Background to Danger (7 page)

Kenton had never regarded himself as a particularly courageous man. Such scenes of physical violence as he had encountered in the course of his work had upset both his digestion and his mental processes. Now, however, he had no time to consider his digestion; while as for his mental processes, he told himself that if he were to escape from his present predicament unscathed, he had to think fast.

He went into the bedroom, put on his gloves and with his handkerchief wiped everything he could remember touching. He had no desire to leave his fingerprints for the police. Then he buttoned his coat and, after a last look round, prepared to go.

As he moved away from the bed, he felt something soft beneath his foot. Looking down, he saw that it was Sachs’ wallet. He picked it up. He was about to look through it when, through the bedroom door, he heard the faint creak of a floorboard in the corridor. Slipping the wallet into his overcoat pocket, he tiptoed into the dark sitting-room and stood by the door.

There was silence for a moment, then he heard a slight movement outside and the door handle began to turn slowly.

His heart thumping painfully, he saw the door creak open and pressed himself against the wall behind it. Then a man stepped into the room and closed the door carefully behind him. Kenton was close enough to hear the other’s breathing.
The man’s back was towards him, but as he moved away into the light from the bedroom door, the journalist saw that he was short and thick-set and wore a woollen muffler wound twice round his neck.

From his place in the shadows Kenton watched the man with the muffler walk into the bedroom, glance, without evident surprise, at Sachs’ body and look slowly round the room. Then he moved out of sight and Kenton heard sounds that suggested that the room was being searched. Now was the time to go.

He edged carefully towards the door handle, reached it without making a noise and began to turn it. The lock made no sound, but he remembered the creaking as the door had opened before, and as he eased the catch clear, he lifted the door a fraction to take the weight off the hinges. He reached the corridor without a sound, and having closed the door as carefully as he had opened it, he moved, treading close to the wall to avoid loose boards, to the head of the stairs.

There he paused. Who was the man in the muffler and which party did he represent? The whole affair was getting most complicated. He decided that, for the moment at any rate, there were more important things to think about. How, for example, was he to get out of the Hotel Josef?

He strove frantically to remember something of the geography of the place as he had seen it by the light of matches on his way up. There must be some exit at the rear of the building. He remembered vaguely having felt the draught from a window as he had climbed, but could not recollect on which floor. He felt for his matches and found that he had now only two left—one for each landing. He would have to do the best he could and trust to luck.

He felt his way down to the next landing and struck the first match. The stalk broke in his fingers. He struck the last match. It lit safely and, shielding it carefully, he looked
round. There were two corridors ending in blank walls and one that made a right-angle turn. The window was, therefore, on the landing below. He tried to preserve the light long enough to serve on the next landing, but it burnt too quickly.

He had now to depend upon touch to find the window. Keeping the fingers of one hand brushing lightly against the wall and the other arm stretched out in front of him he moved carefully down the corridor. The thought crossed his mind that he probably looked like an old lithograph of Florence Nightingale and he experienced a desire to giggle. This desire he diagnosed as nerves and suppressed firmly.

After about six paces he felt the corridor turn half left. The next moment he was pulled up by a bedroom door. He was in a cul-de-sac. He retraced his steps, but he must have followed the wall too far, for he failed to regain the head of the stairs. Another few paces brought him up against a blank wall. He had begun to grow desperate and was trying to make up his mind what he should do next when he felt a slight but very cold breeze on his face. He was near the window. He felt the wall, took a few cautious steps in the direction of the draught and collided with another wall. He felt his way along it to a corner, rounded the corner and saw the window in an alcove facing him.

The moon was now hidden, but its reflection showed him that he was no longer facing the street. He leant out. About ten feet below, he could discern the dim shape of a small outbuilding. He climbed out on to the ledge. Then it occurred to him that the roof below might be of glass. For a minute or two he crouched there, trying to make up his mind what to do. Deciding, finally, that he could not stay perched on the ledge all night, he made up his mind to risk a glass roof, and lowered himself carefully until he was hanging in mid-air. Then he shut his eyes and let go.

He had underestimated the distance to the roof and the
impact took his breath away. In addition, the roof, though not of glass, sloped a little, and he had to clutch at the tiles to prevent himself rolling to the ground. The noise he made sounded to him appalling, and for several minutes he clung there waiting for the alarm to be raised. But nothing happened and he clambered from the roof to the ground without trouble.

He found himself in a small and very dark courtyard. His eyes, however, were by now accustomed to the blackness, and he made for a pool of shadows which looked as though it might mark a way out. His right hand had touched a concrete wall and he was feeling his way along it when he heard a slight sound somewhere ahead of him.

With a sinking heart he stood still and listened. There was complete silence. He was still a trifle breathless and, as he strove to breathe noiselessly, the blood thumped in his head. He was beginning to think that the noise had been made by a rat, when it came again. This time it was more distinct—the scratch of shoe leather on a gritty surface.

Suddenly there came a soft whisper from the darkness ahead.

“Is that you, Andreas?”

The voice was a woman’s and she spoke in Russian.

He held his breath. Then a little gasp of terror came from the darkness. The next instant a blinding light shone full in his face for a second and went out again.

He ducked sideways and ran forward blindly. A concrete wall brought him to a sharp halt and bruised his hand. He stood where he was and stared helplessly into the darkness; but he could see or hear nothing. He began to work his way round the curve in the wall.

He had moved about four yards when his fingers felt the latch of a wooden door. He turned the latch slowly. It left the socket with a faint
click
. He drew a deep breath. Then, in a single movement, he opened the door, slid
through it and shut it again. For a moment he hung on to the latch the other side. Then he saw that he was in a back street and waited no longer. He ran.

