“Vogel makes everything his business,” replied Schulze. “He is what you call a busybody. And don’t try to appear too simple, my friend. A story like the accident to Sir Walter Vanbrugh’s secretary is a gift from heaven to those who like mysteries. Now tell me, isn’t it true that you came to the Grünekeller this evening because you knew that they would be talking there of this accident?”
“Well, yes. I know it’s a place where all the local news is debated,” admitted Walsingham.
“And you are right,” agreed Schulze, “and if you want to know the facts that were debated, let us wait a moment until Hans Flüchs catches us up. He will be following us—I know he will. You may be able to give him a warning about not being too clever. Myself, I think he is being too ‘smart,’ as you say in English.” Schulze stood still for a moment and lit a cigarette with deliberation, and Walsingham heard footsteps behind them. Schulze called:
“Hans—is that you? Come and join us. Mr. Walsingham, who is my friend and also a writer, would be interested to hear all those facts you have so industriously collected. Indeed, he may save you from putting a foot wrong. It is still possible for an industrious reporter to make mistakes in Vienna—even though Austria is now a neutral country.”
“I do not wish to make any mistakes, nor to offend in any way,” said Flüchs. He was a big fellow and he clicked his heels and bowed to Walsingham solemnly, his fair hair shining in the light which streamed out of the inn windows.
“Very correct,” chuckled Boris Schulze. “Let us walk on. I will tell Herr Walsingham how all this started, and you shall tell me if I am wrong.” They strolled on slowly and Schulze continued:
“Hans here is a reporter, as I said. If there is nothing to prevent him, he likes to go to Schwechat airport to see who arrives on the B.E.A. plane. Sometimes there is news to be had that way: or, as one might say, the forerunner of news—the comings of important persons, whether in diplomacy or trade—or even the arts.”
“That is a journalistic practice,” said Hans Flüchs solemnly. “It is quite correct.”
“Quite correct,” said Schulze. “And last Monday several interesting persons arrived by the B.E.A. plane. Hans will tell us about them.”
“There was Sir Charles Bland of the International Chemical Corporation,” said Hans Flüchs. “There was Sir Walter Vanbrugh’s new English secretary, met by Sir Walter himself. There was a Mr. Stratton, a writer, met by Herr Vogel. There was a high-ranking English police officer of the London C.I.D., met by Dr. Franz Natzler——”
“Here, steady on,” put in Walsingham. “Where did you get that idea from?”
“Herr Vogel was told by Herr Webster, who was also on the B.E.A. plane,” said Flüchs. “He was able to do him a small service, to help him to get a picture. Herr Webster is a cameraman: he knows the Herr Superintendent of Scotland Yard by sight; and the Herr Superintendent was met at the airport by Dr. Natzler. That I know. Also Herr Stratton, of whom Herr Vogel spoke, was met by Herr Vogel. It is all a very interesting story.”
“What is an interesting story?” demanded Walsingham, and Flüchs went on in his careful precise voice:
“That all these people should have arrived in Vienna together, mein Herr. There was the young lady, the secretary, staying with Sir Walter Vanbrugh, she who had the unhappy accident: there is the C.I.D. officer, staying with Dr. Natzler, who helps to find the young lady. There is Herr Webster, who knows the C.I.D. officer by sight: there is Sir Charles Bland, who this evening is dining with Herr Anthony Vanbrugh: and there is yourself, Herr Walsingham, who left London on the same B.E.A. plane as the young lady and the C.I.D. officer, and you are staying with Sir Walter Vanbrugh in Hietzing.”
“I told you Flüchs was industrious,” chuckled Schulze. “See how he has worked to collect all his facts! Hans had German grandparents: the Germans are an industrious race.”
“He certainly took a lot of trouble to check up on the B.E.A. passengers,” said Walsingham, “but why did he bother about it? What made him think that the passengers on that plane were of such interest?—or was it second sight? Did you prophecy to yourself that there was going to be a story for you, Herr Flüchs?”
“Like any other newspaperman, I always look out for a story,” said Hans Flüchs. “There are many stories in Vienna—even though we are now a second Switzerland, as Herr Schulze reminds us.”
