“Grüss Gott. The post office is closed,” she announced with the voice of authority. She transferred her severe look to Lynn’s blue coat and white stockings.
Lynn said shyly, “Grüss Gott,” and smiled warmly as Mathison tried to think of an adequate answer to the postmistress’s firm edict.
Frau Kogel, that was her name. And the others in this room? Felix Zauner was seated at the table, a cigar in his hand, his grey eyes fixed incredulously on Mathison. Two policemen, one stationed near the telephone, the other (a sergeant or inspector of some kind, certainly of higher rank) standing beside the large bulky individual who had broken off his argument to stare at the doorway. He seemed a country-square type, red-faced, genial, with grizzled hair and well-cut clothes—dark-grey
jacket with green collar and facings, trousers striped in green down the sides. His heavy shoes were polished and expensive. Close behind him, obviously cast in the role of listener, was an equally well-dressed man, middle-aged and handsome in a lean way, whose interested expression remained constant. His eyes were alert and watchful. Like a Doberman, Mathison thought as his glance swept quickly around the waiting faces. “Closed? But we only need some directions—”
Andrew cut in quickly, saving Mathison from any further explanation at the moment. “I’m sorry,” he said crisply, “but I was here first. Do you mind?” He turned back to Frau Kogel, who now seemed mesmerised by Lynn’s beige tweed suit. “I understand quite fully that the post office is closed for telegrams. But may I at least use the telephone?” His German was good.
“It is to be used for official business tonight,” Frau Kogel insisted. She appealed to the policeman on duty over at the phone booth. “Isn’t that right, Karl?”
“We must keep the line open,” he agreed.
“But,” Andrew rushed on, “this is important. I must call Berne and let my office know I have arrived here.”
“Why?” asked Zauner quietly from the table. He had stopped looking at Mathison, his initial surprise either hidden or vanishing. The others’ interest followed his; they were all concentrating on Andrew now.
“I am a photographer with New International Press Service. I picked up a rumour in Innsbruck this morning. Two terrorists were said to be in Unterwald.”
Zauner raised one eyebrow. “Well, we
are
getting into the news these days.”
“And that will please you,” the red-faced man observed. His face and voice remained genial, but he obviously did not share Zauner’s amusement.
“That depends on the kind of publicity we get,” Zauner suggested.
“It will be bad for Unterwald.”
“Not if the two terrorists are caught.”
“It’s all nonsense! Why should they come in this direction?”
“Why not?”
Andrew said, “So the rumour is fact, is it? Well, if I can’t use the telephone, where’s the nearest place I can find one?”
“At the inn,” said Frau Kogel.
“Good. I’ll need something to eat anyway, and a couple of rooms.”
“Expecting more photographers?” Zauner asked. His interest in Andrew deepened.
“I hope not. Just a reporter who is on his way.”
“Only one reporter?” Zauner asked in mock disappointment.
The red-faced squire exploded. “Stop joking, Zauner. We’ll be knee-deep in reporters before this thing is finished.” He turned back to the police sergeant. “Now, Max,” he said firmly, “there is no need to go searching through all the houses, is there? You know the people here.”
“I do. But Vienna does not. My report will have to—”
“Nonsense! A waste of time and taxpayers’ money!”
“I agree,” Max said unhappily, “but orders are orders. You know that, Herr Grell.” He went on explaining them, all over again, in his polite stolid way.
August Grell... Mathison kept his eyes on Zauner. I can’t wait too long, he thought; Grell or no Grell, I can’t wait. He
went toward the table, speaking in German as a matter of politeness. “Herr Zauner? This is a bit of luck. Perhaps you don’t remember me, but we were introduced last Monday. In Salzburg. When you were—”
“Why yes, yes, of course. I kept wondering where I had seen you before. You’re the American lawyer. Mathewson?”
“Mathison. And this is Mrs. Conway, also from New York. Mrs. Conway is one of the editors at Newhart and Morris. The publishers.”
“Yes, yes, I remember now. You were in Salzburg about that Bryant contract. And what brings you here?”
“We are still trying to finish that piece of business. We came in here to ask for directions. You’re just the man to help us.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You know everyone around here. Could you tell us where is the Johann Kronsteiner house?”
All talk ceased in the small room. The intense silence was broken by Grell saying amiably to the police sergeant, “Well, Max, if you’ve got to search the inn, you’ve got to. Only please don’t cause my guests too much inconvenience. This sort of thing is bad for business, you know. Good night good night.” He bowed to everyone in general, heels together, picked up a loden cape from one of the chairs, and started out. His friend, repeating the leave-taking, followed him. But before they reached the door, one of the notices on the wall seemingly caught their eyes. They stopped to read it.
“It isn’t in Unterwald. It’s nearer Bad Aussee, I believe,” Felix Zauner said.
“Then we passed it,” Mathison told Lynn Conway. “Do you mind showing it to us on the map?” he asked Zauner, pointing
to the one on the wall. “Actually, we are looking for Frau Bryant. She came up to visit her brother this evening.”
Zauner was startled. “Are you sure?” Then he shrugged his shoulders, studied his cigar. “I thought Johann Kronsteiner was on a hunting trip.” He raised his voice, addressed Grell’s broad back. “Didn’t you mention that Franz had been hired to guide two of your guests?”
Grell looked around. “Yes. He left yesterday with them. They ought to be returning tomorrow.”
“Who is Franz?” Mathison asked.
Zauner said, “Kronsteiner’s assistant. He left word at the Bad Aussee shop for Johann Kronsteiner to join the hunting party.” His eyebrows were questioning Grell.
“That’s what he said he would do,” August Grell answered. He turned away to finish reading the notice.
“So,” Zauner told Mathison, “I don’t think you’ll find anyone at Kronsteiner’s house.” His eyes were cold and bright, speculating quickly. There was a touch of distrust too.
“But Frau Bryant is there.” Mathison drew Anna Bryant’s note out of his pocket, looked at it, then handed it over to Zauner. “You see, we can’t wait until she returns to Salzburg on Monday. We’ll be leaving then. We’ve got to get her signature to an agreement between her and the publishers.”
“When did you get this note?” Zauner asked sharply.
“Around four o’clock this afternoon. It was stuck under the door.”
Zauner studied the note carefully, if only to give himself time. Grell’s arrival had been an annoyance. Mathison and Mrs. Conway were a nuisance; but they were negligible, obviously ignorant of Anna Bryant’s abduction or anything else that
really mattered. But this press photographer? He had made no attempt to establish contact, but perhaps Grell’s presence had prevented that. It was with relief that Zauner heard August Grell and his friend moving at last towards the door.
Grell was discussing the notice of a meeting in the schoolhouse tomorrow to consider the development of Unterwald as a winter resort. “We are getting ambitious,” he said with a laugh. “First, a ski lift. Now a resort. Soon we—” He noticed the police sergeant had picked up his coat and was ready to leave, too. “Are you going to start searching us now?” he asked jovially. “Well, come along, Max. Come along.”
“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—”