He began on his face now. Thornley held the shaded torch and Richard tried to steady the small mirror from Frances’ bag. Smith creamed and powdered the ugly bruises which showed. He darkened his eyebrows skilfully, altering their shape, and with the same pencil shaded in the lines on his face. Then he found the small pair of scissors in the bag, and looked at them thoughtfully.
“We’ll have to stop to get rid of these anyway,” he said, kicking the rags on the floor which had been his clothes. “Better draw up for a moment; this is as good a place as any.” It was the beginning of the hill down into Jenbach. On their right was a steep ravine, thickly wooded. They could only hear the water of the stream. It was impossible to see it at this point for the undergrowth. Thornley slipped out of the car with the old clothes, and disappeared down the steep bank. When he came back he reported that he had found a nice thick bush, not very far down. It had been too risky to go any farther.
“Not a place for picnicking, or a roll in the hay,” he said. “They should rot there peacefully.”
Smith had finished emphasising a widow’s peak with the scissors.
“All right,” he said, and van Cortlandt drove on.
Smith took the mascara cream and rubbed it on the back of his hands. Then he tried to smooth it on to his hair like brilliantine, but it was too difficult.
“Let me try this,” suggested Richard. He remembered what he had seen of Smith’s palms. “I tucked a pair of chamois gloves into that jacket pocket,” he said, as casually as he could. “I find them useful for travelling.”
Smith shot a quick glance at him. “Thanks. I’ll need them.” He looked at his hair in the mirror. “That’s about enough; don’t need much of that stuff. Thanks. I’ll comb it through now.”
As Richard wiped his hands he watched Smith carefully combing the black cream through his hair, finishing by making a neat centre parting. The finishing touch was a slight dab of face powder on to the hair above the ears. The transformation was complete.
“Not bad,” said Thornley, with a grin. “They’ll never recognise you unless they see your back.”
Smith gave his first real smile. He had cleaned the back of his hands of the mascara, and was rubbing some cream into the burns on his palms and wrists. Frances had looked round, and remained staring, so that van Cortlandt took his eyes off the road for a moment to look too. He grinned widely.
“All you need is a monocle and you’d be a natural for a Budapest cafe,” he suggested. Smith looked pleased, but he didn’t volunteer any information.
Richard suddenly remembered the label on the inside pocket of the jacket. Smith ripped it out and read it with interest.
“Nice to know your name,” he said. “But it would have taken some explaining. Thanks. What about the hat?”
“It’s all right. You’d better take my stick, too. But don’t unscrew it until you are in a safe place and can wash it. It’s rather messy. What about a passport?”
“That can be got. By the way, I think you should go right away to this address in Innsbruck. They’ll see about a passport for you.” He scribbled some words on a page from Thornley’s diary, and handed it to Richard.
“What about some cash?” asked van Cortlandt.
Smith patted the jacket pocket. “It’s already here. That’s about everything, I think.” He looked at Richard. and there was a kindly look in his eye.
“Richard.” Frances’ voice was urgent. “I’ve just remembered…what about our bill?”
The men all laughed, even Smith.
“It’s all right, Fran. I’ve left enough to cover it inside my suitcase. It will be searched, you know.”
Van Cortlandt seemed to be enjoying a rich joke.
The car was entering the village of Jenbach, running down through the steep street with its motor silent. There were few people out at this time. Jenbach was mostly asleep, it seemed. Smith was watching the street carefully.
“Just at that corner,” he said to van Cortlandt, “beside the road with the trees. The station is just to the left.” He turned to Richard. “I seem to have caused you a lot of trouble. But perhaps you’ll find some consolation in the fact that I really happen to have discovered something which will be extremely valuable. Quite apart from my own comfort, you really have been most useful.” He leaned over to Frances. “And thank you for your song. Goodbye.”
The car slowed down. It paused for a moment, and they saw the shadow mix with that of the trees. He was walking, leaning heavily on Richard’s stick, Richard’s hat tilted over his eyes, towards the station, as the car swung to the right for the Innsbruck road.
17
INNSBRUCK REVISITED
They would reach Innsbruck in half an hour, or even less. Richard leaned back into the corner and closed his eyes. It was little enough time to decide on their own plans; but at least they had done the most they could for Smith.
The road was smooth and made driving easy. On their right were continuous mountains; on their left was the broad Inn valley and the railway line. Van Cortlandt pointed out the lights of a train moving towards Jenbach.
“That takes care of your friend. We’ve only you to worry about now,” he said. Richard nodded. He wondered if Smith would really take that train or whether there had been some little house near the station where he might have a friend. He had better stop thinking about Smith. He roused himself to reply to the American, who had looked round at him curiously.
“I’ve been thinking about that, Henry. I think we should follow his example and rid you of ourselves as soon as we get to the outskirts of Innsbruck. Then you can arrive as if nothing had happened, with the excuse if it’s necessary of motor trouble and slow driving. You know the sort of thing. I think that’s the only way.”
Thornley said, “It’s not a very good way for you.”
“We’ll manage, somehow—if we get that passport.”