“Doubtless,” said Walsingham dryly, “but I think Schulze was right when he warned you against being too clever. I think you are making a mistake in trying to connect the young lady’s accident in the thunderstorm with your researches into the passengers on the B.E.A. plane: and I would give you a piece of advice. It is well for journalists to observe what might be called ‘international courtesy.’ If visitors come to Vienna on holiday, be they writers or detectives or business magnates, it is better to respect their desire for privacy on their holidays than to publicise them over hastily.”
“I understand your meaning, Herr Walsingham,” said Flüchs stiffly. “I told you I wished to give no offence: I wish to be very correct. But since you give me advice, I am encouraged to ask one question. Is it not true, Herr Walsingham, that you yourself came to Vienna to investigate a story—a story, one might say, of the writing world, since you are a famous writer?”
“No, it is not true,” said Walsingham crisply. “I came to Vienna because I love Vienna, and because I wished to stay here again now that Austria has regained her freedom.”
“There you are,” said Boris Schulze. “You have been warned, Hans: do not be too clever. Do not be too industrious. Do not, in short, be too Germanic. And this is where I go to catch my train.” He turned to Walsingham. “I have been a good friend to you: I have given you a ‘close-up.’ You now know all that was being said in the Grünekeller. So if, on another occasion, I ask you to get me music and books from London, I feel I shall have earned them.”
“Right. Ring me up to-morrow and we’ll have a meal together,” said Walsingham.
Schulze walked off towards the railway station, and Walsingham turned to Flüchs. “Are you putting in a story for your paper to-night?” he asked.
“No. I have reported the facts of the young lady’s accident. For the moment that is enough,” said Flüchs. “I may, perhaps, approach those in authority before I go further. I wish you good night, Herr Walsingham.”
Walsingham strolled back slowly towards Trauttmansdorffgasse, sorting things out in his mind. Was there anything in the facts collected by the industrious Flüchs which could not have been collected by a journalist in search of copy, by the usual journalistic channels?
“What’s the betting that Hans Flüchs made friends with pretty lazy Clara?” pondered Walsingham, “or even with Miss Le Vendre herself,” he added as an afterthought, “and whether any of it has got anything to do with the matter in hand is anybody’s guess.”
CHAPTER VIII
ANTHONY VANBRUGH, Sir Walter’s nephew, was a man of fifty. Born into a family of diplomats, he had been in the Foreign Office until 1939. Thereafter, duly commissioned, he had spent the years between 1940 and 1950 in those branches of the Services covered by the generic title “Intelligence,” including Field Security in Germany. Later he was drafted into Public Relations of a semi-diplomatic variety, and in 1955 he was attached to the British Mission in Vienna, though the exact nature of his work was known to few. It certainly involved regular appearances at those lunches, dinners, cocktail parties and even tea parties which are a feature of life for Foreign Office attaches stationed in European capitals. When his uncle took the big house in Trauttmansdorffgasse, Anthony Vanbrugh gave up his bachelor flat in the Ringstrasse and enjoyed the more spacious quarters of his uncle’s house. He was a mannered, urbane fellow, settling a little too easily into middle-aged comfort, possessed of a large amount of miscellaneous information and an authoritative manner.
Anthony Vanbrugh’s dinner to Sir Charles Bland had been one of those “semi-duty” occasions: he had enjoyed a good
dinner and good wine, and if Sir Charles Bland had found his host’s conversation (and information) less enlightening than he had hoped, Sir Charles was too much of a born diplomat himself to betray the fact.
