After the Fine Weather

by Michael Gilbert

  “A machine-gun,” said Helmut. “I wonder who’s shooting whom?” He handed the man some money, and they walked to the door and looked cautiously out.

  The street was empty.

  “Stay where you are for a moment,” said Helmut. “I’ve got my car down the next turning.”

  Most of the shops in the little street were shut, she noticed, the doors barred and the windows shuttered. At first-floor level faces peered from curtained windows.

  Then the car slid up.

  “Jump in,” said Helmut, “and don’t look so worried. Everything’s under control now, I imagine.”

  “I’m quite all right,” said Laura.

  The noise from the square had died down. There were occasional shouts, but they seemed to be the shouts of people in authority. Over all, the loudspeaker boomed steadily. Then the voice stopped speaking, there was a crackling, and music blared out.

  In the Maria-Theresien-Strasse they ran into a roadblock. Two troop carriers were across the street. Helmut spoke to the young, good-looking sergeant of gendarmerie, and they were allowed to pass.

  “The sergeant seemed to know you,” said Laura.

  “He ought to,” said Helmut. “He was on my ski team last year.”

  “Why are they blocking the roads?”

  “That’s Julius. It’s his idea of security. If anything happens, you put a cordon round, quick. You can work out the answers later. The first thing is to keep everyone where they are.”

  “Was he expecting trouble?”

  Helmut looked at her sideways out of his brown eyes, and said, “He was brought up in a hard school. Here we are. I expect your brother will be back soon.”

  He parked the car, walked with her into the hallway of the flats, and pressed the button for the lift.

  “Would you like me to come up with you?”

  “I shall be all right,” she said. “Frau Rosa will be there.”

  “If you do want me for anything, please telephone me. I shall be only too pleased. Here. I will give you my card. It has my telephone number on it.”

  “You’ve been very kind,” she said.

  “There was one other thing I wanted to say. You may find this strange. I think it would be wiser to forget all that you may have seen, or may not have seen, in the square. Eyes play strange tricks. I have seen that myself, on the mountains. Once I very clearly saw my friend, above me, reach down and cut the rope between us. I saw the knife, I saw the strands in the rope part, one by one. Then I blinked my eyes – and none of it had happened. It was an optical illusion, brought on by strain and sleeplessness. Auf Wiedersehen.”

  He gave an absurd little click with his heels, swung about, and was gone.

  Laura shut the lift door, and pressed the button which would take her up to her brother’s flat on the top floor. “But I wasn’t suffering from strain.” She said it aloud as if Helmut were in the lift with her. “Or sleeplessness. And I’ve got particularly good eyesight,” she added, as she fitted the key into the lock. “Frau Rosa!”

  There was no answer. Frau Rosa was evidently out, shopping or watching the parade. Laura went to look in the kitchen, and shouted once more to make sure. But the flat was empty.

  In the drawing-room there was a copy of the thin-paper edition of The Times that Charles got every day, twenty-four hours after publication. It carried on the editorial page an account of troubles in the South Tyrol headlined “When Neighbours Fall Out.” She read a few sentences of it, but the reasonable, cultivated phrases made no sense to her. She was seeing a fierce old man, with a white face and a nose like an eagle’s beak, falling forward onto his knees, as if in prayer, and then folding forward onto his face. She was watching a red hat cartwheeling down the steps.

  Bump, bump, bump. It was her own heart beating. She felt cold.

  One of the double windows was open, and when she went across to shut it she noticed that the blue sky of the morning had gone. It was as if an artist, tiring of a summer scene, had dipped his brush in grey and blocked out the sky with a few quick strokes.

  The telephone rang. Laura let it ring. She did not feel up to shaping German sentences. After a bit it got discouraged and stopped.

  The shutting of the window had made the room very quiet. She picked up the paper again. “It is to be hoped,” said the foreign correspondent of The Times, “that counsels of moderation will prevail, and that we shall not see, in these peaceful upland valleys, so loved of tourists, the incongruous incidents of terrorism and repressions.”

