“We motored from Innsbruck this morning, at the most ghastly speed you ever saw. We found the hotel and then your house. A nice old thing—”
“Frau Schichtl,” suggested Frances.
“—told us you were up here. It looked easy, so we came.”
“All lies. Perfidious British lies,” said van Cortlandt. “I drove Bob as gently as if he were in a wheelchair on the Boardwalk at Atlantic City. When we found you weren’t there with flags of welcome, he dragged me away from a very nice little table beside a lot of water. And then he told me it was no climb at all. Just kid’s play.” He looked sadly at his shoes. “They’ll never be the same again.”
Frances laughed. “Remember to borrow some of our first-aid kit tonight.”
“Do you mean to tell me I’ll feel worse tonight than when I climbed this mountain?”
“Your feet will, in those shoes. Cheer up; it wasn’t a bad climb for your first.”
“Wasn’t bad? It’s darned fine if you ask me.”
“Well, have a sandwich,” said Richard. “We’re glad to see you.”
As they ate they explained further. The pavements of Innsbruck had become hotter and harder after the idea of Pertisau had been put before them. Last night they had met and celebrated together and had suddenly decided to get away from cafes and conducted tours for three days. Van Cortlandt felt a holiday was due to him, anyway, and Thornley was becoming bored with being bored.
“It’s the first real vacation I’ve had in two years,” said van Cortlandt. “I’m always either going some place or coming away from it, and I’ve always got an eye open and an ear listening. I’m going to forget all that for three days. I’ll have to be back on Friday. Until then I am going to have some peace for a change.”
Frances caught Richard’s eye. “How do you like the view we arranged for you?” she said quickly.
Richard pointed out the different peaks. Over there was Germany. Down there were the Dolomites, and then Italy. Here the Danube would be flowing to Vienna. Back there would be the Alps of Switzerland.
“So this is what makes some people want to rush up to the top of every mountain they see,” said van Cortlandt. He looked at Thornley pointedly, so that they all laughed, but in the end he was the last to leave the mountain top.
That night the promise of Innsbruck was kept. They enjoyed themselves. By the time they had finished dinner, and had gone into the hotel lounge for coffee, most of the other guests had disappeared.
“They must get their beauty sleep,” suggested Frances, and giggled. She was in rather good form tonight. She had been worrying during the last two days that if the two of them did come to Pertisau perhaps the party would be a failure. But everything was going well. She looked at van Cortlandt, leaning forward to catch Thornley’s words with a smile on his lips, a smile ready to break into a laugh when the point of the long story was reached. Richard was lighting his pipe contentedly, his eyes on Thornley, who had now risen to his feet to give full justice to the climax. It was when they were all laughing that Frances noticed the man. He was watching them. He sat alone at a small table, a dark-haired man with bold black eyes, heavy eyebrows and a prominent jaw. He was probably about thirty, guessed Frances; and already his muscles were running to fat, but he was powerful enough. She noticed the tightness of his shirt over the expanse of his chest, and the collar, already tight from the thickness of his neck, seemed all the tighter because of a black tie firmly knotted. It was a strange way of dressing for a summer evening. The jacket slung over a chair was a drab green, his-only concession to the Tyrol, for he wore black breeches and boots. Just as a retired Navy man can be guessed by his taste in neat navy blue, so it was easy to guess how this man had spent much of his time. Take away the Tyrolese jacket and add a black one and a heavy black cap and a holster at his belt and a rubber club, and he was typed as accurately as in a Hollywood casting office.
His eyes had been fixed on Thornley. They suddenly swung round to Frances and became aware of her scrutiny. Frances let her eyes pass through and over him, fixing them on the deer’s horns just above his head. She held them there until he had stopped looking at her, and had risen from his table. He threw some coins down with a careless gesture, ignoring two which fell on the floor. She was very busy lighting a cigarette as he walked loudly out of the room. Van Cortlandt had noticed the last few moments, and was watching Frances with a smile.
“You got out of that nicely,” he said. “That’s one of the boys in the back room. I’ll lay you five to one.”