Anthony Vanbrugh drove himself back from Vienna to Hietzing just before midnight on the evening when Walsingham had visited the Grünekeller. He drove by the route which took him past Schönbrunn Barracks, and just before he turned down the steep hill of the Wattmanngasse he had to brake violently because a van, or converted jeep, cut across his bows in no diplomatic fashion. Mr. Vanbrugh swore: he counted himself a pretty good driver and was easily infuriated by bad driving manners on the part of others. He saw the van (or jeep) go bucketing down the hill under the trees, and wished the driver no good. His wishes looked like being substantiated, because the vehicle in front bounced in a startling lurch, and then swung across the road in a manner which suggested it was out of control. “The damn’ fool’s drunk,” thought Mr. Vanbrugh, taking the hill circumspectly. The thunderstorm of a few hours ago had brought down a lot of leaves, and these were still sodden enough to make the hill skiddy. Vanbrugh had his car well in control, but his attention was distracted by the tail lights of the van careering down the hill in front of him and it wasn’t until he was nearly on to it that he saw the body lying in the road. His brakes squealed as he jammed his foot down but the wheels slipped on the wet leaves and then the car skidded sideways a bit, the wheels touching the body.
“Hell,” thought Vanbrugh. “That blighter in the van ran this chap down and now I’m left with it, and no witnesses.”
He turned on his headlights (he had, been driving with spotlights), got out and went to examine the casualty. It was a man’s body which lay face down on the road: he was dressed in a good raincoat, lightish in colour, and the wheel-marks of the jeep on the fine gaberdine left no doubt at all that the vehicle had literally run over him. Something about the raincoat and the good brown shoes which stuck out at a fantastic angle, made Vanbrugh think “He’s British . . . that’s an English raincoat. . . .”
Then he realised that the skirt of the raincoat was under the front wheels of his own car: the wheel had not gone over the body, but Vanbrugh could not turn the man over or ascertain his injuries until he had backed his car. He touched one arm tentatively, said to himself, “Hope to God he’s not dead . . . he must have been crashed face down. . . . Hell, what a mess. Nobody to help . . . what do I do now?”
He did what seemed most sensible in the circumstances: got into his car, revved up the engine and succeeded in backing it clear of the body, though the wheels were difficult to control on the skiddy road and he found himself with the car slewed across the road.
“If anything else comes down the hill there’ll be another smash,” he thought. “I’d better straighten up.
It was as he got his car straightened by the kerb and turned the engine off that he heard footsteps and realised, thankfully enough, that somebody was approaching. “What do I do? Send them for the police and a doctor?” he thought, as he got out and went forward to the body again, but paused as he realised the pedestrian was running forward towards him—a young man and a powerful-looking one.
“There’s been an accident and I need help,” called Vanbrugh. “We’d better lift him out of the road.”
The newcomer stared, his blue eyes goggling in the reflected glare of the headlights. “Gott in Himmel . . . you’ve killed him. . . .”
“I didn’t kill him: it was the van in front that killed him,” snapped Vanbrugh. “Now carefully—I’ll take his shoulders——”
“We should not move him. The police will say——”
began the other, but Vanbrugh cut in:
“I’m not going to leave his body lying there until the police come. Another car may come down the hill and it’s difficult to pull up. Do as you’re told.”
He spoke with the curt authority of one who has been accustomed to giving orders, and the other obeyed, muttering to himself the while. They lifted the limp heavy body on to the pavement and laid the man on his back. Vanbrugh said:
“Good God . . . It’s Walsingham. . . . Of all the shocking things . . .”
He bent over the injured man, and the sturdy young Austrian said, “I will go at once for the police and call a doctor.”
“Wait a minute,” said Vanbrugh. “I know this gentleman: he is a guest in my uncle’s house in Trauttmansdorffgasse—Sir Walter Vanbrugh’s house. I’m going to lift him into my car and take him home. I’m not going to leave him lying here until the police arrive.”
“You should not move him: the police will wish to see him,” began the other.
“That’s for me to decide,” snapped Vanbrugh. “The car’s pretty wide: we can get him almost flat if we lay him in the back. Now then—do as you’re told. I’m taking responsibility for this. . . . I’ll move the car level with him and we’ll lift him into the back. It’s only a couple of minutes from the house and I can telephone from there—it’ll be the quickest way of getting a doctor. He may die if we leave him lying here.”
“I think he is already dead,” replied the other.
2
“Don’t be a damned fool,” said Anthony Vanbrugh irritably.
It was not a wise remark to make to any police officer, anywhere: it was a particularly foolish one for a foreigner to make to a Viennese police officer, for the Viennese are still sensitive about being spoken to as though they were inferior beings.
