Above Suspicion

by Helen Macinnes

  Anni said, “I knew something was wrong. I have been so worried about you.”

  “How?”

  They were both talking in undertones, pacing slowly under the trees. Anni blinked back her tears.

  “I knew you were here in Innsbruck about a week ago. One of my brothers has a friend. He is the handyman in the hotel where you stayed. He knew I had lived in Oxford, of course, and he told me about the two English guests who came from there. That was how I found out that you were here.”

  “That was Johann, wasn’t it?”

  Anni’s cheeks coloured. “Yes. When he learned I had lived with you I made him promise not to tell my family that you were here.”

  Frances was surprised. “Why, Anni?”

  Anni looked confused.

  “My sister always disbelieved me about England. When I told them about your house and clothes she would only laugh. If she had learned you were staying in that place she would have made fun of me to everyone.”

  “We stayed in that place because we like the old town, Anni,” Frances said gently. That was true. They had chosen to live in the old town when they had last visited Innsbruck, although the hotel then had been an innocent place compared with their choice this time.

  Anni looked relieved that Frau Myles was still smiling.

  “Yes,” she said, “that’s what Johann told the police today.”

  Frances almost stopped walking.

  “Anni, tell me all you know.”

  “I saw Johann this morning. We usually meet when I cycle into the town.” Anni blushed again, and hesitated, but Frances waited in silence. “Early this morning, the Gestapo came to the hotel and searched and questioned. They asked very particularly about you and the Herr Professor. Johann only knew that you came from Oxford and that you were on holiday.”

  “What about the owner of the hotel?”

  “He left the hotel just after a telephone call came for him very late last night. No one has seen him since. So Johann was in charge when the police came. They seemed very angry.”

  Frances said nothing. Mr. Smith seemed to think of everything, she thought, even of the fact that their travels in Germany and Austria would be retracted. She would have liked to know how he had got that telephone call through to Kronsteiner without giving himself away. Possibly it had come through another agent… But if there had been a ghost of a chance left for their simple-traveller story, it had vanished along with Kronsteiner. His disappearance would confirm all the suspicions against them. Anni’s face grew more worried as she watched Frances walk so silently beside her.

  At last Frances asked, “Do the police know that you were with us in Oxford?”

  Anni shook her head. “Johann never said anything about that. He didn’t want to mention my name.”

  “I am sorry that we met today, Anni. I had better leave you now; it is too dangerous for you.”

  “But, gnädige Frau, I must help. What is wrong?”

  “We must leave Austria at once.”

  Anni was silent. Then at last she said, “Johann could lead you over the mountains.”

  “Into Germany? That’s worse still.”

  “He also knows the South Tyrol. He was born there. He escaped over the mountains when the Italians were conscripting the Austrians for the war in Abyssinia.”

  “That border is now heavily guarded.” What was it that Schulz had said last night when she was half-asleep…something about advising the mountains rather than the train, if she hadn’t been so exhausted… But she was all right now; Herr Schulz wouldn’t hesitate to advise them to go by the mountains if he saw her today. She disliked the idea of the train, for in a train you were trapped in a box.

  Anni was. speaking again. “But there is a way, if you know the mountains. Johann knows.”

  Frances was tempted. But she said, “No, Anni. Besides, Johann must not risk anything for us.”

  “He would do it if I asked him.”

  “No, Anni. better not. Don’t tell anyone that you have seen me; not even Johann.”

  Anni was still searching for some plan. “I can’t ask you to come to our house. My sister hates the English although she has never known any. My brothers would not help. They are afraid, like my parents.”

  “Thank you a thousand times, Anni. But you must not help.”

  Anni began to cry. Frances watched her tears with distress.

  “Please don’t, Anni…we shall be all right.”

  “Where is the Herr Professor?”

  “He is waiting for me. I must go now or he will be worried.”

  “Please tell me the address. Then when I have thought out some plan I can come to you this afternoon and tell you about it.”

  Frances had an idea. “You said Johann knew a way over the mountains? If he could draw a map of it would you—” no good saying post it; perhaps Schulz was known by another name altogether. Frances paused. How on earth were they to get hold of the map?

  “I’ll bring it to you,” Anni said eagerly.

  “Then you must come when it’s dark. Can you get away this evening without making anyone suspicious?”

  “On Saturday, yes. I look after my brother’s shop then, and I am often late before I reach home.”

  “And don’t tell Johann that the map is for us. Please, Anni. It would be safer for everyone. Can you think of some excuse for him?”

  Anni said she could manage Johann. She repeated the address which Frances told her. Tonight she would slip the map under the door of that house; and then she would forget the address for ever. She promised. She was smiling again, as Frances said goodbye. She seemed happier now that she could be of some use after all.

  Frances recrossed the street. She felt she had every right to be pleased with herself. Such a map would be most useful if, for instance, the train seemed too risky. There was no doubt that the search was on. She thought of Kronsteiner. Trains would be watched, perhaps searched. As for giving Anni the address— well, Anni would keep her promise. The secret would be safe. Anni was under no suspicion. She would not be followed, as Henry or Bob would be… And Anni did not know the importance of the house. It would seem just a boarding-house to her. There were plenty of such houses in that district.

