The Piper on the Mountain gfaf-5 Read online

“The British Embassy,” said Ondrejov, dwelling upon the luscious syllables with sensuous pleasure, “has already been informed. As a matter of courtesy, you understand, Mr. Welland being a British national and a member of their staff. They will also be informed that Miss Barber is here, and may be held on suspicion of murder. By to-morrow morning, no doubt, someone will be flying in to take care of her interests, and I can assure you I shall make no objections.”

  They fell back and studied him afresh in silence, with something of the embarrassment of people who have flung their full weight against an unlatched door and fallen flat on their faces, but with a residue of distrust, too. Did he mean it? It appeared that he did, for he wasn’t even troubling to lay any great emphasis on the correctness of his proceedings; but what he intended should follow from them was another matter. Perhaps he was simply covering himself, and making sure that all the awkward decisions should be left to his superiors, when they came. That was human and credible enough, in any country, in any force.

  “When it comes to the point,” said Dominic, on the heels of the dubious silence, “Tossa has nothing to be afraid of.” He was curiously in doubt, himself, whether he was speaking for her or for Ondrejov. “As soon as the bullet’s recovered it will clear her completely. Because it will be a rifle bullet.”

  “Now that,” said Ondrejov, fixing him with a bright and calculating eye, “is a sensible observation. To-morrow,” he went on briskly, dropping the pretence of harmlessness as blithely as he would have dropped a cigarette-end, “I suggest you may all prefer to move to the hotel here, and remain near Miss Barber. When you have satisfied yourselves that there are people present to take care of her interests, perhaps you, Mr. Felse…” The blue eye dissected him again, with analytical detachment and interest. “… will be so good as to drive your van back to Zbojská Dolina to settle the bill and collect your luggage.”

  He still sounded like a country uncle, but one you wouldn’t care to fool with; and there was no mistaking that this was an order.

  “It will be interesting,” said Ondrejov meditatively, “to see who does turn up to take the responsibility for Miss Barber.” He smiled into the inscrutable distances of his own thoughts, which were certainly more devious than his bucolic appearance suggested, and repeated pleasurably: “Very interesting!”

  Chapter 8

  THE MEN WHO CAME TO THE RESCUE

  « ^ »

  The man in charge arrived in Liptovsky Pavol at about four o’clock in the morning, having preferred to go directly to the scene of the crime and make his own observations on the spot, before taking over the office end of affairs from the local force. He brought with him a very smart police car from Bratislava, a driver, and two subordinates, which entourage was in itself a more signal recognition of Robert Welland’s V.I.P. status than he had ever received in his lifetime.

  The officer’s name was Kriebel, and he looked like an alert, confident, athletic schoolmaster. He was two steps above Ondrejov in rank, six inches taller, and twenty-five years younger, and he weighed up his man in one long, careful glance, and then enthroned himself casually on a corner of the desk, and swung his legs. This move, which established their relationship while keeping it informal, also deprived Ondrejov of his own favourite chair without putting it into use for his superior officer. To Kriebel a tactful gesture, it seemed to Ondrejov merely silly. But he was adroit at handling young men who were ambitious, sensitive of their rights and advantages in the presence of the old and stagnating, and considered themselves to be handling him. This one wouldn’t give him much trouble. He had never wanted to move into the plain-clothes branch himself, and not only because it would have meant moving from Pavol. He knew where his talents lay.

  He planted himself squarely on his two sturdy legs, and made his report reasonably fully. The young people? They were all put to bed long before this, the girl Barber in the cell downstairs, the others at Pavol’s single small hotel. Had they made formal statements? No, he had preferred to wait for the arrival of the detectives from Bratislava. He contrived to suggest that he had been a little nervous of pressing four English students very far, with the possibility of an international incident obviously hanging over them like a storm-cloud. He outlined the evidence against Tossa, colouring it brightly and then slightly deprecating its brightness, even suggesting that it was not enough of a case to justify holding her. Kriebel, listening and frowning a little, found the tone too patronising on one hand and too timid on the other, and came to the considered conclusion that the girl should be held.

