgive you. Look—I thought I might give a small party in my room tomorrow evening—just to celebrate. Why don’t you ask your friends to join us? Of course, we won’t talk about the Ruysdael. It’s still Mr. Basset’s secret. We all keep quiet about it until you deliver it to him in New York.”

“And that won’t be until his refugee is safe in Vienna?”

“Exactly. That’s why you’ve got to spend a few more days here, once the auction is over.”

It all sounded sweetly reasonable, until you started thinking hard into the elaborate stratagem these people—Marck, Lois, and who else?—had worked out so carefully. A few days more in Vienna after the auction, perhaps a week... Perhaps nothing. Once the cheque was safe in that Geneva bank account, would the Ruysdael be allowed to leave Vienna? Or would a reproduction take its place?

She was saying, “The Ruysdael will be fully insured, of course. You can put it in the hotel’s storage vault, or even keep it in your own room, or leave it with the auctioneer, or whatever. In any case, just forget about it and enjoy your remaining days in Vienna. I’m sorry, really I’m sorry, that you didn’t get your full two weeks. Mr. Basset will make up for that, somehow. I know he will.”

The hell with Basset, he thought, and the hell with you too, Miss Amber Eyes. Just forget about the Ruysdael and enjoy myself? At any rate, it sounds as though nothing unpleasant has been planned for me. Or—he suddenly stared at her as she lifted the glass of wine and took her first sip—is that what I am meant to believe? I’m just to relax, have a good time, and stay unsuspecting?

“No comment?” she asked lightly. “Is this your day for silence? If you see any problem—tell me.”

“There’s one thing that does puzzle me. Why doesn’t Gene Marck take charge of the picture as soon as I’ve bought it? I could hand it to him in the auction room after it was paid for, say ‘It’s all yours, pal’—let
him
hang around Vienna with it, until he gets the signal to climb on that plane.”

“There must be
no
connection of anyone of Mr. Basset’s staff with—”

“Oh, come on, Lois. I could hand it to him in the room where the cheque is signed. Who’ll see us there, except people he can trust?”

“But,” she said, “Gene is leaving Vienna as soon as the Ruysdael transaction is completed. Tomorrow afternoon he will be in Switzerland. Then there’s Berlin after that. He’s a very busy man, Colin.” She looked at him reproachfully.

He nodded. She could find a reason for anything, this girl. “Remarkable eyes you have,” he said. “Doesn’t Gene tell you that? Or is he too busy to notice?”

She laughed and said, “Oh, we are only professional associates. We keep it that way.”

“But you do choose his ties?” Perhaps not as subtle as Sherlock Holmes in probing for a lead, but it might do.

“Oh, that’s part of my job. It’s best to restrain his taste. Mr. Basset likes quiet colours.”

“And Gene’s taste is wild?” He finished his beer, looked around for the waitress to order another tankard. It was thirsty work juggling with Westerbrook. Sharply, he looked again—not at the waitress, but at a man and girl who had walked into the room arm in arm. Now they were taking one of the last vacant tables, only thirty feet away. The girl was a buxom brunette. The man was Gene Marck. He wasn’t wearing any tie; a polo sweater was tight around his neck. Grant’s smile broadened. So much for your Sherlock Holmes effort, he told himself.

“Not really,” Lois Westerbrook was saying. “His taste is usually good. But he has no colour sense.” She looked severely at Grant. “Tell me—why did you advertise your arrival by hiring a Mercedes-Benz?”

Grant’s smile vanished. They had put him under surveillance even at the airport, had they? Suddenly all the fuss and bother that Bob Renwick and Frank and sweet Avril, too, had taken, no longer seemed unnecessary or ludicrous. “You said first-class all the way,” he counter-attacked. “What did you expect me to do? Take a bus, arrive at the Majestic on foot?”

“There were taxis—”

“Find them! And if you are worried about my mistakes, what about yours? Booking me into the Majestic! That’s not on my budget, and all my friends know it. If anyone advertised my arrival here, it was you. What excuse do I give them for my sudden affluence, I ask you?”