  Did journalists really hope that counsels of moderation would prevail? Or was it something they said while they sat by and hoped for exactly the opposite? She was pretty certain that counsels of moderation were the last thing Joe Keller wanted.

  The thought of Joe was still in her mind when a key clicked in the lock and, as she jumped to her feet, Charles came in, followed by a stout little man whom she remembered seeing seated next to him at the parade.

  “My colleague, Dr Pisoni, Italian Consul General,” said Charles.

  Dr Pisoni bowed from the area which, in a differently constructed man, would have been his waist. He looked badly worried.

  “Am I glad to see you!” said Laura to Charles. “Did you have any trouble getting back?”

  “No trouble at all. And I hope it stays that way. Schatzmann seems to have everything under control.”

  “What happened?”

  “The crowd tried to lynch Boschetto. The Colonel had half a dozen truckloads of gendarmerie in reserve, and he whistled them up. They got Boschetto away, but they had to shoot to do it.”

  “Who is Boschetto?”

  Dr Pisoni took this question. “He is an Italian from Bolzano. I understand that he has just been released, after a three-year prison sentence for assault and robbery.”

  “He must be mad,” said Charles.

  “No other explanation is possible,” agreed Dr Pisoni. It was a statement of diplomatic faith. “It was an unbelievable outrage. A Prince of the Church.”

  “And particularly unfortunate that it should have happened when–”

  “Yes.”

  “When what?” asked Laura.

  “Dr Pisoni told me just before the parade. There was an unhappy incident in the South Tyrol last night – not far from Bolzano. A group of terrorists attacked an Italian police station. Two policemen were killed and three were injured. It would have been serious enough as an isolated incident. But now–”

  Laura said, “Would Boschetto have known anything about it? If Dr Pisoni had only learned about it through official circles?”

  “News travels quickly in this part of the country.”

  “Especially bad news.”

  “All the same,” said Laura, “a man like that. It’s hard to believe that he would hear about it before it got into the papers.”

  “There was a personal involvement here,” said Dr Pisoni. “It is possible that Boschetto may have been given this news in advance of the general public. One of the policemen who was killed was his brother.”

  It was clear to Laura that this was news to Charles as well. For a moment the embryo diplomatic mask slipped and a look of honest excitement had taken its place. It made him look years younger.

  Laura said, “That doesn’t tie in very well with your first conclusion, does it? You said he was mad. If he had a brother killed by the Austrian terrorists, and got to know about it before it came out in the papers, and got hold of a gun, and got his own back by shooting an Austrian bishop – all inside twenty-four hours – he sounds to me a pretty smooth performer.”

  “Smooth?” said Dr Pisoni anxiously.

  “She means efficient,” said Charles. And to Laura, “You seem to be taking all this very calmly. I suppose you realize that we’re in the middle of the biggest diplomatic crisis in Austria since Dollfuss was assassinated.”

  Dr Pisoni nodded energetically. “If it was thought that Boschetto had official support in this matter – that it was a reprisal – it
could lead to almost any consequences.”

  “I thought he’d been in prison until yesterday,” said Laura. “How could he possibly have any official support. He’s a criminal.”

  “Governments have used criminals before now,” said Charles.

  “Well, I don’t believe it. I think you were right the first time. He’s just a madman. He’d probably had too much to drink. And he couldn’t be stopped from waving his arms and shouting. His friends were trying to hold him down. I saw him. He was right opposite me.”

  “You saw him do the shooting?”

  “Now look, Charles,” said Laura, “let’s get this quite straight. Boschetto did not shoot the Bishop.”

  “He was taken with a gun in his hand,” said Dr Pisoni. “Many people standing near him saw him pull it out, and saw him fire it, twice.”

  “I’m not denying that,” said Laura. Now that the crisis had arrived she felt surprisingly calm. “But the shots he fired went nowhere near the Bishop. He was struggling with the people standing around him. The shots probably went straight up into the air.”