  The body of Robert Welland was by then being manhandled from the chapel towards the ambulance that waited for it at the Riavka hut, on its way to Liptovsky Mikulás, where the experts were sleepily and crossly preparing its reception.

  “And the other three?” asked Ondrejov, with hunched shoulders and dissenting face. “None of them can possibly have been involved in the actual killing, only the girl Barber had the opportunity. I take it there’s no need to interfere with their plans? We can reach them at Zbojská Dolina whenever you want them, there’s no particular advantage in keeping them here.”

  “On the contrary, I think it’s essential to have them under our eyes. We’d better fix them up here in the town, and keep them under surveillance, at least until we get the medical and laboratory reports. Then we’ll know better what we’re handling.”

  All very well being correct and courteous with foreigners, but Kriebel carried the responsibility, and this was murder.

  “As you think,” said Ondrejov austerely, with a face so blank that a duller man than Kriebel couldn’t have failed to deduce what it was concealing. “Then after you’ve seen them, I’d better send the young man Felse off with their van to bring their things from the Riavka, and settle them in here at the Slovan.”

  “I should be glad if you would,” said Kriebel, his voice noticeably thinning as the woodenness of Ondrejov’s face thickened.

  “Certainly, Comrade Major, whatever you say.”

  If you want a superior, half your age, to keep things rolling your way, there’s nothing like persuading him that the idea was his in the first place, and that you cordially disapprove of it. Ondrejov wasn’t going to have the slightest trouble with this one.

  “By the way, Comrade Major, I’ve notified the British Embassy of the girl’s situation. Since they’re concerned in any case, the victim being one of their own men, I thought it wise to forestall any criticism on that head. I hope that’s all right? It won’t, of course, affect your handling of the case in the least,” he hastened to add, with a nice blend of flattery and malice.

  It wouldn’t now, at any rate. Ten ambassadors threatening all the professional reprisals in the world couldn’t have made Kriebel release his hold of Tossa Barber, after that.

  It was some hours more before the rescue party began to gather. Even Kriebel had to sleep, after driving some three hundred kilometres from the Slovak capital, and then putting in an hour and a half of intensive work in Zbojská Dolina; consequently the four enforced guests of the establishment were also, by native standards, allowed to lie late, though not, to judge by the look of them when they were finally assembled in the police office, to sleep late.

  Only Tossa, once stretched out on the cot in her small, bare room, had collapsed out of the world as though hit English attache the head with a blackjack; it was her only way of escape from a load temporarily too much for her to carry or comprehend. They dragged her out of her refuge too soon, but at least she had been able to withdraw for a few hours into the utter darkness and indifference of irresponsibility.

  She came back to her distorted and frightening world drunken and stunned with sleep, but calm. She was glad, in a way, that they had kept her segregated even from Christine; the load was hers, and sympathy and advice would only have confused her. As it was, though she hadn’t spent one waking minute thinking about it, she had a very clear idea of what she had to do. Last night there had seemed no point in correcting her fa
lse story, since Mirek had effectively established what was false in it; now it seemed to her essential that she should tell it herself as fully as she could. There were still things she could not talk about; but to admit that she had felt unsatisfied about her stepfather’s death, and set out deliberately to investigate it herself, need not involve the Marrion Institute at all. No lies this time. Truth and nothing but truth, if not all the truth. It might not help her out of her mess, but it would do something to put her right with herself.

  “I want to make a statement,” she said, when Ondrejov came to fetch her up to the office.

  “So you shall soon, but not to me. And don’t be in too big a hurry.” He looked her over with shrewd and thoughtful eyes. “Finish your coffee, there’s plenty of time.”

  She shook her head; it seemed to her an odd attitude. “The men from Scotland Yard came, then?” she said, with a pale, brief smile.

  “They’re not the only arrivals. There are three gentlemen here to get you out of trouble.”

