Free Prelude to Terror by Helen MacInnes Page A

drop Grant’s name in the middle of a telephone call between the two. Okay, perfectly acceptable: small world, and that kind of thing. But the steering of the conversation on to Ruysdael? The mention of inflated prices—as if Renwick guessed or had a vague suspicion that I was about to acquire a Ruysdael—might have been made with a purpose: to jolt the truth out of me that I was suffering from momentary shock because of this unexpected rise in value. Why? he would have asked: are you a prospective buyer? Right there he’d have known—not guessed but known that I was covering for someone. Most definitely. I don’t have enough cash to buy a Ruysdael at even a few thousand dollars; or pay for a hundred-dollars-per-day room in a luxury hotel, Dwight O’Malley knows that damned well.
    But O’Malley hadn’t known (and therefore Renwick hadn’t known either) where I was going to stay. All I mentioned in my note to O’Malley was the fact that I was leaving New York on the twenty-sixth for Vienna. That was vague enough. Or was it? Renwick had only to check the passenger list of the overnight flight to Vienna—and he’d have my arrival to the minute. Whereupon I was met by a nice quiet type like Frank, who seemed to be authentic: he knew whom to meet and where to take him. Damn it all, did he know about the Majestic—or did he learn that from the label on my suitcase?
    Which brings me to Herr Frank himself. He sat there, able to hear everything we said, all along that Mayerling road. Renwick wasn’t whispering: his voice had been normal. What’s more, Renwick wouldn’t have been so forthcoming about himself, about Brussels and NATO (only a fool would have missed drawing that inference), if there were some unknown chauffeur picking up every word he uttered. Renwick knew Frank: they were in this together.
    “Hell and damnation,” he said aloud, his muscles tightening. He sprang up from the bed, stood for a moment, rigid with anger. They were pushing him around like a bloody pawn. We’ll see about that, but first things first.
    He began unpacking his case. His two suits had travelled well, but they looked somewhat lonely in the vast wardrobe. It reminded him to search for the notice, which hotels were obliged to post, giving the cost of the room. He found it discreetly displayed behind the bedroom door that led to his small private hall. One thousand seven hundred schillings a day, not including breakfast. That brought the total over the hundred-dollar mark. Lois Westerbrook, or Gene Marck, had slipped up there. Badly. That was the trouble with these guys who worked for the super-rich, lived with them, became accustomed to wealth: they forgot how other people lived. First-class accommodations Lois had promised him. Sure, he had travelled like that often enough, but this went far beyond first class. This was unadulterated luxury. Have a good cover story ready for your friends, Marck had warned him and even suggested a couple of articles on the Brueghels in the State Museum. Blast his eyes, did he think you could write two short articles on seventeen intricate masterpieces? One thing he had done: he had made up Grant’s mind not to go near the Brueghels, not this trip. Damn me, Grant thought, if I’ll take any hand-me-down idea from a man who estimates art in terms of money: this painting is depreciating in dollar value, so sell; this one is rising, so buy. You’ll double your investment in three years: a greater future than pork bellies on any commodity market.
    He cooled down while he finished unpacking the overnight bag. Jennifer’s photograph, now covered for safe travel by transparent plastic instead of glass, went on the dressing-table. He could see her dancing around this room, thin negligee flowing loose, her laughter rising as she dropped on the chaise-longue in a Récamier pose. Jennifer... And there was a flash of memory, to the man who called himself Frank, talking pleasantly of skiing and