Dead Man Falling: A Johnny Fedora Espionage Spy Thriller Assignment Book 3

by Desmond Cory

  “I’d have had to take him in, you know. The mother’s nothing… something for the newspapers… but that boy was far too dangerous to be left walking about. And it wouldn’t have been much of a life for him, a political prisoner… He died in the right spot.”

  “Where he’d have wanted to. And that’s a sight more than anyone’d say of his pop.” Johnny turned away, his face expressionless beneath its blisters and the great welt of the oil lamp that ran across his forehead. “Let’s have a look at that leg of yours.”

  Trout nodded again, and limped to the side of the bench. He sat down and pushed forward his right leg for inspection.

  Johnny bent over it cautiously. The bullet had struck just below and to the left of the knee, tearing through the sinews of the calf, and had emerged at the back, making a hole there the size of a thumb-knuckle; a nasty wound and extremely painful, but not – as far as Johnny could judge – not dangerous. Trout had already tom the leg of his flannel trousers high on his right thigh and had improvised a tourniquet and bandage; he had made a very workmanlike job of it, too, and there seemed little else that Johnny could do, except bathe it. And this he did, gathering handfuls of snow from outside the hut and melting them by holding them over the lamp… As he collected the snow, he looked about him for signs of Mayer, and located him almost at once; a tiny figure trekking across the great snow ridge, heading for a point somewhat higher than their earlier crossing.

  “Our friend’s still in sight,” he said conversationally to Trout, as he trickled half-melted snow on to the ugly mess below Trout’s knee. “Heading north round the mountain. And making good speed, by the look of it.”

  Trout’s face was contorted with pain from the touch of the freezing snow on his wound. “You’ve got to… get… after him.”

  “Sure, sure. And what happens to you?”

  “I’ll have to stay here. That doesn’t matter. It’s those diamonds that count, he must not get away with ’em. You’ve no idea how maddening it is, Fedora, having been after those diamonds for years and then seeing them spirited away from under your nose like that.”

  “I can imagine it,” said Johnny grimly. “I was… Sorry, did that hurt? – Hands still a bit shaky… We haven’t any disinfectant anywhere?”

  “No, that’s another thing. He was carrying all the first-aid kit.”

  “Pity. Well, I’ll just have to put the bandage back on and hope for the best.”

  “By the way,” said Trout, “I was under the impression that you were no longer working for British Intelligence. May I ask what…?”

  “What I’m doing here?” Johnny pulled the bandages tight, and Trout gave a little gasp. “Well, I’m after the diamonds too. Everybody likes diamonds.”

  “You mean you’re working entirely on your own bat?”

  “Me and my partner.”

  “Your… Oh, the young lady. I’d much rather you had them than Mayer. Listen –you’ve got to stop him somehow; you’ve simply got to.”

  “Okay, okay.” Johnny knotted the ends of the rough bandage together, and tested the pressure. “But we don’t want to get panicky over this. One thing’s sure, the boy won’t risk going down the Lovers by himself. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Besides, he’s not headed in that direction, he’s aiming farther north. It’s certain that he won’t get off this mountain until tomorrow, and late tomorrow at that. And while he’s above the snow-line, hell be leaving tracks all the time; tracks I can follow.”

  Trout nodded; his face was the colour of a fish’s belly under the rich veneer of tan. “Yes, but when he…”

  “He’s striking north, behind the Old Man, and that means he’s losing light. Nobody’d be such a fool as to risk travelling that route at night, or even in twilight. And that means” – Johnny looked at his wrist-watch – “that gives him much less than four hours’ light today; more like three. Then he’ll have to stop; he’ll have to stop on the side of the mountain, and he’ll be tired, he’ll be aching, he’ll be frozen. As a matter of fact, he stands a good chance of being frozen rigid, which’d save us a whole lot of grief. And tomorrow morning – if he lasts out okay – he’ll be far less fresh than he is now; he’ll be lucky if he can even walk till the sun gets up.”

  “I see what you’re getting at,” said Trout. “You’d do better to stay here, and wait till morning before you follow.”

