After the Fine Weather

by Michael Gilbert

  Laura had made her own way back to the flat from the theatre. She had walked slowly. She wanted time to think.

  The condition of the room in the theatre – the thick dust on the floor, the cobwebs on the windows, the general air of a room which has stood undisturbed for months or years – had been convincing. It had been extremely convincing. Had it not been almost too convincing?

  When had the theatre last been used? A week – perhaps a fortnight – earlier. The posters were still up. Then should the room be quite as dusty as that? It had electricians’ stuff in it. It might not be used a lot, but it would be used occasionally. Yet the depth of dust on the floor suggested a room which hadn’t been opened for a century. It looked as if someone had taken a giant insufflator – something like a vacuum cleaner in reverse – and blown dust over everything, spreading it thick and even, like icing on a cake.

  If that was so, there was a considerable organization at work: an organization able to put a man into that room with a gun which – she had no idea how – but which, somehow, matched the bullets in Boschetto’s gun, and get him away afterward, and clear away all signs of his presence under a coating of dust, and, probably, square the janitor.

  Charles had given her a key to the flat and she let herself in. The noise of the front door brought Frau Rosa from the kitchen. She said, in her slow, careful German, “There is a gentleman in the front room.”

  “Who is he, Frau Rosa?”

  “A diplomatic gentleman. His name I do not know.”

  Laura got rid of her hat and coat, executed some quick repairs to her face, and made her way along to the sitting room. She hoped that the representative of the Diplomatic-Corps would not stay too long or prove too talkative.

  Sprawled on the sofa, reading The Times, was a man in his early forties. He had the sort of stubborn, black beard that needs to be shaved twice a day; dark eyebrows which ran toward each other and then, at the last moment, turned upward, like two men on a pavement trying to avoid each other, and stepping the same way; a thick nose, and a rounded chin.

  Despite the dark hair he was quite clearly English. His manners alone guaranteed that.

  He made a minimal gesture of one starting to get to his feet, found the effort too much for him, and said, “Good evening. My name is Fiennes. Evelyn Fiennes. You must be the problem child.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is Miss Hart, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “And it was you who put out the story about a hidden assassin in the theatre?”

  Laura said, “I didn’t put out anything. I told my brother what I had seen. And I’m not at all sure I ought to discuss it with you.”

  “Oh, I’m all right. I’m on your side. You can talk to me.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “You don’t, really, that’s true. I might be one of Colonel Julius’ undercover boys, trying to lure you on to further indiscretions. Or I might be a reporter from the Lienz Herald, out for a scoop.”

  “If you had been,” said Laura, “I don’t imagine you’d have helped yourself to quite so much of my brother’s whisky.”

  “I needed it,” said Fiennes. “I have come fast and far. Like young Lochinvar, who, you will remember, came out of the west. In all the wide border his steed was the best. I came from Vienna in a pre-war Austin, with chains on the wheels, and I don’t mind betting that not many people got over the Grossglockner after me.”

  “Wonderful,” said Laura. “What was all the hurry a bout?”

  “You.”

  “Why should Vienna be worried about me?”

  “To be honest, I don’t really know. Like the Light Brigade, I never question my orders, however apparently fatuous.”

  “I see.”

  “I was once sent all the way from Athens to meet a certain lady at the Gare du Nord, and escort her across Paris to the Gare de Lyon. It transpired that my chiefs thought I was in Paris at the time. And sent me a top-secret signal, which was, of course, forwarded to me in Ankara, and reforwarded to me in Athens. I caught the Qantas jet to Rome and reached the Gare du Nord with five minutes to spare. It was a waste of effort. The lady had died at Calais.”

  “What of?” asked Laura politely.

  “Old age.”

  “I see. What an exciting life you must lead. Now. I wonder if you could answer my question. Why did you have to come all this way, in such a hurry?”

  “You really want to know? Then I suggest you pour yourself a drink – I’d do it for you, but I expect you know exactly how you like it. And while you’re at it a small one for me. Not quite as small as that. Thank you. The truth is, you’re in rather a delicate situation.”

  I’m afraid I can’t see it.”

  “Well, I expect you haven’t really tried yet.”

  Laura gave him a freezing look, but the effort was wasted. He was engrossed in extracting ice cubes for his own whisky.

  “Humbold,” said Fiennes, having arranged his drink to his satisfaction, “is three-quarters of a great man. He’s got patience, drive, and imagination. He’s a good organizer. And he’s ruthless. The Austrian government think they sent him out here to get rid of him. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Humbold didn’t arrange the whole thing. Lienz is an ideal base for an unscrupulous man. For months at a time it’s very difficult to get at – particularly if the Italian border’s shut. Accessibility. That’s one of the drawbacks of your up-and-coming dictator. Before he’s really got underway with his dictating, some interfering person from higher up comes along and calls time.”

  “What could he do?”

  “Ultimately, you mean. I don’t think anyone knows that for sure. If he gets the temperature high enough, I suppose he could move in and liberate the South Tyrol – join it to Lienz – declare an independent state.”

  “He couldn’t do that.”

  “Who’d stop him?”

  “Italy – Austria – no, Italy.”