“Your friends have been questioning you?”

So she was back to that subject again. “No. They’re too polite, although they must be raising an eyebrow about the Majestic. You goofed, Lois. Admit it. Or was it Gene?”

“Really, Colin, you are impossible.”

“Well, not as impossible as to be in two places at once. Like dear Gene.” Grant was smiling again. “He’s just to the right of you, across the room, thirty feet away. You can look. He wouldn’t notice. He may not have much taste in bow-ties, but he knows his women.” Grant decided he had said enough. Lois Westerbrook’s eyes opened wide in angry disbelief. She glanced over her shoulder to her right, and went rigid.

She looked back at Grant. “When did he come in?”

“Five minutes ago. A fast worker. He’s been nuzzling that bouncing brunette ever since.” Grant had been deliberately frank—one way of working out his own anger against Marck, perhaps. But he hadn’t expected Lois Westerbrook to crumble. She had a second look at Marck, his hands entwined with the girls, his lips at her ear and then at her neck before he drew apart with a laugh. She turned her eyes away and sat in silence, one elbow on the table, her hand covering her face, her head bowed.

At last she said, “Get me out of here.”

“Past his table?”

“No. Through that door behind me.”

He called the waitress and paid. Lois Westerbrook stared again at Gene Marck. With his back to the room, he seemed to be feeling quite safe from anyone’s scrutiny. Perhaps the crowd of strangers around him, or the medley of voices and laughter, or his green jacket and mustard-yellow sweater, gave him a feeling of complete anonymity. Or he just hadn’t expected anyone who knew him to be there. Yes, thought Grant as he walked beside Lois Westerbrook, shielding her from Marck’s table, we all make a mistake at times. This one, judging from Westerbrook’s arm, tense, under his guiding hand, was enormous.

She refused a cab, walked away, without one more question about the friends Grant had met in Vienna.

He dined at the Majestic, and then went upstairs to begin packing.

It was approaching midnight when his telephone rang. Grant was in bed but not asleep. He rolled over and reached for the receiver, cursing it silently. “Hello,” he said roughly.

“Colin?” It was Lois Westerbrook. “Colin—are you there?” He sat up, became fully alert. She must be calling from some café—there was the distant sound of
Schrammel
music in the background. Her voice sounded blurred, no longer clear and decided. “Yes, I’m here. Better speak up—it’s difficult to hear you.”

“Wait a moment.” There was the sound of a door closing, and the music was cut off. “Colin—”

“Yes, yes. What is it?”

“I just wanted to tell you—” She paused.

Her voice was still blurred, indecisive. Was she drunk?

“Have you had something to eat?”

She wasn’t listening. She went on, “To tell you—I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought you here.” Her voice quickened. “But I’ll fix him. I’ll fix him for good. You know what I did? I got into his room.” Her laugh was brief, strange, unnatural.

“Lois—” he began.

She rushed on. “No danger, no danger at all. He won’t be back there till tomorrow morning. Too busy now with that pie-faced bitch of a floozy. I trusted him, Colin, I really trusted that man.” She was almost crying now. “Trusted him. I helped him with his job, I showed him how to please old Basset, I—Oh, Colin, I’m sorry I got you into this.” She stopped weeping, her voice rose a little. “You know what I found in his room? He thinks he is the brains, I’m just his fool. He thinks I couldn’t guess where he hides things.” That started her laughing again. “Who’s the fool? I found a tin of talcum powder, a hairbrush, a pen.”

She isn’t drunk, she’s crazy, Grant thought in alarm.

“Don’t you understand, Colin?”

“No.”

“They all come to pieces. Little hiding-places inside. Tricks of the trade, Colin. A code-book, a tiny roll of film, and a—” She broke off in sudden panic. “Time is up. I’ve no more coins. Call me back. Quick—” and she rattled off her telephone number just before her call was ended.