  “You hit it. That way I’ll be fresh as a daisy, and I’ll have the advantage of an earlier sunrise. I’ll have four hours to make up, but that way I might do it… On the other hand, if I chase after him now, we’re taking the same odds and I’m giving away half an hour’s start – and he’s such the hell of a lot tougher than me he’d increase his lead all the way.”

  “There’s a risk,” said Trout, leaning back wearily. His head now rested on Martin’s legs, but he was either oblivious of the fact or too wearied by fatigue and pain to worry about it. “There’s always the chance the wind’ll get up in the night, and either bring fresh snow or blow over his tracks.”

  “So what? It’d do that anyway, unless I actually caught up with him before sundown. And, well – can you see me doing that?”

  “Frankly, old man,” said Trout. “No.” And closed his eyes. “Okay, then. I leave tomorrow morning, crack of dawn. Of course, all this is assuming there’s enough food to keep you alive while I’m gone,” said Johnny thoughtfully. “I can’t leave you here if you’re gonna starve – may be all of five days before I can arrange a rescue party.” He clumped heavily towards the big ration cupboard.

  “I tell you that doesn’t matter,” said Trout, and his voice had a suspiciously high edge. “There’s food in my rucksack, and Martin’s too for that matter. And I’ll be able to hobble down myself when I’ve had a good day’s rest.”

  Johnny opened the cupboard door, and breathed a relieved sigh through his nose. “It’s okay, anyway. It’s loaded with tinned stuff; boy, we can have a regular beanfeast tonight. You keep that leg of yours clean, and you’ll last a month, feller.”

  “Unless… unless,” said Trout dreamily, and his mouth fell open. Johnny swung round and crossed the room three times quicker than before; bent over Trout anxiously.

  But Sebastian Trout was only fast asleep.

  Johnny woke up the next morning with the hands of his wrist-watch pointing to four-thirty; it was half an hour later than the time when he had intended to get up. He was aware of this fact from the first, but for some time he did nothing about it. He was far too conscious of his own physical condition. “Fresh as a daisy,” he had claimed optimistically the previous evening – well, that could be right; if it had been cut and thrown on somebody’s grave and left six weeks to rot. He wasn’t feeling tired, or pained, or dissipated, or anything recognisable like that. He just felt three-quarters dead. It would almost have been a pleasant relief to have changed identities with Martin Hitler; or damn it, even with Adolf.

  He pushed himself over on to his back and discovered that he was not, in reality, chewing the blanket. His mouth just felt that way. The top of his head was lying somewhere on the floor, and his astral body was hanging halfway out. His face felt as if it had been cooked in boiling fat, and every bristle of his two-day stubble seemed to have turned into an ugly, burning pustule. As for his body, it had obviously been beaten with blackjacks for a period of several weeks; several ribs were gone, and his legs were devoid of any sensation whatever. Altogether, as pretty an escapee from the Inquisition as might be found anywhere… In a word, Johnny felt lousy.

  Think how much worse, Johnny told himself, Mayer must be feeling. But then think how little you care; it doesn’t make you any better… Johnny was inclined to be big about the diamonds this morning; Mayer, he thought, could keep them; all he, Johnny, wanted to do was spend the rest of his life in bed… He gave a pathetic little wail, rolled over, and fell off the bench into a kneeling position on the floor.

  Golly, it was cold.

  … Fortunately, the
Aigen brothers – or somebody – had been assiduous in the gathering of firewood for some time previously; and, while Johnny had righted the stove and fired it up last night, a quantity of wood remained. He rebuilt the fire, sprinkled the kindling generously with colza oil, and lit it. It burnt cheerfully enough, casting a bright glow on the rough wooden walls of the hut and reminding Johnny of the fire that had burnt in the sitting-room of the inn, hundreds of metres below him… The temptation to jump back under the blankets was almost irresistible. Instead, he gritted his teeth, stamped round the hut three or four times to get the blood circulating through his aching limbs, then went outside and rubbed snow over his face and hands.

  This treatment had an even more refreshing effect than Johnny had anticipated; he no longer felt that overpowering desire to close his eyes and drift away to sleep once more. He was still bone-tired, but his mental faculties were restored to their normal liveliness and the top of his skull, thank heaven, was firmly in place again.