  “Three?” She was impressed and amused, in a sad and private way, even very slightly curious, but she didn’t care to ask him questions; in her position it didn’t seem to her that it would be the thing to do. “I don’t think they can,” she said, after a moment’s rueful reflection. “Not for a day or two, anyhow, not until your people have found the bullet.”

  “No,” agreed Ondrejov smugly. “I don’t think they can.”

  “Are the others all right? Shall I see them?”

  “They’re all right, and you’ll see them.”

  They were already in the outer office when he followed her up the narrow stairs and through the thick brown door. Swollen-eyed and uneasy after a wakeful night, they sat silent, waiting to be interviewed, the youngest detective keeping a cool eye on them from behind the desk. Their eyes lit at the sight of her, and Dominic came eagerly out of his chair; but before anything could be asked or answered the inner door opened, and Kriebel leaned out.

  “In here, please, Miss Barber.”

  She turned one quick glance in Dominic’s direction, and for an instant they stared helplessly at each other. Then she went on obediently into the inner room, and Ondrejov followed her in and closed the door.

  “Miss Barber, my name is Kriebel. I am in charge of this investigation. Please sit down!”

  The chair that had been placed for her was in front of a large table, and in the full light from the window. Beyond, the rest of the room seemed dim by comparison, and it was larger than the shabby little outer office, obstinately and characteristically preferred by Ondrejov, so that she did not immediately sort out the strangers from the plain-clothes men among those present. Her tired but competent mind could deal with only one thing at a time.

  “I should like to make a statement.”

  That brought the rescuers forward to declare themselves at once, as if she had sounded an urgent alarm. Three of them, just as Ondrejov had said, all suddenly revealed as English the moment they moved and drew her eyes to them. English with the ludicrous, staggering Englishness which, as Toddy had rightly observed, is never even detectable at home. And all of them willing her to silence and delay.

  “Miss Barber, I advise you to think carefully about your position, and do nothing in haste.”

  “We are here to take care of your interests, Miss Barber.”

  The first of them was a middle-aged gentleman of immaculate appearance, smooth-faced, grey-haired, rounded and agile, with a lawyer’s cagey face; the second a long, loose-limbed young man with a handsome, superior countenance, like a clever horse or a county dowager, and an alert and impudent eye. The third, who had stayed where he was and said nothing so far, looked at once the most truly concerned and the most likely to be effective. He was perhaps even more English than the others, but in a way which looked more at home here, with the fields only a stone’s throw away, and the crests of the mountains bright in the distance outside the window. Almost elderly, tall and rather thin, with dark hair silvered at the temples, and a good-looking, well-preserved face that could have belonged equally appropriately to a retired military man or a high civil servant. He had on Bedford cords and a tweed jacket worn into the baggy shapes of comfort, with leather patches at the elbows, the sort of jacket that should be accompanied by a floppy tweed hat to match, preferably with flies stuck round it.

  She had never seen any of them before in her life; but of course, they had to take responsibility for all sorts of strays like herself. No wonder the one with the lawyer’s face, for all his smooth expression of reassurance, fixed his snapping legal eyes on her as if he detested her. As if it wasn’t enough to have an English attaché shot, an English student had to get herself arrested on suspicion of having shot him!

  “I beg your pardon, Major Kriebel! Miss Barber should know her rights, she should have time to think, but I realise that you have an urgent duty to do. Have I your permission to speak to her before you question her?”

  “By all means! In my presence, of course, at this stage, but, I assure you, quite freely.” Kriebel was on impregnable ground, at least pending the medical and ballistic reports; he could afford to be generous. “Miss Barber, these gentlemen are from the British Embassy in Prague. They are here to look after your interests in this unfortunate situation. Please, Counsellor!”

