Background to Danger (17 page)

His heart beat a little faster. He snatched a newspaper from the table and began to read more carefully the account of police activity in connection with the crime. Fingerprints! He had thought he had wiped everything he had touched. He must have forgotten the basin where he had washed his hands of Sachs’ blood. There was the evidence of the night porter. The description was fairly good, though
the name was spelled Kent
en
. The man could not have been as drunk as he had looked. There was money missing. Sachs had paid in advance for his room and the porter had seen the wallet. There was no mention of the money he had posted to the hotel, but the police were no doubt keeping the handwriting on the envelope as a conclusive titbit for the trial. What a fool he had been to send it! The Hotel Werner had contributed handsomely to the evidence. The murderer, stated the manager, had arrived in the early hours of the morning looking very dishevelled, as if he had been struggling with someone. When his flight had been discovered later that day, the room had been in great confusion. This, Kenton concluded, was not unlikely in view of the fact that both Saridza and Zaleshoff had searched his things. It was a watertight circumstantial case. His only defence could be the rather feeble assertion that Sachs had been already dead when he, Kenton, had arrived. The story of the photographs would do more harm than good. Even if it were not regarded as a piece of impudent bluff, it could only serve to provide the prosecution with an additional motive for the crime. One thing was clear. It would be far too dangerous to give himself up. His one chance lay in finding the real murderer and bringing him to book. The only other alternative was to get back to England, either with Zaleshoff’s help or on his own, and stay there. You could not, he seemed to remember, be extradited from your own country.

He paced the room distractedly. If only Zaleshoff had not slipped away. He would have forced the Russian to tell the truth about the murder. Either the “Nazi spy” or Zaleshoff himself had stabbed Sachs; of that he was convinced. He should have wrung the truth out of the man the previous night. If only he had thought more and talked less. Still, if you weren’t used to being suddenly and unjustly accused of murder, you were, he supposed, liable to let your sense of outraged innocence obscure the realities of the situation.
He had, he remembered bitterly, gone to sleep complacently coining the ironical phrases with which to scourge the blunderers responsible for the mistake.

The prospect of lurking in Rashenko’s room for days on end was something he could not face. Apart from the risk of discovery, there was the all-important fact that his chances of clearing himself of the charge against him would decrease with every day that passed. Zaleshoff, acting, no doubt, on the information he had given him the previous night, was on his way to Prague. The pasty-faced thug of the Nuremberg-Linz train might be, and doubtless was, hundreds of miles away. Zaleshoff, of course, did not care a tinker’s curse what happened. As long as his Government’s aims were achieved, the fate of an obscure English journalist was a matter of minor importance. Kenton raged at the man’s perfidy. As for the girl; she, at least, might have had a little more consideration for him. He smiled dryly. Consideration! What a prim, respectable word to use in connection with so grotesque a business! He was, he decided, losing his sense of proportion. Recriminations were a waste of time. The point was: what was he to do now?

Should he make for England? The idea was not altogether unattractive. There, at least, he would be sure of physical safety. On the other hand, his freedom of movement would be severely hampered. If he ventured to set foot outside England, he could and probably would be immediately arrested. In England itself he might be under surveillance. It was, he decided, the sort of thing about which you ought to consult a solicitor. In any case, the prospect of clearing himself of the charge while in England would be remote. Perhaps he would have to rely ultimately on the real murderer making a death-bed confession. Meanwhile, life in England would, to say the least of it, be anything but a bed of roses. A man wanted for a particularly sordid murder would not be a very welcome member of society. It all came
back to one thing—find the murderer and bring him to justice.