  He looked around him before turning back to the hut. It was still a good half-hour before dawn; but far away to the east there was a touch of warmth to the sky, a pale pearly blur just above the horizon. Elsewhere, everything was a deep, silent inky blue; a colour accentuated by the bright pinpricks of the star, crystal clear at that altitude and steadfast.

  The moon was down. There was no wind. Johnny stumped back.

  He boiled coffee in a can; opened a tin of bacon and fried it in its own fat. It was good German bacon of a well-known brand, crisp and not too salty. He woke Trout and they shared it together, eating it with their fingers and biting great square biscuits. The coffee was of the same kind that had seemed execrable down at the inn; here, it was superb. Johnny was famished; he fried a second helping, and burnt his fingers badly getting it out of the pan too soon. Trout didn’t want any more. He sipped at his boiling coffee, and watched Johnny’s disposal of the black, greasy rashers with evident admiration.

  “When are you leaving?” he asked.

  “As soon as I’ve knocked this back,” said Johnny. “This was what I needed, sure enough. When I first woke up this morning, I thought… well, let’s not even think about it.”

  Trout grinned. “I know. I wish I could come with you, Fedora.”

  “Be glad to have you along. But no can do. Mayer won’t be hanging about; I’ll have to run like a blinkin’ rabbit to catch up with him myself.”

  “Oh yes, it’s out of the question. But remember – festina lente, old man; festina lente.”

  “Huh?”

  “More haste, less speed. Especially on the mountains. When you’re by yourself, it takes one slip. One. That’s all. Don’t take any chances you can possibly avoid.”

  Johnny swallowed the last scrap of bacon and wiped his fingers inelegantly on his collar. “Yes, this is the place where you need experience all right. Experience with a capital X. More coffee?”

  “Oh, thanks. One advantage you do have; if you follow his tracks, you can use the steps he’s cut on the slopes. That’ll be a considerable saving in time. But test ’em – that’s most important. You see, he’ll have thought of that one already, and he may have loosened one here and there. And above all – if he heads for the north side, which he’s almost bound to do if he doesn’t go down the Lovers… ’ware avalanches.”

  “I remembered that. But thanks for the reminder.”

  “Well, you be careful. They’re hellishly dangerous things, anything can start ’em rolling at this time of year – it takes as little as a shout, sometimes. I think our friend’s most likely route will be across the plateau well above the Lovers, down the col and then down the big serac of the Zabern glacier. Halfway down the col – that’s your trouble spot. Keep a weather eye open; and, if anything does start, for the Lord’s sake don’t start rushing downhill to try to beat it. Dive for the first firm-looking patch of rock you see and get down behind it, as low as you can.”

  Johnny nodded intelligently.

  “Another thing. When you come to…” Trout paused, and then made a despairing gesture. “Oh dear – there are so many things you’ll never remember them all. You’ll just have to use your onion and take things as they come. After all,” he brightened visibly, “you did very well indeed yesterday. Apart from that bit of tomfoolery at the top of the Lovers, when you might have killed us both… Oh, but I wish I could come with you; bother this leg.”

  Johnny poured the last half-pint of coffee from the billy into his mug and from his mug into himself – rather more slowly. “You’ve done a lot of climbing, haven’t you?”

  “A little more than most, perhaps.” Trout was modest. “It was really how I originally got the job; Mayer being a crack mountain climber and a Gebirgsdivision man, I suppose they thought it a bright idea to have another climber chasing him.”

  “How long have you been hunting the guy?”

  “Since ’45. Non-stop.”

  “Boy,” said Johnny softly. “Aren’t you going to be wild when I take him?”

  “Wild as wild horses. But it can’t be helped; after all, I had my chance and fluffed it. The diamonds are what matter… Y’know, if you’re really in this for yourself, you must be crazy. You’ll have every damned I-man and crook in the world after you, when the news leaks out.”

  “I’ll take the chance,” said Johnny pleasantly. “And talking of fluffing chances, who was the guy you didn’t make any mistake about?”

  Trout was puzzled. “Who d’you mean?”

  “That guy on the train. Zurich to Munich – remember?”

  “… Well, I’m blowed. How did you know about that?”

