After the Fine Weather (11 page)

For his work Joe borrowed a room from the Trans-World Press Agency, which kept an office on the fourth floor of a block on the Adelbodener-Strasse.

Normally, what happened in Lienz was of little interest to the world at large, and the local TWPA representative, a genial Carinthian called Sandholzner, had plenty of time to pursue his other activities. This was lucky, for he was a much occupied man. He was consular representative in Lienz of three Baltic states, gave advice on tax evasion, and edited a magazine devoted to joinery and fretwork.

He raised his bald head as Joe came in and regarded him benevolently. Joe seemed to him to represent the great outside world: the world where things happened, where important decisions were taken, where fortunes and reputations were made; a world which Herr Sandholzner was heartily glad to be out of.

“I hope your affairs prosper,” he said.

“So-so,” said Joe. “In one way I’m getting on, in another way I’m slipping back.”

“That is life.”

“Look,” said Joe, “you know this country a lot better than I do. If you had to get out of it – on your own – which way would you go?”

“When you say ‘on your own’ do you mean without troubling the customs authorities or without troubling the police?”

“Without troubling anyone at all.”

Herr Sandholzner considered the matter. “Some years ago,” he said, “when I was interested in the collection of wildflowers – I had a project at that time for a magazine devoted to wildflower collection – each month we would have had a different wildflower pressed between the pages. Unfortunately the project proved too expensive–”

“You were saying–?”

“Yes. In the course of collecting specimens I wandered quite freely in the Lienz Dolomites. They form the frontier with Italy.”

“I’ve got a map here if it will help.”

“I must get my glasses. Yes. That line of alternate dots and dashes is the international boundary. It runs along the line of peaks. The controls are in the valley, on each side.”

“Is the frontier anything at all – when you get there?”

“Is there a fence, you mean? Certainly not. There are perhaps stones, surveyors’ marks. Nothing more. I have wandered many times into Italy without knowing it. And back again.”

“But that was in summer.”

“In spring – summer – autumn. There is little or no snow. Now it would not be so easy. You could cross on foot, without doubt, at the western end. The mountains there are not high. But there you are in the zone of frontier control.”

“Whereas,” said Joe, “if I keep south and east I keep clear of the controls, but it becomes a stiff climb. Right?”

“There is no climbing in the true sense of the word; nothing for which you would need a rope or an axe. But certain parts of the journey would be easier on skis.”

“That’s all right.”

“You are adept?”

“I can get by,” said Joe.

“Have you got a car?”

“I’ve got a rented car.”

“Strap your skis to the roof. Many young people out for a day’s skiing do the same. They will serve as a passport for you.”

“Good idea,” said Joe. “Double bluff.”

“Then what I suggest you do is this: take your car down the road toward Sillian, but turn to your left before you get there. Look, I will show you on the map. It is a very small road, which turns off just past Abfaltersbach. It crosses the River Drava and climbs at once. It will undoubtedly be blocked by snow, but the first part of it may be clear. You could leave your car here – or here. Hide it in a barn, if you can find one. That will delay inquiry. Then go straight up the side of the mountain. You have used skins under your skis before?”

“Surely.”

“Then it should not be too difficult. Go quite openly. People who see you will imagine you are climbing up for a run down. All you have to do is to keep the Kreuzberg – Monte Croce, as the Italians call it – on your left. With luck you will be in Italy in two hours.”

“With luck,” said Joe soberly. On the small-scale map the distance looked quite manageable. There was a peak marked some way to the left of his crossing place, 2,678 metres. Joe did some mental arithmetic. That would be over eight thousand feet. Too high for a novice in midwinter.

As he was going, Herr Sandholzner said, “Do you know a small boy with light hair and a squint?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“There was one here this morning, very early, asking for you.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No. But he said it was urgent.”

“If he turns up again,” said Joe, “give him a couple of schillings and tell him I’ll be back in an hour.”

