“It might be a good time,” Max said, and plunged into an explanatory apology. And it would be a good time, before the concert ended and the Mitternwald Choral Group and the Tauplitsch Alm Zither Players went up to the inn for a glass of wine and more music. “You’ll have a lot of guests tonight, Herr Grell.”
Grell did not share his enthusiasm. He said to his silent friend as they buttoned up their lodens, “They’ll drink and sing until midnight before they start going home where they belong. And what’s to prevent your terrorists,” he demanded of Max as they clumped over the wooden floor toward the door, “from slipping on to that bus with the crowd?”
“It will be watched.” Max was imperturbable.
“You have your work cut out.” The genial voice faded as they passed into the street. Grell was clapping Max on his solid back, an amused but friendly demonstration of encouragement and consolation.
A touching scene, thought Mathison, and looked back at Zauner, who seemed to be engrossed by Anna’s simple note.
“If I may interrupt,” Andrew said to Zauner, “isn’t it possible to let me put in one brief call from that phone?” He had taken out a cigarette, fumbled with his lighter. “May I borrow a couple of your matches? This thing never works when needed.”
“Why not try filling it?” He handed over his matchbox.
Andrew picked out four matches, one by one, returning the box with a nod of thanks. “That might be an idea,” he conceded.
“Karl,” said Zauner, “why don’t we let this gentleman—” He indicated the phone booth tactfully. “He won’t take long. I’m sure.”
Karl had no objections. “Got to keep good relations with the press,” he said with a grin. Andrew was already inside the wooden box, closing its glass panelled door, dialling his call to Bruno in Salzburg.
Now it’s my turn, thought Mathison as Zauner rose to face him. But Zauner’s usual charm was not much evident tonight; he looked gaunt and tired, and just a little impatient. He handed the note back, saying abruptly, “Sorry I can’t help you.”
Mathison glanced over at Lynn. She had been keeping very quiet indeed, gradually drifting across the room until she stood at the end of the counter, almost in front of the half-opened kitchen door. What interested her there? He looked back at Zauner. “But you could help us. Frau Bryant may have come up to Unterwald when she found Johann’s house empty.”
“Frau Bryant is most definitely not here.” Zauner was grim-faced. “Good night, Herr Mathison.” And that was definite, too.
Score zero, thought Mathison, except for friend Andrew, who seemingly had made contact with a couple of matches that turned into four. But August Grell threw me, and that’s the truth. I was keeping it all so easy and natural for his benefit that I had no chance of getting to Zauner. Why the hell, anyway, did Chuck Nield not have him briefed on us? Or perhaps it’s my fault; I handled the approach badly. Obviously. Or I wouldn’t now have to blunder quickly into the subject of Trudi Seidl. “But doesn’t Trudi Seidl live in Unterwald? Frau Bryant wanted to meet her, so why wouldn’t she come up here when she was in the district anyway?”
Lynn said very clearly, “Frau Bryant would need some place to sleep, wouldn’t she? I don’t think she would spend the money on a hotel. Especially when she could stay with Trudi. I know they wanted to meet. In fact, when we last saw Frau Bryant, she asked us to drive her up to Unterwald in our car so that she could visit Trudi.” She smiled for Frau Kogel, who had been watching her with covert interest ever since she had stepped into this room. The style and colour of every visible piece of Lynn’s clothing had been noted by that calm stone-carved face, from buckled shoes to blue coat to beige tweed to white cashmere sweater. “I’ve been admiring your green apron. It looks very handsome with that rose embroidery on your cardigan. And those silver buttons—where could I find them? In Bad Aussee? I’d like to take some back to New York.” Which was all true.
“Now really, Mrs. Conway,” Zauner said in English, “how could I possibly help you with Trudi Seidl?” She was quite beautiful, he noticed, shaking off some of his worry and exhaustion; and she certainly could charm. Even Kogel was losing her icebound shyness that terrified most strangers and was adjusting her apron with quick proud fingers, but she hadn’t liked him breaking into English. She gave him one of her disciplinary looks before she almost-smiled for the American girl. Who was not so stupid either; she was insisting on German, using it again to answer him, clearly and slowly.