“Big odds,” said Thornley. “Don’t tell me that the Gestapo finds its way to a place like this.”
“They’ll find their way to any place, even into countries which aren’t under Germany—yet,” van Cortlandt replied sourly. “They give me a bad taste in my mouth,” he added. He began a story about them. Frances listened, but she watched Richard. Apart from a tightening of his lips he did not seem disturbed by anything.
“Not one of the pleasanter-types of humanity,” summed up Thornley. They all agreed on that and rose. An evening walk before they went to bed seemed a good idea. Van Cortlandt looked at his wristwatch and raised his eyebrows.
“It’s only a quarter of ten,” he protested. “I haven’t been to bed at this hour since I was in kindergarten.”
“Don’t you feel you’d like to be a dog, and just risk it once?” Frances asked gravely. He looked at her quickly, and then laughed.
“I’m learning something by living among the English. I now know when to risk a laugh.”
Richard and Thornley had gone ahead. Frances slowed her pace. Van Cortlandt was trying to disguise a limp.
“Let’s sit here until the others come back,” suggested Frances, as they passed some chairs tilted drunkenly against a table.
“Thanks…this foot is a nuisance.”
“I’ll give you some stuff to doctor it tonight. Everyone has foot trouble on their first day in the hills.”
He looked at her, and hesitated. He said suddenly, “You know, you’re all right. I have to admit that I didn’t think so much of you when we first met. Apart from being easy on the eyes, of course. I thought you were a hidebound Tory.”
“You must have thought me rather suppurating.” She smiled, and added, “Perhaps I am. But I’m no Tory.”
“So I found out this afternoon. That was quite a talk we had coming down that hill. I’ve been thinking over it since, and although I still stick to my own opinion, I begin to see why my remarks in Nürnberg made you so mad. You must have thought me—” he paused for the word.
“Smug?” suggested Frances gently.
“Now, that’s pretty steep. Or did you?”
“Well, I must say I thought you inclined that way.”
Van Cortlandt looked glum. “Well, that’s a fine impression to hand out.”
“I didn’t do so well myself, did I?”
They both laughed, and then Frances was serious again. There was a sadness in her voice which she no longer tried to disguise.
“You see, if it comes to a showdown, it’s the much criticised British who’ll have to foot a good part of a pretty bloody bill. We’ll need words of encouragement from the sidelines, not jeers. And I wish you could believe me about appeasement. After all, you wouldn’t call America a prohibition country today, although you lived with it for years.”
“I see your viewpoint,” said van Cortlandt. “It’s another angle, certainly. But…” He shrugged his shoulders.
Frances was silent. The moon was on the water of the lake, and she could see van Cortlandt’s face, white in the blue light. He looked even less convinced than his words. A thwarted idealist he had said, this afternoon. Cynic would have been the same thing. She shrugged her shoulders too and tried to smile. Van Cortlandt was watching her.
“Do you know you were being followed in Nürnberg?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes.”
“In a jam?”
“Not so far.”
“
Sorry if I seem inquisitive, but I just wondered when I saw that bird circling us tonight.”
“I don’t think that meant much. Sort of incidental music.”
The American looked embarrassed. “Look. I know you would have told me about it if you had wanted to. But all I’m trying to get at is this: if you are in a jam, you can always let me know.”
“I can’t tell you about it, Henry. Not because I don’t want you to know, but because there’s no use complicating things for you. I’ll tell you all about everything later—in England, if you’ll come and visit us there.”
“You needn’t worry about me. Mrs. van Cortlandt’s little boy can take care of himself.”
“But you are not so sure about us?”
“Oh, well, I mean you’re not the kind of people to handle trouble; you’re not tough enough. I wish I could put it better. I mean—”
Frances nodded and laid her hand on his arm.
“You’re all right, too,” she said.
There were footsteps on the road, and they could hear Thornley’s voice, and then Richard’s in a fluting falsetto.
“What the…” began van Cortlandt.
