Background to Danger (13 page)

“They’re after us,” panted Zaleshoff. “No use going any farther. They mustn’t know about the car. If they find that, we’re cornered. Our only chance is to let them know that we’re still about here and wait for an opportunity to get to the car.”

Kenton, struggling to recover his breath, nodded.

“Come on,” said Zaleshoff, “up here. Hurry.”

They were at the foot of a long straight slope in the road. To the left the ground dropped away almost vertically to another section of the road which lay beyond a hairpin bend three hundred feet lower down the side of the valley. To the right the ground rose steeply to the summit of the hill and was densely covered with fir trees. It was to the right that Zaleshoff went. Soon they were about twenty yards up among a maze of large, straight tree trunks.

“When they come, stand behind a tree and do as I tell you.”

Kenton, who had reached a stage of exhaustion where he was incapable of anything but dazed obedience, mumbled agreement, propped himself against a tree and stared into the pitch blackness of the forest.

“Here they come.”

Kenton turned his head and saw a pin-point of light moving in the distance. Then it grew suddenly, became elongated and glowed through the trees.

“They’re turning the spotlight on the car up the hillside as they go. Keep behind the tree.”

The light came closer, sending long shadows twisting over the floor of the forest. As it reached them, Kenton saw Zaleshoff rest his revolver on a small shoot on the side of the tree behind which he was standing and take careful aim. A second later the gun crashed once and the light went out. There was a shout from below.

Zaleshoff gave vent to a Russian crow of self-congratulation.

“Bull’s eye at twenty paces!” he added. “Now we make for the road higher up the hill.”

They started to move across the face of the slope and had gone about fifteen yards when there was the sound of a twig snapping below. They stopped. Suddenly a torch flashed momentarily in the darkness.

“Down,” hissed Zaleshoff.

The next moment there was the sharp crack of a small automatic and the quick whine of a ricochet as the bullet hit a stone higher up the slope.

Zaleshoff let out a howl of agony and Kenton heard Mailler’s voice raised in triumph.

“Are you hit?” asked Kenton stupidly.

“No, but they must think so. Get on.”

They were going downhill now and the darkness ahead was broken as the moon, showing faintly behind a patch of thin cloud, threw the trees on the edge of the forest into dim silhouette. Behind there were stabs of light every now and then as their pursuers tried to locate them.

“Stop,” whispered Zaleshoff.

They were near the road. Fifty yards or more downhill was the rear light of the black saloon.

“Now,” he went on, “cross the road as quietly as you can, get down the hillside so that you can’t be seen from the edge of the road and wait for me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“See if there’s anyone left in Saridza’s car.”

“Why?”

“Explanations later. You get across the road and be quiet about it.”

“All right.”

Kenton tiptoed slowly across the road and started to pick his way down the steep slope beyond. For a few yards the way was littered with large stones and he had to take great care to avoid dislodging them. Then the trees started again and he was able to zigzag down from trunk to trunk. He was soon in pitch darkness once more and sat down to wait for his companion.

For ten minutes he waited, speculating miserably on his chances of avoiding pneumonia. Then there was a slight noise from above, and Zaleshoff called his name. He answered and the Russian scrambled down to him.

“We are out of luck,” he reported; “Saridza’s standing by with a rifle. I had hopes that they might have left the car unguarded. I would have put a bullet in the gasoline, but it was too dangerous.”

“What are we to do?”

“We shall have to get straight down here on to the lower bend in the road. It will be tough going and I dare not use a torch. They would see it. Still, there’s nothing else we can do.”

The descent was, for Kenton, the worst sort of nightmare. The face of the hill was covered with deep hollows, so that he kept missing his footing and slithering down wildly, to be brought up with sickening force by the trees. The steep slope of the ground made it necessary to go on all fours in places and one trouser leg was ripped in the process by a dead branch. His face and hands were badly grazed and he wrenched a wrist. The absolute darkness induced a feeling of panic-stricken helplessness. By the
time he reached the road at the bottom, he was in a state of collapse.

Zaleshoff, whose clothes had also suffered from the climb down, took Kenton’s arm and hurried him along the road.