Herr Hoffracker had his shop and studio in a small street in the Oberlienz suburb, on the hillside to the north of the town. Joe took the tram to the foot of the hill and then climbed the street, which ran up between the terraced houses and shops. The sun was out and the sky was blue, but it was filmed with wisps of lacy cloud which were being chased across it by some high-altitude wind.

The entrance to the shop was down three steps from the pavement. It was a small, dark, mean-looking place. Through the misted front window a selection of wedding photographs was visible, the girls in white, the men wearing the look of glazed complacency common to bridegrooms and anglers who have landed an exceptional fish.

Joe pushed open the door and went in. The bell on the door went ting-tang but no one came in answer to his summons.

On the counter was a placard, in ornate script, which Joe spent some minutes translating. It seemed to say: “Of the happiest moment of your life a visible monument create.”

Gosh, but it was warm! The little room felt like an oven. Somebody had certainly got the central heating going.

Joe rang the bell again, took out a handkerchief, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The silence grew oppressive. He rang the bell loudly three or four times and walked across to the back of the shop. Apart from the street entrance there was only one possible way in or out, and that was a door beyond the end of the counter, which led to some sort of room at the back.

Joe knocked, got no answer, turned the handle, and opened the door. It did not come easily. It was as if it had warped in its frame. He put his shoulder to it and it moved sluggishly back.

The heat hit him in the face. The room inside was in darkness, but he could see that an enormous fire had been built in the wall stove. It was glowing and pulsing, overflowing the stove. There was a pile of red-hot stuff on the brickwork.

In a sudden panic Joe felt for the wall switch and pressed it down. Under the big neon lights the room jumped out to meet him. It was a studio. In the middle stood a camera, with a chair and screens in front of it. In the corner was a sink. Round the wall ran slatted shelves which must once have contained materials, spare film, prints, and mounts. They were now empty. Someone had stripped everything off them, every photograph, every negative, and every film, had stuffed it all into the stove and set fire to it. Whoever did it, thought Joe, must have managed it pretty carefully not to set himself and the house on fire.

The only other piece of furniture in the room was a filing cabinet. He walked across and pulled the drawers open, but it was only a gesture. He knew before he looked that the cabinet would be as empty as the shelves. And he was wasting precious time; time which he should have employed getting to hell out of it.

The room was stifling. It was hotter than the hot room at a Turkish bath. Round the stove, the embers of a hundred photographs glowed, fanning up into red heat from under the draft from the door, scattering grey ashes over the linoleum. There was a stink of burning. It was as if some monstrous celluloid effigy had been roasted at the stake, leaving only a smell behind.

On the hook behind the door by which Joe had entered a big black photographer’s hood was hanging. It must, thought Joe, be very heavy to have pulled the hook half out of the woodwork. He went across, and lifted it. As he did so, his fingers almost touched Herr Hoffracker’s face. He was hanging from the hook, which went under the collar of his coat. His face looked quite peaceful. His old head, cocked to one side, had an almost roguish look about it.

He had not died from strangulation. A quick look suggested, rather, that his neck had been broken by a blow from behind.

Joe eased out through the door, turned out the light, and crossed the dim front room. The bell above the street door went ting as he opened it and tang as he shut it. Then he was in the cobbled alley. He hoped that he looked steadier than he felt.

He had seen plenty of dead men before. As a reporter, on roving commission, it had been his job to seek out violent and sensational death. He had seen men shot in riots, stabbed in brawls, burned and crushed in air disasters, and had come to regard them almost as lay figures. He had never before had to consider that the malevolence which had turned on the victims might now – in all probability was now – turned on him.

Ting-tang went a bicycle, shooting past him in the narrow street.

The shop must have been watched. If they had had any doubt about his intentions, this doubt would now be at rest. He was certainly being followed.

But would they know that he had gone into the back room? Think. Yes, of course they would. He had turned the lights on before closing the intervening door, and the lights must have been visible from the street. They would guess, therefore, that he had seen the body.

