Prelude to Terror

  * * *

  Two days of violent storm. Two days of fever. And then they said he was normal again. Normal? In some ways, yes. He got out of bed, tried walking around Fischer’s room, went gladly back to bed. But they were giving him messages, now, as well as Frau Lackner’s soups and jellies. She had had her share in nursing men who had been wounded in hunting accidents, or whose leg had been hacked by a slipping axe. Blood transfusions? Nonsense, she said: the right food and rest, and a healthy man repairs himself.

  The first message was from Fischer. He was on his way as soon as the storm abated and made road travel possible.

  The second message was from Prescott Taylor. Avril’s brother had flown out from London and was taking her home.

  * * *

  “How long before I leave?” Grant asked on the day the rains ended.

  The old doctor, six feet, spare and strong, eighty-three years old, white hair above firm suntanned cheeks, noted the impatience in the young man’s eyes and remembered Frau Lackner’s words. Too many memories for him here, Frau Lackner had said: that’s why he stays inside Herr Fischer’s room, doesn’t even try walking outside. “It won’t be comfortable travelling. To New York?”

  “To Washington.”

  “Another ten days,” the doctor suggested.

  “Five days,” said Grant.

  “Make it a week.”

  “Five days. I’m fit enough now.”

  Not as fit as he thinks. But never argue with a man whose mind is made up. Besides, he is in good physical condition, recovery should be quick. Emotionally? Much improved. “Five days,” the doctor agreed, “provided you start walking and sitting outside. The minute your wound starts hurting, find a seat in the sun. Don’t step over the threshold of pain.”

  What about a different kind of pain? Grant looked long at the light blue eyes that were studying him intently. I’d get the same advice for that, he thought. And the old man could be right: don’t wallow in suffering. “I won’t,” Grant said.

  “I’ll come up to see you tomorrow and the next day. The day after that, I expect you down at my consulting room.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Now he could make arrangements for travel. He telephoned the Embassy in Vienna.

  “Sure you’re fit enough?” Prescott Taylor asked.

  “Sure.”

  “You could stay as long as you like at Grünau—Fischer would like you to be his guest.”

  “I know. We talked about that when he was up here yesterday. So we compromised. He’s coming back this week-end and will drive me to the Salzburg airport on Sunday.”

  Taylor laughed. “Do you always get your own way when you compromise? Okay, Sunday—leaving Salzburg. For Zürich and New York?”

  “For Zürich, Paris, and Washington.”

  “We’ll arrange it. We’ll send some people up to Grünau on Saturday with your plane tickets. They’ll collect Renwick’s Thunderbird, too. Get it out of your way. Well—good luck. Grant. When you get back to Vienna, give me a call.”

  “I’ll remember. Where’s Renwick?”

  “Returning here tomorrow to clear out his desk.”

  “Moving on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where could I reach him?”

  There was a moment’s pause. “I’ll tell him you’d like to see him. He will be in touch.”

  “Good.”

  They left it at that.

  * * *

  In the evening, two quiet police officers paid an unexpected visit A matter for their final report they said; it had been difficult to question him last Saturday. Frau Lackner gave an indignant toss of her head. “Difficult?” she asked, “it was impossible, and you know it.” She retreated obediently to the kitchen door, stood within its threshold ready to return if Herr Grant needed her help, and called back the last word. “Don’t go making him ill again!”

  “I’m all right,” Grant told them. “What questions do you want to ask?”

  Not many, he was assured. The Lackner family had filled in most of the details. (Frau Lackner, listening intently, nodded her agreement.) It seemed as if he had fired in self-defence. Why did he have a shotgun beside the door? It was usually in its rack, wasn’t it?

  “Herr Fischer had been worried about his house.”

  Yes, Herr Fischer and Ernst Lackner had already stated that. Had he intended to use the shotgun? Or was it just to warn off any thieves who might appear?

  “I’d have shot over their heads and the Lackner men would have heard it and come running.”

  “But the man Werner shot at you?”

  “He shot at—at Miss Hoffman, first. I was still inside the house, the door half-opened.”

  “Why the delay?”

  “No delay—except that the telephone rang and I hesitated for a moment, wondered if it was an important call. I heard a shot. I picked up the gun and stepped outside and saw Miss Hoffman fall and the man turning back to fire again. He did, I think. He—he was aiming at me, certainly.”

  “He did fire at you. We found that bullet. On the balcony. Peter Lackner noticed the splintering wood.”

  Then what is all the questioning about? wondered Grant.

  “Did you know the man who shot at you?”

  Grant shook his head.

  “You didn’t have time to see him?”

  “Yes—when I was still indoors. I looked out of the window after Lackner had called to me and then went off somewhere, I thought towards the driveway, but I hadn’t any clear view of that.”

  “You didn’t recognise the man?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see his revolver?”

  “No. I only saw him light a cigarette.”

  “Using both hands?”

  “Only his left hand,” Grant stared at the two policemen. “He pushed back his cap with his left hand, too.” Grant’s jaws clamped tight to steady his lips. Avril never had a chance; the man had been waiting and ready. For him. At last he could trust his voice enough to say, “Who was he?”

