It could only have been about ten minutes later when Richard’s arm tightened round Frances and pushed her quickly flat on the ground. She felt a stone dig into the small of her back, but Richard’s grasp was firm. She lay still and watched him. He was lying flat on his stomach, his head raised only enough to let him see that free patch of road. It was the black-haired man, cycling towards Pertisau, with a wolf-hound at his heels… And then he was out of sight, the other trees hiding him from Richard’s straining eye.
Richard relaxed his grip, and Frances sat up and rubbed her back. The stone had become a boulder.
“So that leaves only von Aschenhausen,” said Richard with some satisfaction.
Frances forgot her good resolutions. “How are you so sure?” she asked.
“If there were others, then the noises upstairs would have been silenced more quickly. And von Aschenhausen had to signal to that man to stop guarding the front door. It was only then that he was free to go upstairs and attend to the noises. If there had been others to stop us from getting away—supposing it had come to that—then he would not have stuck outside until he got the signal.”
“But why only two of them?”
“It’s a small house, and if a group of men had arrived to live there the villagers would have started to talk. Then any prospective visitors might have had suspicions aroused. I expect that black-haired fellow poses as Mespelbrunn’s new servant.” Richard looked at his watch and then added, “We had better let him get half-way to Pertisau, and then he can look round as much as he likes and it won’t trouble us.”
“They haven’t anything definite against us, have they?” asked Frances.
“Nothing except the fact that we were found in a suspected shop in Nürnberg, and that we presented ourselves to an obviously suspected Dr. Mespelbrunn with a highly suspect form of introduction. They may dislike the coincidence. Perhaps von Aschenhausen has started to check up on us already. There isn’t any ’phone, but he has some kind of radio transmitter and receiver, I’m sure. Perhaps Beetlebrows is going down to Pertisau to keep an eye on us. Perhaps all that. And again, von Aschenhausen may be congratulating himself on getting rid of a pair of unwelcome visitors, and Beetlebrows is cycling down to Pertisau to see a girl, or have his beer, or to keep his figure. I think myself that it’s safer to overestimate your enemies than underestimate them, so I’m prepared to believe that they don’t like us one bit.”
“Von Aschenhausen certainly didn’t like me,” Frances said, and laughed gently.
“I could have strangled you myself when you played that trick at the piano. You had me as jittery as he was. For a moment I thought you were going to play that damned music.”
“Was it as good as that? Darling, you’ve made me very happy.”
“It was too dangerous, Frances. Never give in to your impulse for the artistic, not in a situation like that.”
“Oh, it was safe enough. He thinks women have no brains. Even at the very end, he only thought I was parroting some phrases I had heard you say.”
Richard smiled in spite of himself. And then he looked at his watch impatiently, and then he looked at the warm glow of the evening sun.
“I wish it were darker but we can’t wait. Come on, Frances.”
They made their way back to the road, and paused at the edge of the trees. There was no one in sight. They crossed quickly into the rough field which stretched towards the stream, skirting the foot of the hill. They covered the uneven ground quickly but carefully.
“No twisted ankles at this point,” said Richard. Frances nodded. She was concentrating on the varying firmness of the treacherous clumps underneath her feet. The stream was shallow, fortunately. They crossed by choosing stones either jutting up or only lightly covered by the racing water. Frances congratulated herself on having her shoes only wet, and not swamped entirely. And now they began to climb the hill itself, aiming for a point in its shoulder which would bring them just above and behind the house. This side of the hill was dangerously open; there were no trees, only grass and shrubs which ultimately gave way to the rocky spine. Again Frances had the feeling that the hill which they were climbing was the buttress, and the mountain behind it was the cathedral. It was like a finger pointing out of the mountain’s clenched hand. The climb was more difficult than it looked from the road, for there was no path to lead them over the easiest ground.
Two thirds of the climb found the undergrowth thinning out quickly. They paused for breath, while Richard scanned the ground above them. He shook his head as he noticed the increasing number of small screes. It was madness to try to scramble over their treacherous surface; the stones now under their feet were as knife-sharp as when they had been splintered from smashing boulders. The ridge of the hill was of rock, and at this distance there was a dangerous look to the last fifty feet. It would be slow work getting over that. He looked along the side to the place where the hill joined the mountain. Just at that point there seemed to be a slight hollow. It was the bed of a mountain stream, now dry, but no doubt forming a gleaming cascade of water in the spring.
