Above Suspicion

by Helen Macinnes

  “We were directed to Mespelbrunn from Innsbruck.”

  “And you found him?”

  “Not the one we were looking for.”

  “Who are the ‘we’?”

  “My wife and myself.”

  “You look as if you had met trouble.”

  “Complications. I left my wife in the car.”

  “You’ve a car? Good.”

  “And an American—a reporter.”

  “Not so good.”

  “He’s a decent sort. We can trust him.”

  The man shook his head and cracked a smile. “Trust no newspapermen; they’ve an itch for a story. If he asks questions, I’m Smith, who helped escapes from concentration camps. It’s true, anyway. Who’s the other, our blond Tarzan?”

  “I know his brother.”

  “I’ll be Smith for him too.”

  They had reached the fringe of trees. There was no sound of running footsteps from the wood above them. There was still some safety, yet, thought Richard. He wished Thornley would come. The man’s weight was tiring him.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Shaky and stiff. But better every moment. Good to be free again.”

  “How did they get you?”

  “The man who posed as Mespelbrunn was supposed to be in sympathy with the underground movement. He even helped some escapes. Got at me through them. How were Nürnberg and Innsbruck, by the way?”

  “Nürnberg had to make a run for it. Innsbruck was getting suspicious about something.”

  They paused while Richard changed his hold on the man; the steepness of the path was a strain.

  “And just what happened to my two bodyguards?”

  “They chased us on the hills. Von Aschenhausen is probably coming back now. The other fell over a cliff.”

  “Too bad,” Smith said, and looked at some burns on the palms of his hands. “And the dog?”

  “Very dead.”

  Smith’s face relaxed slightly. “You’ve been busy.”

  When they had reached the bridge Thornley overtook them.

  “There was also the bicycle itself,” he reported. “I buckled its wheels. Strangely enough, it took the longest time.”

  Richard looked up towards the darkness which was the forest and the hill; they were both now indistinguishable. They were probably safe—probably.

  “Could you run, if we both helped?” he asked Smith.

  “I can try.”

  They linked arms round him, and half ran, half swept him along the road.

  Van Cortlandt had heard them. He had the engine running and the back door of the car open for them by the time they reached him. They thrust Smith into the car and stumbled after him. Richard heard the man draw his breath in sharply when his body was thrown into the corner of the car as it jerked on to the road, and began the rough journey back to Pertisau. But even if he was hurt he was safe.

  Richard leaned over to look at Frances. She was still asleep.

  “How was she?” he asked. The American answered without turning his head.

  “Surprising. She’ll be all right when she wakens. Best thing for her.”

  Richard relaxed and leaned back against the seat, taking care not to jolt against Smith.

  Thornley suddenly gave a laugh. “I haven’t had so much fun for a long time,” he said.

  “I’m glad someone enjoyed himself,” Richard said. “What happened upstairs, by the way?’

  “The window you pointed out was barred and bolted like nothing I ever saw in a private house. So I tried the next room, and the shutter there was only latched in the usual way. I used my knife, and got it, and then the window, open. The light was pretty bad; I just could see dimly. A sort of man’s bedroom it was, with a desk at the window. There was a lot of stuff on top of it. I was hoping I might find some keys, but there weren’t any. But I found this.”

  He held up something in the darkness of the car.

  “Electric torch. Damned useful, too. It was as black as pitch in the corridor outside, and in the room where I found your friend. They had tied him up again.”

  “And very welcome you were,” said Smith. He was rubbing his wrists and ankles with his knuckles. He didn’t use the palms of his hands.

  “Were you always tied up?” asked Richard.

  “Always when any visitor was seen approaching the house. And then I was gagged too, like this afternoon. During the nights I was handcuffed to the bed. In the daytime there was always one of them on guard. They had also fixed bars on to the window. On the door they had put safety chains. They used to leave it just a chink open that way through the day, so that I’d feel someone was always watching me.”

  “It made things quicker for us,” Thornley explained. “The lock on the door was the usual type; after that there were just a couple of those chains and a heavy bolt. They didn’t expect you to be reached from the outside.”

