Читать книгу The Basle Express - Cyril Henry Coles - Страница 6

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The Café d’Angoulème was of the usual Continental type; small tables with clean checked tablecloths stood, with freshly painted chairs, on the pavement outside, and a neat menu card in a shining brass frame hung upon one doorpost. Clean white curtains draped the windows; the walls inside had been newly decorated and the floor was not yet dry from the daily scrubbing. The room was of irregular shape with a number of deep alcoves. Cournand led his way towards one of them and ordered coffee when the waiter came. “And ask the manager to be so good as to come and speak to us for a moment.”

The place was almost empty at that hour, too late for breakfast and too early for lunch; most of the waiters, still in linen jackets, were laying tables, polishing already shining glasses, and dusting already speckless chairs. Hambledon said that it was a nice place and Cournand agreed with him. “I come here sometimes,” he added. “I probably shall again, but not to talk secrets, no.”

The manager came, a short fat man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a gold watch chain across his black waistcoat.

“Good morning, Herr Cournand. One of my fellows says you are so kind as to wish to speak to me.”

Cournand said that that was so, yes, and asked the manager if he knew Herr Bastien, the press correspondent.

“Certainly I do, certainly. Who does not? He comes here very often; not every day but whenever, I suppose, he is hungry in this vicinity. I have known him many years now.”

“He was, you would say, a friend of yours?” asked Cournand.

“I hope I may so—you said ‘was.’ Has anything happened?”

“I am sorry,” said Cournand. “He is dead.”

“Dead? But he was here on—” the manager hesitated—“on Wednesday and again on Thursday. He seemed quite well then. Was it, then, an accident?”

Cournand, with a look, transferred the question to Virolet who leaned forward.

“It is more startling than that, monsieur. Your poor friend has been murdered.”

“Murdered! When?”

Virolet glanced at Hambledon, who picked up his cue.

“He was shot in the head, monsieur. I was there and saw it. He died almost at once. That was at two o’clock this morning.”

The manager turned in his chair and looked absently across the room for a moment.

“I liked him,” he said, and his jaw tightened.

“That being so,” said Cournand briskly, “I think you can help us. Cast your mind back to the evening of Wednesday last. You had three men together in here to dinner that night, and I think Herr Bastien was interested in them.”

The man started violently. “Herr Cournand, do not tell me—— I could not bear it if I were at all responsible——”

“What did you do?”

“It was irregular, I know, but I did not mean to do anything wrong—Herr Bastien was a man in whom I had the most profound confidence——”

“Begin at the beginning,” said Cournand, “and tell us all about it. One moment.”

A waiter came with the coffee which had been ordered, set it down and asked if there were anything else required.

“Yes,” said the manager, “I will have a fine. A large one, from the bottle at the back of my shelf. Gentlemen will you join me? Five, Franz, all from the same bottle.” He took his glasses off to wipe his forehead. “This has been a horrid shock, gentlemen. I am sure that for weeks to come I shall look up when the door opens, expecting to see him. For it is so with an unexpected death; it is not that one thinks of it continually but that one forgets, and so the tragedy happens over and over again.”

“That is very true,” said Hambledon. The brandy came; the manager sipped his and the colour came back to his face.

“It was like this,” he said. “Herr Bastien came to me on Wednesday morning at about this time—no, a little earlier, the tables had not been laid—and said that three men would be coming to dinner that night. He described them to me so that I could not fail to recognize them. He said that they were evil men planning an evil deed and if he could get evidence against them he could act against them, but he must have evidence. I—I am sorry—I did not take him too seriously; I asked if he wished to disguise himself as a waiter. He laughed and said heaven forbid, he would certainly upset the soup all over them. Besides, he said, they probably knew him by sight. Then he became serious and said that it was a very grave matter and I must help him. All he wanted to do was to put a lamp, which he brought with him, on a certain table, the one in that far alcove. It backs onto the staff cloakrooms; there is only a wooden partition though you would not think so to look at it. This lamp, which he took out of a suitcase, was like mine; they are a common pattern but this one had a microphone in it, or so he told me. When the waiter switched on the table lamp—they are only lit when the tables are in use—he would switch on the microphone also. The Herr understands? Myself, I know nothing of these matters; it looked like an ordinary lamp to me. Then he bored a small hole through the partition low down, near the floor, and drew the wire from the lamp through it into the staff cloakroom behind. Later in the day, in the evening, he came with a small attaché case and went into the cloakroom with it. He watched from behind the screen there till he saw these men come in and then rushed into the cloakroom. I myself showed them to their table. That is all I know, gentlemen. I did not attempt to hear anything of what they said——”

“No need,” said Cournand. “Can you describe them?”