“Gently, Anthony, gently,” protested Sir Walter. “Get a hold on yourself.”
“I’ve told the fellow exactly what happened, and he’s trying to prove I ran Walsingham down,” said Anthony indignantly.
“It is very difficult,” said the police officer, and Sir Walter had enough common sense to see that difficulties existed.
By the time the doctor and the police had arrived in Trauttmansdorffgasse, Walsingham was dead. His body showed multiple injuries, but the obvious cause of death was a broken skull.
“I tell you that when that van hit him, it was travelling at over fifty miles an hour: it crashed him down and bumped over his body,” declared Anthony Vanbrugh. But when the police officer asked his precise questions, Anthony found it difficult to give precise answers.
“Did you see deceased cross the road?” asked the policeman, “and if so, was he crossing towards Trauttmansdorffgasse or walking away from it?”
Actually, Anthony Vanbrugh had not seen Walsingham cross the road at all: he had seen the van (or adapted jeep) bounce over an obstacle and swerve violently, and had assumed the rest. Like many people who have not been accustomed to being interrogated, he was a very bad witness; he had formed his own conclusions and became irritated by the impartiality of a police officer who would not accept another man’s conclusions. Neither could he give any useful description of the vehicle which had done the damage: it might have been a van with a canvas hood: it might have been an old jeep, adapted as a van. He could not give its number. “I tell you it cut across me travelling much too fast,” he said. “I had my work cut out to avoid a smash. I saw it go bucketing down the hill and I thought it would capsize before it reached the bottom. The driver must have been drunk.”
3
The pedestrian who (unwillingly) had helped Anthony Vanbrugh to move Walsingham’s body was Hans Flüchs, the journalist. He, at least, was a very good witness. He told how he had seen Walsingham at the Grünekeller earlier in the evening and parted with him and Boris Schulze in the Hietzinger Hauptstrasse at eleven o’clock. Flüchs had then walked up to see a friend in the Rosengasse, to borrow a book, and he was walking back to his flat in Penzingergasse when he had first seen Anthony Vanbrugh’s car.
“I saw it was a big American car,” he said. “The headlights had just been turned on—I saw the lights come on. The car was half across the road, as though it had skidded. The driver roared his engine and backed a little. I said to myself ‘There has been an accident 5 and I began to run.”
“Wha
t made you think there had been an accident?” asked the careful policeman.
“It was the way the car was placed when I first saw it,” replied Hans. “No driver would get his car in such a position unless something strange had occurred. Then, as I ran, the driver reversed a few yards back up the hill and I saw the body lying in the road. I thought ‘He has killed a man.5 Indeed, I still think so,” he added. “I saw no other vehicle, I heard no other vehicle: I saw the big car back away from the body and the body was partly under the car before it backed. I said to myself ‘He is going to drive on and leave this man he has killed 5—that was why I ran, to let the driver see there was a witness.” After which, Hans Flüchs explained that it was owing to Mr. Anthony Vanbrugh’s insistence that the body had been moved. “I told him that nothing should be moved,” he said. “I know the police rules, Herr Inspector. I knew it was not in order. I said I would go and fetch the police, but Herr Vanbrugh would not have it. ‘He may die if we leave him lying here,5 he said, though I told him the man was dead already. It was not easy to argue with Herr Vanbrugh, and I thought ‘I will go in the car with him that I may give my evidence when the police come. If I do not go with him, who knows what may happen—and it might be his word against mine if our evidence is not the same.’ ”
The police inspector grunted. He was incensed with Anthony Vanbrugh, who had called him a damned fool: he was incensed that police regulations had been set at nought and he had got an idea into his head that these English “High Ups” were taking the law into their own hands. He fixed Hans Flüchs with a stern eye.
“You have given your evidence, the facts of the situation,” he said. “You can now tell me, in confidence, the impressions you formed.”
Flüchs was truthful and honest, and it was not his fault if the impressions he had formed were misleading. “I heard no other vehicle: I saw no other vehicle,” he repeated. “To me, it looked as though the big car had just run the man down, and that the driver was backing away from the body so that he could get past, only when he saw me he changed his mind.”
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