  “It is more probable, I agree,” said Dr Pisoni, “but we have the fact. The Cardinal Bishop was shot. If not by Boschetto, then by whom?”

  “He was shot twice, quite deliberately, from a turret window beside the portico of the theatre. I saw the gun.”

  Dr Pisoni looked at her. His round face had become suddenly shrewd. It was as if he was weighing her as a witness in a court of law.

  “You saw the gun?”

  “I saw more than the gun,” said Laura. “When I was getting away from the square I saw the man who had used it. He was slipping out of the theatre by a side door. And I not only saw him, but I recognized him. And I should be able to recognize him again.”

  6

  A Chat with the Grey Bear

  “Vienna for you,” said the exchange.

  “Lienz consulate here,” said Charles. “Is that you, Piers?”

  “Nice to hear your voice, Charles,” said Piers Marrinder, First Secretary of the British Embassy at Vienna. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is Uncle Horace there?”

  “He’s in his room.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Last time I was in there he was gnawing his nails.”

  “I meant, is he tied up with anyone?”

  “No, he’s quite alone. Would you like me to put you through?”

  “That was the idea.”

  “When you’ve finished talking to him, ask the switchboard to put you back to me.”

  “All right, but why?”

  “I met a girl at a British Council drink party last night, called Penelope. She said she knew you at Oxford.”

  “I knew three girls called Penelope at Oxford.”

  “This one’s got bronze-coloured hair, and a tiny, tiny little mole in the middle of her shoulder blades.”

  “Oh, that one.”

  “Was she – did you find her forthcoming – you know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean. And the answer’s no.”

  “Oh. Well, I’d better put you through.”

  “Good morning, sir,” said Charles. “I was ringing to find out if you’d read my yesterday’s dispatch.”

  “Yes,” said Sir Horace Lowry cautiously, “I read it.”

  “I didn’t intend to discuss it – not on the telephone–”

  “Naturally,” said Sir Horace. They were both perfectly well aware that the line on which they were speaking was an open one and that everything they said was being recorded verbatim, and probably translated into three different languages.

  “What I did wonder was whether the commercial aspects of it had struck you. I hardly had time in my preliminary report to stress them, but–”

  “I hadn’t thought about that, no. But now that you mention it, I think you’re right. There are bound to be trade repercussions. I don’t know a lot about that side myself. Would you like me to send our commercial adviser?”

  “I think it might be an idea, sir. You’ve got a new man, haven’t you?”

  “Evelyn Fiennes. He came out last month. He used to be in Ankara.”

  “I should think he’d be just the sort of man we’d want,” said Charles. “A good, practical man, I’ve always heard.”

  “Oh, yes. Extremely practical. I’d better give him his marching orders at once. Another twenty-four hours, and he won’t be able to get to you by the direct route.”

  “It looks pretty threatening from here,” said Charles.

  “It’s snowing on the Grossglockner now. They can usually keep the road open for a bit. I’ll tell Evelyn to pack straight away.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Charles. “I wonder if you could put me back to Piers for a moment.”

  “I heard all that,” said Piers. “I gather you’re pinching Evelyn. Don’t keep him too long.”

  “You should have him back as soon as he’s done his stuff.”

  “Watch out if he tries to get you into a game of liar dice. I owe him thirty-seven pounds already.”

  “That doesn’t mean Evelyn’s crooked. It just means you’re a bad player. There was something I wanted to tell you. I believe I was wrong.”

  “Wrong about what?”

  “About that girl. The one with the mole on her back was forthcoming.”

  “There’s a man called Evelyn Fiennes coming out from Vienna,” said Charles at lunchtime that day. “That’s to say, if he doesn’t get stuck on the Grossglockner.”

  Laura looked out of the window. Out of a leaden sky the snowflakes had begun to slip down, fat, lazy, and solid.