The manager did so. They were all men in the middle thirties; one was tall, slim, and well spoken, another was dark and thick-set, probably a German, the third was pale to the point of being colourless; he had a slight impediment in his speech. The manager added further details about their appearance and Arnoux noted them all down. “My waiter, Franz, the one who brought the coffee just now, he waited upon them. Perhaps he can tell you more about them.”

“Thank you, I will ask him,” said Cournand. “One more question, if you will forgive me. Did Herr Bastien tell you how he got on the track of these people?”

“I asked him that. I said, ‘How the devil do you get hold of all these dreadful stories, eh?’ He only laughed and said that he had many friends who talked to him. It was true, gentlemen; he had so many people who told him things—bits of broken stories—he told me once, which he spent his days fitting together.”

“Yes,” said Cournand, “yes. Have you,” he turned to Hambledon and Virolet, “any more questions before we cease to waste this gentleman’s whole morning for him?”

Virolet shook his head and Hambledon said, “One thing only. If we might see one of your table lamps?”

One was brought; it was of the familiar Corinthian column pattern with a switch on the wide and heavy base and a silk shade over the electric bulb. It was the duplicate of that which Hambledon had lifted off the tape recorder in Bastien’s flat.

“Thank you,” said Hambledon, and the lamp was solemnly borne away again.

“I have remembered something else the Herr Bastien said,” added the manager. “He spoke, as I told you, of an evil deed, and I asked him whether there would be any reward to make a little nest egg for his old age—I was still not taking the matter very seriously—and he said not in money, no, but as a journalist’s scoop, ah! If he could pull it off he would, he said, retire on his laurels and build little ships. You have seen his little ships? Yes. I asked if I should read about it in our papers and he said in all the papers of the civilized world starting with the London Times, that great paper. Ah, well. Is there any matter in which I can serve you further, gentleman? If you would excuse me, then, there is one of our suppliers waiting to see me. I am always here if you want me, gentlemen.”

The manager trotted away. Cournand said he thought that when they had got any extra information the waiter Franz might have noticed or overheard, that would conclude the usefulness of the Café d’Angoulème. Virolet suggested that Arnoux could take Franz’s statement if that would be any help to Monsieur Cournand, and Cournand answered that in view of the probability that the papers on his desk were now piled up till they touched the ceiling, he would be much obliged. The four men got up from the table as Hambledon said that there was one curious point which emerged, was there not? The Herr Bastien had known beforehand of a murderous affray being planned for the back room of Der Schwartzhund and had done absolutely nothing whatever to prevent or even hinder it.

“In view of the personalities involved,” snarled Virolet, “on both sides, no doubt he thought that they would all be much better dead. All of them, and I agree with him. If I had known beforehand what Bastien knew, I should have encouraged the affair with all the resources at my disposal. Eh, Cournand?”

“It is easily seen,” said Cournand, “that this is not your city. Nevertheless, there is something in what you say. Well now, Herr Hambledon, what would you like to do?”

Hambledon said that he thought he would now pursue his journey. There was a train to Innsbruck at about fourteen hours; he would have lunch and go by that.

“Do not forget your rucksack,” said Virolet. “When you go striding over those mountains you will need it, will you not? Is that all the luggage you have?”

“There are a couple of suitcases also, but I registered them straight through to Seefeld.”

Hambledon’s train drew into Innsbruck soon after half past nine that night; he collected his gear, presented his roll of magazines to a fellow traveller who would not reach Vienna until breakfast time the following morning, and stepped down onto the platform.

“I suppose,” he said, accosting a passing porter, “that the last train to Seefeld is already gone.”

“Oh yes, mein Herr, two hours ago. Will the Herr stay in the town tonight? There is a train at five-fifteen tomorrow——”

“Pfui!” said Hambledon violently.

“And another just after eight,” said the porter hurriedly. “And numerous others later, of course.”

Hambledon hesitated, for he was in that state of fatigue when it seems desirable to press on to one’s final destination at all costs rather than to break the interminable journey again. He asked how far it was to Seefeld and learned that it was only about fifteen miles.

“I think I’ll hire a taxi,” he said. “No doubt there are plenty of garages here who will be willing to drive me to Seefeld?”

“Certainly, mein Herr. Also there are taxis waiting outside the station entrance,” said the porter, pointing it out. “Shall I call one up for the Herr?”

“Don’t bother,” said Hambledon, “thank you. No doubt I shall find one.” He turned to go and a voice spoke at his shoulder.

“With excuses,” it said, “for addressing the Herr unasked——”

Hambledon looked around. There was a young man at his elbow with a cheerful and apologetic expression.

