Snare of the Hunter

  A minute passed. All was gas and gaiters in the front half of the room. The farmers were about to leave. He could hear the solid clunk of their heels on the wooden floor. Then they stopped, made some more jokes, and set the waitress giggling again. A young man’s voice called to them in a thick dialect. A reply from one of the older men. Loud laughter; another comment; a shouted dialogue beginning, half argument, half joke.

  A second minute gone, David thought anxiously as he kept his eyes on his watch and his ears open for the smallest sound— Krieger hadn’t stirred, while the two strangers seemed determined to sit and wait until they could follow him out. Nothing more than that? David hesitated. He felt slightly foolish. Time to leave?

  Suddenly, the two men rose, walked swiftly over to Krieger’s table. David reached into his raincoat, gripped the automatic, watched them. One was thrusting his hand into the pocket of his jacket, bulging it ominously. The other, as they turned to face Krieger, hemming him in, was saying a few sharp words. His thumb emphasised his command with a jerk towards the rear door.

  Carefully David eased himself away from his table, his eyes still fixed on the men. Their backs were partly turned to him: their attention was riveted on Krieger, who was rising with calculated deliberation. He was talking too—just enough to keep them concentrating, wary of some trick. It gave David the few seconds he needed to reach the man with the gun in his pocket. The other glanced round, exclaimed a warning. It came a fraction too late. David lunged forward and hit hard with the butt of the automatic at the back of his man’s neck. Krieger smashed his beer mug against the other’s mouth. The two men slumped almost simultaneously: one on the floor, out for a very long count; the other over the table, his hands at his face.

  Krieger only stopped to drop some money beside the moaning man. “That will pay for the beer mug too,” he said as he followed David towards the back door.

  They stepped into a windowless alley. Krieger pointed to the left. “Your quickest way. I’ll take this route.” He moved off to the right. Stopping for a moment and looking back, he shook his head and said, “You’re a stubborn fool. But thanks.”

  David smiled, broke into a run along the alley, winding its way like a deep-bedded stream between high banks of three-storied walls. It was shadowed here, and quiet. The strip of sky that could be seen far above the rippling edges of red tiles was now blue and storm-free. He reached a street curving north, and there slackened his pace to a brisk walk.

  17

  Irina had listened to David’s footsteps running down the wooden staircase. She rose from the bed, the sandwich still in her hand, and crossed over to the window. But he was already out of sight. Nothing down there except an empty road and quiet vineyards. She came back, avoiding Jo’s eyes. “You were right,” she said. “It looks like thunder.”

  “Finish your lunch.” Jo was tidying the dresser, wrapping up the uneaten food, stowing it carefully away in the paper bag. There was a lot more inside it, too. That was one thing she had learned on this trip: go prepared.

  “Have some. Or are you not hungry?”

  “Later,” Jo said. “We can have a picnic later.” Perhaps her nervous stomach would be under control by then: her attempt to eat at noon had been disastrous. I wish I could really be as calm as I look, she thought as she got the room straightened. Fortunately Irina hadn’t unpacked much. “Did you throw that wig away?”

  Irina was horrified. “Throw it away? I don’t like it but I would not do that.” She finished her sandwich, and then the wine. The peaches were already packed. Jo was really too efficient “I’d like a peach.”

  “Later. It takes too long to eat all that juice. Messy.”

  “But we’ve plenty of time—”

  “We don’t have any. Come on, Irina, put on that wig. It does help to change you.”

  “No. I can tie my scarf around my head.”

  “Then do it.” Anything to stop an argument, Jo thought. She can put the wig on later, once we are out of town and I’m changing to a redhead for St Mary’s benefit. “Do it!” Jo repeated sharply.

  “Now?”

  “Now. And powder your face—make it pale. No lipstick, either.”

  “We’re leaving? Without David?”

