Cloak of Darkness (28 page)

She was naked, bound with rope to a high-backed wooden chair, her body scored with vicious red slashes, one wrist broken, her legs covered with congealed blood. Her head fell sideways, as if she had tried in her last conscious moment to avoid the glare of light from a powerful lamp aimed at her face. Her mouth was savagely bandaged with a broad swathe of adhesive tape that stretched from ear to ear. Red hair, its loose tendrils lank and matted, had been hacked off at the neck and lay scattered with shreds of clothing thrown onto the bare floor.

Renwick thrust aside the lamp, began peeling the wide strip of plaster away from her cheeks and lips. Claudel had his knife out, was trying to judge where he could safely start cutting the rope that had bitten into her waist.

She moaned, tried to open her eyes, could only see two figures bending over her, didn’t even hear Renwick’s voice saying, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.” He grimaced in sympathy as he pulled the last shred of plaster away from her skin. The moan became a strangled sound of abject fear. Renwick looked at the white face now fully revealed. “God in heaven,” he said. Quickly, he snapped his knife open, began freeing her arms. This must hurt like hell, he thought. The least touch is agony.

“No, no more—no more.” She flinched away from the hands that were helping her. “No more—please. I’ll tell you.” Her eyes closed. “Zurich. Cathedral. Poste restante. Karen—Karen Cross.” The hoarse voice became a whimper that ended in a strangled sob. Suddenly, it ended. Her head drooped, fell motionless.

“Dead?” asked Claudel.

Renwick felt her pulse. “Barely alive.”

The ropes were cut. They carried her over to a cot, laid her on the grey blanket which had covered her on the journey here.

Claudel looked at Renwick’s tight face. “You know her?”

“Lorna Upwood.”

“Lorna?” Claudel stared at her. He drew a long breath. “And how do we get her out of here? I’m afraid to touch her.”

Renwick nodded and took out Marchand’s transmitter. “Five-mile radius, he said. I think I’d better find a way onto that balcony.” This is one report that I want to go out loud and clear. “We can leave her here. You nip downstairs, Pierre, and find that two-way radio they talked about. Put the lights out of action, too.” He locked the door behind them, pocketed the key, and hurried to the hall’s French window as Claudel raced downstairs.

Renwick’s exit onto the balcony was speed combined with destruction. He forced the window so angrily that a pane smashed, he slashed the opaque blind with his knife, he shouldered the shutters apart after a heavy kick at their lock. And now, his back close to the stucco wall, a wooden railing in front of him, he faced the view of the road as it wound its way down into town. He pressed the signal on the transmitter. Immediately, Marchand’s voice said, “Identity.”

“Victor.”

“About time. Where are you?”

“Inside.”

“So that’s where you went. Who welcomed you?”

“No one. The man left.”

“We saw him.”

Saw? I ought to have guessed, Renwick thought: Marchand and his boys followed us up here. “Then you saw us, too.”

“Until you vanished,” Marchand admitted. “Anything interesting?”

“Police business now. We’ll need a stretcher. Serious injuries.”

“An ambulance?”

“Later. Can’t alarm the neighbourhood.”

“Give us five minutes.” Then Marchand’s voice changed to a warning whisper. “Man coming down the road—another following, carrying a box.”

Beer and cigarettes? “Better hurry.”

“They’ll be ahead of us.” Marchand was worried.

Bring flashlights,” Renwick said and switched off communication. He stepped through the torn blind, found the hall now in darkness, and signalled Claudel with a whistle.

“Finished here,” Claudel called as he left the ground floor.

“Fourteen steps,” Renwick said softly as Claudel’s flashlight pointed its beam on the stairs to bring him up at a run. “We’ve got company. Stefan and friend.”

“You saw them?”

“Marchand did. He’s out there somewhere—near enough.”

“And the troops?”

“With him, I bet.” Renwick raised a warning hand as the back door opened. Claudel switched off his flashlight. Footsteps entered the kitchen, stopped. Renwick glanced at the broad stream of moonbeams seeping through the hole he had slashed in the blind. He gestured to the head of the stairs and its wooden railing. Claudel nodded, took cover behind the balustrade. Renwick reached the window, leaned out through the torn blind to close the shutters. One of them balked. It would be easy enough to yank it forcefully if he could risk any noise. He altered his grip, pulled firmly. The shutter almost creaked. He stopped.