  “I’m glad you were still alive,” Richard said.

  “They just didn’t want me alone. There was a lot of information they thought I could give them. I couldn’t give it if I were dead.”

  “Judging from the time they kept you, they didn’t get very much.”

  Smith gave a bitter smile. “Nothing of any use. Every now and again I’d pretend I was weakening; that encouraged them to keep me alive for just another few days. And then they’d like to confront me with anyone who had come looking for me and had been trapped. They like drama, these chaps, you know. Faked confessions and all that. They got a man from London, and two poor devils from Germany. Von Aschenhausen did the talking, and his man did the persuasion. He’s a good riddance.”

  “What about the maid?”

  “Oh, old Trudi… She was terrified. When they took over she just had to go on serving them as if nothing had happened. Threats against her family. You know. They locked her up in her room at night, which was quite needless of them. She was much too frightened to have done a thing for me. It is extraordinary the amount of power you can get over certain types of people if you just terrify them enough.”

  They were coming to the village. Smith leaned forward.

  “Keep to the dark roads and away from that inn where they are dancing. Keep well over to your left. Just grass, anyway.”

  They saw the lights round the platform outside the inn. Through the trees came the sound of a polka-like tune. They bumped over grass, as Smith had said, and then they were on a narrow gravelled road which led towards the scattered lights at the shore. Smith directed van Cortlandt again and the car swung south, running silently and smoothly along a track which would take them behind the string of hotels on the lakeside.

  Smith had taken charge; his voice was still as cool and impersonal as when Richard had first met him.

  “What were your last actions when you left here?”

  “Van Cortlandt and Thornley were leaving by car; my wife and I were going for a walk.”

  Smith spoke to the American. “You’ve paid your bill, got your luggage, and actually left?”

  “All here, Captain,” van Cortlandt said.

  “Good. You can stay out of the picture, then. Take the car to the south end of the shore road. There are some trees and a good stretch of grass just off the road near the last hotel. We’ll wait there. The moon won’t be up for a while.”

  He turned to Richard. “You and your wife had better stop the car at a safe distance from your hotel. Or perhaps it would be better if you went alone. Can you remember the things she’ll need? Don’t forget her make-up box, especially the mascara. Bring something for me too. And money. Is there more than one entrance to the hotel, so that you could slip out without being seen?”

  “We are staying in a house. I think we could both go. Quicker if there were two of us.”

  Smith nodded. “Much. If you think you could slip away without being spotted. With ordinary luck, we have got about an hour’s start.”

  Richard had been shaking Frances gently. She sat up and looked ro
und her in a bewildered way.

  “So am I,” said van Cortlandt good-humouredly. “You go with Richard. We’ll wait for you. Good luck to both of you.”

  “Thanks,” said Richard. “We’ll need it.” The car was slowing down. Henry was no fool, thought Richard. He had halted the car behind that chalet which hadn’t been rented, standing dark and silent with its shutters tightly fastened.

  He slipped out of the car into the blackness. Van Cortlandt helped Frances into his hands. He put his arm round her and walked her over the grass. Behind them they heard the car move smoothly away.

  Waldesruhe lay just ahead. There was a light at the back of it. That would be the kitchen. The hotels around it were silent. There were lights in the bedrooms, as if most of the visitors were going to bed. Those who were going to the dance must have already set out, for the road was empty.

  There was the usual weak light in the downstairs sitting-room of the house. It lighted the bottom steps of the staircase. Farther up Frances stumbled in the half-darkness, and they halted, but they heard no movement from either above or below them, and they went on to their room.

  It was Richard who shut the windows, drew the curtains, and lit the two candles. He didn’t risk a brighter light. From the outside this room would still seem to be in darkness. Frances looked wearily towards the bed; she had never appreciated how soft and white it was. On its counterpane was spread a very charming dirndl. Richard had seen it too, and paused at the wash basin as he poured the drinking water into a glass.