“Our best bet is to strike for the stream,” he said. “It will take us farther away from the house, but the dry bed of a torrent is easier than a miniature precipice.” He pointed to the crest of the hill.
Frances needed no convincing. They began to climb obliquely up towards the bed of the stream, avoiding any falls of loose gravel, and choosing ground where some persistent green still showed. That at least gave them some guarantee of safety.
It was slow work, until suddenly, to Frances’ joy, they met a small track which had the same idea as Richard. It must have begun at the road near the place where the shoulder of the hill had formed a jutting curve, and had traced its modest way parallel to the shoulder’s crest.
“We could have followed this all the way,” said Frances, with some exasperation, following their own course up the hill with a bitter eye.
“No, it began too close to the house. The road at that point might have been watched by Herr Von-und-zu strolling in his nice soft meadow.”
Frances was standing very still. “Well, we only postponed it,” she said so quietly that Richard stopped and turned to see her face.
“Down there,” she added. Richard followed the direction of her eyes. The valley beneath them was no longer empty. Along the road which led from Pertisau a man was riding a bicycle.
“Like the hammers of hell,” Richard said, and swore gently but wholeheartedly. “Don’t move. Keep just the way you are.”
“He looks like an ant,” said Frances.
“Louse, you mean.” Richard was worried. “I wonder now… what did he learn at Pertisau to send him back at this rate? No one there knew when we were returning, except Henry or Bob; and he can’t have been talking to them.”
“I wonder if he saw us. Do you think he would take me for another piece of greenery? There are at least two pieces of scrub near me.” She looked fearfully at her socks but the loam had been reinforced by some mud which she had blundered into on the soft bank of the stream. Richard watched the cyclist as he reached the curve in the road.
“He hasn’t slackened pace yet; it looks as if he might not have noticed us. If he had, I should think he would have slowed up, just to make sure. God, that dog can keep up a terrific clip.”
“What shall we do?”
“There’s still daylight for some time,” Richard said thoughtfully. “Once we are up there we ought to have a wonderful view of the back of the house. Damn it all, if only I had left you in Pertisau, and come by myself.”
“Then you wouldn’t have had either an old English song, or these noises. Let’s go on, Richard. I don’t like the idea of going down the way we came up. And once we get up—we are very nearly there anyway—we might find a decent path on the mountain itself to lead us back to Pertisau. There’s no law against us trying to climb our way back towards the village and if anyone wants to know why we took so long, well then we got lost. That’s all.” But the truth was, she added to herself, that Richard would have gone on if he had been alone or with another man—and that settled it.
Richard still looked doubtful, but he was wavering.
“Well, we can watch from the top for half an hour, and if it all seems hopeless, then I’ll get you back to the road before it’s dark.”
“All right. Let’s move, Richard.”
They started to climb the last stretch of hill.
The path was apologetic. At best, it was little more than a foot broad; at its worst, it effaced itself altogether under slides of stones. As they crossed these slowly Frances held her breath. One slip here, and she would go rumplin’, tumplin’ down the Tankersha’ brae. She kept her eyes fixed on the next step ahead, and avoided looking down to her right. For there the hill now fell steeply away, carved out by erosion into an adequate quarry. If this path had lain across a field you could run along it, she argued. So there was no reason why she couldn’t walk along it here, provided she didn’t know how far she had to fall. And then the green scrub was again growing thickly, and they had reached the bushes and dwarf trees which edged the bed of the stream. The sides of the dry torrent, and even the bed itself, were piled with large rocks. They formed a staircase. A giant’s staircase, thought Frances, but at least if she slipped here she would always have a boulder behind her, to block her fall.
They were both breathing heavily with the effort of hoisting themselves over the rocks which would form the bank of the torrent when the snows melted in the spring. But the worst of the climb was already past. The boulders in the bleached bed of the stream were thinning out, and the ground was levelling. They were approaching the saddle between the hill and the mountain. As it opened out before them they saw that it was broad and gently sloping. They left the stream which was turning towards the mountain itself, and walked quickly over the grass towards some scattered rocks on the saddle’s rest. From there they could see the valley with the red-shuttered house. When they reached the rocks only half of their expectations were realised. All they could see of the house was some blue smoke which curled up lazily over the tops of the farthest trees.