Downstairs, the voices sounded angry and baffled. One was American—Barney? The other was Stefan, his words more limited as he struggled with English. “Door unlocked! Magda, where are you? Magda!” He shouted upstairs, “Magda—you there?”

“Open the door, let’s have some light in here,” Barney said. Someone stumbled and dropped a heavy load. “Where’s that goddamned switch? Got it!”

“She is not in her room. Outside, perhaps. I look.”

“It doesn’t work. A fuse? Where’s your flashlight?”

“Two of them. Near radio. Beside stove.”

Silence, while Barney searched and Stefan had his look outside. It was brief.

Too brief, thought Renwick, trying to persuade the shutter to swing inward. The blind hampered his movements, and he couldn’t tear it fully apart without sending a warning down to the kitchen. Every sound seemed to travel in this tight little house. He tried another grip. Careful, he told himself, careful.

Barney swore steadily. “Won’t work. Batteries are dead in both of them.”

“We signal the house.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, goddammit. I get nothing— nothing! The radio’s useless. You telephone while I search this floor.”

Renwick’s silent battle with the shutter ended. He swung it steadily toward him. It tilted as he was about to close it—one hinge must have slipped when he had shouldered it open— and showed a gap, small but definite, a finger-wide streak of moonlight, bright against the hall’s darkness. He tried to straighten it, force it even. And its good hinge, now bearing the shutter’s weight, creaked loudly.

Instantly, footsteps hurried to the bottom of the stairs and stopped. From the kitchen, Stefan called, “Telephone out! Kaput.”

Silence from Barney.

He’s listening, thought Renwick and didn’t even risk crossing the wooden floor to reach Claudel. Quickly, he drew himself to the side of the window. The table was near enough, a black shadow among shadows, flimsy protection but the only cover within reach. He stretched out his arm, ventured two careful steps, touched its corner. He felt the lamp tremble, steadied its base before it could topple. Then he crouched low at the side of the table, putting it between himself and the staircase.

Barney had started to climb the stairs, slowly, cautiously, trying to muffle the tread of his heavy shoes. Renwick counted the steps. One, two... He withdrew his hand from the lamp, tracing its cord to avoid tangling his heel and found that it ended at an outlet on the wall behind him. He eased the socket free. Then he took out his automatic. He was still counting. Eleven, twelve—and there Barney came to an abrupt halt.

There was no movement, no sound from Claudel or Renwick.

A minute passed. Barney relaxed. “Just the shutter. Lost its catch,” he said over his shoulder, and took the last two steps in one stride. He flicked his lighter and held its flame high, his right hand grasping a revolver. He saw the slashed blind. “Someone
was
here!” he yelled, whirled around, stared at the man rising from the side of the table, and instinctively pointed his revolver.

Renwick hurled the lamp at his face, deflecting his aim. A bullet splintered the staircase wall behind Renwick as he fired, caught the man’s right shoulder to send him spinning. His pistol dropped on the floor.

Barney regained his balance, threw his lighter at Renwick and missed, tried to pick up the revolver. One sharp blow from the side of Renwick’s hand on the nape of his neck and Barney went down, lay motionless.

At the first shot, Stefan had bounded onto the landing with his pistol drawn and ready to aim at Renwick’s spine. Claudel lunged at Stefan’s legs with all his weight behind the tackle. It brought Stefan crashing down on his face. Claudel rose, stamped hard on the hand that still held the revolver, kept it pinned under his foot. He drew his automatic, pressed it into the back of Stefan’s head. “One move,” Claudel said softly, “just one move.”

Suddenly, a blaze of lights. Powerful beams flooded into the dark hall from the staircase. Men’s heavy footsteps clattered up the steps. And Marchand, reaching the landing, was looking at the splintered wall above his head, then at the two men on the floor, then at Renwick and Claudel. “Explanations!” Marchand said, his voice tight with anger.

Renwick walked over to the room where Lorna Upwood lay. He unlocked the door, threw it open. “In here,” he said, and stood aside.

Marchand signed to two of his men to follow, and entered the room. He didn’t stay long. He came out, visibly shaken. He even did some explaining himself. “We brought a stretcher. That was what delayed us.” He looked at Stefan, at Barney. His voice hardened. “Are these the men responsible?”

“This one.” Claudel released Stefan to the grip of two husky fellows. “And a woman. You’ll find her on the hill behind the house.”