  “Take a long one,” he advised, when he brought the glass over to Frances. “What’s that for?” He nodded to the bed.

  “Frau Schichtl wanted me to wear it to the dance.” Frances peeled off the mud-caked socks with a grimace. Richard brought over a damp sponge smelling of pink geranium.

  “Do your face and shoulder,” he commanded. He poured water into a basin and carried it over to where she was sitting. He helped her pull off the tattered cardigan and blouse. As she cleaned the cut on her shoulder he bathed her feet and legs.

  There was a knock at the door. Frau Schichtl’s voice said, “May I come in?” They looked at each other in dismay. Again there was the same timid knock.

  Richard was about to say “Get the hell out of here,” but he checked himself in time. That would only add to their troubles. If they kept silent perhaps the woman would think she was mistaken and go away. Instead, the door opened. He rose to his feet.

  Frau Schichtl paused in dismay. “Oh, excuse me. I am so sorry.” She was just about to turn in embarrassment, when she noticed Richard’s leg… And then she looked back again at Frances, holding the towel over her shoulder, and she saw the basin lying at her feet. Richard still held a dripping sponge.

  Frau Schichtl came in, closing the door quickly and quietly behind her. Her kindly face was clouded with worry and fear. She came over to Richard and took the sponge gently out of his hand, and knelt down beside the basin.

  “You must bathe your own leg, Herr Myles. It is cut very badly. I should get you some hot water.”

  “Please don’t; there isn’t any time,” said Frances, and then bit her lip as she looked at Richard. It was so easy to make a slip when you were tired and miserable.

  Frau Schichtl looked quickly up at her face. She compressed her lips, but she said nothing. She dried Frances’ legs very gently.

  “Have you iodine?” she asked.

  Richard handed it to her, and she put it on to Frances’ knees very lightly.

  “Now some talcum powder on top of these scratches and they won’t show.”

  Frances smiled gratefully, and then grimaced as she covered the cut on her shoulder with iodine.

  “We got lost on the hills,” she explained.

  Frau Schichtl cleared away the towels and the basin of water, keeping her back carefully turned to Richard, who had started calmly to undress.

  “I knew something must have happened,” Frau Schichtl said. “Your friends were worried. They left hours ago. And now you can’t go to the dance. You would have looked so pretty in that dress. It would have made me very happy to see you in it.”

  “I should like to wear it all the same,” said Frances, looking at Richard. That dirndl would be just what she needed. “We may go to the dance.”

  “But you must go to bed.”

  Frances shook her head. Frau Schichtl looked quickly from Richard, dressed in clean shirt and shorts, to Frances, fumbling in the chest of drawers for some underclothes.

  “I think you are in trouble,” she said slowly, at last.

  Richard said nothing. He was distributing his money and Baedeker, letter of credit, passport, into the pockets of his tweed jacket. He was trying to think how they could leave the house… Unless they were to tie and gag Frau Schichtl and lock her in this room, and the idea sickened him. Still, what else?

  “I thought that when I came in here, first. You were so quiet going up the stairs. So quiet in the room.”

  Frances had slipped into the dress; she combed her hair and creamed and powdered the bruise on her forehead, before she turned to face Frau Schichtl. She smoothed the apron.

  “It is so very pretty, Frau Schichtl. Perhaps I may spoil it… perhaps I shouldn’t wear it?”

  Frau Schichtl shook her head slowly. “It is your dress now. I have no more use for it.” Her voice had a quiet sadness; she was lost in thought.

  Richard smiled to himself as he watched the transparent relief in Frances’ eyes. A man wouldn’t have had any scruples, not at a moment like this. He folded a suit to take to Smith, along with socks and shirt and tie.

  “You are going?” said Frau Schichtl.

  “We are going,” Frances said. Frau Schichtl moved to the door before she spoke. Richard watched her tensely. But the sad smile on her face was honest and friendly.

  “You will need food for the journey,” she said. “Is it these Nazis?”

  Frances nodded.

