Snare of the Hunter

  Well, he thought, I pushed a little and they gave.

  He left the window, switched on the light, found his flask of brandy under his shaving kit. Tomorrow, he must allow himself enough time before leaving to put a call in to Vienna. What working arrangements were there between the Austrian and Italian police—any chance of speedy extradition?

  Possibly not; but it might make a useful threat. Anything that made Ludvik’s life more complicated was a handy idea. And if any confirmation of the Pokorny murders had been needed, it had been given right here, tonight, in a panic flight from Lienz.

  Tomorrow morning, too, he’d better have a check made on the Chrysler: Ludvik had stationed himself too damned near it. Yet it was more likely that Ludvik would wait until he was well out of Austrian territory before he took any action against Krieger. There could be hell to pay in Merano. A witness, Krieger had called himself, and witnesses weren’t much tolerated by Ludvik and his goon squad. Krieger had a third swallow of brandy and chased that thought away. The chill was out of his bones too. But quite apart from, the brandy and its warmth, he hadn’t felt better in years.

  He was soon in bed, in spite of strange territory and its creaking floor, his sleep was deep and dream-free, a blissful forgetting inside a cloud of white eiderdown.

  * * *

  The morning brought clouds and threats of rain, but nothing dampened Krieger’s upbeat mood: bad weather could be a discouragement to week-end drivers, and mountain roads might be less cluttered with Saturday traffic. By nine o’clock he was ready—car checked, Vienna telephoned, and a brief call made to McCulloch too.

  Jo, usually punctual, was a few minutes late. She got into the Chrysler with only a small nod in exchange for his greeting, and sat beside him in marked silence. He started the engine, began edging around the square, avoiding a minibus with problems in loading—suitcases scattered around it along with some half-awake Dutchmen. A lot of other cars were pulling out too; soon the square would be given back to the Lienzer. But he could see no sign of Mark Bohn at the doorway of Die Forelle. “We’ve mislaid Bohn,” he said cheerfully.

  “No such luck.” Jo was still on edge.

  “A bad night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had any breakfast?”

  “Two mouthfuls—before Bohn dropped into my room with a message for you. Why didn’t he come down here and deliver it himself?” (A messenger girl, that’s what I am, Jo thought angrily.) “He’s been detained. He has been trying to reach Munich—something about his assignment there, exact dates, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera—and he’s now waiting for Munich to call back.”

  “So,” Krieger said softly, “he has bugged out.”

  “Not Bohn! He’ll meet us in Merano.”

  “I wonder.” Krieger concentrated on the narrow shopping street they had entered, a bustle of business and week-end marketing.

  “Why?”

  “He’s scared, Jo. He’s way in over his head, and he has just realised it.”

  “But how—”

  “A mention of murder.”

  She drew a deep breath. “That isn’t funny,” she said, her annoyance growing.

  “It wasn’t meant to be.” He tried to calm her, and added, “Sorry, Jo. I haven’t told you much about Vienna, or—”

  “You’ve told me nothing in these last twenty-four hours.” There was deep reproof in her voice. “This is me. Jo.”

  So that was where the hurt lay. “But now I can,” he said. And thank God, we can leave suspicions and doubts behind us with Mark Bohn. “Twenty miles to the frontier, and a decent breakfast for you, and a lot of talk. How does that sound?” It sounded fine, thought Jo. She gave her first smile of the morning.

  13

  Peace was everywhere: in his heart, most of all. David stood at the window, looking down at the silent garden, a vast stretch of green with wandering paths and circles of flowers and clusters of trees turned to sharp silhouettes against the early sun. The surrounding buildings were hushed, no sign of life behind their curtained windows. Only at the lodge near the entry gates was a discreet stir of activity, preparing for a new day’s business. Except for the hotel staff, most people were still asleep. Like Irina.

  He turned away from the window, came over to the bed where she lay outstretched, face half-buried in the pillow, hair loose and golden, a twist of sheet barely covering her hips. Lightly, trying not to wake her, he kissed her neck, her shoulders; felt the smooth curve of her waist, the gentle roundness of her breasts. Suddenly, her hands caught his wrists and she laughed as she turned to face him. Her arms went round him, pulling him towards her, her lips meeting his.

  * * *

  They came out of their dream as a brisk knock was repeated on the door. David opened his eyes, became fully awake as he heard a third knock, sharp and peremptory, and a voice calling “Guten Morgen”.

  “I was too damned efficient last night,” he said angrily, and drew on his dressing-gown. Everything arranged for an early start this morning: a large hot breakfast to let them reach Merano without worrying about food. He glanced at his watch as he crossed the room: seven-fifteen. The waiter was late. And thank God for that, he thought, and opened the door in a better mood. Behind him he heard the rustle of bedclothes as Irina pulled them over her head.

  “Come out before you smother,” he told her as room service retreated back into the corridor, and he began uncovering the dishes set on a table by the window. He paused, watching her as she came to join him. His smile faded. He said softly, “You really are the most beautiful woman.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes wide and warm. Then she shook her head and laughed. “I’m just the happiest woman.” She put her arms around him, held him tightly. “Never leave me again, David.”

