Background to Danger (12 page)

“Believe me, Mr. Kenton,” he said slowly, “my treatment of you until now will seem like a mother’s caress compared with what you will experience in the next few hours.” He nodded to Mailler. “All right, take him away and get on with it. Mr. Kenton,” he added, “they are taking you downstairs to the cellars. You will be separated from this room by several metres of stonework and earth, but I think
I shall be able to hear you react to Captain Mailler’s persuasive methods.”

“I’ll make the beggar squeal all right,” said the Captain.
“Los! Hinunter in den Kellern!”

Kenton was marched across the hall to a door under the stairs which when opened revealed a flight of narrow stone steps. Mailler went ahead, switching on lights. The two men, after a brief consultation in German, held him by the wrists and drew him after them.

At the bottom of the stairs was a long stone-flagged corridor the sides of which were pierced with archways which led, Kenton saw as he was marched past them, into a series of well-stocked wine cellars. Mailler turned through the last archway, pressed a switch and a naked lamp bulb glowed yellowly on a dusty collection of broken and mouldering furniture, rusting ironwork and old curtains. The four walls were lined with empty wine bins.

Mailler extracted a chair with sound legs from the rubbish and dumped it in the middle of the floor.

“Tie him up,” he ordered in German.

The two men pushed Kenton into the chair, produced a hank of thick cord and proceeded in impassive silence to lash his legs to the frame. They seemed, thought Kenton, to be rather bored by the whole business. He glanced at Mailler.

The Captain seemed to be far from bored. He had taken the rubber truncheon from his pocket and was weighing it in his hand and flicking it viciously against the side of the arch. It made almost no sound. Kenton looked at Mailler’s face. An unpleasant change had come over it. The jaw had dropped slightly, his cheeks were sunken, he was breathing rather quickly and kept darting little sidelong glances at Kenton with eyes that had become curiously glazed. Already rather frightened, Kenton began to feel an almost hysterical terror stealing over him.

The two men tested their knots carefully and stood up. One of them grunted at Mailler, who turned and stared dully at Kenton. Then he walked over and stood in front of him. There was a slight white froth in the corners of his mouth.

Suddenly he lifted the truncheon high into the air and went up on his toes. Kenton clenched his teeth. The truncheon came down with lightning speed and stopped an inch from his cheek.

Kenton broke out into a cold sweat. The two Germans laughed. Mailler’s lips smiled and he tapped the side of Kenton’s head playfully with the truncheon. It was cold and had a certain hard greasiness about it. The next moment Mailler’s smile changed to a glare of animal ferocity and he brought the truncheon round in a vicious arc. Again it stopped just short of Kenton’s face. Again Mailler smiled.

“Enjoying yourself, Kenton?”

Kenton said nothing.

Still smiling, Mailler flicked him lightly across the face with the truncheon.

For a moment Kenton thought that his jaw had been shattered by the blow. The pain was agonising.

Mailler stood back.

“Going to be sensible, old man,” he said, “or do I have to make a real start on you?”

Kenton did not answer. His silence seemed to madden the Captain, for he suddenly stepped forward and lashed furiously at Kenton’s knees and legs.

At last the rain of blows ceased. Almost fainting with the pain, the journalist felt that his will-power was going. If Mailler repeated his attack, principles or no principles, he would agree to anything.

“Had enough yet?”

Kenton looked at the man for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words would not come from his
throat. It was as if a great weight were pressing on his lungs, stifling him. He wanted to shriek, to scream that he was ready to give in, that they could have their photographs. But his conscious brain had lost control of his body. He gasped out a single syllable:

“No.”

He saw Mailler raise the truncheon again, saw the man’s face contorted with vindictive fury. He shut his eyes and his body stiffened to receive the blow.

But no blow came. An uncanny quiet seemed to have fallen. Slowly he opened his eyes.

Mailler was still standing in front of him; but the truncheon had fallen to the floor and his hands were raised high above his head. Beyond him the two Germans stood in similar postures. Kenton turned his head. Standing in the entrance to the cellar stood a stocky little man with a dark pugnacious face. Wound twice round his neck was a thick woollen muffler. In his hand was a large blue revolver with the hammer cocked.