  “I knew it. Ever since that rough fellow came here so rudely this evening… Will there never be an end to all this hunting of people? They must not catch you…not as they caught my daughter. Where can you go?”

  “If we hurry we shall be safe,” said Richard quietly. He hadn’t rested since he had reached the room. He was now helping Frances to get her make-up things into her bag. Mascara and all. They were ready, almost.

  Frau Schichtl spoke again. “When you leave, go out through the kitchen and the back door. I shall hand you bread and cheese. I wish you a good journey to a safer land.”

  “We cannot thank you enough,” Richard said.

  “It is a small thing. Perhaps I am repaying my daughter’s debt to someone who helped her.”

  “For your own safety, Frau Schichtl, remember that you haven’t seen us. You heard us come in and go out again. You thought we had gone to the dance. Can this dress be traced to you?”

  “No. There are many like it, and it is a long time since my daughter was here. I have forgotten I ever had these clothes. I shall see you in two minutes, at the back door.”

  The bedroom door closed gently.

  Frances looked as if she. might cry. She tied the scarf which lay on the bed beside the hand-knitted jacket round her head, and knotted it under her chin. She buttoned on the white-wool jacket. By the time she stared at herself in the glass, she had recovered control of herself. She looked at herself critically in the mirror.

  “I’ll do,” she said.

  Richard nodded, and tucked the bundled clothes under his arm. He picked up his one decent hat. They looked round the room; Frances’ eyes flickered for a moment as they rested on the fitted suitcase which Johann had admired so much in Innsbruck. Richard had given her that when they were married. As they went downstairs she wished that she did not get so much attached to certain things. She hoped Frau Schichtl would be allowed to keep it—not some little tart of a local Gauleiter.

  The light was still on in the sitting-room, but the curtains had been drawn, so that they
could cross the room safely to the kitchen. It was in darkness, and the back door was open so that they could see the stars in the sky beyond. In the shadow of the opened door, Frau Schichtl handed them a large package silently. They didn’t speak, but their hands caught hers and held them tightly for a long moment… And then they were gone.

  They walked quickly over the grass, keeping as much in the shadow of trees, even houses, as was possible. The moon had risen, and the meadows of Pertisau were silvered and treacherous. From the distance came the music of a fiddle and concertina, and an echoing “Juchhe.”

  They had reached the last hotel. It stood far back from the road with large gardens carefully cultivated. They skirted these, thankful for the shrubs and bushes which would make it difficult for them to be seen clearly… And now they were on the road, walking as softly as they could. Smith had said something about trees, Richard remembered. There were some just beyond that patch of grass. It meant that they would have no cover at all until they reached the trees, and they might be the wrong ones. He had a strange empty feeling inside him as they covered the white stretch of road, with the silvered grass on one side of them, and the lake rippling with maddening calmness on the other. Probably hunger, he thought. He resisted the impulse to run, to cover the open ground as quickly as possible. And then he heard the car warming up. It backed out on to the road from the shadow of the trees, just as they reached them. The doors were open, and they were pulled in by eager hands. The car shot forward, and they heard Thornley say, “Good work!”

  It was lighter in the car now, because of the moonlight. Smith nodded his approval to Frances.

  “You’ve made good use of your time,” he said, and began to examine the clothes they had brought him. “Mascara?” he added.

  “And food,” Frances said. She opened the parcel of food and shared it out.

  The atmosphere in the car had changed. Van Cortlandt, without taking his eyes off the road in front of him, joked with Frances as they ate. Thornley had produced the torch again at Smith’s request. He held it ready to shade it, when Smith needed it. Richard helped Smith rip off his clothes. He exchanged looks with Thornley as the shirt came away and they saw the cruel weals on Smith’s back. But Smith took no notice of their stare. He was whistling to himself as he drew on the new clothes. With Richard’s help he managed not at all badly, although there was a difficult moment as he tried to pull on Richard’s shirt. It was only by the stiffness of one arm that they noticed it was bruised at the shoulder into a purple jelly. The clothes were loose for him, but the effect was passable.