“And some money,” said van Cortlandt. “You’ll not go far without plenty of loose dough. Your traveller’s cheques or your letter of credit will raise hell at any bank in Greater Germany. That chap just about cleaned you out, didn’t he? He was a cool customer all right.”
“He has to be. I expect he has done more than that for others when they were in a jam.” What was it Frau Schichtl had said in that sad, slow voice of hers? Repaying a debt to someone who had helped her daughter…only the way she had said it was better than that.
“Help each other, or God help you?” asked van Cortlandt, half seriously. “Have you any cash, Bob?” He threw his wallet into the back seat. Thornley caught it, and added his share. He counted it carefully.
“It will just about pay for the passport. I expect it will cost quite a lot. You’ll need more than this. I can cash a cheque at the bank tomorrow, but how can I get the money to you?”
“Look,” said Richard, “you dump us somewhere just outside Innsbruck. We can walk to that address Smith gave us. I think it’s this side of the town. Have you that light, Bob? I’ll just make sure.” He studied his Baedeker. “Yes, we can reach it all right. In this costume we’ll look like any other couple returning from a moonlight walk. Your story is that we left you this afternoon to walk over the mountain towards Hinterriss. When we didn’t return you thought we must have gone right on to Hinterriss and stayed the night there. So when it reached eight o’clock, you left. You had a business appointment to keep. You were delayed in getting to Innsbruck by motor trouble. Henry, try to see your man tonight when you arrive; have a couple of drinks with him in some well-known restaurant.”
“I’ll need them,” van Cortlandt said, with a grin.
“Remember you never saw a house with red shutters. You never saw us after we set out for our walk. That’s your story and stick to it.”
“That’s our story and we’re stuck with it.” Van Cortlandt was still grinning. “But what’s your angle?”
“We’ll get to that house, and arrange about a passport. They may take us in for the night, or send us to a saf
e place. And Bob will get the money, as he suggested. Tomorrow one of us will meet you some place about eleven o’clock. It may be Frances; she is better disguised than I am. The station is no good; it will be watched. A restaurant is dangerous…too many waitresses with an eye for their customers.” He paused for a moment or two. “Try the Franciscan Church. It will have plenty of sightseers on a Saturday morning. You can potter about the Emperor Maximilian’s monument; carry a catalogue, or a newspaper, and have the money in an envelope. Slip the envelope inside the catalogue. When you see Frances, go and sit down in the church itself. Choose a nice dark side. When you finish your meditations leave the catalogue behind you. Frances will then slip into the seat you’ve just left. Would you mind doing that for us?”
Thornley repeated the directions rapidly. “I think I’ve got it all,” he said.
Van Cortlandt said, “I must say for a couple of amateurs you two are showing high form.”
“We go to the movies,” said Frances gravely. He looked at her serious face, and then decided to risk a laugh.
“It’s that dead-pan look you English have when you have your little joke which makes us think you’ve no sense of humour. You don’t look as if you expected anyone to laugh.”
Frances was smiling now.
“Well, that doubles the joke for us. Our pleasures are really very simple.”
“You mean that if I hadn’t laughed just now you would have been laughing because I didn’t laugh because you didn’t laugh.”
“I would have had my giggle inside,” admitted Frances. “Don’t you think it’s funny, too?”
Van Cortlandt just shook his head sadly. “About as funny as Punch. And much more dangerous. It makes people underestimate you.”
“But that can be funny, too.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“What’s dangerous?” Thornley asked. He was shading the torch again to let Richard study a map.
“Being under-estimated,” said Frances.
“Oh, that!” he said, and went back to the map.
Richard explained. “After we have the cash and the passport we’ll make for the border. The nearest one is the Brenner.”
“That’s guarded heavily,” warned van Cortlandt. “The Italians are keeping an eye on the South Tyrol.”
“Well, it will depend on our disguise whether we risk the train or try the mountains. If it’s guarded heavily, then the Swiss frontier will be thought to be likelier. And the Brenner is probably more strongly guarded on the Italian side than on the Austrian. That suits us.”
“And after that?”
“We’ll make for Paris.”
“When do you think you’ll be there?”
“With luck, we’ll leave Innsbruck by Sunday at latest. Say next week-end in Paris. We’ll leave word for you there with the Consul. We’ll celebrate together. The evening’s on us.”
“I wish I could,” said van Cortlandt, “but I’m a working man. I’ll see you later in England on my way home. I have your address. There’s one reward I would like, and that’s the whole story.”
“I promise you it,” Frances said. “And please come to see us. Any time.” She said it so warmly and earnestly that van Cortlandt reddened, but he looked pleased.
“I hate to be the skeleton at the feast,” he said, “but what if you run into difficulties in Innsbruck?”
“We’ll let you know; we can ’phone you. If we can’t ’phone then it’s too dangerous for you to help us. You’ve been dragged into quite enough trouble, as it is.”
“I’ll have finished my business there by midday tomorrow. I can be free for the next two days, if you need me. Leave a message at the hotel for me, if I’m not there. Say that The Times has an assignment for me. That will pass all right, and it’s phoney enough for me to know it comes from you. I’ll let Bob know, unless he’s mixed up with his Czechs.”
