Prelude to Terror (37 page)

The house faced north. In front was the stretch of grass edged by the trees where he had parked the Citroën. They descended a steep slope, with one broad swathe of cleared timber to give a glimpse of village roofs and church spire. Beyond them, forested hills and a background of mountains.

To the west, where the terrace lay—tables and chairs, a large sun umbrella waiting for someone to sit down with a drink and admire the view—the wide spread of valley stretched before him. Not completely naked. Blobs of trees were strung, like so many green beads, along the stream that ran towards Annaberg. The road, perhaps to avoid spring floods, kept its distance from the rush of water and cut across the open meadows. Several small cars, Grünau-bound. A slow-moving reaper. And on either side of the valley—forested hills, of course, and higher peaks behind them.

At the back of the house, to the south (and in this part of Austria, the bad weather came from there: mountains, the really big fellows these ones, all snow-topped even now, gathered the rain clouds and wild winds and sent than hurtling northwards), there were green fields rising towards the hills. More forests high above those ski-slope meadows; and the signs of wood cutting. Giant firs, brought to earth, stripped of branches, bare trunks weathering, lay (precariously it seemed, from this distance) like so many scattered matches. He looked for Ernst and his sons working on the high meadow, and found them. Four figures grouped in a Brueghel scene near one of the neat small wooden huts which must store the fodder for the livestock. There were several of these huts, well-spaced around the meadows: the farmers didn’t trust open haystacks in this land of storm and rain. Of sunshine, too, Grant thought: the weather had been glorious in the last two days. There wasn’t a sign of any break. Blue sky, white puffs of soft clouds now. Everything looked settled and fine, with plenty of sun ahead. Yet Ernst and his boys seemed to be working at high speed. They must have had their midday meal. No leisurely
Déjeuner sur l’Herbe
in Manet style for them. He could see Frau Lackner making a quick descent by one of the zigzag paths that would bring her down towards village level. That route was too close to this house: she might appear here at any moment. Out of curiosity? What did Fischer actually tell her about me? Grant decided to waste no more time and moved round to the east side of the house.

Here, the back door lay. Side door, rather. Slightly lost its bearings, he thought, but no doubt it was avoiding the winter winds. Woods were thick, but one large space had been cleared in front of the kitchen: flowers, and a vegetable garden.

Once more to the front of the house, surveying its last corner where the driveway emerged from the trees on to the rough lawn. Beyond it, the road that came up from the village and Lackner’s farm was blotted out as it climbed on uphill, hidden by the woods opposite the kitchen. He studied the Citroën. Not too noticeable, and certainly not visible from the road.

Reassured, he went back into the house. As he replaced the field-glasses, he even felt slightly foolish. Suspicious idiot, he told himself: this house is safe—a quiet village, good people, what more do you want? It was Fischer, so unexpectedly worried, who had set him off. What really troubled Helmut anyway? Perhaps it was the thought that his house—a gem, no doubt about that, created over the years with tender loving care—might go up in a bang like Room 307 at the Majestic. If so, I wouldn’t blame him; I’d blame myself for having drawn it into danger. But no one knows we are here, except Fischer and Renwick. And the Lackner family, he added to that. Ernst and Fischer are long-time friends. Dimly, he remembered some stories told him on his last visit here about the Nazi invasion and Ernst’s help in Fischer’s escape. Still more reassured, Grant picked up Kenneth Clark’s
Landscape into Art
and settled in an armchair. He’d waken Avril in another half hour or so.

* * *

She was already awake; up and showered and in search of her clothes. There was complete silence downstairs, an enticing smell of coffee drifting faintly through the house and—as seen from the top of the stairs—an empty room, with windows spaced along two walls. Views of green trees. Not much sun though; the balconies were broad and cut off the outdoor light. And warmth. Thank heaven the fire had been relit. She tightened the bath sheet around her breast, tucked it securely to leave her hands free as she started down the stairs, lifting the towel’s heavy folds away from her ankles. Midway, she leaned over the banister. “Colin?” she tried.

“Here,” he called back, coming out from an alcove of bookshelves.

The most marvellous sound, she thought. For a long moment, they looked at each other. She laughed and said, “Good morning, darling.”