“We found her. Are you positive she was part of this...” Marchand didn’t finish, glanced back at the room. He couldn’t believe it.

“Quite positive,” Renwick said. “If it’s evidence you need, you’ll find a bloodstained dress in her room. Its blood will match the victim’s.”

Marchand nodded. “What about that one?” He looked at Barney.

“His revolver.” Renwick offered it. “His bullet.” He pointed to the wall.

Marchand signed to two men in police uniform. “Arrest all three. You know the arrangements.”

One of the policemen was examining Barney. “This one can hardly walk.”

“Make him!”

Renwick drew Marchand out of ear shot. “The house must be cleared. Quickly. They are expecting a visitor to stay overnight.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know. But he’s important. You’ll find a complete change of clothes waiting for him in the front bedroom. Also a stack of money in the bureau’s top drawer.”

Marchand looked at Renwick. “You can leave police business to me,” he said with a touch of acid in his voice. “We shall have the house cleared. Quickly. My men are quite capable, I assure you. But next time they’d prefer more action and less cleaning up.”

Renwick accepted that rebuke with a nod.

“And what are your plans now, my friend? Sit out on a hillside and wait until this important but unknown visitor arrives?”

“Why don’t you join us?” There was a smile in Renwick’s eyes.

Marchand gave him another sharp look, began detailing his men.

Renwick followed Claudel downstairs, passed through a crowded kitchen where the woman sat handcuffed to a chair. “Quite capable,” Claudel quoted. “And more of them, too.”

Renwick nodded. “How’s the arm?”

“Just beginning to remember it.” Strange: he had forgotten the pain when he lunged at Stefan. There was nothing like real danger to distract the mind.

For a few moments they stood outside the closed door, breathed deeply of the cool clean air. Then, in silence, they started up the slope to the trees behind the chalet.

Renwick looked at his watch. Ten-fifteen. Almost two hours to wait... In Washington, another afternoon would be ending. And Nina? If only, he thought, I could get back to the inn, set up the transmitter, ask London what they’ve heard. But this is where I stay, wait out an arrival—it could come before midnight—nothing can be taken for granted—nothing. Not even Nina’s safety.

Claudel halted at a group of firs where they would be protected from the sharp breeze and sporadic moonlight. “Okay?” he asked.

Renwick dropped onto the ground, his back against a tree trunk, his eyes on the path below them that led from the road to the chalet. “Okay,” he said. But his face was taut. He tried to forget what had happened to Lorna Upwood, forced himself to concentrate on the Plus List she had hidden in a poste restante at Zurich. He should have felt excitement, even elation. All he could feel was exhaustion and worry. Worry about Basset Hill. About Nina. He had seen one hideous sample of what Klaus could do to someone he had abducted. I’ll get him, he vowed. Before he wreaks any more harm, I’ll get him.

In Washington, it had been another hot Saturday afternoon. Nina had spent most of it in the shaded porch of Colin Grant’s house, working at her easel, trying to imitate the simple lines and delicate colours of the Dutch exteriors which had fascinated her in the Basset Museum.

At half-past four she put aside brushes and palette—they had been supplied, like the easel, by Grant. Her interest in painting had delighted him, had created a sudden and warm friendship between them. The three days here would have been relaxed and pleasant if only she could stop worrying about Bob, if only she could telephone him, write to him. Tim MacEwan, looking the part of the security expert who was checking the museum’s precautions against thieves, had brought her two reports from London. Bob was well. Bob sent his love. But, she wondered now as she went upstairs to change from her smock into something clean and cool for her daily visit to the museum, where
was
Bob? London never told her that. And if Tim MacEwan knew, he wasn’t telling, either.

Quickly, she washed and dressed. She brushed her blond hair, left it loose for a few minutes. The she replaced the dark-brown wig, added fresh coral lipstick, and put on her renovated sunglasses. Mac had brought them from Washington yesterday: dark lenses had been exchanged for a light colour, enough to dim blue eyes but less faddish when worn indoors. Mac, she told herself, was—in some ways—much like Bob: he thought of everything. So did Pierre. A special breed—careful, watchful. Yet that didn’t mean they could escape danger. Look at Pierre, for instance, with that knife wound in his arm. Of course, if he hadn’t trained himself to be careful and watchful, he could have been killed.