  “Make your mind up. If Italy moved against him they’d have Austria to cope with. And not only Austria. Germany as well. There are a lot of Nazis in the Tiroler Boden Bund.”

  “But – an independent state – it’d be much too small.”

  “No smaller than Albania. Bigger than Luxembourg or Liechtenstein.”

  “I don’t believe the UN would allow it.”

  “You mustn’t make me laugh,” said Fiennes. “I’ve got a weak heart. Why should the Afro-Asian bloc countries stop the Tyrolese doing what they’re doing themselves? Self-determination! Down with the stinking colonialists from Vienna! The UN wouldn’t stop them. Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t. It’d be against Rule One in the United Nations Charter. Never interfere with a fait accompli.”

  “Even if he wanted to do it, how could he possibly?”

  “Ah! Now you’re asking. I don’t know the answer to that. But it’s wonderful what you can do when you get people excited enough.”

  “He hasn’t got an army.”

  “He’s got what he calls a Security Force. It’s a mixture of police and reservists. And they’ve got tanks and artillery. They could take over the South Tyrol like picking an apple. They’d only have a handful of Italian police to deal with. And once they’re in, with three-quarters of the population backing them, I don’t see who’s going to get them out again. Do you?”

  Laura said nothing. She was seeing the face of the frightened little Italian in the grip of the three bullies. It wasn’t going to be much fun for the Italian minority in the Tyrol if Humbold really was planning a private Anschluss.

  “Of course, that’s all surmise,” said Fiennes. “But he’s up to something. Something which depends on getting everybody as worked up as possible. And there’s nothing more calculated to get Austrians worked up than shooting a cardinal bishop.”

  “He wasn’t – he didn’t seem to be – a very saintly man.”

  “He had rather a rough time in the war. I believe he was one of the few men who was tortured by
the Germans and the Russians.”

  Laura saw the red hat rolling down the steps. She felt sick. Sick of intrigue; sick of violence; sick of blood.

  Fiennes said, “We’ve got two possibilities here. Either the thing was unpremeditated, and Humbold is grabbing his chance with both hands. Or else he organized the whole thing. The chap who’s supposed to have done the shooting – Albin Boschetto – he was only two days out of jail. It wouldn’t have been impossible – either to indoctrinate him or to strike a bargain with him.”

  “He didn’t kill the Bishop,” said Laura.

  “I was coming to that,” said Fiennes. “You could easily be right. If I’d organized a drunken jailbird to shoot at someone and it was pretty essential for him to hit him, I don’t think I should take his marksmanship for granted. After all, it’d be a thousand pities if he missed. So I think I might have a second gun posted in the wings, just to make sure.”

  “Then you believe me?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Thank heavens, someone does.”

  “But it doesn’t solve your problem, which is that no one else in Lienz is going to believe you. Every time you open your mouth you’re going to be branded as a dangerous agent of counter-revolution.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Laura. She had made her mind up five minutes before. “I’m not going to open my mouth. It’s nothing to do with me.”

  Fiennes looked at her curiously.

  “You know,” he said, “what you need is a good night’s rest… That sounds like Charles.”

  Charles came in, said, “Hullo, Evelyn, so you got here all right. I expect you’ve introduced yourselves.”

  “We have,” said Laura.

  “I ought to have warned you about Evelyn. He’s got no manners. And he drinks too much.”

  “I’ve got other vices as well,” said Evelyn. “But we’ve only known each other for a quarter of an hour.”

  “It’s going to be a case of hail and farewell,” said Charles. “She’s catching the midnight train for Rome.”

  “But–” said Laura.

  “Can he do that?” said Fiennes. “What about diplomatic privilege?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Charles. “But I’m not arguing about it. It’s an order from the boss. And I think, on this occasion, we’re going to do what we’re told.”

  They both looked at Laura.

  “Is there really going to be trouble?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” said Charles. “But I’m quite sure of this: that whatever does happen, you’ll only aggravate it if you’re here.”

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll get packed.”

  “Have you got somewhere you can stay in Rome?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  As she went out, Fiennes said, “Talking about trouble, it looks as if something’s starting right now.”

  From the window they could see, beyond the black bulk of the railway station, red and orange flames and, lit by the flames, a billow of smoke.

  “Open the window,” said Fiennes.

  The two men stood at the open window and listened. The swelling sound of the mob came clearly to them through the frosty night air. Then a single shot. Then a burst of firing.

  “It sounds to me,” said Fiennes, “as if things were hotting up a bit. I’d better go and have a look.”

  “Don’t get involved in anything.”

  “Don’t worry. There are few people who can run faster than I can.”

  Charles sighed, and poured himself a drink.

  He and Laura were sitting down to a silent dinner when Fiennes returned.

  “Quite a party,” he said. “The crowd started by looting some Italian shops and then set fire to the Italian church. The police seem to have had orders not to interfere – or not to interfere too soon – anywhere. They fired a few shots in the air to show their zeal. A fire engine arrived, and got turned over. The only person who made any real attempt to keep the peace was Radler.”

  “The Socialist?”

