Above Suspicion (23 page)

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.