“The first one that moves,” said Zaleshoff in German, “I will kill.”

Z
ALESHOFF
stepped forward a pace or two and his eyes met Kenton’s for a second.

“Mr. Kenton?” He spoke English with an American accent.

Kenton nodded.

Zaleshoff looked at Mailler.

“Who is this man?”

“Captain Mailler.”

“Are there any more upstairs?”

“There’s a man who calls himself Colonel Robinson; I haven’t seen any more.”

“Has he a stiff arm?”

“Yes.”

Zaleshoff jerked the barrel of the revolver towards one of the rather bewildered Germans.

“Lass ihn los!”

Under the Russian’s watchful eye, the man produced a large clasp-knife and hacked at the cords which bound Kenton. The journalist eased his muscles and tried to get up, but the battering Mailler had given his legs made this process painful.

“Can you stand?” asked Zaleshoff anxiously.

“I’ll be all right in a minute.”

“O.K. Be as quick as you can.”

“My God, you’ll get hell for this,” the Captain burst out suddenly.

Zaleshoff bent down, picked up the rubber truncheon and, keeping his eyes on the three men in front of him, held it out to Kenton.

“Here you are. Do you want to try it on him?”

“Very much; but at the moment I should prefer to get away from here.”

“Good. Take that rope he’s cut off you, tie their hands behind them, put them against the wall and tie them to the bins. Then gag them. I’ll keep watch.”

Kenton did as he was told; but when he came to the gagging process he was at a loss.

“Tear pieces off those old curtains,” directed Zaleshoff, pointing to the corner of the cellar, “screw them up, stuff them in their mouths, then tie them in with the mouth open.”

Kenton followed instructions. Mailler swore and then refused to open his mouth, but Zaleshoff tapped his jaw with the truncheon and the Captain gave no more trouble.

“Now,” said Zaleshoff, “if you’re ready, we’ll go.”

Kenton followed him down the corridor, past the foot of the steps, to the hall. At the end of the corridor there was a door, but Zaleshoff ignored this and led the way
down a narrow boarded passage to the right. After a yard or two he halted, and turning to Kenton, whispered to him that they must go quietly now. A few more steps and they were in the open air.

As Kenton had seen through the shutters earlier on, the sky was black with cloud. There was no wind, but his teeth started to chatter with the cold. Then he felt something warm and soft being pushed into his hand and found that his companion was giving him his muffler. Murmuring his thanks, he put it on and felt better. The other’s hand pressed his arm, enjoining silence, and drew him forward along a loose stone path. It went downhill for about twenty yards, then sloped sharply upwards. A black mass loomed suddenly and Kenton realised that they had reached the fir trees.

They turned left and pushed their way as silently as possible through a fringe of bushes. Suddenly Zaleshoff gripped Kenton’s arm tightly. They stood still. For a moment there was no sound but the faint rustling of the bushes. Then, out of the darkness, came the sound of a man whistling a German love song softly and with a curious sweetness.

A second or two later the glare of a powerful electric lamp lit up the leafy screen ahead, the whistling ceased and there was the clatter of an empty petrol tin being dumped on concrete.

Zaleshoff cupped his hands and put them to Kenton’s ear.

“We must pass the garage to get to the road,” he whispered. “The way through the forest would take too long.”

“The chauffeur’s got a gun,” returned Kenton.

The other was silent for a moment, then, whispering to Kenton to stay where he was, he crept forward to the edge of the garage clearing. Kenton saw his head and shoulders faintly silhouetted against the light, then he disappeared to
the left. Kenton leaned against a tree and waited.

The stranger’s very timely intervention in the cellar and the obvious urgency of putting as much country as possible between himself and Colonel Robinson and staff, had given him no time to consider the question of his companion’s identity. The vicinity of the Colonel’s house was hardly the ideal place for an exchange of life histories. Left to himself, however, he began to ponder the question. He had no doubt that this was Andreas, the man who had entered and searched Sachs’s room at the Hotel Josef, and for whom he had been mistaken in the courtyard. There was no mistaking that stocky figure with the large muffler. That meant that the Russian might be Sachs’s murderer. Not a very comforting possibility! The American accent was a little baffling; but then, quite a lot of English-speaking Continentals had American accents. However, the man seemed to know his name and to be on his side—whatever that might be—and had so far exhibited no homicidal tendencies. He turned his attention to the more pressing question of how to keep his hands and feet from going numb with cold.