He examined this proposition gloomily. It seemed hopeless. Even if he could find Zaleshoff, he would still have to persuade the Russian to help him. Wring the truth out of him! Yes, but how? He remembered the blank looks, the cold denials that had met his previous inquiries about Sachs’ murder. He sighed. If only he’d played his cards a little better. Zaleshoff and his sister had been too clever for him. Before they had told him about the police they had found out what he had done with the photographs. All that haggling over the price of his surrender of the photographs had been mere play-acting to divert his attention from the real issue. How relieved they must have been that he had not insisted on the name of Sachs’ murderer! He remembered significant little incidents: the girl hastily pushing a crumpled newspaper out of sight, those curious glances whenever Sachs’ murder was mentioned. Yes, he had been very competently “handled.” He found himself feeling almost pleased that they had after all failed to get the photographs. They …

He started.

Zaleshoff badly wanted those photographs. He, Kenton, had surrendered them for a news story that he couldn’t use. They had been his only bargaining weapon. Supposing, by some means or other, he could regain possession of that weapon. Then …

He relaxed again disgustedly.

It was crazy, hopeless. How could he possibly get hold of the photographs? Saridza was probably already in Prague. Zaleshoff was by now speeding after him. What chance had he, Kenton, of forestalling the Russian. Moodily he crushed his cigarette out and rested his head in his hands.

A psychiatrist would have observed the journalist’s behaviour during the succeeding two minutes with gloomy professional interest. After a minute and a half the expression of utter dejection on the face changed suddenly and curiously.
The lower jaw drooped, the eyes opened wide, the forehead creased thoughtfully. Then the forehead returned to normal and the mouth spread slightly in the beginnings of a grin. He stood up quickly, snapped his fingers once, said “Ha!” and whistled softly. For he had remembered something—something all-important—the fact that Colonel Robinson was going to Prague
to meet someone named Bastaki
.

In his hurry to tell Zaleshoff his story and answer the Russian’s stream of questions, he had forgotten all about the name. He had not, indeed, paid particular attention to it. His thoughts at the time had been concentrated largely on Captain Mailler’s rubber truncheon. Afterwards, the business of getting away and of coping with Zaleshoff’s mental acrobatics had driven that apparently insignificant piece of detail from his mind. In any case, he had not regarded Saridza’s destination as being of importance. He had thought the photographs safe enough at the Café Schwan.

Now, however, things were different. Saridza’s destination had become important; and the measure of its importance to him was determined by the single fact that he, Kenton, possessed a piece of information that Zaleshoff did not possess. That information might make it possible for him to regain possession of the photographs before the Russian could do so, in spite of the latter’s start. Prague was a large place. With nothing at all on which to work, Zaleshoff’s task was a formidable one. The name “Bastaki,” it was true, might prove worthless as a lead; but it was just possible that it might be invaluable. At all events, he told himself, he had nothing to lose. If he failed to find Saridza or if, having found Saridza, he failed to get the photographs, he could still try to get to England through Poland. In any case, Czechoslovakia was the best country to make for. The Swiss frontier could be reached only travelling right across the longest route in Austria, while, as he dare not use his passport, Germany and Italy were too risky. In either of the latter countries
he would have to register his actual passport with the local police wherever he stopped. A mere filling up of hotel identity forms with a name and passport number only would not be enough. To get into Hungary would merely land him farther away from England and accomplish nothing. Prague it should be.

The feeling of having a definite object in view cheered him enormously. In his heart he knew that his chances of doing anything useful in Prague with his clue were fantastically slender; but he also knew that, short of remaining cooped up in Rashenko’s room, there was no other course open to him. He concentrated with relish on the more immediate problem—that of getting from Austria to Czechoslovakia without being arrested or inviting capture by showing his passport.

The first necessity was clothes. His hat and overcoat were at the Hotel Werner or had been removed to the police station. His trousers were useless if he wanted to get anywhere without attracting attention. The next essential was money. He counted the contents of his wallet. He had four hundred and sixty-five
Reichmark
and a little loose change. If he spent the sixty-five on clothes, that should leave enough to last a week or two. He would soon know whether or not he was wasting time in Prague. If necessary, he would be able to get to Danzig and buy a passage on a Hull-bound boat.

He walked over to the bed.

Rashenko was lying on his back, his eyes closed. His breathing was inaudible and Kenton judged that the Russian was awake. “Rashenko,” he said.

