Prelude to Terror (39 page)

Grant faced her. “Avril, why didn’t you tell—”

“Darling, I’ve promised to make sandwiches and coffee.”

“Why didn’t you tell him you won’t be in Paris?”

“He didn’t give me time, did he?” She was on her way to the kitchen. Taylor and the two Austrians had everything ready for the deposition. Grant gave up, went over to the recording machine, sat down, and collected his thoughts.

“It’s really quite simple,” Taylor was saying. “Your name, address, place of business. Then you can begin your statement of facts about your first encounter with Gene Marck in New York.”

“With Lois Westerbrook. She approached me first about this visit to Vienna.”

“Good. With Lois Westerbrook. I think we can start now, okay?”

With Lois Westerbrook
—Grant’s thoughts switched from a sleazy hotel, a contorted body left lying in some filthy room, to an elegant blonde, fastidious and beautiful, full of charm and grace. And of guile. Strangely, as if he were standing apart from the little group around the coffee table, he listened to his cool voice giving his name and address, his place of business; he even added his position there, and a quick summary of his qualifications. He paused, making sure of the sequence of events, cleared his throat and began. “On the ninth of July, 1977, I was at the Schofeld Galleries, attending a Dali exhibition, when Lois Westerbrook...”

* * *

“Excellent!” Prescott Taylor said as Grant ended his statement. And then, trying to disguise his incredible relief, he reverted to the diplomat. “Don’t you think?” he asked Schwartz and Seydlitz.

“Succinct,” Schwartz agreed. “Of course, there are one or two questions that should be added. Would you be so good as to answer them, Herr Grant?” The lawyer’s eyes were friendly, wide and innocent. He was young, no more than forty, but obviously competent under his shield of politeness.

“Ask them,” said Grant. As he had guessed, the first question dealt with Renwick.

“You mentioned that Herr Renwick had warned you to be on your guard? When and how?”

“As soon as I arrived in Vienna. He sent Miss Hoffman to talk with me.”

“Was that when you started being suspicious of Westerbrook and Marck?”

“Not exactly. I was beginning to have some doubts of my own. Renwick’s warning reinforced them, and they turned into suspicion. The events at the Klar Auction Rooms confirmed them.” He paused and added, “Without that warning, you wouldn’t have had a witness here today.” He pointed to the machine, still registering every word. “No witness, no testimony.”

“Do you think the explosion in your room at the Majestic was an attempt to eliminate you as a witness?”

“Yes. Marck told me to meet him there at midnight.”

“Were you expecting a gift from anyone? The chambermaid, coming in to remove the bed cover, noticed a small package.”

“Beside the telephone?” Grant was smiling. “And I was to answer it at midnight? Marck’s an ingenious fellow.”

Schwartz and Seydlitz exchanged a quick glance. Seydlitz nodded his assent, and Schwartz continued, “The chambermaid says there was a piece of paper slipped under the ribbon on the package. She admits she looked at it. She saw some English words followed by $30. Have you any idea of what that could mean?”

“A description of contents, value thirty dollars. For Customs examination in New York.” Grant shook his head: good old Bernie had a black sense of humour. How he had enjoyed writing the innocent inscription—or getting some stooge to write it. (Safety first: the note could be intercepted.)

“Could you explain that?”

“Certainly.” He gave a brief account of his visit to Bernard Mandel. Too bad that I’m butting into Frank’s investigation, he thought as he ended, but what else was to be done? You don’t start concealing evidence to let Mandel off the hook.

“So you believe Mandel is connected with Marck?”

They’ve got me, he thought now. I was too damned clever. He said evenly, “All I know is that Marck arranged a meeting in my room. All I know is that Mandel wanted me to take a gift for his brother-in-law through New York Customs. I agreed, if he’d mark contents and value on the package.”

“What makes you so sure that the package in your room was Mandel’s gift?”

“No one else was sending me gifts.” That sounded weak, and it was. He countered with a wry smile. “Too bad the chambermaid doesn’t read English. She might be able to bear me out.” He suddenly remembered that chambermaid, like most of the employees at the Majestic, could at least speak English. “Doesn’t she?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

Schwartz, the lawyer, only looked at him quizzically. Schwartz, the man, broke into a smile. “She does.”