  “I was on the train, too. I saw you.”

  “You did? Well, I’m blest. – Yes, that was a bit awkward, actually. Feller’s name was Golling. I knew him and he knew me. Luckily, I got in first.”

  “Mayer was on that damned train, too. They must have been travelling in contact – Golling gabbled something about Mayer before he died.”

  “Very likely,” said Trout. “Very likely.”

  “He was a mountaineer, too. I tried to make it fit, then decided not to bother.” Johnny threw his mug over towards his rucksack and stretched himself lazily. Time was getting on.

  “Oh, it fits all right. They must have made a party together, when they made their periodic trips to collect the diamonds. From that brief snippet of conversation to which Mayer finally treated us, I suppose he must have left them at the second hut or somewhere, and done the last stage here himself. I shouldn’t have thought Mann and Golling were necessary, really, but you know these Nazis; every man’s got to have two or three other men watching him, to make sure there’s no double-crossing… Golling handled the diamonds later, anyway, and bought stamps with them. Highly convertible currency, easy to smuggle. We’ve known all about that part of the racket for a long time.”

  “But not where the diamonds actually were, hey?”

  “No, that’s just it. How in the world did you find out?”

  “My name is Josef Goebbels,” said Johnny sternly. “Prepare to die, Britisher.”

  Trout looked as though he half believed it.

  Dawn was at last splitting the sky when Johnny left the hut, a widespread soft yellow suffusion lifting the veil of the night sky; and the stars were greatly diminished in strength and clarity. The snow, crunching pleasantly underfoot, was a pale-blue pall, stretching away and deepening in colour until it reached the black shadows of the Old Man’s peak: the air held a virginal freshness and purity that rapidly cleared away the last cobwebs from Johnny’s brains. His muscles accustomed themselves with a surprising docility to their old swinging rhythm, their stiffness passing as though by magic with every step he took; and as the hut passed slowly back into the aureate silence behind him, Johnny found to his surprise that he was humming snatches of song, quietly, under his breath. He was almost happy.

  The hush of that mountain dawn was unbelievable; the air was absolutely still… not the slightest breath disturbing it
; the only sound to be heard was Johnny’s croaky humming and the solid, regular tramping of his feet over the crisp snow; and also, from time to time, the soft, distant creaking of ice and rock expanding in the approaching warmth. Mayer’s tracks were clear to the dint of the smallest stud in his boots, and Johnny followed slightly to the left of them for some way before he realised that his pace was matching Mayer’s, and that it would be slightly easier going if he were to walk in his predecessor’s footsteps. He tried this, and found the idea successful.

  He had covered a good two kilometres before the first ray of the sun shot a vivid orange smoky stab across the horizon, and from then on the light increased perceptibly with every passing minute. Before the sun had levered itself completely clear of the mountain, the snow around him was burning with a sparkling fire, and he checked his stride while he fitted his goggles over his eyes. Visibility was fast improving, and details of topography previously shrouded in blue shadows were taking on a third dimension as he marched towards them…

  He was following Mayer along a level contour, circling the Old Man in a clockwise direction and heading towards the north. The ground that he had covered, and that which lay a good two hours’ journeying ahead, was the continuation of the main spur of the Horn; slightly undulating and with an uneven snow surface, but on the whole safe and comfortable to travel over. The ridge he had crossed the previous afternoon lay well to his left, rising at an angle to his present course and merging with it about three kilometres ahead of him; the Lovers were, of course, well out of sight beneath it. The ground beyond the point where the ridge joined the spur appeared to fall away slightly; Johnny racked his brains for remembrance of the map of that area, but could recall little other than those details of which Trout had reminded him that morning… Of the great cliff of the Lovers forming a great diagonal slash to the south-west and west, gradually losing height until, to the north-west, it was broken and flattened by the moraine of the Zabern glacier – probably the nearest descendable point… So north-west was Mayer’s most likely course. Across the full length of the spur, over a great deal of rough, broken country, split ice and boulders, and so down the seracs of the Zabern to the bergschrund at the bottom, the northernmost point… and from there down to the treeline. A tough trip. But one giving him a chance, a very fair chance, to catch up with Mayer and even the scores a little.