  Everything began to look easy; and that was probably her undoing. If Henry could drive them almost to the frontier, they could follow the path over the mountains, and then meet Henry somewhere on the other side. He could take along their Schulz clothes, pack them somewhere in his suitcase, and they could change in his car once they had finished the climb. It was all so simple. She imagined Richard’s look of surprise and amusement when she would present him with the idea. It wasn’t at all bad, she admitted with some pleasure to herself. In her excitement it was understandable that she forgot. She forgot that if you are playing a part you must live it, and forget your own identity. She should have been Mitzi Schmidt going to meet Fritzi Muller; but at the moment she was very much enjoying being Frances Myles.

  She walked quickly with her light smooth step. If she hurried she would not be late for Richard. The man in the restaurant, who had chosen a window table next to where a young American and Englishman had sat, saw the Austrian girl who walked in that familiar way. He was suddenly alert. The colour of her hair and of her face were different, but there was something equally familiar in that hint of a smile and the tilt of the nose, the shape of the eyes. She passed. He recognised the set of the shoulders, the shape of her legs. Yesterday he had watched them in a green meadow from a doorway. He didn’t need to verify his guess from the table next him, where the restless Englishman and the talkative American had suddenly become still and silent.

  Van Cortlandt and Thornley looked at each other.

  “He’s gone,” said Thornley needlessly. “God, he’s recognised her.”

  “Are you sure it’s that man?”

  “Richard described him. Fits in. Cheek slashes, fair hair, gold chain bracelet.”

  “He thinks it important enough to leav
e us alone, anyway,” van Cortlandt said gloomily.

  Thornley rose abruptly. “I’ll follow and ’phone you at the hotel, if I can find where he has taken her. I’ll ’phone you anyway. You had better stick to the hotel and wait for a call from Richard. He’s bound to give you a ring when Frances doesn’t turn up.”

  Van Cortlandt began to object, but Thornley had already left. The American paid the bill gloomily. He was just to go back to the hotel and wait. He was just to wait for ’phone calls. That was fine; that was just fine. There were times when playing the neutral tried even a neutral’s temper.

  Thornley saw the tall German and the girl in the Austrian dress ahead of him. The German had made no attempt to catch up with her. He was walking at some distance behind her. That way she would lead him to Richard.

  Thornley crossed the street as a precaution, but either the German had not expected to be followed, or he didn’t care. Nothing these English could do at this stage would prevent the drama from drawing to its close… But he had not reckoned with the inspiration of the amateur.

  Thornley saw several bicycles parked outside a cafe. He calmly swung himself on to one of them, and raced after Frances. His improvising was more successful than he had hoped. Three angry young men rushed out of the cafe and mounted bicycles too. Their yells were enough to make everyone in the street look round. And Frances had looked. And she had seen, too, for her step slackened and then she turned abruptly into an alley. The German broke into a run, and a slow-moving motor car suddenly ignored all rules of traffic to cross over to him. Thornley cursed himself for ever imagining that the German would be alone. A short command had been given, and the car speeded into the next street. Thornley guessed that it probably led round to the other entrance of the alley. He hesitated, wondering desperately what his next move should be. And then the three angry young men caught up with him. They were in uniform.

  “I am very sorry,” he said. “I was going to bring the bicycle back. I thought I saw a girl I must speak to and she was far away. There was no time to ask your permission.” One of the boys looked amused, but the owner of the bicycle was less amenable until he noticed the money in Thornley’s hand.

  “To pay for the wear on the tyres,” said Thornley tactfully.

  “Where is she now?” asked the one who had smiled.

  “She went up that small alley.”

  “But it has another entrance! There’s a short-cut! Come on. There’s still time if we hurry.”

  Thornley found himself cycling furiously with the three young men grouped round him. The romantic one was enjoying himself. The other two were obviously intending to find out if the story about the girl was true. They followed a very narrow side-street which brought them suddenly on to the road which the car had taken… And there it was just ahead of them, standing at the end of the alley, ready to drive off. The back of the car was towards them, and the only one whose face they could see was the German with the scars. He was just getting into the front seat beside the driver. Behind was Frances, wedged in between two uniforms.

  Thornley screened himself behind the young men as they dismounted. They had stopped as soon as they had seen the open Mercedes. They were looking at him strangely.

  “Was that your girl?” the romantic one demanded. His tone had changed completely. Thornley, his eyes fixed on the disappearing number plate of the car, shook his head. He was all disappointment.

  “No. But from the distance their figures and legs were the same, though.”

  This proved a mild joke. The kindliest of the three relaxed again.

  “Just as well she wasn’t your girl,” he said comfortingly.

  “She won’t enjoy herself at Dreikir—”

  “You talk too much, Fritz,” interrupted the one who had taken the money. The third young man had stopped laughing. There was an uncomfortable pause.