Seydlitz was much amused. In his genial way, he added one more question. “Have you heard of the death of the woman, Westerbrook?”

“Yes, I heard about that.” Now take care, Grant warned himself: no more bright suggestions.

“Did she use drugs?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Her arm showed many punctures. Did you never notice them?”

“No.”

“She always wore dresses with sleeves?”

“Except in Arizona. That was three years ago, of course.”

“Did her manner suggest drugs to you?”

“No. She was extremely capable and competent. Didn’t drink, except for a glass of white wine.”

“When did she last talk with you?”

“On Thursday night. Late. She telephoned. She was—well, I thought hysterical. Almost incoherent. With anger. She had broken with Gene Marck. She wanted me to put her in touch with my friends. She was convinced, I think, that I was an American agent.”

“Have you ever been connected with American Intelligence?”

“Never.”

“Thank you, Herr Grant.”

But Schwartz had his own line of questioning to follow. “Why did she want to get in touch with American Intelligence?”

“To tell them about Marck, I gathered. She talked of talcum tins and hairbrushes and lighters that could come apart. Tricks of the trade, I think she said. Something like that. It made little sense to me.”

At the mention of talcum tins and hairbrushes, Schwartz and Seydlitz again exchanged glances. No nods, this time. An investigation in progress? Grant wondered. Schwartz quickly changed the subject. “Why did you come to Grünau, Herr Grant?”

“It seemed the safest thing to do. Once the Ruysdael was delivered to Victor Basset, I thought I’d better drop out of sight for a few days—until Commissioner Seydlitz has Marck safe in custody.”

“And Fraülein Hoffman? Why is she here? Was her safety threatened?”

“It could have been. She was seen with me at Klar’s Auction Rooms. She had come to give me a last warning. About Mittendorf. A very necessary one. I had no suspicions about him at all. He was just an honest, dependable but basically stupid man—so I thought. An easy mark, like me.”

“Not so easy, Herr Grant,” Schwartz said very quietly. “Do you swear that this testimony, along with the answers you’ve given to our questions, is true? Please state the place and time of this interview. And the date.”

Grant did so. The recording machine was switched off, firmly closed.

“You’ll receive transcriptions, of course,” Schwartz said. “Sign them and return them to us. From New York, I suppose? If there is any change in your address, you will let us know immediately.”

“I’ll do that.” There was a general handshaking, a feeling of something accomplished, a slow and friendly progress towards the door.

Suddenly, Prescott Taylor halted. The luggage!” he said with a laugh. “If you don’t mind waiting another two minutes,” he suggested to the Austrians, “Grant and I can get the suitcases moved. I think it’s wiser if you both stay out of sight as much as possible, don’t you? It’s really much more comfortable by the fire.” He beckoned to Grant and Avril, too, and hurried them towards the cars. His briefcase was firmly in his hand.

Once they were free of the house, Taylor said, “Okay. You did fine, Grant. Several patches of thin ice but you skated over the top. Now for Renwick’s instructions. He wants you out of Grünau by tomorrow morning.
Early
tomorrow morning. You’ll drive to a small town near Salzburg where Slevak will be waiting for you. Route and name of town are all in here.” The briefcase was swung on to the top of the Mercedes’ boot, quickly opened. “All in here,” he repeated, bringing out an envelope and presenting it to Avril. “Map’s inside. Distances worked out. Time schedules, also.” He drew out two smaller envelopes. “Avril, this one has your passport, et cetera, as well as your train ticket from Salzburg to Paris. Slevak will see you safely on board. Grant—you’ll drive on to the Salzburg airport once you’ve dropped Avril at the designated place. This is your envelope: Austrian Airlines from Salzburg to Zürich to New York by TWA; everything booked. First-class space, courtesy of Victor Basset. Also his cheque for extra expenses—old Basset was firm about that. And a note in his own handwriting, believe it or not. He was as mad as hell at not having a talk with you.” Taylor closed his briefcase, heaved it inside the Mercedes, unlocked the boot. “Let’s get a move on, shall we? Avril, here are the Thunderbird keys—open it up. Start hauling.”