Richard smiled wryly. “Anticlimax department, I’m afraid. It seems I dragged you up here to admire the view, Frances. I’m sorry.”
Frances let her muscles relax. She pushed her damp hair away from her brow to feel the full coolness of the evening breeze.
“You can always study the paths,” she said.
Richard was already doing that. The saddle seemed the meeting place of the paths on the hill and the mountain. If he could get Frances back to Pertisau as quickly as possible, and if the moon was as clear as it had been last night, then he could use the mountain paths to bring him right up behind the house. He could see both of them clearly from here; neither was difficult. Eastward towards Pertisau stretched the first path he would use, which would bring him easily on to this saddle; and then, from here, there was a westward path, cutting across the mountain where it formed a background for the house—he could see at least one track descending from it into the trees which encircled the back of the house. Then he might try some stalking right up to the outskirts of the house itself. Thornley would be a good man to have along; he knew his way about a mountain. It was just as well that he had come up here after all. He looked at the mountain paths, and photographed what he saw in his memory.
Frances, lying beside him, her chin cupped in her hands, had been staring at the forest beneath her. Her eyes followed the well-marked path, which led from the saddle down through the trees towards the house. This was probably the path which began at the bridge in the valley. She looked at the trees, as if by sheer will-power she might see through them, through the walls of the house itself into that room upstairs. She was comparing her reactions as she had left that house to those of Richard, and the result did not flatter her. She had taken it for granted that their job was over, that there was nothing left to do except send a telegram and then go away and enjoy themselves. She had believed the story about the dog because she had wanted to believe it; it was a subconscious desire to be rid of complications, to avoid any further trouble. Now she knew that she wouldn’t have been able to enjoy any holiday. She would have had to face the fact ultimately that it hadn’t been a dog, and she would have remembered it just as long as she would remember the cry in a Jews’ Alley in Nürnberg.
She suddenly stiffened.
“What was that? Richard, I saw something down there.”
“Where?” He turned to look down the hill towards the house. The path, beginning near where they lay, twisted its way towards the forest. Beyond the last trees the smoke curled from the chimney.
“Down there. Look. The twist in the path hid it… near the trees. Richard, it’s the dog.”
Richard grasped her wrist and the strength of his hand calmed her.
“So he did see us,” he said.
The dog, bounding up the path towards them, had stopped and was looking backwards. When the two men came in sight he again bounded on.
It was von Aschenhausen and the black-haired man. The path was broad enough to let them walk abreast. They carried no sticks, but their hands were deep in their jacket pockets. Their eyes searched the hill around them. Once they stopped while the man looked towards the westward path on the mountain, but it had only been some animal which had attracted his attention. He had quick eyes all right, thought Richard.
“Keep cool, Frances. They haven’t seen us yet.”
Again the men stopped, and this time they separated. Von Aschenhausen left the path, and began to climb directly up the shoulder. His pace had slowed down, but even from that distance it was evident that he could climb. When von Aschenhausen reached the top he would be just about the place which they had first attempted to reach. Richard reflected with some pleasure that the east side of the shoulder, which the German would then have to descend, would cramp his style a little. His plan was to encircle them, obviously. The black-haired man was plodding steadily up the path to the saddle where they lay; the dog bounded ahead.
As they backed cautiously from the sheltering rocks and raced back over the gently sloping ground, Richard was thinking quickly but none the less clearly. Von Aschenhausen had taken the much more difficult way because his companion was probably a less expert climber. So much the better for Frances and himself. He would rather face brawn than brain any day. You could outwit the former. They must make for the bed of the stream; that was their only hope for cover. Once they were hidden by the boulders and the bushes which twisted round them on the torrent’s banks they could follow the bed until they had reached the fields and the woods round the Pletzach, and then they would be safe enough. The incriminating thing for them would be to stay on the shoulder overlooking the house. If von Aschenhausen didn’t find them on the hill they could find an explanation for their late return to Pertisau. And he would have to accept it, because he wouldn’t be able to disprove it. But it all made tonight’s plans almost impossible. They would be closely watched from now on.
If Frances had been thankful for grass under her feet when she had first reached the saddle on the way up, she now almost wept with relief. She could run swiftly on this surface and, what was just as important, run silently. She had the feeling of desperate effort which she used to have as a child when she played cowboys and Indians and she was one of the chased. It was no longer a game, but the old terrifying feeling of strained muscles holding her, of feet sticking to the ground, was still there. She must go faster and faster, but her body refused even as her mind urged her on. She sagged, her heart pounding and a strange thundering in her ears, so that she couldn’t swallow. But Richard’s hand, which had not loosened its grasp on her wrist from the moment when they had first seen the dog, pulled her up and on. They had reached the stream.