Zaleshoff was away about three minutes. When he returned, he drew Kenton back the way they had come until they were out of possible earshot of the chauffeur.

“He’s doing something to the car,” Zaleshoff reported; “but we must get past without his seeing. We can’t stay here. If Saridza goes to see how those men in the cellar are progressing, we shall be caught.”

“Saridza?”

“Colonel Robinson. His name’s Saridza.”

Kenton decided that that question also could wait.

“All right. What’s your plan?”

“I have a car, but it is about two kilometres down the road. We must get there before they can get after us. It will be easy for them to find us on the road.”

“Where do we start?”

“The drive to the garage is cut through a rise in the ground. It is narrowest at the top of the rise, but there the sides of the cutting are too high. We must cross nearer and choose a moment when the chauffeur is looking the other way.”

“All right.”

They returned to the edge of the bushes and began to work their way carefully to the left. Part of the way was easy going, but there were places where the bushes were close together and they had to worm their way below the branches to avoid the rustling leaves. At last the garage light showed through the bushes to the right and Zaleshoff halted.

“We are near the edge of the cutting,” he whispered; “there’s a drop of about two metres to the drive.”

They went forward. Suddenly Kenton saw a patch of brightly lit concrete six feet below him. He leaned forward to get a better view. About fifteen yards away stood the black saloon car. The bonnet was up and the chauffeur was working on the engine.

Zaleshoff gripped an overhanging branch and began to lower himself down to the edge of the concrete. Kenton followed, and they were soon crouching in the shelter of a bush at a point from which they could see both the chauffeur and the bank on the opposite side of the drive.

For several minutes they stayed there, watching the chauffeur working. The man seemed to be doing something to the lighting circuit, for every now and then he would go round to the instrument board inside the car and switch the headlights on and off. Kenton had begun to despair when the chauffeur felt in his pocket for something, peered at the assortment of tools on the running-board, then went into the garage.

“Now,” whispered Zaleshoff.

He rose and walked calmly across the drive towards the bushes on the other side. Kenton stood up to follow him, but his bruised legs had become stiff with crouching. He stumbled and his foot scraped loudly across the concrete. He recovered himself, but the damage was done. There was a quick patter of feet from the garage, a shout, and the next instant that thudding
crack
which signifies that the hearer is in the direct line of fire of a large-calibre revolver.

Two more shots crashed out as he scrambled across to the shelter of the bushes. Then there was a flash and report from the shadows ahead and a cry of pain from the direction of the garage. Kenton crashed blindly into the undergrowth and hit his head sharply against a branch. Then a hand grabbed his coat and hauled him up a steep gravel slope.

“Quick, run,” hissed Zaleshoff.

Kenton staggered to his feet and blundered through the trees after his companion. The ground sloped downwards, but was fairly smooth as far as a long gully. On the opposite side of the gully was a wire fence. As they scrambled through it, they heard the piercing scream of a Bosch motor horn sounding the alarm behind them. They began pushing their way through the tangled undergrowth of ferns beyond the fence.

“That gives us about five minutes to reach the car,” gasped Zaleshoff.

“Did you shoot the chauffeur?”

“In the arm; but it would not have helped to kill him. Those shots would have wakened the dead. It won’t take long to release the three in the cellar.”

Two minutes later they slid down a steep bank on to the road and set off at a run in the direction of Zaleshoff’s car lower down the valley.

The experiences of the past twenty-four hours and the
weakness resulting from lack of food had left Kenton in no condition for running long distances. By the time they had gone half a kilometre, Kenton was ready to drop. His legs felt as if he were trying to run with loose sand up to his waist. His chest was aching from lack of breath. There was an unpleasant light sensation in his head. Zaleshoff urged him on ruthlessly, but at last he slowed down to a walk. As he did so there was the faint sound of a car engine higher up the hill and the beams of two headlights swung round into space and disappeared.