Prelude to Terror (46 page)

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Keep in touch with me, will you?” There was a brief silence, a firm hand-clasp. Then Renwick nodded, got into his car, switched on the ignition, seemed to be listening to the engine. Better tell him, Renwick thought, even if I was supposed to keep my mouth shut. “You can drop that idea of being a short-term museum director. No interest in you now from Marck’s friends. Commissioner Seydlitz had the news of your deposition leaked in the right places. It’s the best insurance policy you ever took out, Colin.” With one of his old warm smiles, and a brisk goodbye, he turned the Thunderbird—splotched with rain and leaves and resin streaks—to face the driveway. As he drove past the gap in the trees with its short-cut to the Lackner farm, he averted his eyes. The smile had vanished. His mouth was set and grim. And I wasn’t there to help her, he thought. I wasn’t there.

* * *

Grant watched Renwick’s car until the heavy foliage blotted it out of sight. For a long minute he listened to its steady hum drawing further and further away until all sound ceased. The silence around him stirred memories. This was where he had stood, watching Avril run down that path between the trees towards the farm. She had been laughing at something he had said as she hurried to catch up with the Lackner girls, swinging the makeshift overnight bag as if she hadn’t a care in this world. He could see her now, the smooth dark hair gleaming in a stray beam of sunlight, her head turned for a last smile. That was how he would remember her. The good memories were for keeping.

He began walking, found himself on the terrace. He sat there for almost an hour, watching the play of light and shadow over the stretches of crags and forests. This morning, mists had blotted out all shapes and colours; the mountains had vanished, didn’t exist. Now, in sunlight, their peaks were clear and bold against the sky. Another world, it seemed. Yet the same. Enduring.

He rose and went indoors to pack. Tomorrow was an early start. And just keep going, he told himself. That’s all you can do. That’s all any of us can do.

Helen MacInnes, whom the
Sunday Express
called ‘the Queen of spy writers’, was the author of many distinguished suspense novels.

Born in Scotland, she studied at the University of Glasgow and University College, London, then went to Oxford after her marriage to Gilbert Highet, the eminent critic and educator. In 1937 the Highets went to New York, and except during her husband’s war service, Helen MacInnes lived there ever since.

Since her first novel
Above Suspicion
was published in 1941 to immediate success, all her novels have been bestsellers;
The Salzburg Connection
was also a major film.

Helen MacInnes died in September 1985.