  “I don’t know about his politics. But he’s got a voice like a foghorn. And plenty of guts. He got up on the fire engine and fairly let them have it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told them not to be bloody fools. And to go home before someone really got hurt. Good, sound stuff. The fire was nearly out by then, and it had started to snow. I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble tonight.”

  “I hope not,” said Charles. “We’ve got to get Laura to the station.”

  There was no trouble of any sort. The snow had stopped. They drove in silence through the empty streets, tyres squeaking occasionally in the thick drifts, which were beginning to pack down as the temperature fell.

  In the station waiting-room a small crowd was standing in front of a bulletin board. Charles went across, looked at it, spoke to one of the station officials, and came back.

  “Home to bed,” he said. “There are no trains into or out of Lienz.”

  “It must have been snowing pretty hard,” said Evelyn, “to block the line to Italy.”

  They were in the car and driving back to the flat before Charles answered this. He said, “It isn’t snow that is stopping the trains. A three-span culvert has been dynamited. They reckon it’ll take at least a week to repair.”

  8

  “Dear Department–”

  “Dear department,” Charles typed, using one finger of each hand and paying careful attention to spacing and alignment, “the situation here has deteriorated since my last telephone communication on Thursday. It is not known yet whether the destruction of the culvert at Garvas was the work of Italian saboteurs from the Trentino, but it is generally attributed to them. This, coupled with the snow which has fallen” – Charles looked out of the window of the consular office – “and is still falling, has isolated Lienz almost completely from the outside world.”

  He broke off once more. How was he to record, in the traditional language of the Foreign Service, pruned of all unnecessary adverbs and adjectives, an impression of impending disaster?

  “This morning we were informed that Herr Radler, the leader of the Socialist opposition in the Landtag, and his deputy, Herr Hammerle, have both been placed under protective custody. Their offence, apparently, was haranguing the crowd that was burning the Italian church. Further reserve forces have been called up, and camps are being formed near the Italian frontier, ostensibly for road clearance. There is a curfew in the town of Lienz, but movement is not as yet restricted by day. A military tribunal is being set up to try Boschetto. I will add to this despatch from time to time, and will send it by the first available messenger. Yours ever, Consulate.”

  There were other points he considered mentioning: the curious difficulty he was experiencing in contacting his diplomatic colleagues, more particularly Dr Pisoni. The fact that all telephone calls from his flat were now quite openly intercepted and listened to. The presence, on the other side of the road, of three gentlemen who took it in turns to watch the door of the house in which his flat stood.

  Frau Rosa had pointed them out to Laura, with undisguised contempt. “If I wish that they should be allowed to follow me,” she said, “then I allow them. If I do not wish it, I should not allow.”

  “How would you do that?” Laura asked.

  “I have friends in this building. There would be no difficulty. On the ground floor, for instance, is the consulting room of Dr Grill. He is Zahnarzt – Dentisten.” Frau Rosa made the gesture of extracting a tooth. “From his kitchen you can go into the kitchen of the restaurant. There is a door in the wall.”

  “I don’t expect they’d follow you anyway,” said Laura, “even if you went out of the front door. It’s me they’re after.”

  Frau Rosa snorted. It was clear that she did not dislike the idea of being followed by police agents.

  The telephone rang.

  “For you,” said Frau Rosa.

  It was Helmut.

  “Miss
Hart. Nice to hear your voice. They haven’t deported you yet?”

  “They couldn’t. No trains.”

  “Of course not. I had forgotten. It’s an ill wind, as they say. I shall be able to implement my promise to you, and show you some of the night life of Lienz.”

  “I’m not sure if I’m allowed out,” said Laura.

  “Allowed?”

  “There’s a man watching the flat.”

  “He won’t stop you. His orders will be to follow you. He can sit at the next table and watch us eat. By the way, you are aware that our conversation is being listened to?”

  “No?”

  “Certainly. Everything we say is being written down. We must be careful not to speak too fast. Dictation speed.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The gentleman now listening has asthma. If you listen carefully you can hear him.”

  In the silence that followed it did seem to Laura that she detected a faint, and embarrassed, clearing of the throat.

  “I shall have to speak rather in riddles, then,” said Helmut. “You remember the lady I was talking about when we had dinner together. The one who had a lighted cigarette end dropped down her back at an Olympic Reception.”

  “Her Christian name?”

  “Her forename, yes. Let us meet there at eight o’clock this evening.”

  “I’ll see if I can,” said Laura.

  Charles had pointed out the watchers to her but hadn’t actually said that she was to stay indoors. It wasn’t her fault if the way to the frontier was blocked. She wasn’t breaking any law. She had been told to leave the country, and she would do so as soon as the way was clear. Meanwhile she saw no reason why she should mope about indoors, reading back numbers of The Times.

  The local paper had announced that as a result of the prompt measures taken by the chief of police the situation was in hand. The Security Force would be kept mobilized, but as a precaution only, until it was clear that no further outrages were contemplated.

  She looked down at the streets. Quite a few pedestrians were scurrying along between the swept piles of snow. A policeman stood at the corner directing traffic, the flaps of his cap pulled well down over his ears. It all looked peaceful enough.