Their run had slowed down to a scramble, but the first large rocks were near them. Richard had let go of her wrist now; they needed the use of their hands to steady themselves through the boulders. It would have been quicker work if they hadn’t had to avoid any clatter of stones. Richard was thankful for what he had been cursing only half an hour ago, for the fact that they had worn rubber-soled shoes today to go visiting, rather than their nail-studded climbing boots.
The man could not have reached the top of the path yet; nor could von Aschenhausen have reached the crest of the shoulder. As the stream bed plunged deeply in between the crags, Richard looked over his shoulder. They were hidden now, thank God, from both the shoulder and the saddle of the hill. There was no man in sight. But there was the dog. It had marked them from the saddle, and instead of waiting there for the dark-haired man, had followed them. It hadn’t barked. There was something uncanny in the silent way it calculated its powerful leaps over the rough stones, to alight on smooth rock. Its speed was checked by its twists and turns, by the way in which its thick haunches would brake suddenly on the steep side of a boulder. But its direction was unerring.
Richard hurried Frances on. They had passed the point where the track on the side of the hill had met the stream, and they were on strange ground now. The bed plunged still deeper, the banks were rockier, and more thickly screened by small wiry mountain trees. Their speed increased, again for the bed was less cluttered with boulders. The stones under their feet were sharp and uneven; those stones would hold up the dog, anyway. And then the stream curved round a mass of rock, and they saw that the narrow gorge before them suddenly ended. In front of them was nothing but space, and the precipice over which the torrents would pour in the spring, falling in a series of cataracts to the valley beneath.
They looked at each other, trying to hide the dismay in their hearts. To their left was the open mountain rising steeply; to their right, over the high bank with its crags and bushes, lay the landslide which Frances had called a quarry. They were neatly trapped.
Frances backed away from the edge of the precipice instinctively. Richard stood, his eyes turned towards the mountain, looking for some short-cut up to that eastward-bound path which would lead them to Pertisau. The ground was open and there was little cover, but if the man had followed the dog into the bed of the stream his view of the mountain-side would be blocked by the height of the banks long enough to let them reach that point in the path where there were some trees and scrub. Anyway, there was no other choice.
And then behind them they heard the panting of the dog. It had followed the boulders on the banks of the stream, and now it was poised above them, eyes gleaming, teeth showing wickedly. Even as they had turned it gathered its muscles to spring.
Frances was the nearer. She heard Richard’s voice behind her, low, urgent.
“Flat! On your face!”
She was hypnotised as the animal, now more wolf than dog, hurled its huge weight down at her. She heard the snarl, saw the teeth ready to tear. Her eyes closed involuntarily as the slavering jaws were aimed at the level of her throat, and she dropped on the ground. She felt it pass above her body, striking something beyond. Richard…Richard… That sound, what was that sound? She raised herself on an elbow, afraid to turn her head, afraid to see. Just behind her, so that she could have touched it with her foot, lay the dog. Its throat was spitted on the steel goad of Richard’s stick. Richard rose, his face white, his hands still braced on the stick’s shaft. The force of the dog’s leap had knocked him backwards on his knees. He tried to shake the animal’s body free from the stick, but the eight inches of steel were firmly embedded. With a grimace of disgust, he put his foot on the dog’s chest, and pulled the stick as if it were a bayonet. It came out slowly.
From farther up the bed of the stream had come the rattle of stones, as if a heavy man had slipped badly. Richard pointed to the bank on the mountain side of the gorge. Frances rose, and moved with difficulty towards the protection of its rocks. The man would not see them until he had got well round the bend, and then he would see the dog first. There was no time to hide it, even if they could have brought themselves to touch its dead body. Richard followed her, the stick still blood-covered. He should have wiped it on the dog’s coat, he knew; but he couldn’t. He felt sicker than he liked to admit.
“Through there,” he whispered, pointing between two boulders. Frances obeyed, keeping her head and shoulders low. By using the uneven rocks and the thick bushes for cover, they managed to clear the stream’s high bank. The man in the stream bed would not see them, because of the twist in its course. Von Aschenhausen, now probably over the shoulder, might be on the difficult track which had led them to the stream. It had taken them a good fifteen minutes. It would take him as long; there was no easy way.