“I could not avoid hearing what the Herr said to the porter,” said the young man. “Asking pardon, I am myself a taxi driver and I have to go to Seefeld empty tonight to pick up a fare to drive back here, to Innsbruck. If the Herr would care to come in my car it would not cost him so much as it otherwise would; also it will pay me rather better—excuse me! It is, of course, entirely as the Herr wishes.”

“Thank you——” began Hambledon.

“Unless the Herr wishes to start at once,” said the young man. “I have, unfortunately, a couple of hire runs to do first.”

“I don’t in the least wish to start at once,” said Hambledon. “On the contrary, I want a meal before I go. When were you thinking of starting?”

The young man glanced up at the clock. “In an hour’s time, if that will suit the Herr? At a quarter before twenty-three hours?”

“Very good,” said Hambledon. “I will meet you at the station entrance, here, in an hour’s time,” at which the young man grinned, saluted, and hurried away.

Hambledon, tired to aching point, hungry and thirsty—for there is no restaurant car on that train—stumbled over uneven platforms in the fading light and out to the dusty road outside. He checked his rucksack and walked on. He had not been to Innsbruck since long before the war; towards the end of it the station had been bombed or shelled, or both, and he did not recognize what he saw outside, a large open space upon the far side of which strings of little tramcars crawled jerkily along. On his right there were hoardings hiding he knew not what, on his left an enormous hole in the ground which reminded him of the gaping cellars of Cologne, and the road upon which he walked was of cobblestones alternated with patches of soft dust. Ahead, however, things looked better; the wide Salurner Strasse seemed to be intact, the street lamps were pricking the violet dusk with points of gold, somewhere ahead there were strings of coloured lights, and from an open window high above him there came the sound of an orchestra playing Viennese waltzes. Hambledon’s spirits rose and he turned into the Hochhaus café humming to himself.

He came out, nearly an hour later, more cheerful still. Only a fifteen-mile run in a presumably comfortable car lay between him and journey’s end; another half hour or a little more and he could be at rest in a place which did not sway, bump, or rattle, where he could have a bath, go to bed and stay there all night. Marvellous.

When he reached the station he found his driver already there, sitting at the wheel of a Citroën saloon, not very new but clean and well cared for; he saw Hambledon coming and got out to open the door for him. Hambledon thought for a moment that he had seen the man’s face before but it was probably fancy; he had seen so many faces. A chance resemblance.

“Just a moment,” said Hambledon. “I have some things in the cloakroom. I will get them.”

“But of course,” said the driver. “Stupid of me,” and he walked with Hambledon to the left-luggage office which is close by the main door. Hambledon carried his own coat and stick and the driver burdened himself with the rucksack.

“Is this, then, all the luggage? It is easily seen that the Herr is an experienced traveller; he travels light.”

“You don’t mind going off into the wilds at this time of night?”

The driver laughed. “It is not so late to our way of thinking, nor so very far, mein Herr. Besides, it is my livelihood, so why should I complain? It is true that the road is not of the best but I am used to it.”

“Bad surface?”

“Oh no, mein Herr. It is the gradient; the road up to Seefeld is the second steepest hill in all the Tyrol. Parts of it are one-in-four.”

“Indeed,” said Hambledon, getting into the rear seat. “I hope this car has a good engine.”

“Let the Herr have no misgivings. We shall go slowly in places, but we shall continue to go.” The driver shut the door, put Hambledon’s rucksack on the front seat beside his own, and got in himself. The car turned and drove away as Hambledon settled down comfortably and lit a cigarette. They passed through a number of lighted streets, crossed a bridge over the turbulent Inn, and soon afterwards turned left onto the main road to the Arlberg Pass and Switzerland. The lights of the town fell behind, the road was wide and good, and the car hummed along until the driver slowed at Zirl for the turn to Seefeld. Hambledon, who was half asleep, roused up at this and saw that the road was narrower and winding; a little further on the lights of the car illuminated a notice board. The something-or-other Catgut Factory, it said. Hambledon remembered that Mittenwald, famous for violins, was only just over the German frontier a few miles ahead and murmured, “Poor pussy. But it’s all synthetic these days.”

Trees overhung the road which started to rise, the car laboured, and the driver changed gears. Up and up, round sharp bends with a wall of rock on their left and what looked like illimitable depths on the right, treetops close to the road as the head lamps swung for another bend, tiny points of light in the valley below. The driver was changing gears all the time, down to second, down to bottom, up for an easier stretch, down again. At a point where the road seemed by comparison almost level, the driver pulled the car in to the side of the road, stopped, got out, and came to the rear door on the right. Hambledon leaned forward as the door opened and began, “Are you in trouble? Can I do——” and stopped abruptly.

The driver had a businesslike Lüger automatic in his hand, and it was levelled at Hambledon.