“You could direct us to Trudi’s house,” Lynn said, “or, better still—if you could spare a few minutes, Herr Zauner, although I know you must be wanting to go to the concert—you could introduce Bill and me to Trudi. Tell her who we are. Tell her you know Bill, and that he is trying to help Mrs. Bryant.”
“Is he?” Zauner asked coldly.
Mathison took out the copies of the Newhart and Morris letter. Tight-lipped, he handed them over to Zauner.
Lynn asked bluntly, “Why don’t you want us to meet Trudi Seidl?”
Zauner stared at her. “You do talk nonsense,” he said as he turned his back on her to read the letter.
Lynn’s cheeks flushed. And Frau Kogel’s mouth was disapproving. Quietly, quickly, she began walking toward her kitchen, beckoning Lynn to follow her. “In there,” she whispered, and pushed Lynn gently inside, closing the door behind her. She turned to face Zauner, who had swung around as he heard the whisper.
“Where—?” he began. He looked at Mathison, who gave him no help at all. Mathison’s hand was out, waiting for the return of the letter. “Very fair,” was Zauner’s comment on it. “And interesting.” It was a leading statement, but Mathison was refusing to be led. There was a marked pause. “Where is Mrs. Conway?” Zauner asked.
“She is with Trudi,” Frau Kogel said, and drew her cardigan more squarely on her shoulders.
“You mean Trudi has been hanging around—” began Zauner. It was possible that his annoyance was due to the fact that he, a man who noticed so many things, had not even guessed that Trudi was there. “I told her to stay at home tonight,” he said sharply. “She shouldn’t be wandering around.”
“But she isn’t. She is waiting for a phone call, Herr Zauner. From Johann? From his sister? Who knows?” Frau Kogel shrugged her shoulders. “She would feel much worse if she had stayed at home. Here, she can at least hope.”
Zauner started toward the kitchen.
“You talked with her enough this afternoon,” Frau Kogel said, “and little good it did her. Now if you had found out from Herr Grell just where this hunting party is—the one you say Johann joined—then you could have helped her. So let her be. And if you ask me—”
The telephone booth door creaked open, and Andrew stepped out. “At least,” he said briskly, “I’ve found my missing reporter. He got sidetracked in Salzburg on an interesting story. An abduction.” He glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes to nine. “I’d better get these rooms at the inn. Wonder if the dining-room is still open.” Bruno had said he might now be here before midnight. There wasn’t much left to do in Salzburg, apart from the police questioning of the two men who had been caught on the staircase outside the attic flat where Anna Bryant had been held. They must have been too confident about her. She hadn’t even been tied up. Perhaps she had seemed too obedient, too frightened, too weak. Just the kind of target the bullyboys enjoyed most; they never could resist jibing and jeering and a little secret handling to pass the time of night. She had enough strength to jump. And they had panicked, and ran, as she screamed and fell. Into the courtyard. All the way down. Bloody, bloody hell... Andrew forced a smile.
Zauner asked tensely, “Have they been caught?” Was Anna all right? he wondered. He kept a tight grip on his anxiety. “Nasty kind of business,” he said, easing his voice. “But you reporters seem to thrive on it.”
Mathison only kept staring at Andrew. Anna, he was thinking, Anna Bryant...
“A kidnapping?” Frau Kogel asked in amazement. “In Salzbu
rg?” She looked at Karl, who shared her disbelief.
“Thrive?” Andrew raised his eyebrows. “That’s putting it pretty strongly, isn’t it? Someone has to fill the newspapers for you to read. Three men have been arrested, one on suspicion of loitering with intent near the scene.” And I, he thought, did help to nail him down. But that was not much satisfaction, not now. “Of course that charge won’t stick,” he added, “unless your police persuade the other two to talk about him. How good are they at persuading?”
“I don’t think they’ve had much experience in dealing with kidnappers,” Zauner said stiffly. What about Anna? If there was no mention of her, then she was dead. “Perhaps Mr. Mathison, who comes from America, could give our police some tips.”