  “My name is Charles Freeling,” said the lawyer. “I am counsellor to the embassy. And this is Adrian Blagrove, who is assisting us with the preparation of some technical data for translation, in connection with the new trade agreement consultations. I brought him along because he used at one time to work with your late stepfather, and naturally he’d like to assist you if he can. And here,” he indicated the man in the tweed jacket, who came forward with a sudden brief, kind smile, rueful and charming, “here is Sir Broughton Phelps, whose name will be known to you, I’m sure. Sir Broughton happened to be on holiday in the White Carpathians, I took the liberty of passing on word to him about you when the news came in.”

  Yes, that, at least, was a name she knew. So the Director of the Marrion Research Institute “happened” to be on holiday here! And hadn’t she heard the other name before, too? Blagrove? Hadn’t Robert Welland mentioned him as the new Security Officer? The man who had stepped into Herbert Terrell’s shoes? And suddenly he turned up here, “assisting with the preparation of technical data for translation!”

  The shock of enlightenment helped to brace her. Here to look after her interests? They were here, and here in desperate haste, to make sure she gave nothing away. That granted, no doubt they’d do their diplomatic best for her.

  “Your stepfather was on my staff, my dear.” Sir Broughton took her hand, looking down at her with his warm, worried smile. “I shall be only too glad if I can do anything to help you. Freeling was trying to contact me most of the night, it seems. They managed to reach me early this morning at Topolcianky. I’ve been fishing down in that district.” She’d been right about the flies. “I shouldn’t worry too much, you know. You haven’t done anything you shouldn’t, have you? Then it’s only a question of telling your story sensibly, and having a little confidence in the authorities.”

  A beautifully ambiguous reassurance, but she correctly interpreted the warning.

  “It was very good of you all,” she said dutifully, “to rush to help me like this. I’m afraid you must have spent the night driving.”

  “Blagrove and I came in to Poprad by air taxi, early this morning,” said Freeling. “Sir Broughton drove up from Topolcianky. We were very grateful for such prompt notification of poor Welland’s death and your situation, and for Major Kriebel’s courtesy in allowing us to see you at once. Now, the main thing is that you should think carefully, both about your rights and your responsibilities, and do nothing in haste. No one can demand a statement from you, you must realise that.”

  “No one is demanding it,” she said. “I want to make it. I told Lieutenant Ondrejov some things that weren’t true, last night. I want to put them right.”<
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  She was saying, it seemed, all the things one should not say. Everything was topsy-turvy, only her enemies looked pleased with her, especially Ondrejov, who was beaming so brightly that his blue eyes were pale as aquamarines in his brick-red face. The embassy party looked painstakingly benevolent but inwardly frantic; even Sir Broughton, the most human of the three, was frowning at her admonishingly.

  The pause of glee and consternation was abruptly interrupted by a loud, peremptory voice in the outer room, speaking unmistakable English. Tossa pricked up her ears apprehensively, unwilling to trust what they told her. She looked round for someone who would be quick to understand, and found herself appealing directly to Ondrejov.

  “That’s somebody else for me, I’m afraid. I know him, he’s—he’s a friend of my mother’s.” How could she say, with these people still employing the mourning note when they spoke of Terrell: “He’s going to marry my mother.”?

  Ondrejov got up and went into the outer room, closing the door between; and presently reappeared with a wooden face, ushering in before him a large, angry, black-avised man in an incongruous business suit, who descended upon Tossa like a perturbed thundercloud.

  “For God’s sake, girl,” demanded Paul Newcombe, “what have you been up to? Here’s your mother phoning me in Vienna to say she’s had word from some chap called Welland that you’re prowling round the regions where poor old Herbert got killed, and will I please find out what you’re up to, and tell you to stop it. And when I come in from Austria to the address she says you put on your card home—and a hell of a job I had finding the place!—I’m told you and your friends have gone, and I’ll find you here. Here, at the police station! What in the world’s been happening?”

  Tossa sat shaken and pale. It was going to begin all over again, every one of them worse than the one before. She was going to hate this one as she’d hated Terrell; there was no escape. She looked past the looming shape that was without authority, straight at the two Slovaks who were looking on with such narrow and considering interest.