“A good morning it is.” He relaxed, could only stand there watching her, a smile spreading over his face. His last worry vanished: she shared his incredible happiness, made it real; no dream. There were no doubts, no regrets, in these beautiful eyes.

“My dress—”

“Forget it.”

“Do I wander around in my Roman toga?” It was slipping. She pulled it together with another laugh.

Beautiful eyes, beautiful face, beautiful everything. He held out his arms as he ran up to meet her. She met him half-way, a step above him, lips level with his.

A door opened and closed. Footsteps in the kitchen. His lips left Avril’s, his head turned towards the sounds. He relaxed as he identified them. “Ernst’s wife. There goes our morning.”

“What was left of it,” Avril said, freeing herself from his arms, snatching up the bath sheet, draping it around her again as she ran back upstairs.

“You’ll find some clothes in the next-door bedroom,” he called after her.

“I know. I didn’t like to—”

“Take what you need. Fischer says okay.”

She paused in her flight. “Fischer?”

“He telephoned.”

“Oh?” She disappeared into the second guest-room as Frau Lackner came looking for Grant.

Slowly, cursing under his breath, he came down into the big room. “You’re having a busy day, Frau Lackner.”

“Just brought some salad for lunch. Some cold cuts, too. Anna, my second oldest, will come up to cook dinner tonight.”

“That’s far too much trouble. We can manage.”

“Herr Fischer always has Anna or Brigitte—that’s my daughter-in-law, married Young Ernst, you remember him?—well, anyhow, one or the other always cooks dinner when he’s here. Both of them, when there are guests.”

Daughter-in-law... “Many of your children married?”

“Children!” That amused her. “You should see them, Herr Grant. Young Ernst married last spring, the others are getting married this year. Except Minna, of course, and Willi—he’s sixteen.”

“A couple of years to go?”

“That’s about it.”

In-laws, he was thinking, and sweethearts with families—the news of Avril’s arrival with me is bound to spread.

“I see the young lady is up and around. Did she have breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I’ll get her tray ready. Orange-juice? All Herr Fischer’s guests like orange-juice. I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

“No, please don’t bother. She will possibly combine breakfast with lunch.” He steered Frau Lackner, gently, into the kitchen.

“Is she a journalist, too?” Frau Lackner was awed.

For a moment, he stared at her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she rushed to apologise, her pink cheeks reddening. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right. What did Herr Fischer tell you?” He kept a smile in place, his voice friendly. “That I am a journalist, and I’m here to—?” He left the sentence for her to complete. She did that with a question of her own.

“It’s these men who are after you—the ones you are writing a story about? But they won’t be able to follow you here, will they?”

“Of course not,” he reassured her. So I’m an investigative reporter, who revealed too much. In a way that was a milder version of what had actually happened.

“Real criminals?” Her eyes were round and innocent.

“You could call them that.”

“American?”

“Some are.”

“Gangsters—that’s what Ernst said. But don’t worry, we’ll keep our eyes open. Saturday is a bad day, though. Saturday and Sunday. There’s a lot of traffic on the road, a lot of people coming out here for the afternoon, taking pictures—nothing much else to do.”

“The road didn’t look too busy this morning.”

“You wait,” she told him. “By two o’clock, the streets will be filled with cars.”

“Streets? I thought Grünau had one main street.”

“And the side street with the new gift shops. But the government makes them close at noon on Saturdays—what good is that for the tourists? So they sit around the café, clutter up the pavement, park in front of people’s gardens.

A café, too. “Any hotel now?”

“Oh, yes. There’s another being planned, too. With tennis courts and a swimming pool.”

“Changed days.” They worried him. Grünau was scarcely the hideaway on which he had planned.

“Seven years are a long time,” she reminded him. “It’s the cars that have done it. Next year we are having a highway instead of a road down to Annaberg.”

“Talking of roads, where does that one lead?” He gestured in the direction of the trees outside the kitchen window.

“The one that goes past here? Over the hill, up towards Josefsberg, where it joins the main highway.”

That worried him, too: a small country road linking Grünau with one of the major routes; more access to this place than he had bargained for.