  “What about some beer?” Thornley suggested. They were stiffly sorry. There were meetings this afternoon, and processions. There was much to arrange before it began. They had all suddenly become very important. They straightened their shoulders and gave him a coordinated farewell. Thornley gave them a careless wave of his hand and thanked them again, solemnly. They swung on to their bicycles, but he noticed that the one he disliked looked carefully over his shoulder to watch him enter the restaurant which he had suggested. He stayed there for a few minutes, long enough to let the cyclists leave the street, long enough to write down the curious number of the black car and to find the telephone with its directory. But there was nothing under Dreikir—

  He left the restaurant. Perhaps he might try the post office. He could have a letter to send, and he had forgotten the address… And then he remembered Prague. No, the post office wouldn’t do. It might be dangerous; too risky. It was obviously quite useless trying to trace the car. That would rouse instant suspicion. He remembered the guarded look on the young men’s faces when they had first seen the car, the way in which they had dismounted so quickly at a safe distance. One thing he did know: the young man who had talked almost too much had recognised von Aschenhausen. That had been obvious.

  He left the street as quickly as he could, in case the suspicious young man had changed his mind and returned, and walked quickly towards van Cortlandt’s hotel. The shops were crowding round him once more. He noticed a tourist office and halted. Inside he found a number of people booking their seats for that afternoon’s excursions. They crowded round the tables which were marked systematically. At the one labelled “Brenner,” a man stood. He was watching everyone who crowded towards that table very closely. It was the only one advertising an excursion anywhere near a frontier. Thornley noted the size of the crowd round the table—the Brenner was popular, it seemed—and decided to risk it.

  He approached the desk marked “Information” at the other end of the large room. Behind it, a girl was handing out timetables and a few kind words to two men. Thornley, with his fair hair, his shorts and light-grey-tweed jacket, his almost white stockings and nail-studded shoes, felt safe enough beside them. The men were satisfied, at last, and left. He purposely chose the same place they had been asking about. That would take less time for the girl; and it might muddle her, later, if she were questioned.

  The girl smiled at his request. “Kitzbühl? It is very popular today. You will find all information in this.” She handed him one of the brightly illustrated folders which she still held in her hand. He opened it as the others had done, and studied its pages.

  He looked up with a smile “This is excellent.” The girl seemed pleased. “Now, would you be good enough to tell me where the post office is? I have just arrived in Innsbruck.”

  “In the Maximilian-Strasse.”

  “Is that far from here? I am late for an engagement already.”

  “It is quite a little way.”

  “It concerns a letter I want to post at once, and I have mislaid the address. I remember it began with Drei. Dreikir—like that.”

  “Ah, Dreikirchen. We used to have buses which visited it. But not now.” She was looking at him curiously. “Do you know someone there?”

  Thornley took his cue. “I was given the address two years ago. But my friend will still be there. I never heard that he had gone.”

  “Did he belong to the church?” The girl had lowered her voice.

  “He was studying.” That seemed to be the correct answer.

  “It’s all changed now.”

  “Well, they will redirect the letter… I’ll post it at once. Now would you advise today or Monday for Kitzbuhl?”

  A man and a woman had come up behind him.

  “Today will be more crowded.”

  “And the bus will leave outside this office?”

  “Just across the street. I hope you will enjoy yourself at Kitzbühl. Everyone does.” She was a nice girl, of the kind who really liked to please customers.

  Thornley thanked her and studied the folder as he made his way out of the office. The queue at the Brenner ta
ble was still large. The man beside it was listening intently to each excursionist’s request.

  On the pavement Thornley drew a deep breath. He stuffed the folder into his pocket. It would make a nice little souvenir along with the electric torch. The policeman’s helmet hanging above his mantelpiece at Cambridge began to seem a poor effort.

  All he could do now was to go to van Cortlandt’s hotel. He hoped to high heaven that Richard was already worried about Frances, and that he had ’phoned. At least they knew the name of the place now. That was something.

  19

  DOUBLE CHECK

  Richard woke about eleven o’clock, and his worries began with the empty bed beside him. He ought to have wakened in time to see Frances and talk to her. In fact, he ought to have gone himself, even if Frances had been more adequately disguised. He dressed quickly, cursing at his slight stiffness, his lateness, his difficulty in shaving with cold water.

  When he got downstairs the woman had reheated the coffee. It was black and bitter, but it cleared his head. Twelve o’clock, the woman had said. He drank more coffee in spite of its taste, and read the newspaper. There was no mention of the Pertisau incident. So they were keeping it quiet, meanwhile. Von Aschenhausen might be making desperate efforts to turn his failure into success, before anything was made public. If he had kept Smith on his own responsibility, in the hope of presenting his chiefs with a large and very complete haul, then he would be in a dangerous position himself, if he had failed. He had tried for too much; he had been too ambitious. That would make their own escape twice as difficult. Von Aschenhausen would have to catch them or face very unpleasant consequences… And then, there was the matter of his pride, and revenge. Vindictiveness was one of the strongest German traits. Richard sat and looked at the patch of garden as Frances had done. But his feelings were very different.

  Twelve o’clock had long passed. The woman was sympathetic, but calm: there was no need to worry. Innsbruck’s streets were very difficult for strangers, and she assured him for the second time that his wife’s appearance was safe enough.

  But by one o’clock the woman was anxious too. She was obviously afraid for Schulz and herself. Richard did not blame her.