* * *

The Mercedes left, with Taylor now at the wheel. Perhaps it was the success of the visit or his relief that all his forebodings had proved imaginary, but his mood was a smiling one even under the chauffeur’s cap. The jacket fitted him better than it had Renwick. Dutifully, he wore the narrow black tie and donned the heavy dark glasses. “What drives in, must drive out,” he said philosophically. In a month or two, this would all make an amusing story over a double martini.

Grant watched the Mercedes move gently out of sight. Then he turned on his heel, strode into the room, halted abruptly before Avril. His anger exploded. He drew out the envelope with his tickets, glared at it. “Renwick says jump and we all jump. Is that it?”

Avril was seated on the high kerb around the hearth. She didn’t look up, kept studying the contents of the larger envelope that Taylor had given her. All the details of tomorrow’s journey were here. “We’ll have to leave at six in the morning. No later.”

“You’re taking his marching orders?”

She raised her head, eyes widening. “There must be a good reason for them.”

Grant’s anger ebbed. Yes, he had to admit there was a very good reason for Renwick’s orders: its name was Braun. He jammed the plane tickets in his pocket, quieted his voice. “Everything’s arranged and decided. Just like that? He might have discussed it with us—broken the news gently. Slipping away, letting diplomat Taylor take over. Come to think of it, Taylor wasn’t so damned diplomatic either.”

She covered her astonishment with a smile that widened slowly and then broke into laughter. “Considering he had about three minutes to deliver and explain and get our luggage out of the boot, I think Prescott is a darned good diplomat. His right hand scarcely knew what his left was doing. Certainly, neither Schwartz nor Seydlitz knew. Quite amiable, weren’t they?”

“They scared me stiff.”

“It didn’t show. You were wonderful, darling.” She reached for his hand and coaxed him down beside her.

A damned uncomfortable seat for a man. “Let’s move over to the couch.”

“Just a minute—” She was gathering together the map and two small pages of closely typed instructions. “We’ll memorise these and then destruct.”

Abruptly he rose, saying, “Do you have to use that jargon?”

“What’s wrong with it? It’s quicker than saying we’ll burn Bob’s instructions in this big beautiful fire.” Not so big now, she suddenly noticed. “Do we put an another log?” Colin wasn’t even listening.

“Why didn’t you tell him? Tell him you are out?”

She stared at him.

“Resigning. As of last night.”

“Colin—”

“And what was all that about seeing you in Paris? You could have told him, right at that moment—”

“I had sandwiches to make.” Her voice was cold. “An assistant prosecutor and a commissioner of police were waiting, growing impatient, possibly sharpening their questions. They were hungry and thirsty. Don’t you realise, Colin, how they had disrupted their day for your convenience?”

“Or to make sure they got my testimony. Better a live deposition than a dead witness.” He was sorry for his flippancy the moment after he had spoken. “Forget that, Avril. Sure I know the idea behind the visit was to let me leave Austria as quickly as possible. It’s just that—” He paused, weighed his words more carefully as the real reason for his anger surged out. “Renwick has even booked you to Paris. You’re going along with it?”

“Where else do I go? I live in Paris. I work there.”

“You work there?”

“When I’m not travelling around.”

“You are giving up that life. Last night—”

“I remember,” she said. She came over to where he stood near the couch. “Let’s sit and go over these instructions together.”

“Avril—” His worst fears were rising, swamping him. “You can’t have it both ways.”

Slowly, she sat down on the couch. “I know.” She laid the map and sheets of paper carefully at her side, kept her hand on them as if to make sure they wouldn’t slip away.

“Security?” he asked. His smile had little humour.

She ignored that. She repeated, “I know. This time, I have made the choice. Last night wasn’t just an affair, or a little romance between assignments. It was real, Colin. I love you.”

“And I love you.”

The words sounded strangely, spoken with a distance between them, no touch of hand, no movement towards each other. “Two people who love and know so little about each other,” she said. “Isn’t that the difficulty now?”

“We’d learn about each other. We have years ahead of us to learn and keep on learning. But not if you are still sharing your love, dividing it between me and—” He pointed to the instructions lying under her hand. “It’s me or Renwick,” he said, his mouth set. He turned and walked back to the fireplace.

“I’m not in love with him. I told you—”

“You’re still in love with your job. He’s part of it.”

“Colin—will you listen?” she asked, her voice sharpening.

“It didn’t take us long to learn how to quarrel, did it?”