  “No identification on him except for his driver’s licence—Werner Kranz—and it was a fake. But Commissioner Seydlitz had his men working on that.”

  “Seydlitz? Is he interested in this man?”

  “Interested in his fingerprints.”

  “Then Kranz must have a police record?”

  The two police officers were saying no more. With noncommittal politeness, they thanked him and took their leave.

  Frau Lackner had her own comments. “Herr Fischer told them, we told them—what did they expect to hear from you? Nonsense, I call it.”

  “No, not nonsense. I killed a man.”

  “Or he would have killed you. They know that.”

  Yes, he thought. But they also wonder why Werner Kranz was waiting and ready: no ordinary burglar, that one. He was sent by Gene Marck, of course. I’ll leave that piece of information for Commissioner Seydlitz to deal with, in his own way and his own good time.

  Frau Lackner added some more of her last words. “A bad lot, these three men. Herr Fischer had every reason to be afraid for his house. You know what?” She dropped her voice. “In the boot of that green car, the police found grenades. Peter was there, saw them. And a can of petrol. Can you believe it?” Blue eyes were round with horror at the evil in men’s minds. “Ernst says you were in real danger, Herr Grant. These men weren’t just robbers as the newspapers tell it. Terrorists, that’s what Ernst thinks. Perhaps you wrote something about them—something they didn’t like? Oh, don’t worry, we aren’t talking. Less said, the safer we’ll all be. Isn’t that right?”

  Grant nodded.

  “The man who ran off—there’s no sign of him. He hasn’t been seen in any village. The police are searching the hills, now. That was a wild storm—he may be dead,” she added hopefully, waiting for Grant’s agreement.

  “Could be,” he said to reassure her. But such men didn’t die so easily.

  She returned to n
ormal, hurried off to make Herr Grant a fresh cup of coffee.

  * * *

  On Saturday, Fischer arrived, apologising for being a day late. It seemed that business had been excessively brisk at his shop. “My dear Colin, everyone is coming to visit me there. Incredible how a piece of sensational news draws the crowds. I never knew I had so many friends. Or such curious ones, either.”

  “I hope they are looking at your pictures, too.”

  “Yes. I can’t complain.” With that, he dropped the entire subject of last Saturday’s happenings, and branched on to a description of some new acquisitions he had just made. As if, thought. Grant, he is trying to edge me back into my own world again. Fischer managed it, too, until they heard a car approaching from the road.

  “Expecting someone?” Fischer was rising to his feet, suddenly alert.

  So his nerves weren’t altogether under the control they had appeared to be, Grant thought as the two of them walked side by side towards the front of the house. “Possibly my plane tickets being delivered. They were promised for today,” he said easily, hiding his own tension. Another surprise package from Gene Marck?

  A grey Fiat was drawing up beside the Audi; the two men stepped out. Bob Renwick. And Slevak. Grant relaxed.

  “You know them?” Fischer asked.

  “Yes. It’s all right.”

  “Want me to stay?”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Good. I have a lot of things to attend to.” Fischer, with a friendly wave to the strangers, went indoors.

  Slevak’s visit was limited to a nod and a wide grin as he walked round the Fiat’s hood to take the driver’s seat. Within a minute, he was on his way back to Vienna.

  Renwick reached Grant. In silence, they shook hands. Then Grant led the way to the terrace.

  * * *

  It was an awkward beginning, both of them thinking of Avril and never mentioning her name. “Handsome,” Renwick said, taking a comfortable chair and looking at the view. “Reminds me of that painter chap, the one who worked in the Far West, never can remember his name—connected with something to drink—”

  “Bürstadt. Yes, he would have painted this.” And they both looked out at the distant mountains. “So you’re moving on. What’s next? Or is that classified information?”

  “More or less. But I imagine you can make a pretty good guess what I’m after.”

  “No shortage in terrorists,” Grant observed grimly. They came in all dimensions: groups of political fanatics with blind obedience and perverted social conscience; the trained assassins tracking down their victim in a peaceful Austrian village; a boy in a quiet Washington street killing on vicious impulse. All of them, however different they seemed, bent on destruction. All of them, however motivated, with total contempt for human life.

  “No shortage,” Renwick agreed, equally grim. “Not for several years to come.” He drew out an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table between them. “Your tickets. You’ll be in Washington by Monday. Okay? I thought you were rushing things, but you look better than I expected. How’s the wound?”

  “It’s healing.”

  Renwick added a small bottle to the envelope. “These pills are pure magic. One every three hours when your side starts to give you hell—but cut out the booze.”

  “Yes, doctor,” Grant said with a sudden smile.

  Renwick’s answering grin was wide. He relaxed and lit a cigarette. “One thing, anyway: you don’t have to keep looking over your shoulder for Gene Marck.”

  “No? I don’t think he’ll give up so easily.”

  “He’s dead, man. You got him. Werner Kranz—wasn’t that what he was calling himself?”

  Grant shook his head in disbelief. “It couldn’t have been Marck.”

  “Why not? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of dyed hair and a false moustache?”

  “Kranz was an expert with a gun. The way he moved—quick and sure. He was a trained killer.”