“Merchant of Venice. Last act, I think, at the beginning.” She began to laugh. “We can manage the midday sun, but not moonlight. Meet it is that you note it down in your tablets, Henry. You know, that chapter on the peculiarities of the British.”
“Now when did I tell you I was doing that?”
“All books on European travel or politics have one. Why, no foreigner would believe he was looking at an Englishman unless he was funny-peculiar or funny-ha-ha.”
“And what does the Englishman think about that?”
“He doesn’t really care what people think about him as long as he knows himself.”
Richard and Thornley had timed their duet well. Richard managed to get the last line in just as they reached Frances and van Cortlandt.
He grasped Thornley’s arm in a fair imitation of maidenly flurry.
“‘But, hark, I hear the footing of a man,’” he ended, and looked wildly round.
“You’d be safe enough if you looked like that,” said Frances.
“Limping, anyway,” added van Cortlandt, “so you’re safe twice over.”
“That role doesn’t really do my powers justice,” said Richard. “You should see me as the second witch in Macbeth. Now that’s something.”
“Not tonight,” said Frances hastily. “Let’s all limp home to bed.”
The four of them linked arms, and limped in unison towards the hotel. As Frances and Richard said good night, van Cortlandt looked as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He seemed worried again.
They crossed the road to the Villa Waldesruhe. Frances was silent as they went upstairs, and silent as she removed her earrings and brushed her hair. And then she remembered about van Cortlandt’s limp. She searched quickly for the methylated spirits and boracic and lint. Richard made a good-humoured grimace and started putting on his shoes again. She heard his footsteps echo on the empty road outside, and began to undress. When he returned she was already in bed.
“That fellow was back again, talking to the manager.”
She blinked sleepily. That fellow—“Oh, Beetlebrows?”
“Yes. He must think we are lunatics, chasing about at this hour with first-aid.”
“All the better,” said Frances, “or isn’t it?”
“Does no harm. Only next time, my sweet wife, do remember such things before I get my shoes off.”
“Yes, darling.” She yawned prodigiously. “…doing tomorrow?”
Richard folded his trousers before replying. When he did Frances gave no answer; she was, like the rest of Pertisau, asleep.
14
THE SINGING OF A SONG
Friday came quickly for Thornley and van Cortlandt, slowly for Frances and Richard. They had enjoyed the bathing and climbing, the strange conversations which had a habit of cropping up, as much as the other two, but, as Frances said, Friday was like taking medicine: she wanted to get it over as quickly as possible.
On Friday the mists were on the mountains, and the waters of the lake looked grey and uninviting. It takes salt water to make a bathe, when the sun isn’t shining. Van Cortlandt was disappointed, for this was his last day. On Saturday he had to meet a radio man in Innsbruck who wanted some impressions from him for a broadcast to America next week. Thornley thought it would be better if he motored into Innsbruck with van Cortlandt. He had begun to worry again about Tony and his Czechoslovakian girl. He wanted to make sure that his Innsbruck hotel hadn’t mixed up his Pertisau address.
Over their eleven o’clock beer the arrangements were made. And then came the suggestion from Thornley that once the Innsbruck business was finished, he and van Cortlandt should return to Pertisau for a couple of days. At this, Richard looked slightly taken aback. By Sunday God knows what would have happened. The two men noticed his slight hesitation, the vagueness of his reply. There was a pregnant pause. Frances felt miserable, trying to explain to them with her eyes and her smile that it was no lack of enthusiasm for them which had caused Richard’s embarrassment. Van Cortlandt suddenly saw daylight.
“Of course, your movements are indefinite, we know,” he said and looked hard at Thornley. Frances had the feeling that Richard had told Thornley about their being followed in Nürnberg. The feeling was confirmed when she heard Thornley make a good follow-up.
“We can ’phone from Innsbruck, and find if you are still here. That is, if you don’t mind.”
“That would be fine,” said Richard, obviously sincere, and the difficult moment had passed.
“It’s a pity you must leave today,” said Frances. “There’s a dance this evening.” The men looked bored at the idea.