  “We’re leaving. Ludvik and Milan and Jan aren’t sitting around in a cosy little bedroom waiting for the weather to clear. Please Irina—believe me. This is the only way to—”

  “I’m not leaving.” Irina was definite. You go. I am staying.”

  Jo sat down on the bed. “I feel sick.”

  Irina’s face changed. The hostile look was gone. “Then rest, Jo. Lie down for a little.”

  “I can’t. And you can’t. We’ve got to keep moving.”

  Irina looked at Jo’s white face, heard the small break in her voice. She said gently, “But I want to wait for David.”

  Jo took a long deep breath. “You’re as stubborn as your father. But he would always listen to reason.”

  “You have met my father?”

  “In London. I was staying at my uncle’s flat when your father got out of Prague. I was with him when he was almost murdered.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you in the car. We’ll have plenty of time to talk before Dave catches up with us.” Jo rose, picked up her raincoat. Thank God, she thought, that Dave was joining them: the road west had looked easy enough on the map—until you turned north for Switzerland. “We’ll wait for him at St Mary’s. It’s only thirty miles out of town.” Irina had made no move. “Coming?”

  Irina shook her head. “I am waiting for David here.”

  “And have him killed, like Josef and Alois. Pokorny?”

  Irina’s eyes widened. Now I’m being brutal, Jo thought, but there’s no other way. “Or perhaps you haven’t noticed that everyone who has spent a lot of time with you ends up in a fatal accident? Why? Ask your Jiri about that. He’s building up a neat legend about your escape and can’t have it exposed as a fake.” Jo paused. “Now cover up your hair. Put on my coat. I’ll wear yours. A little confusion never hurts.”

  “What legend?” But Irina was binding her scarf tightly round her hair. She even pulled on the raincoat.

  The knot in Jo’s stomach untied. The battle is won, she thought “Come on—let’s move. I’ll give you the details later.” But Irina took no step towards the door. She faced Jo, her eyes questioning. Jo said, “Today’s newspapers have a report from Prague—about you and a political kidnapping.” Irina stood very still.

  “A kidnapping?”

  “That’s Jiri’s angle. Krieger was expecting something tricky. So stop worrying, Irina. Trust Krieger. He will think of—”

  “Trust Krieger?” Irina was bitter. “He planned this, didn’t he?” She pointed to David’s bag, which Jo was about to carry downstairs along with the food. For a moment it seemed as though Irina was going to strip off the raincoat.

  Jo’s anger broke. “Krieger,” she said, her voice becoming more clipped, more English, “is staying in Merano as long as he can. And every minute of that delay could be dangerous. In fact, my dear Irina, he may very well end up dead, and all because of helping you. So cut it out. If you’ve got to hate someone, start hating Ludvik and his friends. They are the ones who murdered Alois. And Krieger is the witness who could have them hanged for it.” With that cold outburst, Jo opened the door. She looked back impatiently to see Irina still fumbling with the raincoat. She wasn’t taking it off, though. She was transferring two small books from her handbag into the coat’s deep inner pocket.

  Irina closed her bag. “It was too full,” she said. “And it could easily be stolen.” She looked down at the raincoat for one last check.

  “Doesn’t show one bulge,” Jo assured her. Strange girl, what on earth was she hiding? Worrying—at a time like this—about purse snatchers? But at least she had taken Jo’s straight talk well. And Jo herself felt the better for it. The truth is we both needed it, she thought. The mutiny is over and my nausea has g
one. “I’ll do the explaining to Frau Whosis and her son,” she told Irina as they went downstairs. “That way we won’t get our stories crossed.”

  As they reached the little hall, a violent explosion rattled the windows. Jo missed the last step, almost tripped. Irina flinched. They looked at each other, and went on. There was no sign of Frau Hartmann. “She has probably locked herself in a closet,” Jo said. “My mother always does that when there’s a thunderstorm.”

  “It’s close,” Irina said.

  “Too close.”

  In the alley they heard a long hideous hiss, ending in another enormous explosion. “A gas main blown up?” Jo asked.