  “He was. Trained by the KGB. Eugene Marck.”

  Grant stared at Renwick. But Renwick meant what he said. “Fingerprints?” That’s what the police had mentioned: Commissioner Seydlitz was interested in the man’s fingerprints.

  “Not a bad guess.”

  “Not mine. The police tipped me off.”

  “You’ve had them buzzing around you?”

  “Briefly. And politely. No sweat.”

  “Seydlitz passed the word they were to leave you alone.”

  “But my friend Seydlitz is in Vienna, and they are local.”

  “Independent types?” Renwick asked with a laugh.

  “With a report to complete.”

  “Yes, there’s always that—in triplicate.”

  Grant was back to Seydlitz. “Were Marck’s fingerprints on file?”

  “No. But they were on the luggage, harmless stuff, that he left at the Sacher. Seydlitz had his men round there on Friday, checking. They left Marck’s suitcase in his room, just as they had found it—after picking up some good prints. It will be interesting to see who will collect that suitcase.”

  “Efficient Seydlitz. Clairvoyant, too? How do you start connecting a chauffeur called Kranz with Gene Marck?”

  “The dye on his hair was a tint—that’s the right word, my secretary tells me. It washes off easily. Old Lackner left him lying outside, the rain started, and when the local police arrived—just about ten minutes later before Taylor and Seydlitz got here—one of them saw a black streak in front of Kranz’s ear. He touched the man’s hair and his hand came away smudged. So they rubbed some more of the gunk off his hair and peeled away the moustache—the rain had loosened that, too. When Taylor and Seydlitz saw him—”

  “Seydlitz? He made a second trip here, that day?”

  “Yes. In his dinner jacket, believe it or not. Taylor called him as soon as you telephoned, asked for help in breaking all speed limits to get here in time.”

  Except, thought Grant, his smile fading, they didn’t get here in time.

  Renwick sensed the change. Shouldn’t have said that, he told himself angrily. Grant had seemed so normal, so much in control. “Can’t stay too long,” he said, rising. “I’ll be leaving Vienna on Tuesday. Just when you’re about to have that interview with old Basset. It’s in the bag, Colin. You’ve got the job.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “That’s a lot of bull. He’s determined to have you at Basset Hill.”

  “Not when he hears what I’m going to say. I thought of writing him a letter—tore up three attempts, in fact. Then I decided I owed him a face-to-face explanation.”

  So that’s why he is rushing home, thought Renwick. “About what? I thought it was all settled. You want the job. He wants you for it. What the hell’s got into you?”

  There was a long silence. Grant said, “Need any volunteers?”

  Renwick looked at him intently: he was serious, deadly serious. Renwick regained his breath. “Yes,” he said at last, “we can always use volunteers. Of the right calibre.” And you’d be good, you would be damned good, he thought.

  Grant said, “But you wouldn’t recruit me now—or, at least, start the process, whatever it is?”

  “No. Not at this moment.”

  “Because you think I am—” Grant searched for the right word—“unreliable?”

  “No. Never that.”

  “Vindictive, perhaps,” Grant suggested bitterly.

  “Not that, either.”

  “You feel I’m too personally involved?”

  “Yes,” Renwick said quietly. “That’s about it.”

  “And that’s dangerous?”

  “It leads to wild chances, mistakes.” Renwick thought of Gene Marck, the cool professional who had let his hatred for Grant grow into a personal vendetta. “It could get you killed.” He lightened his voice. “Or even someone like me. I’d object to that, Colin. I really would.”

  How can he stay so detached? Grant wondered. He has had some bad mome
nts about Avril: that I can see from his face, thinner, and his eyes strained. Yet he is right: a lust for revenge can blind you, make you vulnerable. “I get your point,” Grant said. He rose, pocketing the tickets and the bottle of pills. “Thanks for these. They’ll be useful.”

  Renwick was silent as they walked slowly to his car, and Grant had his own thoughts for company. As they reached it, Renwick asked, “What are you going to say to Victor Basset?”

  “I think I’ll tell him exactly how I feel.”

  “He’s in a mood to be sympathetic. I had a little talk with him on the ’phone yesterday. About Gene Marck. And Lois Westerbrook, I gave it to him straight.” A small smile. “Without breaking security, of course. I explained that Marck was trying to eliminate you as chief witness against him, and in the process, he over-reached himself. How’s that for the diplomatic approach?”

  “To Basset or to me?” Grant asked. “Okay, Bob—I won’t add any details to your account. Marck over-reached himself. That’s all I know.” He added thoughtfully, “Of course, Marck’s death doesn’t end this business. There are others who’d like to eliminate a chief witness. Perhaps Basset may think I’d be a very short-term director for his museum. Even shorter than I had planned.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I decided five minutes ago that I’d ask him—if he was agreeable—for a year’s appointment. By that time, I’d have the right staff chosen, get the museum started in the direction I’d like to see it take, delegate authority—and if I were to leave then, Basset would have lost nothing. By that time, too, you might find me less of a liability.”

  “In a year’s time—” Renwick began. He shook his head. “You will change your mind once you’re back in your own line of work.”

  “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.