They paused for a moment. Behind them lay the bank; in front of them was the mountainside, its slope covered with scrub which would hardly reach their knees. They heard the man’s steps now, in the bed of the stream. He would just be coming round the bend now. The footsteps paused and then quickened. So he had seen the dog. They heard his oaths. Richard still hesitated, wondering if they should stay quietly where they were, hidden by the boulders… And then he remembered. The bloodstains. They had laid a pretty track.
“Go on,” he whispered to Frances.
She looked at him despairingly. “I can’t lead. You must. I’ll go over the side.” She pointed to the steep drop down to her right. The landslide which had created the quarry and the cataract behind them had done its work here too. The shoulder met the mountain with a spectacular precipice. Their only hope was to keep away from the treacherous edge and work up towards the mountain path as quickly as possible.
Richard had already moved ahead. There were no more blood drops from the stick. If they reached the shelter of that boulder ahead before the man could follow their trail through the rocks on the bank, they could take cover there. If he didn’t see them, it was possible that he wouldn’t start to search this nasty piece of mountainside by himself. He might even think this way impassable and that they had doubled on their tracks upstream again. Judging from the noise the man had made as he had come down the bed, he was not much accustomed to climbing. That was something to be thankful for.
Richard moved quickly and carefully, conscious that the ground sloped on his right towards the precipice. The boulder he had picked out as a refuge lay farther up the hill, father away from the edge. That would cheer up Frances. And then it was that he became aware that her footsteps were not following; or was it possible that anyone could walk so quietly as that? He turned slowly, carefully balancing his weight. France stood almost where he had left her. She had moved up the hill slightly, back towards the rocks. She was standing quite still, her body pressed against one of them. That damned precipice, he thought, and started despairingly back towards her. But she shook her head and waved him towards the shelter of the boulder. She had heard the man climbing laboriously, the leather soles of his boots slipping on the stony surface. She moved slowly up behind the rock to which she had been clinging, avoiding the large stones which were loose to her touch. The fear which had paralysed her legs so that she couldn’t follow Richard suddenly left her. All she felt now was anxiety for him. She pointed frantically towards the boulder; but he didn’t or wouldn’t understand. He was coming back to her.
The man was almost over the bank. Like them, he had chosen to keep in cover. Perhaps he thought they were armed and was taking no chance of silhouetting himself against the sky. He would come out down there, just where they had emerged from the bank, for it was the easiest way through, but although she had followed his progress with her ears, it was a shock suddenly to see him there, only ten feet away. He hadn’t looked up towards where she remained motionless behind the rock. If he had seen her, he ignored her; his eyes were fixed on Richard. He pulled out his revolver. It was a large, efficient-looking black one. Then as he saw clearly that Richard was unarmed he stepped forward out of cover. If he had expected Richard to throw himself on the ground or to turn and run, he was disappointed. The two men stood scarcely twenty yards apart, looking at each other. There was a smile on the man’s face. He was like a cat playing with a mouse. He lifted the revolver slowly, slowly. Frances raised the heavy stone which she had gathered in her two hands and threw it with all her strength from above her head.
It caught him between the shoulder-blades, and sent him staggering forward. Frances saw him make a frenzied effort to regain his balance, half-turning towards her as he fell. Even then he would have been safe if he had braked with his elbows and dug in his feet. But he had only one idea; he twisted quickly round to shoot. The sudden movement cost him his one chance. She saw the rock splinter beside her, and then heard the crash of the revolver. It was then that he realised his own danger. Frances, crouching at the side of the rock, saw the expression of hate on the man’s face give way to fear. She saw him drop the Luger, his hands claw the ground, too late. There was nothing on the sloping edge to grasp except loose stones. He was clutching one in each hand as he slipped over the precipice. His scream fell with his body.
It was Richard who stood beside her, trying to loosen her grip on the rock. He put his arm round her waist and helped her up the sloping ground, back towards the stream. They had followed the sheltering bank almost to the flat ground of the saddle before Frances realised they had retraced their path.
“Richard,” she said, “I’m going to be awfully sick.”
“Darling, try not to. Not now. There’s von Aschenhausen still. He should be almost at the stream by this time. He must have heard the shot and the scream.”