Tricks of the trade... He hesitated. Then he dialled the number.

She must have snatched up the ’phone even as it began its ring. She was saying excitedly, “There was a small list of addresses, some initials. These were in the hairbrush. Its back slides apart when you press and twist.” Another small laugh, abruptly checked. Her voice changed. “Oh, Colin—I’m afraid.”

“Did you take these things?” Grant was horrified. She’s in danger, real danger, he thought.

“Yes. But he won’t know it was me. I fitted all his gadgets together again. When he finds them empty, he will blame your friends.”

Friends... Grant’s concern vanished. Was this another of her clever little stratagems to force information out of him? “Then why are you afraid?” he asked.

“I’m afraid of what he’s into. Much deeper than I thought. Much worse. Colin—please take me to meet your friends. I’ll give them all I’ve discovered.”

Yes, he thought, it’s all a beautiful come-on. “How deep were you into all this?”

There was a brief silence. “Only the money angle—a percentage. Don’t you see, Colin, we had to have something to get married on?” The pathetic question ended in a sob.

You bloody fool, he told himself, you nearly believed her again.

She said, “Colin—please call your friends. One of them could meet me here. At the Three Guitars. Tonight.”

“You’re mistaken about my friends. How could any of them help you?”

“Just tell them. That’s all. I’ll be waiting.”

“You’re crazy, Lois.”

“Then why did you listen to me?”

He had no answer for that.

“Tell them,” she repeated. “They will find me easily. I don’t know who they are, but they’ll know me. I’m sure of that. Goodbye, Colin. Take care. Take very great care.”

And that was that.

Grant sat very still. Just another confidence trick, he told himself. Yet... He rose, lit a cigarette, walked around the room. It was now twelve fifteen. In Vienna the night was still young. Should he get in touch with Bob Renwick? Try, at least? He’d better get some clothes on, go downstairs, find a public ’phone. He dressed in haste. Within ten minutes he was calling the Embassy.

Once through, he asked for Renwick’s extension. A voice told him that he could leave his name if his call was urgent. He left it. And smoked two more cigarettes until Renwick ’phoned. Grant wasted no time. He said, “We might have a defector on our hands—you can guess who: the one who met me at the Hofburgkeller. It could be for real, it could be a trap—another little game plan to let her meet you. Worth the risk, do you think? If so, she’s waiting now, at the Three Guitars. She’s sure you’ll know her at once.”

“Did she talk much?”

Too damn much even over a public ’phone.”

“Worth hearing?”

“If she’s telling the truth—yes.”

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

“I wasn’t sure whether I should—”

“Be seeing you,” Renwick said.

Grant took the hint and put down the receiver. I’m still not sure whether I did the right thing when I called Bob, he thought. I just hope to God it was.

Upstairs again, he undressed slowly, tried to settle himself with another cigarette, went to bed at last. It took him a full hour before he fell asleep.

On Friday morning, at nine o’clock, they were gathered in Prescott Taylor’s office. Taylor himself had been there since eight thirty. Avril appeared ten minutes later. Frank slipped in six minutes before the hour. And Renwick—usually the first on the scene—entered at the last moment, with a small book in one hand, the file on Herr Doktor Mittendorf in the other.

“Has Korda arrived?” Renwick asked. He looked as if he could use several hours’ more sleep.

Taylor said, “He’s safe.” Taylor had been against bringing the defector back into the Embassy, even for one brief visit. But he had to admit it was probably better security than having the four of them confront Gyorgy Korda in the apartment where he had been living completely isolated and thoroughly guarded. Too many visitors, all arriving and leaving around the same time, could attract attention to Korda’s hiding-place. Easier, Renwick had argued, to have him brought here, heavily disguised, and smuggled up to the attic room where, six weeks ago, he had spent his first three nights of asylum. Easier for everyone, too: the auction was taking place at eleven o’clock in Werner Klar’s establishment near St Stephen’s Cathedral, a district difficult to reach from Korda’s apartment in Heilingenstadt.