  “Never, again,” he said. “We were cheated of sixteen years. Never again.”

  * * *

  They breakfasted and dressed and were ready to set out by twenty minutes past eight. By that time, the lodge was busy with departures and bill payers. “I’ll call McCulloch later,” David said, as he dropped their baggage on the back seat of the car, and helped Irina safely in. Even the touch of her hand sent his heart leaping.

  “Again? Didn’t you call him last night?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t talk with him. I left a message just to keep him happy.” David smiled as he read her thoughts. “It was enough,” he assured her. “You’re too dutiful, Irina. Besides, I was worried about having to leave you alone.” He laughed, remembering his return. “If I hadn’t come chasing back to you, you’d have floated out of that bathroom in a sea of foam, and right down the staircase. What did you empty into that tub?”

  “Everything that was lying around.” She laughed, too. “There were so many free samples all waiting to be used.” And why not? My first hot bath in twelve days, she thought. And the first morning in years when I didn’t awake with fear sliding back into my mind. Fear and a sense of hopelessness.

  “Converted to capitalism, are you?” he asked lightly, trying to drive away the cloud that now shadowed her face. He succeeded: the smile came back to her lips.

  As he slowed the car to pass through the gates, she looked over her shoulder to have one last glimpse of the green garden with its blaze of brilliant flower beds and the tall trees standing sentinel. “I was happy there,” she said softly. “Something to remember always.”

  He nodded. “Why the past tense? It isn’t over. It is a beginning.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Who’s going to stop us from planning our own lives? Your father? No, I don’t think that’s his style. Now, if we were dealing again with your mother, we’d have a real battle on our hands.”

  “David, David—” She was shaking her head.

  “What’s wrong with all that?”

  “Me. I’ve lost the habit of thinking about the future. I live day by day.”

  “That isn’t enough.”

  “It is, when you are afrai
d of the future.”

  “Why afraid? Because it is unknown?”

  “Yes. So many paths to choose and none of them certain.”

  “But the freedom of choice is yours.”

  “And if you make a wrong choice?”

  “You admit it—the sooner, the better. You cut your losses, choose more carefully the second time.”

  “What if you keep making other mistakes?”

  “Then you probably didn’t admit you were wrong the first time,” he said half-jokingly. “That’s one sure way of repeating your errors. I know. I’ve done it.”

  “And you still want your freedom of choice—even if it’s the wrong choice?”

  “Who’s to say that a choice made for me would be any less wrong? No, thank you. I’ll take my chances on my own decisions. And you’re going to do that too, Irina.”

  “I’ll learn. I suppose. But now—it’s frightening in a way.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you really know, David?”

  “We all have some controls over our lives.”

  “But are you told what town you must live in; what job you may have; where you will work; where you can travel, even within your own country? Everything is done by Prague: the choices are made for you, for everyone—and it all begins to seem inevitable.” She drew a deep breath. “In my whole life, I’ve only made two really important decisions for myself: to separate from my husband; to leave my country.” And even that escape wasn’t my own decision entirely, she thought: it might never have happened if Jiri hadn’t allowed it to come true. “Why did he let me?” she asked, almost of herself.

  David slowed the car to avoid a trail of teenagers, with picnic baskets and phonograph, making their carefree way to one of the marinas lining the shore of the lake. “Who? And let you do what?”

  “Jiri. Why did he allow me to escape?”

  David looked at her sharply, then made a left turn through the empty square to reach the main highway. “How long have you known that?”

  “I’m only beginning to realise it. Jiri—”

  “I don’t want to talk about Jiri. I want to talk about us. Come on, Irina—get rid of that ghost. From now on, everything is not done by Prague.”

  “You sound so confident.”

  Confident, am I? He let that go. The only thing he was sure of, at this minute—apart from his own feelings about Irina—was the fact that they were on their way to Merano. The little lakeside town of Velden was behind them, its people waking up to another day of sailing, swimming, tennis, eating, drinking, dancing, and general jollification, all worries pushed aside until vacations were over. He thought, with an unexpected touch of nostalgia, of a stretch of white sand pounded by huge breakers, of high dunes and green-gold grass. “You’ve never seen the Atlantic, have you, Irina?”

  “The only ocean I ever saw was the English Channel.” And then, as he laughed, she said, “But it isn’t an ocean, is it?”

  “No. It isn’t even a very big bit of sea.”

  “It was enormous to me. Is an ocean so different?”

  “You’ll find out I have a small cottage where I spend week-ends.” And he began describing East Hampton.

  * * *

  Just outside Villach, their last big town on this route, David slowed down as they approached an efficient-looking service station that was quite empty of customers at this hour. “One thing I’ve learned: keep your car tanked up on country highways.” And then as she looked puzzled, he explained less cryptically. Irina’s English, was excellent, but it didn’t extend much to American short cuts. He had the feeling she had to guess the meaning of one quarter of his phrases. Darling Irina, he thought, watching the smiling eyes, the slightly raised eyebrow, the parted lips breaking into a laugh, you’ve got so many things—small as well as big—to learn all at once. “Look,” he said, “would you be all right if I were to leave you for ten minutes? I see the garage office over there, and it must have a telephone. It might be an idea to check in with McCulloch—let him know we are on our way.”