Something hit him in the middle of the back. Three urchins were gaping at him. He picked up their ball and handed it back to them. The children smiled politely at him.

He was at the foot of the hill now. He decided to ignore the tram and walk back to the office. As long as his legs kept moving his mind went on working.

By the time he reached the Adelbodener-Strasse, he was nearly normal again. Better, he had the outlines of a plan in his mind.

There was a crowd in front of the building, almost blocking the doorway. Edging his way past, he saw that two boys were fighting. One had got the other down and was sitting on his chest, pummelling him systematically but without malice. It looked to Joe more like a game than a real fight.

He felt a hand tug at his coat pocket and looked down. It was a small boy with very light, almost white, hair and a marked squint.

The boy grinned at him, squirmed around, and disappeared into the crowd. He did not look like a pickpocket.

Joe squeezed through the crowd into the hallway. The lift was waiting and empty. He got in and pressed the button for the sixth floor. As soon as the doors were shut, he dipped his hand into his pocket. The boy had not been taking anything out; he had been putting something in. It was an envelope, perhaps four inches by three, sealed with adhesive tape. The enclosure felt like thick paper or thin cardboard.

He ripped it open. It was a photograph, showing the front of the Stadttheatre. The figures in the foreground – Humbold, the Bishop, even the microphone he was speaking into – were identifiable, if blurred. But the telescopic lens, by some freak of focus, had picked out the background in clearest detail.

The top of the turret window was open, a few inches, on its ratchet, and through those few inches protruded the barrel of a gun. There was not the slightest doubt about it. You could see the foresight and the fluting of the barrel.

The lift stopped with a jerk. Joe dropped the photograph back into his pocket, slid back the door, and stepped out onto the sixth-floor landing. Then he started very cautiously to descend the staircase. He wanted to make sure that there was not already a reception committee on the fourth floor. He thought it unlikely, but his respect for the opposition was growing.

There was nobody there. Joe found Herr Sandholzner at his desk, fixing stamps into an album. He sat down beside him and told him the whole story. It was a risk, but the need for an ally was strong upon him.

Herr Sandholzner listened carefully, and said at the end, “I should not imagine that the police will attempt any official action. They would fear the publicity. Your own newspaper – even our own little organization here – it could hardly be suppressed entirely.”

Joe said, “They must know that if this photograph appears in a single foreign paper it blows them and their schemes sky high.”

Herr Sandholzner regarded the photograph thoughtfully. “There is something very convincing about it,” he agreed. “Possibly they will have seen the negative themselves. In any event, they will go to great lengths to get it back.”

“What do you imagine they will do?”

“Organize something. A put-up brawl. A knife in the back. A cord round the neck. A bullet. A boot.”

“Skip the details.”

“But, I would guess, not before tonight. These things take time to organize. And they go better in the dark.”

“Then you think I’ve got until this evening.”

“Only if you behave naturally. And make no attempt to escape. If you try to get out, they must move at once.”

Joe looked at his watch. He was surprised to see that it was still only eleven o’clock. A lot seemed to have happened since he had left his bed that morning.

“Have you got any plan?”

“I have a sort of plan,” said Joe. “But I shall need help, and I’m wondering if I ought to involve you.”

“They will consider me involved in any case. What had you in mind?”

“You know that place I hired my car from – the little garage behind the Sportplatz.”

“Yes.”

“Could you go there, as quickly as possible, and hire another car. Any sort of car as long as it’s quite different from the one I’ve got now. With a roof-rack and a set of chains for the back wheels if possible. Say it’s for a friend of yours who wants an afternoon’s skiing.”

“I shall have to mention a name. Might I suggest Mauger?” Herr Sandholzner was rummaging in the drawer of his desk as he spoke. “We had here last year a rather objectionable young man of that name. He joined us to report the International Ski Events. Yes. Here they are.” He produced a packet of calling cards, neatly embossed: Peter Mauger. Accredited representative of Sportswear, London.