Snare of the Hunter (28 page)

“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—”

The Mercedes made a right turn, shot into an opening in the traffic, and headed west.

“But how did he know?” Franz asked aloud. How did the American know they had travelled west? And why should a wanted man chase after two cops? Franz stood there, hands on hips, brows drawn into a frown, and watched the Mercedes vanish from sight. None of your business, he told himself: they’re a crazy mixed-up bunch, these foreigners: no sense, no meaning to the way they behave. You’re well out of it, Franz, my boy. There will be no policemen prowling round the garage—or the house. Not now. No questions, no search. No gossip among the neighbours; no feeling of being watched. But now you’ve got to do one thing for sure: get those guns and the dynamite out of the cellar. Let your friends find another hiding place for all their stuff. Tell them that, tonight—you’ll see them at the dance—tell those damned hotheads to leave your house alone. This time they will listen. Franz, you’ve got one real solid excuse at last to move them out: police.

A Volkswagen was arriving at the gas pumps. “Three gallons? Right away.” Franz Hartmann’s grin was cheerful, his face as cloudless as the sky overhead. Yes, he thought happily, you’ve got one perfect excuse. There will be no arm twisting, no more persuasion, no more being called a sneaking coward. My God, when friends go political, they can make your whole life one sweating shivering misery.

“Hey, Willi,” he called across the street, “tell your sister to be ready at eight o’clock. We’re going to the dance tonight.” Perhaps, he thought with a wide grin, I ought to be thanking the American. He began whistling a dot-and-carry-one polka.

* * *

David left Merano and its last busy street, and his anger cooled along with the traffic problems. His mind grew clear, like the straight highway ahead of him: no more tortuous turns and backtrackings to make sure a white Fiat hadn’t been following him.

No use blaming Franz Hartmann for talking too much: the guy had simply not known what was at stake. If there was any blame to be dealt out, it was Mark Bohn who should have it all. Bohn saw the Mercedes; he reported it; the report was relayed to Ludvik and Company, possibly within an hour after it had been received. (They have the gadgets, David remembered: they have two-way radios and scramblers and God knows what else in helpful devices.) In that case, Irina and I were lucky not to have been seen coming into town. Except, of course, that I had not taken the usual route to Merano by way of Bolzano: I didn’t come in from the south; I chose the road, less travelled, more difficult, that came down to Merano from the north. All that insufferable damnable trouble for nothing. Because all the care we’ve taken, all of Krieger’s plans, made one big zero when Franz opened his fat mouth. Or hesitated in replying. It all came to the same thing. Milan and Jan had only to watch that guileless face trying to be crafty, and they would head straight into the garage. And there—somehow or other—they had found out that Irina had left. The one thing we were trying to hide, the one thing; and they found it out.

Krieger, he thought instantly, what’s the point of Krieger hanging around Merano? He’s risking his neck. Those two Czech imports in the Red Lion, even if they are bashed up a bit, have some definite business with Krieger: they, or Ludvik, will not leave it unfinished. Why? Krieger didn’t have time to tell me, but there is some reason behind it all. Perhaps—it just could be—they’ve learned he saw Milan and Jan leaving the murder scene. But how? Oh, stow it: you’ve got enough to worry about without shooting off half-cocked guesses. But you’d better waste three more good minutes by stopping at the nearest telephone and passing the word to Krieger. Where is he anyway? You don’t even know that. But sometime, he’ll get back to his hotel. And just hope that your message isn’t too late.

He drew up at the next village, where a neon-lit café looked as if it might have a men’s room as well as a telephone. His message was ready in his mind, all translated into clear German, and as innocent as he could make it. “Results disappointing. No reason now to prolong your stay.” The hotel porter sounded intelligent and brisk. He repeated the two sentences accurately. Certainly he would see that Herr Krieger had the message as soon as he returned to the Bristol.

David got back to the car. At least this brief stop had its other uses. The white Fiat he had noticed some distance behind him had only contained a close-packed family, now spilling out from it to get beer for the parents and ice cream for the kids. And there was no other Fiat in the parking space, waiting to follow him out. Of course they would know the road he would be travelling. Mark Bohn had reported that too.

Before he turned on the ignition, David reached for his map. Might as well see where he was going. He folded it back to the section he needed: the bold red line ran across it, west from Merano, and then split into two just where Highway 40 branched off to the north. And this is what Bohn saw, he thought, a road leading right over the frontier into Switzerland. Immediately, his eye was caught by Tarasp. His spine stiffened. Tarasp was marked. Definitely. A pencil smudge around a small hole punctured by a sharp point.

He forced himself to study the route directly ahead of him, and found Santa Maria clearly marked on its perch above the highway. Yes, that was St Mary’s, all right. Jo could already be there. And that damned Fiat? It had no interest in him, that was certain. His worry increased. He dropped the map as he started the motor. He swung out on to the highway. Once he had passed the string of villages that edged it for the next fifteen or twenty miles, he could let the speedometer climb. Patience, he warned himself:
piano piano va lontano
: you’ll make better time if you don’t have to argue with an Italian cop. They were around; he had already seen two of them on the prowl, and one automobile stopped. So he resisted his impulses, and kept to a normal speed, cursing every mile of the way.

“Krieger was right,” Jo said, pointing to the chapel of Santa Maria, miniature in size but indomitable in its stance, poised high over the road on a huge promontory of rock. “We just couldn’t miss that, could we?”

Irina, for once, didn’t flinch at the name of Krieger. David, she thought thankfully, would see Santa Maria clearly too; he would be able to find them, after all. No delays, no difficult search. Her doubts began to leave her. Ever since Jo had driven into this long valley, a strong wind whistling past the car even on this bright blue-skied day, the little pilgrimage church with its tiny steeple had been visible, standing firm against a background of brutal hills rising into savage mountains. It was still some distance away, but its details were now sharpening, changing in emphasis. The frontal precipice, looming larger and larger, seemed to fall straight towards the highway. “Like the prow of a tall, tall ship, just about to cut through the road,” Irina said.