  “I’ll be all right,” she assured him.

  He still hesitated. “Come and stand beside me,” he said. “We’ll make the call together.”

  “I’d be less noticed, sitting here.”

  “True enough, I’ll keep an eye on you,” he said as he got out. He could do that easily once he’d been given permission to use the telephone: the office window was wide and the car was clearly in sight. She had tied her blue-and-green scarf to hide her hair, and she was keeping her head bent as if she were reading something. No one from any of the passing cars could recognise or remember her. Reassured, he made the call to Geneva.

  He really worries about me, Irina had thought as she tied the scarf in place. It was a good feeling. She reached into the back seat, found her automatic pencil jammed down the side of her handbag, left the bag where it lay beside the luggage, and with the pencil to help her, she began studying David’s road map, trying to measure distances and translate kilometres into miles. I’ll have to learn about miles, she told herself. I may as well begin, right now.

  By the time he returned, the car, with tank filled and oil checked, was ready to leave. He didn’t look altogether happy. Something was annoying him. Irina slipped the pencil into her pocket, said quickly, “We are now about twelve miles out of Velden, and still sixty to go to Lienz. Then it’s only another twenty to the Italian frontier. Am I right?”

  “Close enough,” he said with a grin. She had dropped seven miles somewhere between Velden and Lienz. He noticed the calculations she had lightly jotted down in the map’s margin, and they touched him. It had been quite an effort. “In fact, perfect.”

  “How long will it take?”

  He measured the traffic ahead of them on the highway, not compressed as yet, and moving at a steady pace. “We’ll make the border easily by ten-thirty. Weather permitting,” he added as he looked at the dark clouds gathering ahead of them, and hoped they were not symbolic.

  “Are we going to stop at Lienz?”

  “Why should we?”

  “Jo may be waiting there for us.”

  “Jo isn’t alone. Walter Krieger is with her. He reached Lienz last night.”

  “Expecting to find us?” Irina was dismayed.

  “Yes. But he’s probably delighted we didn’t turn up. Ludvik was there, expecting us. And so were these two.” David reached into his pocket and found the photographs of Milan and Jan. “Better look at them now. They are the men you passed on the stairway to Alois Pokorny’s flat. Milan is the dark-haired one. The big fellow is Jan. Recognise them?”

  “The man with light hair—Jan?—Yes,” she said slowly, “that was the one who passed very close to me. At least I think so. Perhaps if I saw them again together, I could identify them.”

  “Just keep their faces in mind from now on.” And I thought I had ditched them neatly in Graz. How did they find out about Lienz?

  Irina was troubled too. She handed back the photographs; said nothing.

  “The three of them have left Lienz. I don’t know why or how. McCulloch had other things to talk about. Krieger will brief me completely, in Merano.”

  “Will Ludvik and his friends be in Merano?” Irina asked, very quietly.

  “If they’ve found out about that, too—yes.”

  “If? They seem to know everything.”

  “Well, let’s hope that they haven’t heard of Tarasp.”

  She looked at him, her eyes questioning.

  “It’s a village just over the Swiss border. That’s our destination. Krieger will tell us about the exact house where—”

  “My father’s house?”

  “No. He lives somewhere else in Switzerland. He’s coming to meet you. I wasn’t given the reason—McCulloch says Krieger will explain it all.”

  “And when do we reach Tarasp? Tomorrow?” So soon, she thought. And where does David go then?

  “Perhaps earlier.”

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed
. There was pain in her voice, disbelief on her face. “Tonight? Oh, no—”

  “That’s how I felt.”

  She said nothing at all.

  “Do you go with your father or do you stay with me?”

  She shook her head. “I know what I want to do. But—” She didn’t finish.

  His lips tightened. If there was a conflict in Irina between “want” and “ought”, he could guess which would win. And I’ll be asked to wait for her, and she will promise to come to me. Will she? What if her father falls ill, needs her—delay after delay?

  Irina said, “But it’s too far to drive to Tarasp. You can’t cover that distance in one day.”

  She’s postponing her decision, he thought. “Look at the map again, Irina. From the Italian border to Merano is only a hundred miles. We’ll reach there by two o’clock, perhaps sooner.”

  “But all these mountains!”

  “Our road goes round them, not through them.” And another pleasant plan sent skittering. He had looked forward to taking a more complicated route, between the giant Dolomite peaks—a slower journey, but incredibly beautiful, something for them to remember always.

  “And from Merano to Switzerland?” She was still gazing at the map. She folded it back to see the exact section more clearly, and took out the pencil as a pointer. Angrily she said, “I can’t find this Tarasp.”

  “It’s there all right. It’s in the Engadine—just west of the Swiss National Park. According to McCulloch, about eighty miles from Merano.”

  “So near?” The Engadine... There it was, and the National Park. Her pencil followed the road that circled it.

  “Near enough. Your father is reaching Tarasp tonight.”