She passed a hand wearily over her white face. Her voice was flat.
“I forgot about him. Do you think he has seen us?”
“I hope not. We’ve kept under the shelter of the bank all the way up, and we are on the mountain side of the stream, while he is, or was, on the shoulder side. Anyway, he will have plenty to occupy his attention down there. It will be quite a job looking for his boy friend. He will probably think we headed for the path on the mountain. It isn’t likely that he would guess we are going to use his own path down to his house.”
“Richard!”
“Yes, we are. It’s quite the safest way down. I don’t like the idea of the mountain path now that the sun is almost gone.” It was true; the mountain was hazier, and the light had turned a cold grey. Ahead of them was the only glow in the sky where the setting sun coloured the clouds.
“Keep low,” Richard warned, “as we go across the saddle. And watch the sky-line.” They broke into a crouching run as they crossed the grass, and when they approached the top of the saddle they used the boulders to black-out their outlines to any watcher beneath them. They crossed the top by lying flat on the ground and edging their bodies carefully over. When they had reached the western side of the rocks, behind which they had lain this afternoon and looked down into the valley, Richard stood up and helped Frances to her feet. Normally, he thought, she would have giggled at the ludicrous figures they must have made in the last ten minutes. She would have had some joke to make about the rips on her clothes, the bruises and scratches on her legs. But she said nothing, only faced him with her large eyes still larger. He felt her hands; they were cold, like marble. He pulled out his flask of brandy.
“It’s safe enough on this path,” he said. “Take a good swig, Frances.”
She took it obediently and handed the flask back in surprise.
“Not even a cough or a splutter,” she said in amazement. Richard’s anxiety lessened. It was a good thing if she had started noticing her reactions.
“Got your wind?”
She nodded. “I’m all right.” The brandy had warmed her, and the sickness was gone.
“Well, I’ll let you do what you’ve always wanted to do. I’ll let you run down a hill.”
She was almost smiling. He caught her in his arms and hugged her.
And then they were running, carefully but steadily, down the broad path. Richard kept to the outside, holding her right hand as they ran. Their speed increased when they reached the darkening wood, for the path had broadened and was softened with pine needles. It twisted through the trees in zigzag curves, and these they shortened by slipping and sliding down the dry earth of the banks. The wood was already asleep. There were no sounds except the muffled pad of their feet, the occasional snap of a dry twig, the heaviness of their breathing. The trees were thinning, there was a little more light, and they were passing the edge of the meadow and the track which led to the house. Down there, in front of them, were the bridge and the road itself.
Then Richard caught Frances tightly. Through the quickly falling dusk they could see a car on the roadway, and two men talking beside it.
“O God,” said Richard.
Frances looked at him in surprise.
“What’s wrong, Richard? Don’t you see who they are? It’s an American car.”
She was right. They started forward again. The two men looked as if they were getting into the car.
“’Hoy!” Richard called softly. The men halted, and turned round in amazement. And then they ran over the bridge to meet them.
“Well, I’ll be—” began van Cortlandt, and then stopped as he looked at them. Richard pushed Frances into his arms.
“Get her into the car and look after her. Park off the road, and not where it can be seen from the house. Keep the lights off. Be ready to start at a moment’s notice. Need your help, Bob. Are you game?”
Thornley took his eyes off Frances’ face and the cut on her shoulder where her ripped cardigan and blouse showed blood.
He nodded. “I’m ready,” he said, and moved off after Richard.
Van Cortlandt watched them go towards the dark house.
“Now just what’s this all about?” he said. Frances tried to smile.
“I sang, and we heard noises, and they said it was a dog.” Her voice was low and tired. He caught her as she stumbled forward, and carried her to the car.
He moved the car as Richard had said and then turned to look at the girl beside him. She hadn’t fainted; she had just collapsed… Pretty thoroughly, too. There were tears running down her cheeks.
“I haven’t got a hankie. I lost it,” she said in a muffled voice.
He looked at her torn clothes. “I’m not surprised,” he said, and handed her the neatly folded one he kept in his breast-pocket. “Try this.”
Frances saw his concern. “I’m all right, really. All I need is a good cry.”
“Well, go ahead,” he said. “I’ve another handkerchief in my hip pocket. They are all yours.” He was rewarded with a weak smile.
“I can talk, now,” she said at last. “I don’t suppose you have anything I could eat? I’m sort of empty inside.”