Frau Lackner studied his face. “Don’t let that road bother you, Herr Grant. It’s hardly ever used by the tourists—too rough for all their shiny motorcars.” She had given up hope of seeing Avril, except as a vanishing bath sheet on the upper gallery at the top of the staircase. “Well, I’ll get back to my own kitchen. A lot of baking to be done.” Her voice dropped appropriately. “It’s my cousin’s funeral, tomorrow.” She paused at the door to say, “Now don’t you start worrying, Herr Grant. Ernst will keep a lookout for any strangers wandering up this way. By Monday, they’ll all be gone, every one of them. We’ll have Grünau back to ourselves again.”

I might be in a New England village, he thought: the same words, the same tone of relief when the summer tourists had departed, God rest their emptied wallets. Monday in Grünau won’t come quickly enough for me.

“I am starved,” Avril said behind him. He turned from the window to see a slender girl in a dark green costume, red facings at the collar and cuffs, a white shirt and a red tie.

“How’s your hand?” She had left off the bandage, he noticed.

“Healing. What about me?”

“Terrific. A trifle business-like though.”

“Ladylike is the Austrian word. Colourful but restrained. It was this or a choice of long-skirted dirndls, heavenly things, silk and velvet, and brocaded aprons. Probably been in the family for a hundred years. Who owns my borrowed clothes?”

“Fischer’s sister.”

“Slightly larger than I am, but not a bad fit. I’d rather be loose than bulging like a sausage casing.” She looked down at the suit, decided she’d buy one when she got back to Vienna. She tapped her feet lightly, broke into a brief dance step.

He noticed the sandals, tights, too. “So you found them.”

“Of course I did. I’m a detecativ, aren’t I? Sort of, at least.” She laughed as she repeated the word. “Detecativ—my six-year-old niece’s word. I rather like it.” She was over at the table inspecting the cold cuts and the salad, considering the rolls and butter, hesitating with the eggs. “I’ll have everything,” she decided. “But first, some coffee and orange-juice.” She saw him watching her with a smile. “That’s better. You were much too serious, looking out of that window. Was Frau Whosis difficult?”

“Lackner.”

“Frau Lackner, then?”

“She’s okay.”

“Sorry I left you to do the talking. I was rather scared to face her, actually.”

“Why?”

“How do I explain why I’m here? I hate lying to old ladies.”

“Old? She’s middle-aged, no more than fifty.”

“With all those marrying children?”

“Country folk know how to live.” Grant found a bowl, searched for an egg-beater. “I’ll cook the omelette. Or what about scrambled?”

“You’re the chef.” She leaned up and kissed him. “Oh, Colin, my heart is bursting with joy.”

“And your stomach’s hollow. You’ve had one cup of soup and half a sandwich since yesterday’s breakfast.”

As if we’ve been doing this for ever and ever, Avril thought happily as they got their meal together. It didn’t take long to cook or eat. By one o’clock, they were sitting across the kitchen table from one another, drinking a final cup of coffee.

“Why,” Avril asked, “were you so worried, Colin? Over there.” She nodded to the window where he had been watching Frau Lackner take a short-cut down through the woods. So many trails, he had thought: they criss-crossed the fields, they vanished among trees. “Colin—now you’re plunged in gloom again. Bad news?”

“No. Fischer is coming up here.”

“Why?”

He grinned. “Just to see whether we are tearing the place apart.”

“Come on, now.”

“He feels responsible for our safety, I think.”

“How much does he know?” Her face was as serious as his. “He’s been tapped to give evidence about the sale of a Ruysdael reproduction. Also, he heard a radio report about a bombing at the Majestic. Room 307.”

“When?” Her eyes widened in alarm.

“Midnight.”

“Oh, Colin!”

“I have to thank you for getting kidnapped,” he said lightly, “and making sure I’d be in your arms a hundred miles away.”

“Not so funny. Who made sure of whose arms, anyway?” She took his hand. “The bomb—was that Gene Marck’s idea?”

“He made the midnight appointment with me to be in my room. But Mandel, Bernard Mandel of the Two Crowns, Frank’s special target—yes, I think he co-operated fully.”

“How—”

“Don’t know the details as yet. I hope Bob Renwick sends up a newspaper along with our luggage.” We have to expect its arrival, too, as well as Fischer’s. And the Lackner clan dotting in and out with food and encouraging words. “You know what? I think our afternoon is shot to hell.” Nothing ever went as you hoped. Except Avril. He tightened his grip on her hand. “Like some fresh air? There’s a terrace on the other side of the house. We can wait for the expected invasions there.”