H
E WAS
soon lost in a network of streets and slowed down to a sharp walk. Once or twice he looked back to see if he was followed, but saw no one. His idea was to make for the river, and when he had found that to get back to the station.

He had no intention of remaining in Linz longer than he could help; but it was out of the question to knock up the Consul and hand over the photographs at that hour of the morning. He would spend what remained of the night in an hotel and see the Consul just before he left for Berlin. The first thing was to collect his suitcase from the café.

The sky was beginning to lighten when he reached the river and the stones were white with frost. He was feeling
very tired, but it was purely physical fatigue. Questions were jostling each other in his brain.

What was the special significance of the photographs in his pocket? For whom had Sachs been working? Who had killed him? Who were the sinister-looking gentry outside the Hotel Josef? Who was the thick-set man with the muffler? And who was the woman who had mistaken him for someone else in the courtyard?

He could, he thought, answer the first of those questions.

The trade in military secrets was, he knew well enough, a very busy one. With the nations arming as fast as they could, the professional spies were prospering. He himself knew of two cases of military attachés paying fabulous prices for what, to him, had seemed trifling pieces of information—in one case the maximum angle of elevation of a new field gun; in the other case confirmation of a slight inaccuracy in a previous report on the thickness of the armour plating on a new tank. He supposed that the Russian plans for military organisation in the event of war with Rumania would be welcomed at Bucharest.

He had an uncomfortable feeling, however, that this answer was not the right one. The question of Bessarabia’s incorporation in Rumanian territory had, he knew, been a bone of contention between Bucharest and Moscow in the past. Early in 1918, when Rumania had been driven back into a small corner of her territory by Germany and her allies, when Bucharest was occupied by the Central Powers and the Rumanian Government had moved to Jassi, the Rumanians had established themselves in Bessarabia. As Rumania’s ally, nominally at all events, Russia had not objected. In any case, the Russian Government had at that time been too preoccupied with the White armies in the southwest, and other problems, to deal with the situation. But later in 1918 trouble had arisen between the Russian and Rumanian soldiery in Bessarabia, and the Soviet Government
had demanded that Rumania should evacuate the territory. The latter had pointed out with some reason that, as a state of extreme famine existed in what was left of Rumania, the return of an unpaid and unfed army would probably precipitate complete anarchy. Russia had been preparing for war with Rumania, and things had looked hopeless, when Rumania had finally succeeded in persuading a suspicious Russia of the purity of her intentions. Reluctantly the Russians had agreed to a treaty by the terms of which Rumania promised to evacuate Bessarabia within a specified time. She had never fulfilled that promise, and Russia, again preoccupied with more immediate troubles, had allowed Rumanian dominion over Bessarabia to go unchallenged until the
fait accompli
was generally recognised abroad and it was too late for anything but protests. Under the circumstances it was hardly likely that Rumania would have failed to allow for the fact that, in the event of a general European conflict, Russia might attempt to assert her undoubted legal rights by annexing Bessarabia. Besides, the orders were dated 1925. If Rumania had been able to do without the information they contained for so long, they couldn’t be so very valuable. Very odd.

As for Herr Sachs, he was as much of a mystery as ever. Kenton now knew for certain what he had suspected all along; namely, that the man had not been what he claimed. The fact that he had been carrying military secrets of a somewhat unsensational nature instead of dangerous drugs or stolen banknotes merely confused.

The credit for the murder might, he decided, be awarded to the “Nazi spy.” The man had looked quite capable of it. It was also possible that, having failed to find the photographs, the murderer had summoned his friends to await the arrival or departure of an accomplice with the photographs. In that case the man with the muffler might have been an ally of Sachs.

That explanation, however, would not do. The man with the muffler had behaved as though he already knew of Sachs’ murder.

Then there was the woman. Judging by her voice, she was young, and since she had spoken in Russian, probably interested in the destination of the photographs. She had addressed him as “Andreas.” Who was Andreas? The murderer, the man with the muffler, or someone else?

He gave it up; but, rather to his surprise, he found himself speculating as to the girl’s appearance. Her voice had possessed an oddly attractive quality. The chances of his ever meeting her face to face were, he thought, remote. A dark courtyard, a single whispered sentence, the momentary glare of a torch and—that was all. How curious it was! Until the end of his life probably, at odd moments separated perhaps by intervals of years, he would remember and wonder what the owner of the voice had looked like. His mental picture of her would change with time. If his life were unhappy, he would imagine her to have been very beautiful, and would regret that he had not stayed in the courtyard. When he was very old he would tell other old men of a curious experience he once had in Linz when he had been young; and declare that he had been a romantic young fool at the time, and that the girl had probably been as unattractive as a glass of sour wine.

He was contemplating, with some distaste, the sentimental trend of these reflections, when his thoughts were interrupted by the squeal of brakes.

He had crossed the river and was within a few minutes of the station. He looked round quickly, but he could see no sign of a car, and concluded that the noise of brakes had come from a side street which he had just passed. He walked on a little way and looked round again.

The road was fairly broad and well lighted, but deserted. Suddenly there was the whine of a car being driven hard
in reverse gear and a big saloon swung out of the turning backwards and pulled up with a jerk. A second later it shot forward in the direction from which he had come. With an unpleasant start he recognised it. It was the car that he had last seen waiting outside the Hotel Josef.

He watched it disappear round a corner with relief. Evidently they had not spotted him. Then he mentally kicked himself. How could they “spot” him? They did not, could not know of his existence. Or if they did, if Sachs had told them, they couldn’t know what he looked like. He walked on, cursing himself for a nervous fool. When, turning the next corner, he glanced back and thought he saw a figure dissolve quickly into the shadows by the wall, he decided that the sooner he got some sleep the better.

He was still considering the dangers of an overwrought imagination when he arrived at the Café Schwan.