  “Then we could have traffic problems.” They started running.

  The garage was empty except for the two cars. Franz was out in the street, head bent back, eyes on the sky. A third wild hiss and a stupendous bang were followed by a fourth hiss, a fourth explosion. This time, they both jumped openly. “Could they be rockets?” Irina asked. “A celebration?”

  The tension was gone between them. They laughed together.

  “Anyway,” said Jo as they dropped the baggage, David’s included, into the back seat of the Ford, “I think Herr Hartmann is too busy counting the bangs to pay us much attention.” And that will save a five-minute delay, she thought thankfully.

  But he had keen ears. As soon as he heard the engine turn over, he came running into the garage to see who was tampering with one of its cars. Jo was just about to move out. “My friend is not feeling well. I’m taking her to the country for the weekend,” she explained. “Please thank your mother for us. And tell Herr Mennery, when he comes to get his car, that we’ve got his luggage with us. We’ll expect him at my aunt’s house—just south of here, near Bolzano.” She had been speaking in German, but the Italian name had slipped out. “Near Bozen,” she corrected, and hoped she was forgiven.

  “What about the petrol? I filled your—”

  “He will pay for that along with his bill.” With a bright smile and a wave of her hand, Jo drove slowly out of the garage and made ready for a right turn, the quick route for the westbound highway.

  Franz Hartmann shouted. “Fräulein Schmidt!” She stopped. “Not that way!” he called as he ran up to her. “If you’re going south, you turn left—”

  “And drive through the busy Corn Market? No, thank you. I can reach the road to Bozen more easily than that.”

  “But you are taking the long way round. You will have to—”

  “Better than struggling through the Old Town. Auf Wiedersehen.”

  * * *

  Franz Hartmann stood at the door of his garage, watching the Ford drive off. So the room wasn’t good enough for them, was that it? The American’s sister was ill, that was Fräulein Schmidt’s story, and perhaps true; the blonde had looked as pale as if she had dipped her face in a flour bin. In that case, better not have anyone turning that room into a hospital—good riddance to them. Yet he didn’t like it. He wished he could risk leaving the garage for a couple of minutes, but at that moment a car stopped at the pump, demanding five gallons of petrol. While he was busy with that job he saw Willi, the neighbour’s boy, coming to borrow a wrench as usual. “Willi!” he called out, “nip around to the house. Tell my mother that the women have left. She’d better check the spare room, see if anything’s missing.”

  A second car drew up, needing four gallons of petrol, and a third had pulled up at the kerb to wait till he was free. Willi came chasing back, heavy shoes clattering through the garage, and picked up the wrench. “Your mother checked,” he reported. “Everything is fine. I’ll return this in five minutes.” He waved the wrench and darted away to his own yard. Nothing missing, Franz thought. The room, just wasn’t good enough for them, that was the truth. Angrily, he gestured to the third car to move over to the pump.

  The car did not move. Instead, two men got out. More foreigners; and as usual in need of directions. Franz hooked up the pump, wiped his hands on a rag, and went to meet them. They came from Graz—that was what the licence plate of their white Fiat said—but they weren’t Austrian, even if the tall one had light hair and eyes. The other, a darker type, was going to do the talking. He was speaking in Italian, carefully, as though he had learned his little piece by heart. But he wasn’t asking about a street name or a puzzling address. He was looking for a friend who had just arrived in Merano, driving a green Mercedes with a Viennese licence.

  “Why don’t you try at the hotels?” Franz asked.

  “We’ve telephoned all the hotels and inns.”

  So now, thought Franz, they are checking the garages. This is more than a search for a friend. Police business. I’m not going to get mixed up in that. Not me. They are not Italian police, that’s for sure; but they all work together. One complaint from them to the Italians, and I’ve had it. “A green Mercedes?” he asked.

  “That is what I said.” The speaker could make even Italian sound cold and hard. “Driven by an American. He has a girl with him, a pretty blonde.”

