Free Prelude to Terror by Helen MacInnes Page B

mountain-climbing. In the winter, Jennifer and he had gone skiing; in the summer, they had climbed mountains. Did Frank know as much as all that about him? A carefully dropped allusion to make Frank quickly acceptable? Just one of us, good old Frank.
    All right, Grant decided, his lips tight, I’ll check up on Frank. He finished dressing, then searched in the telephone book for the Danube Travel Service, half expecting no entry to be found. But it was there. He rehearsed a few sentences in German and made the call.
    After the eighth ring, a woman answered. She sounded efficient, even if dilatory. Yes, this was Danube Travel, could we be of assistance, sir?
    “Is Frank there?”
    “Which Frank?”
    “The one who met me at the airport this morning.”
    “We met several people. On which flight were you?”
    “Arriving from New York at nine forty-five.”
    “Oh yes. Just a moment.” After some brief consultation, she said, “I am sorry, but Frank is not here at the moment. Is there a complaint?”
    “No, no. Excellent driver. But I don’t need any car for my visit to Vienna. Has he cancelled that arrangement?”
    She rustled a page. “I don’t see any further bookings.”
    “Good. How much do I owe you for this morning?”
    “It is paid.”
    “Who paid it?”
    “The party who ordered the car.”
    “Who was that? I have to thank him. You understand?”
    “Oh.” She was uncertain. “I understand, gnädiger Herr . But I don’t see any name.”
    “Impossible,” he said, deciding to sound short-tempered. “You must have some record of the payment.”
    “It was charged to one of our regular clients.” And that, said her tone of voice, was all she was going to tell him.
    “Did the telex come from New York? You must know. Or from Geneva?” From New York, it was possibly Lois Westerbrook. From Geneva—Dwight O’Malley.
    “There was no telex. The order was telephoned this morning.”
    Quickly, he asked, “Is Frank one of your regular drivers?” That nearly caught her unawares. Her voice was vague as she replied at last, “Now and then. When we are busy—”
    “—you need extra help. Of course.” Grant was most understanding. “Well, I guess I can’t write that letter of thanks.” He rang off.
    No telex. Frank’s explanation at the airport had been a lie. Or, as Frank might see it, a necessary diversion from the truth to get Grant safely into the Mercedes. And the detour via Baden to the Mayerling road? Another manoeuvre. One thing was certain, Robert Renwick had taken considerable care to keep his meeting with Grant as secret as possible. But why?
    The question would have no answer until he met Renwick again. I’ll call him. Grant decided, arrange to see him, demand some explanation. Was that what Renwick really wanted—another encounter, with a fair exchange of information? I’ve got to know what’s behind all this mystery—or as much as he can tell me. Would he tell me? Could I believe him? Is he as much a fake as Frank? Well, I can check on him too.
    Grant found his travel address-book with its page for names of friends and business acquaintances who lived abroad. A slip of paper fell out, with the Schofeld Gallery’s imprint at its head: that was Max Seldov being helpful—a brother-in-law here in Vienna, who owned the Two Crowns Hotel. “A fine man, you’ll like him,” Seldov had said. “Married my youngest sister, may she rest in peace.” For a moment. Grant’s mind was sidetracked by the Two Crowns. Later, he told himself, later. Now, he’d telephone Geneva. He might catch Dwight O’Malley in his office before he left for lunch. If not, he’d leave a message: urgent—call back at six o’clock. Damned if I’m going to spend my first afternoon in Vienna hanging around a telephone.
    The hotel operator put him quickly through to Geneva. O’Malley was there, just out of a meeting and about to leave for a luncheon engagement. He was exceedingly friendly, though. Covering a