It seemed to Kenton that they kept going for hours. At last Zaleshoff slackened his pace and Kenton saw, through half-closed eyes, the shape of a large touring car with the hood up and no lights. By the driver’s door stood a girl.

She started forward to meet them.

“What is it, Andreas?” said a familiar voice.

Kenton began to laugh hysterically.

“Andreas,” he panted, “there’s no need to introduce me. We’ve met before.”

He withdrew his arm from Zaleshoff’s, took a step forward and stood still. His knees seemed to give way and there was a rushing noise in his head. Then, for the first time in his life, he fainted.

K
ENTON
became conscious of a pleasant burning sensation in the pit of his stomach and a taste of something like a mixture of turpentine and olive oil in his mouth.

A man’s voice said something in Russian that he did not understand and a glass clinked against his teeth. The next moment he sat up choking and coughing, and opened his eyes.

He was lying on a red plush sofa in what, at first sight, looked like a second-hand furniture shop. Bending over him was an elderly man with white cadaverous cheeks and sunken eyes that gleamed. He held a bottle with a pale-green label and a small glass half filled with a colourless liquid. Kenton realised the reason for the warm glow inside
him and the curious taste in his mouth. He had been drinking vodka.

Seated at a table, watching him gravely, was the man he knew as Andreas.

“You are feeling better?” said Zaleshoff.

Kenton nodded a little uncertainly and raised his hand to wipe the remains of the vodka from his chin. The hand was stained with iodine. The man with the vodka offered him the bottle. Kenton shook his head, looking inquiringly towards Zaleshoff and opened his mouth to speak. The Russian forestalled him.

“You are in a house in Kölnerstrasse in Linz,” he said. “My sister and I brought you here. Thinking you might be hungry, she has gone out to buy some food.”

“That is very good of her,” said Kenton. “I seem to be causing you a lot of trouble.”

“Yes,” said Zaleshoff blandly, “quite a lot of trouble; but not in the way you think, Mr. Kenton. Our host here, Rashenko, is very pleased to be of service to you. Please do not trouble to thank him,” he added as the journalist turned; “he does not understand English, and he is, poor fellow, dumb.”

Kenton murmured his thanks in German and Rashenko smiled and nodded encouragingly. The journalist was feeling rather bewildered. He turned again to Zaleshoff.

“I’m sorry to be a nuisance,” he said; “but do you mind answering a few questions? For instance, do you mind telling me who you are and why I am here? I should also like to know how you knew my name, why you rescued me from that house and, if I’m not being indiscreet, whether you were responsible for the death of a man called Sachs or Borovansky. I think I know why you searched his room, but should welcome fuller information on that subject. I am curious, too, about the man calling himself Colonel Robinson. Why do you call him Saridza? There are other
things that are puzzling me, but I’m sure you will see the general idea. Incidentally, what time is it?”

“Just after midnight,” said Zaleshoff. He pursed his lips. “As for the rest of your questions, Mr. Kenton, I suggest we wait until after we have refreshed ourselves with food before we start on the explanations. Tamara should be back by now. She and Rashenko shall cook for us. You and I will drink vodka.” He thumped the table like an auctioneer. “What do you say?”

Kenton smiled.

“I like you, Andreas,” he said; “you know perfectly well that I have got something that you want; you hear with well-concealed surprise that I saw you search Sachs’ room and yet you propose that we eat and drink before we talk! Why, I haven’t even thanked you for rescuing me!”

Zaleshoff shook his head gravely.

“You mistake my motives, Mr. Kenton. Try to stand up.”

Kenton obeyed. His head swam and a wave of nausea swept over him. He sat down again quickly.

“You see, Mr. Kenton, it would be a waste of time to start talking just at the moment. Rashenko used to be a doctor. He reports that you are in a state of extreme nervous and physical exhaustion. You are suffering from severe shock, the after-effects of concussion and lack of food. The wild elation you are experiencing at the moment is produced by the vodka. You had better have some more.”

Rashenko was now busying himself at the stove. Zaleshoff reached for the bottle, poured out two large tots and handed one to Kenton.

“Vodka,” he said, “should not touch the palate. It should be poured straight down the throat. I will show you.
Pros’t!”

He raised the glass to his lips, jerked his head back and
swallowed once. Then he set down the empty glass.