“Only candy. I could give you a drink, though.”
“I’ve had one. Candy will do, beautifully.”
He watched her curiously as she ate the bar of chocolate.
“You can tell me as much or as little as you like,” van Cortlandt said. “I’ll not use it.”
Frances looked at his firm mouth and worried eyebrows.
“I know, Henry. I suppose it’s only fair to let you know what’s happening, seeing that you are partly mixed up with it now, anyway. Do you mind if I eat while I talk?” Van Cortlandt restrained his grin. These people, really… There, he was catching it from them. “Lost it,” she had said apologetically when she looked as if she had almost lost everything else, including her life. “Eat while I talk, do you mind?”
“Remember, not a word of this to anyone. Not until we are all safely out of this country. It’s—” She hesitated for the right word.
“Dynamite?”
She gave her first real smile. “Yes, dynamite.”
She tried to get the things she would say into the right order. Her story was slow and halting. She began with the visit that afternoon to the Englishman who was no Englishman. Van Cortlandt listened attentively and patiently, his eyes trying to see her face in the darkness. He didn’t miss the pauses, when she would struggle for words and the story would take a leap forward. She was near the end of it now. There was a note in her voice which held him silent through the long pause between the phrases.
“…and missed…and fell…over a precipice. We climbed back on our tracks and crawled and ran and then we saw you.”
“And what about the German whom you knew?”
“I suppose he would try to trace the other. He must have heard the shot, and the scream.” She stopped suddenly, and there was another pause. “There were signs of the fall, you know, where the stones slipped.”
Van Cortlandt whistled. “Well,” he said, “that was quite an afternoon you had yourselves.”
Frances said nothing to that. She tried to see out of the car, but it was almost dark. “I wonder why they are so long?” she said.
“Don’t worry; they can take care of themselves,” but his face was less confident that his words.
“I could kick myself,” he added. “I’m the big mouth who gave you away.”
Frances looked at him in amazement. “You know, I haven’t asked you how on earth you got here. You should be in Innsbruck, and Bob, too. I was so glad to see you, I forgot to ask.”
“Well, it was like this. Bob saw you start off, and when you didn’t get back before six as you had promised, he got worried. My guess was that you had forgotten. You were sort of vague about it. But he just shook his head gloomily and said he was going to wait. So we hung about, and then that black-haired guy arrived on his bicycle. I was standing at the hotel door— Bob was somewhere inside—and he had a look at our suitcases and the car. Just then the hotel man came out and stopped to speak to me. He said we were late. I said yes. He said was there anything wrong? And I said you hadn’t got back yet. At that the black-haired chap got on to his bicycle and went over to Frau Schichtl’s. I didn’t like that. And I liked it less when he must have found out you weren’t there, because he shot past us and went right back in the direction he had come from, with the dog just behind him.
“I had the sense to ask who he was. The hotel man shrugged his shoulders and said something about the house with the red shutters. And then Bob came out, and he and I had some beer, and we talked it over. And the later it became, the worse we liked it. We went to see Frau Schichtl, and we worried her too. But anyway she could tell us the quickest way to get to the house. That worried Bob still more, because it was the road you had taken that afternoon. Then we thought we would go and see for ourselves. Bob said you hadn’t been prepared for a long walk or climb when you left the village; he had noticed you weren’t wearing your boots, and that clinched the argument. We thought we would ask at the house and find out if anyone had seen you; we were both hoping that perhaps you had tried a short-cut home: and had sprained an ankle or something.
“Well, we got to the house, and knocked loudly enough, but we got no answer. Silent as the tomb. We were talking about what we should do next, and we were just about to leave when we heard Richard.”
“Thank heaven for that,” said Frances quietly.
They were both silent.
“I’m tired,” said Frances suddenly, and he saw her eyes close. He reached for the rug and wrapped it round her, and pillowed her head more comfortably against the back of the seat. She was already asleep.
He strained his eyes through the darkness, but he could see only the outlines of the bushes and trees. He could hear nothing, except the gentle breathing of the girl beside him. Poor kid, he thought. What was that Gilbert and Sullivan thing? “Here’s a how d’you do…” It was all that, and more. Expect the worst, and you won’t be disappointed, he told himself. He slipped some gum into his mouth, and settled down to wait, with his gloomy speculations for company. What interested him most in Frances’ story were the omissions.