“No, not in one of the hotels,” she went on, reading their thoughts. “It’s the real thing, held in one of the inns back near the woods. They build a platform outside the inn, and everyone comes from miles around to dance in their best clothes. Some of the costumes are really perfect, and it’s fun to see people really enjoying themselves.”
“When does it begin?” asked van Cortlandt.
“Nineish.”
He shook his head. “Too late for me; we’ll have to leave about six. But, say, if you go, tell me about it, will you?”
“How on earth did you find out about the dance? There’s no notice up anywhere that I could see,” Thornley said in amazement.
“Oh, I have my agents,” said Frances, and then blushed as Richard looked amused. “Actually it was Frau Schichtl. She told me about it this morning, and said very pointedly that we would be welcomed.”
“That’s rather strange, don’t you think, considering their German cousins are all over the place? You would think that they would be the ones who were welcome and that we outsiders would be avoided like the plague.”
“Lower voice,” suggested Richard quietly.
Frances followed the suggestion. “No, it was quite the opposite. Frau Schichtl was eager for us to go and meet the real Austrians. She offered me the Sunday dirndl dress her daughter used to wear. Very lovely it was, too.”
“She really is awfully decent, you know,” Thornley said. “She waylaid us yesterday when we came round to beat you up.”
Van Cortlandt stared. “Bob, what the—”
“To beat you up or to hound you out or to collect you,” Thornley explained as an aside. “Anyway, while we waited in that downstairs room, Frau Schichtl was baking in the kitchen. It was a damned good smell, too. So we looked in and made some jokes in terrible German, and we had to taste the cake just out of the oven. Haven’t done that for years.”
“I seem rather left out of all this,” said Richard.
Frances laughed. “No, you aren’t. Frau Schichtl said you were very well brought up and so polite. And she loves your imitations of the Bavarian accent.”
Richard reddened. “Oh, come!” he said, and the others laughed.
&nbs
p; But van Cortlandt had sensed a story. -
“Where’s the daughter?” he asked Frances. She studied her hands and said nothing.
“I won’t use it for copy, if that is what you are thinking,” he added with a wry smile.
Frances hesitated, but the others’ curiosity had been wakened.
“She is dead. Some years ago she went to Vienna to study singing. Frau Schichtl had saved a little money, and the girl was eager. She must have had some talent to get her way like that. But instead of becoming a great singer, she fell in love and got married. He was an active Social Democrat. They were planning to come here to visit Frau Schichtl; they hadn’t much money, so they had to plan it carefully. And then the Nazis arrived. The husband’s name must have been on their black-list. They said he committed suicide. Nothing more has been heard of the girl.” She paused. “Frau Schichtl says that I look very much like her when she left for Vienna.”
Van Cortlandt said, “She may not be dead.”
“Frau Schichtl hopes she is.”
There was a silence.
Then van Cortlandt said again, “Just another. That’s what gets me down. It isn’t just an isolated case. Wherever you go beneath the surface in this damned Nazi set-up there’s tragedy, or something twisted. Nothing but complications, and fears, and threats. Even those, who think they’ve jumped on the bandwagon are still standing on one leg. Only the dumbest of them can forget they are on the edge of a volcano. A nice crop of neurotics they’ll be after whatever is going to happen has happened.”
“Or corpses,” said Thornley unexpectedly. “They’d make a nice row of corpses.” He looked speculatively at the froth rims in his beer glass. The story of Frau Schichtl’s daughter had started him thinking again about Czechoslovakia, thought, Frances. She watched them finish their beer, each man with his own thoughts. The truth was that there was no peace of mind left for anyone—for anyone with a heart.
Richard had risen, and he now changed the subject. “Now about this afternoon. Frances and I thought we’d take a walk, and let you pack and make your arrangements. We’ll be back to give you a send-off about six. That’s the time you thought of, isn’t it?” It was more of an intimation than a suggestion. Thornley caught van Cortlandt’s eye, and the two men exchanged smiles.