Kenton followed suit and felt the liquid burn in his stomach.

“All the same,” he resumed obstinately, “I should like to know who you—”

A knock at the door interrupted him. Zaleshoff turned in his chair and Kenton saw that the blue revolver was in the Russian’s hand. Rashenko glanced at him inquiringly and received a nod. The door was opened and Tamara came into the room carrying a bulky string bag.

“Mr. Kenton,” said Zaleshoff, flourishing the revolver in a grand gesture, “this is my sister Tamara. Tamara, this is Mr. Kenton.”

The girl nodded gravely to Kenton.

“Please, Andreas,” she said, “do not wave that pistol about so. It is dangerous.”

Her brother took no notice and turned to Kenton.

“What do you think of her, my friend?”

“She is remarkably beautiful,” said Kenton; “as beautiful as her voice.”

Zaleshoff slapped his knee delightedly.

“You see, Tamara, what vodka will do even to a cold-blooded Englishman. ‘Remarkably beautiful; as beautiful as her voice.’ You heard him, Tamara?” He translated for the benefit of Rashenko, who smiled and nodded at them.

“You will embarrass him,” said the girl calmly, and emptied the string bag on to a chair. “Be careful, Mr. Kenton,” she added over her shoulder. “My brother is endeavouring to lull you into a sense of false security in the hope that you will take him into your confidence.”

Zaleshoff bounded to his feet, overturning a chair, and swore. Then he pointed a denunciatory finger at his sister.

“Look,” he roared at Kenton, “hampered and thwarted at every turn by my own mother’s daughter! I soothe you, I give you vodka to drink, we become friendly, we are
en rapport
, then—piff—Tamara breaks the spell with her foolishness.”

He sank back into the chair and buried his head in his hands.

“Very amusing,” said Kenton evenly. “Do you think I might have a glass of water?”

Zaleshoff raised his head slowly and stared sullenly at Kenton. Suddenly he brought the flat of his hand down on the table with a crash and started to roar with laughter.

“There, Tamara,” he gasped at last, “we do not deceive him, you see. He is unmoved. He sees through our little tricks to gain his confidence. We see why the English are such great diplomats.”

“Do we?” said Tamara, taking off her coat.

“But of course!” He turned, beaming, to Kenton. “My apologies, Mr. Kenton. One should have realised that such foolish histrionics were an insult to your intelligence. We have your forgiveness?”

“Naturally,” said Kenton uncomfortably. Really, he thought, the man was rather childish.

The Russian sighed with relief.

“That is good to know,” he said fervently; “if only we knew,” he went on dreamily, “if only we knew a little more of Mr. Kenton’s thoughts.” He leaned forward suddenly. “Why for instance, is Mr. Kenton prepared to go to such length to preserve the property of the Soviet Government?”

The suddenness of the attack took the journalist completely by surprise. He was silent for a moment. There was no sound in the room except the ticking of the clocks and a faint hiss from the stove. The atmosphere had changed in some indefinable way. Even Rashenko sensed it and paused in his work. The girl, standing with her back to the door, was staring at the table. Zaleshoff, no longer benignly theatrical, was watching him intently with blue
eyes that had become extraordinarily shrewd and calculating.

All this he saw in the fraction of a second. Then he smiled easily.

“I thought we had postponed business until after we had eaten. Still, if you wish …”

Instantly Zaleshoff was all apologies.

Yes, yes, of course, Mr. Kenton was right. Meanwhile, the glass of water or perhaps some more vodka. No? Rashenko would hurry.

There followed a quick patter of Russian and nods from Rashenko. Zaleshoff began to give the girl a wildly exaggerated and over-dramatic account of their escape from the house on the hill. It seemed to Kenton that his presence had been entirely forgotten.

The meal came at last.

It consisted of
bortsch
with sour cream and little pasties filled with chopped vegetables and, except for a sudden pæan of congratulation directed by Zaleshoff at Rashenko, it was eaten in silence. Kenton was thoughtful and extremely puzzled; but he was also extremely hungry and ate steadily. The moment they were finished Rashenko began to clear the dishes from the table.

“A cigarette, Mr. Kenton?”

“Thanks.”