“What about the victim?” Mathison asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
“We’ll hear the details when my friend gets here, unless the police are trying to hush up everything. That’s one headache all reporters face. Keeps them thriving, I suppose.” He grinned widely at Zauner. He’s got the message, Andrew thought, noting Zauner’s eyes. Was he a close friend of Anna Bryant? The news has hit him hard. And as for Mathison—he was guessing, all right, and guessing accurately; he looked as if someone had just kicked him in the groin.
“Tell me—” began Frau Kogel eagerly, anticipating the pleasure of handing out the mail on Monday morning along with Trudi’s troubles, American clothes, and, to top all special pieces of news, a real-live kidnapping right in Salzburg, “who was—” She stopped abruptly as everyone’s attention focused on her front door. She turned in annoyance. It was a woman who had entered, a woman in a bulky expensive green coat that just covered her hips. Young, and trying to seem younger with her hair hanging loose, thought Frau Kogel. Pretty, of course; why else were the men gawking at her tight black trousers stretched over her thighs? And she was gaping right back at them. Staring she was. Big eyes wide. It seemed as if she had frozen right there in the doorway as she kept staring at the American. “Post Office is closed,” Frau Kogel announced. For once, her official voice had no effect. The young woman hadn’t even heard.
“Hello, Elissa,” said Bill Mathison.
Felix Zauner looked at him sharply, looked back at Elisabetha Lang.
“Why, Bill...” She had recovered from her astonishment, and now showed only delight. “But what fun to find you here. What brought you up to this god-forsaken—oh, I’m sorry.” The apology was for Andrew, who was on his way out. “I really didn’t mean to block your way.”
“I rather enjoyed it,” Andrew said with an admiring eye. “Can I give anyone a lift? As far as the inn, that is?”
“It’s easier to walk,” she told him.
“I have some luggage in the car.”
“Oh, you are going to stay there?”
“If I can get a room.”
“They’ll put you up in the attic—that’s what they did to me. And that’s what I came to see Herr Zauner about.” Her eyes glanced to Zauner. “Isn’t there some place else in this village where I could stop for a few days?”
“I’m sorry you find the inn uncomfortable,” Felix Zauner said. “Fräulein Lang is an expert on resort accommodation,” he told the room in general. “We may work for rival firms, but our interest in Unterwald is the same. Fräulein Lang’s job is to advise tourists where—”
“If my attic room is any example of what they’ll find here,” she cut in coldly, “I’ll cross Unterwald off my list. So I think you ought to help me, Herr Zauner. Haven’t you got a list of your own? I might find something warmer there.” To Andrew she said, “You’ll freeze in that attic.”
“What’s the food like?” he asked as he edged past her.
“Venison stew.”
“I’ll try that as a starter. And I hope you reconsider.” He gave one last entranced look and left.
She remained standing at the doorway. It was the only mark left of her embarrassment. “Herr Zauner, would you be so kind as to show me your list?”
“It’s in my briefcase at the Hitz place.”
“Then why don’t we get it right now?”
Zauner glanced at the kitchen door, tightly closed, and lifted his cape. He nodded to Mathison. “Have a good journey.”
“Aren’t you here for the week-end?” Elissa asked in dismay. “I did hope we’d be seeing each other—once I know where to unpack my things.”
“It’s just a quick visit,” Mathison said. “I thought I’d find Anna Bryant here. I’m trying to straighten out that contract with Yates.”
“Poor Bill—he really gave you so much trouble.”
“That is how lawyers stay in business.”
“Auf Wiedersehen,” she told him lightly, with one of her old smiles.
I hope not, he thought. He nodded, trying to keep his goodbye pleasant and nonchalant, and turned away to join Frau Kogel and Karl. His eyes were on the kitchen door. It had opened slightly. He put up a hand for caution, and hoped Lynn would see it. Just wait, just wait a minute, he told her silently. “You’re missing a good concert,” he said to Frau Kogel. The zither music and four-part singing were coming softly down the street now. They blended well, sweet and true and sad.
Frau Kogel said delightedly, “It’s my favourite song.” She began to sing, in a voice that was light and young, so much in contrast with her grave face, strong-boned, red-cheeked, formidable in repose, that Mathison stared openly. Her eyes softened as she, too, sang about highest mountains, deepest valleys.
Lynn touched his elbow. “Trudi has asked us to have supper with her.”