The eyes opened.

“You know,” said Kenton in German, “that Zaleshoff and his sister have gone?”

Rashenko nodded. Then he clambered slowly out of bed and wrapped an old dressing-gown round his shoulders. The journalist watched him go to a table and scribble rapidly on
a piece of paper. At last he held up the paper for Kenton’s inspection.

“You have made up your mind to go,”
he read,
“but I beg that you remain here. It is safer. Andreas Prokovitch will not fail you.”

“How did you know that I was going?”

Rashenko scribbled again:

“I have been watching your face. I saw you make up your mind. It is not safe to go. You will be caught.”

His eyes met Kenton’s and he nodded vehemently.

“If you will help me, I shall not be caught.”

Rashenko shook his head.

“Do you mean,” said Kenton, “that you won’t help me or that I shall be caught?”

Rashenko smiled wanly and wrote:

“It is our wish to help you; but if you leave this house we can do nothing.”

“I must take my chance.”

“Where do you go?”

“To England. Then I am safe from arrest.”

“You will be caught at the German frontier, if not before.”

“I shall go via Czechoslovakia.”

For a second suspicion gleamed in the Russian’s sunken eyes, then he shrugged his shoulders slightly and, turning to the stove, began to make coffee and heat some rolls that he took from the cupboard.

Over the coffee and rolls, Kenton stated his wants—a razor, some Austrian money in exchange for his German notes and some clothes. Rashenko nodded gloomily, took one of Kenton’s hundred-mark notes and showed him where the razor was. Then he disappeared through the door leading to the stairs and the street.

Wondering whether the Russian intended doing his shopping in a dressing-gown and night shirt, Kenton started on his beard. He had decided to leave himself a moustache.
When, however, he came to the point of shaping it he was in a difficulty. He had never before attempted to wear a moustache and was uncertain of the technique. A tooth-brush effect would look too English. He decided finally to let the stubble finish at the corners of his mouth. The result, he was interested to note, made him look extremely bad-tempered.

He was examining the work critically when Rashenko reappeared with a large bundle of clothes.

Kenton took it eagerly. On the top was a little pile of Austrian money. The clothes consisted of a grey soft hat with a round, flat, continental brim, a pair of thick brown trousers and a voluminous dark-grey overcoat. They were obviously not new.

“Where did you get them?” he asked.

Rashenko smiled, but made no attempt to answer.

Kenton put on the hat and looked at himself in the mirror. There was something curiously familiar about the way the crown was pinched in that he could not identify. He had seen the hat before somewhere. He shrugged. There must be hats like it all over Europe.

Ten minutes later he buttoned up the overcoat, shook hands with Rashenko and left Kölnerstrasse 11. On the pavement outside he stopped for an instant, took a deep breath of fresh, cold air and turned to the left.

T
AKING
a route described by Rashenko, Kenton made for the centre of the town.

Carefully suppressing the temptations to turn up his coat collar to conceal his face and to dive down every side-street he passed, he walked quickly past the Parkbad and the Hotel Weinzinger. In the Brücknerplatz he found what he wanted—a travel agency. He went inside.

To his relief, the place was far from empty. At the long counter which ran across one corner of the room, a Swiss couple were asking about the trains to Basle. Next to them a tired-looking Englishwoman was asserting in a loud and penetrating voice that the hotels were better in Cairo. On the left-hand side of the room, sitting in chairs ranged behind
a large notice which announced in German, French and English that at twelve o’clock exactly a conducted party would leave by luxury motor-coach for a tour of the Bohemian Forest country, sat a chattering group laden with cameras and binoculars.

He looked round for a map of Austria and found that there was one on the wall behind his head. He concentrated on the area north-east of Linz.

He had decided that his best plan would be to go by train to some point near the Czech frontier, wait for nightfall and, leaving the road, strike off across country, trusting to luck and the darkness to get him past any frontier guards who might be patrolling the unfrequented stretches. He could then rejoin the road on the Czech side, walk to a town, and board a train for Prague.