  The dark eyes were studying Franz, but it was the movement of the other fellow, abruptly walking into the garage, that gave Franz the final prod. He said, “An American? Yes. He was here.”

  “He is here,” called back the light-haired man. “At least his car is.”

  His friend moved into the garage. Franz followed. But they didn’t touch the car: they simply checked its licence plate. The light-haired man took a step towards Franz. His friend stopped him; then he asked, in that cold hard voice, “Where is the American?”

  “Not here.”

  “Where?”

  “He went into town.”

  “With the girl.”

  “No.”

  “Then where is she?”

  With relief Franz said, “She left with a friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Another girl. They left about ten—maybe fifteen minutes ago.” And God be thanked that I don’t have to mention the room to them. These two would scare mother to death. There’s something about that big fellow that scares even me. They’d have searched the house, no doubt about that; from cellar to attic. Franz felt a cold sweat break out over his brow.

  “What kind of car?”

  “Ford. Tan colour. Meran registration. They were driving south to Bozen.”

  “South? That’s a good one. And she took the direction west?”

  “Yes. But she wanted to avoid the traffic in—”

  The men laughed, walked out.

  And what about the American? Franz wondered. Weren’t they going to wait for him?

  It seemed they had no more interest in the American. Franz saw the white Fiat drive past, travelling towards the west.

  He was still standing there, trying to puzzle it all out, when Willi brought back the wrench. Willi said, “Something wrong?” Franz shook his head, didn’t answer.

  * * *

  He still was not in an answering mood when David arrived back at the garage. He presented his bill with a minimum of words. “They left. Took your luggage with them. Headed for Bozen.”

  David checked the bill. It had been carefully made out, honest to the last lira. The extra charge for the petrol for Jo’s car was probably accurate, too. It was all on the same expense account anyhow, he thought. He tried a small joke about men being sometimes left to pay the bill, but it collapsed and fell flat on its sad face. What’s bothering Franz? he wondered. “Sorry I had to dash off. I just wanted to get that aspirin before the thunderstorm broke. But it didn’t, did it?”

  “No.” Franz was intent on counting out the change.

  “That was quite a performance with the rockets. Did the girls leave while it was going on?”

  “Soon after.” Franz re-counted the change, this time into David’s hand.

  “Something wrong?” David pocketed the loose coins. Franz was too open-faced a character to be able to disguise his worry. Something is wrong, David decided, and tried again. “Were the girls all right? No delay?”


  “No delay.” Franz turned away, walking towards the small wooden table that served as his office.

  The hell with this, thought David, and got into the Mercedes. As he drove out, he braked for a moment near the table. “Many thanks,” he said, and tried a friendly grin. “Next time, we’ll—”

  “Next time you don’t come here. We don’t need your kind.”

  David switched off the engine. “And what kind is that?”

  “The kind that brings trouble.”

  David restrained his rising temper. “What trouble?”

  Franz glanced over his shoulder, made sure Willi was not hovering near the door. “Two policemen. In plain clothes.”

  Milan and Jan? David’s face was grim. He asked, “One had dark hair and eyes; the other, taller, with light hair?”

  Franz stared, then nodded.

  Yes, it could be Milan and Jan. So they had come searching for a green Mercedes. David drew a sharp breath. “What about the Ford? Did you tell them—”

  “They didn’t see it,” Franz said abruptly, and walked into the street.

  “But did you tell them about it?” David called after him.

  Yes, David thought, he told them; and he won’t admit it. This is all I’ll get out of him. But again David tried, once he had the Mercedes moving out of the garage. “What kind of car?” he asked as he drew up beside Franz. “These two men—what kind of car?”

  The intensity of David’s low voice jolted an answer out of Franz. “White Fiat.” Then he noticed the American’s eyes, anxious, desperate, as they searched the street. He relented still further. “They didn’t wait for you. They travelled—”