“Where is she?”
“She went on ahead to get the table ready. Come on, Bill. I know the way.” Lynn’s face was flushed, her eyes excited. “Can we leave, do you think?” She glanced at Frau Kogel, who was going into her third verse, true-voiced, word-perfect. “No, I suppose not.”
“Just as well to let Elissa get out of sight.”
“Elissa?” Lynn’s excitement faded.
He nodded. Elissa and Grell: two pieces of the worst possible luck. And the bad news about Anna. How was he going to break that to Lynn? Nothing has gone right, he was thinking.
“You look as if you had had a shock,” Lynn said, and then wished she could take that back. Was Elissa attracting him even against his will? She turned abruptly toward Frau Kogel, who now was on the last line.
“A bad one,” he admitted, and wondered if this could be the quick approach to telling Lynn about Anna Bryant. But Lynn had become her calm and businesslike other self, and had taken Frau Kogel’s hand before she could start on the fourth verse. Warm thanks, good evenings, best wishes, see you again. And even if Frau Kogel seemed wistful as she saw a little gossip about Trudi was not forthcoming, she relaxed into unexpected blushes when Mathison admired her voice. “Strange mixture,” he said as they stepped into the quieted street. No sign of Elissa or Felix Zauner. Only some parked cars, the empty bus, a couple of men talking, lighted windows in silent houses, music flowing from the now-opened door of the schoolhouse at the corner.
“Everyone and everything is,” said Lynn, glancing around her. Even if terrorists were not hiding here, they had gone underground in some other village or town where people listened to songs about mountains and valleys, the very thing that the terrorists said they were fighting for. “The irony is always bitter. The sweetest songs are the saddest.”
“It’s getting to you,” he said, listening to the music as he opened the Porsche door. “You know, there is something about a zither—”
A quiet voice said from the floor of the back seat, “Don’t look now, but Chuck is here. Help the lady in, Bill. That’s right.” He waited until Mathison was in the car, too. “Don’t pay me any attention. I shan’t feel hurt. And what kept you so long, anyway?”
Lynn said, “I saw Trudi, spoke with her. We are now going to her house for supper. She wants to talk some more. When you reach the corner, Bill, take the Bad Aussee road. Trudi’s house is the last one in the village,
the fifth from the corner as you go downhill. It’s on the right-hand side. You can park off the road on the meadow beside the house.”
“Okay.”
“Talk some more?” Chuck’s impatient voice asked. “Does she know anything at all?”
“She has a box. Upstairs in her bedroom. She says it is some of Richard Bryant’s valuable equipment. Johann salvaged it from his wrecked car, wanted it kept secret so it could be sold quickly for Anna’s benefit.”
Equipment. That might mean nothing, or everything. “Will she let us examine the box?”
“She wants it taken out of her bedroom. I think part of her worry is that the box will be found there.” Lynn paused, shook her head sadly. No woman would have hidden it where it was. And tongues wagged easily in a small village. Poor Trudi... “But she is mostly worried about Johann. She’s sure he is in real danger, and when I told her about Anna Bryant being missing—sorry, but I couldn’t lie to her. She wanted to know, first thing, why Anna had not come here as she had promised.” She paused again. “Was I wrong to tell her?”
“No,” Bill said. And if I weren’t driving on parking lights and trying to count the houses we’ve passed, I’d make a grab for you and kiss you until the breath was out of your body. He caught hold of her hand, held it in a tight grip.
“It was right for Trudi,” Chuck said. Obviously. “But it could be wrong for you. You’ve destroyed your amateur standing, Mrs. Conway. If Trudi talks about what you know—”
“I thought of that. But perhaps by that time it won’t matter.”
Let’s hope, thought Nield. He felt the car swerve sharply off the road, bump over some rough grass. As it came gently to rest beside the wall of a house, he raised his head to look out across an open meadow. “Nice trees,” he said appreciatively. “I’ll wait for you over there. If you have good news. Bill, come out to the door and light a cigarette. Then walk over to that central clump.” Nield pointed to a dark mass across the meadow. “I may need a hand with a surprise package I’ve prepared.”
The Salzburg Connection Page 38