“There is one very important thing, Henry. Send this message to Geneva early tomorrow. Please don’t forget. ‘Reservations uncancelled. Arriving Friday.’ And memorise this address.” He repeated it carefully. “Got it? Good. It’s really important.”
The lights of the town gleamed in front of them across the Inn. Frances turned to Richard, and smiled.
Van Cortlandt said quietly, “I hate to spoil the party, but there’s a couple of cars on our tail. I’ve seen their headlights for some time now, but they are still far enough away, if it should be your friends. I’ll slow up round the first bend. Get ready.”
Frances and Richard looked at each other. Frances remembered how van Cortlandt had increased his speed just when he had asked about difficulties in Innsbruck.
“We’ll say our thank-yous in Paris or Oxford,” said Richard. “Goodbye, meanwhile. And don’t forget to turn up. And remember the telegram.” He was holding the door open in readiness. They were reaching a bend in the road.
The car slowed up. They slipped quickly out.
“We’ll see you,” Frances said quietly, and then without looking back, she raced with Richard for the cover of some bushes. Safely hidden from the road they watched the tail-lights of van Cortlandt’s car streak along towards the town. They waited for some minutes, and then they heard the roar of a powerful engine. A large black car, followed closely by another, flashed past them. Richard watched them disappear after van Cortlandt.
“Henry was right, I think. Two cars together look as if they had urgent business. I hope they stick to that story.”
“They will,” said Frances. “I can see Bob looking rather sleepy and bored, and Henry looking very righteously indignant, calling on his rights as an American citizen. They’ll play it up beautifully between them. I wish I could see it.”
“You’re better here. How are the legs?”
“Not so bad. My arm is stiff, though.” She shivered.
Richard put his arm round her shoulders, and drew her beside him. They waited in silence. One other car passed along the road; its moderate pace reassured them.
Richard watched the clouds in the sky. He chose the time when one of them, thick and white, began to cross over the face of the moon; and they were back on the road. They reached the first houses without any trouble. It seemed they were in an open residential quarter, with scattered houses and gardens, or what might be called parks, surrounding them. Richard remembered they were either in or near the district for the large garden restaurants and family excursions… All the better.
It was also a district for late-evening strollers, making their way slowly back to the town. Ahead of them were a young man and his girl with their arms linked round each other. The man talked, and the girl would laugh as she looked up at him.
“Watch the technique,” said Richard, and measured his step so that they kept a short distance between them and the couple. He slipped his arm round Frances’ waist, and she giggled in spite of herself.
“Perfect,” he said, and won another laugh.
Perfect, he repeated to himself, as they followed the man and girl towards the bridge over the river Inn. In front of the bridge was a broad, open stretch of ground, where other roads met the one they were on. From the other roads came some more men and girls, forming a slow and scattered train back to Innsbruck. And there were some cars. These were being stopped by two efficient-looking men in uniform, as they approached the bridge.
Richard looked down at Frances, and said some words to her in German. Just in front of them were the couple they had followed. The two uniformed men gave the group of four a brief look, and then turned back to the driver they were questioning.
Once they were over the bridge they left the man and girl. He was still talking; she still looked up into his face and laughed. They would never have noticed who had walked behind them or who had passed them. Richard had taken a street which turned away from the river. After the bright lights at the bridge it seemed dark and safe. But the journey to the house was like a nightmare for Frances. Richard had kept their pace unhurried, so that they appeared just two m
ore walkers going home with the usual reluctance. The slowness of their steps increased her fatigue. She was painfully conscious of each muscle she had to use, of the hardness of the pavement which hurt her back with each step, of the cracks in the stones which caught her dragging feet. The ill-lighted streets emphasised the darkness of the houses; their silence sharpened every sound. It was less than a mile to the address which Smith had given them, but to Frances it seemed more like five.
Richard had knocked as Smith had marked it down on the piece of paper: a spondee followed by a dactyl. In his pocket he fingered the part of the instructions which he had kept, the part with the curious little design marked on it. The rest of the paper had been torn up and dropped piece by piece from the car. As they stood in the darkness of the doorway and looked anxiously up and down the dingy, badly lighted street with its empty pavements and sleeping houses he had begun to wonder if he had got mixed up with the address. They were taking a hell of a long time to answer. He visualised the piece of paper as he had seen it in the car. The name, the address, and then “Knock --, - .” Then the words “Destroy at once”; and then “Keep,” and a lightly drawn arrow to the foot of the page where the design had been sketched. He remembered everything, even to the jagged line at the top where the page had been torn from Thornley’s diary. He felt Frances sag against him. He knocked again.
The door opened so quickly that he knew someone had stood behind it waiting for the knock to sound again. It was only slightly open, and in any case it was too dark to see anything; but the someone waited.
Richard’s voice was hardly above a whisper. “Herr Schulz?”
The door opened wider and a woman’s voice answered “In!” They heard the door close behind them gently; a heavy lock was quietly turned. The hall was unlit, but light came from a room at the back of the house. The woman who had let them inside led the way towards the lighted doorway. She turned to them as she reached it, and motioned them to enter. Frances saw that she was quite young. Her face was what Richard would call “just medium”: it was neither pretty nor plain. It was quite expressionless.
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