  “Who’s he?”

  “He calls himself a commercial counsellor.”

  “When you say he calls himself that, I suppose you mean he’s something quite different.”

  “He’s actually our cloak-and-dagger expert. I’ve never met him but I’m told he’s very experienced.”

  “Secret Service, do you mean?”

  “That sort of thing. I thought he might be a useful man to have around if anything starts. Anything involving us, I mean.”

  “What sort of thing?” It was very cosy in the flat, with its English sofa covers, and cushions, and shelves of books, and family photographs, and Charles’ old pipes in a rack, and a watercolour on the wall of Penzance painted by their mad aunt Sylvia.

  “I’ve no idea. At the moment it’s a sort of private fight between the Austrians and the Italians. Dr Pisoni’s taking it very seriously. So is his government. The border of Sillian and the Brenner had been closed.”

  “Closed? How could they?”

  “Not officially closed. But they’ve instituted a special visa, which you can’t get at the frontier. So anyone who wants to get through has to go back to Bolzano. It amounts to the same thing.”

  “I see,” said Laura. She looked out again at the drifting snow. “If the frontier’s shut at Sillian, and the Grossglockner’s blocked by snow, just how does anyone get to Lienz – or out of it, for that matter?”

  “There’s a lower road, to Villach and Klagenfurt. But if we get any real snow, that gets blocked too.”

  “Could you fly?”

  “There isn’t an airfield near Lienz that I’d care to land on. Not in this weather.”

  The telephone in the entrance hall rang, and Charles went out to answer it. Laura resumed her inspection of the street. The centres of the road were still black and shiny, but the snow was piling in the gutters and on the outer edges of the pavement.

  Charles came back.

  “Better get your hat and coat,” he said. “We’re wanted. That was Colonel Julius.”

  “He wants us?”

  “Actually, it’s you he asked for. But I think I’d better come along too, don’t you?”

  Laura said, “You needn’t imagine I’m going alone.”

  “She is the younger sister of the British Vice-Consul, Hart. She spent three weeks in Rome before coming here.”

&n
bsp; “In Rome!”

  “That is so, Colonel.”

  “Where before that?”

  “She came straight from England. Or so she said. She was recuperating from an illness.”

  “That is the first time I have ever heard of Rome as a sanatorium,” growled Colonel Schatzmann.

  “I understand that the illness was not very serious. It was more a holiday than a convalescence.”

  “Hm. And what had her brother to say to his superiors in Vienna?”

  Major Osler consulted his notes. “Ostensibly,” he said, “the object of the telephone call was to ask for the assistance of the commercial adviser. That was clearly a blind.”

  “Yes.”

  “The real message was in code. The significant words were ‘Penelope’ and ‘mole’. There was also a reference to the game of dice.”

  “And the meaning of it?”

  “Our cipher department is working on it now.”

  “Good.” The buzzer on the Colonel’s desk sounded, and he picked up the receiver and listened to the message. Then he said to Osler, “It is Miss Hart. Her brother is with her. I do not think we can refuse to allow him to be present.”

  “It might be more proper.”

  The Colonel rose to his feet. He really did look remarkably like a bear balancing on its hind legs. He scratched the back of his thick neck and said, “I was not thinking of propriety. I was thinking of tactics. If her brother is with her, I think I will have Inspector Moll here – get him, will you? – and Dr Kippinger.”

  It looked like a selection board, thought Laura, when she was shown into the room. The huge man in the middle must be Colonel Schatzmann. The stolid, flat-faced person on his right was a policeman in any language. The third man looked like a scientist. He had white hair, a trim mouth, and inverted semicircular glasses which had slipped down the knife-edge of his nose.

  “It was kind of you to come,” said the Colonel. Like many Austrian officials, he spoke very passable English. “I am afraid that Inspector Moll–” the man, hearing his name, inclined his head briefly – “does not speak English, and I shall have to interpret for him. Your brother will see that I do this fairly.”