Free Rendezvous With Danger by Margaret Pemberton Page A

didn’t know who had been driving the car that had killed Christina. I didn’t know how many people, besides Stephen Maitland and the two men at the farm, were involved. I had seen no one suspicious as she walked away from the safety of the coffee-bar and down the village street, but someone, somewhere, had been watching. One thing I was sure of: I daren’t drive openly into Kunzelsau and to the police station. I didn’t fancy the odds against my making it. By now, her killer—whoever he was—must have realized his mistake and be looking for me with even more determination than before.
    With shaking hands I unfolded my large map of southern Germany and propped it up on the wheel in front of me. To my fevered brain it seemed that all roads led to Oberammergau and under no condition was I going to expose myself and my little Morris on any one of them. Not if Stephen Maitland was making his way to Oberammergau.
    I hunted in my shoulder-bag for the leaflet extolling the virtues of the surrounding hamlets and villages as quiet holiday retreats. On the back was a detailed map of the country roads connecting Niedernhall, Kunzelsau, Ohringen and, some miles to the south-east, Schwabisch Hall.
    If I took that road, and on reaching Schwabisch Hall phoned Gunther, either at the police station or at his home, then he would come for me and escort me in safety.
    Nervously I looked behind me, but the road, flanked by apple trees and summer flowers, was empty, the whole countryside peaceful and still. If I could make it to the right turning for Schwabisch Hall then I was safe. No one would ever think of looking for me there. Hastily I folded the map and started the car. About a hundred yards ahead was the junction, and with a feeling of overwhelming relief I swung the car over, disappearing down it like a rabbit into its hole.
    The road was quiet, the only other traffic being farm vehicles and one or two commercial vans. No menacing car loomed up behind me. I stopped at the first telephone box I saw and dialled Gunther’s number. The relief when he answered was overwhelming.
    â€˜Gunther. Oh, Gunther, thank goodness you’re in!’
    â€˜Susan! Where are you? You promised to stay at Frau Schmidt’s. I’ve been most worried.’
    I said weakly, ‘I’m on the outskirts of Schwabisch Hall. I had to leave. Someone … killed … Christina, the girl from Stephen Maitland’s guest-house, in mistake for me.’
    I heard his quick intake of breath, then he said, ‘Lieber Gott. So that’s it. The whole village is talking of nothing else. But I don’t understand. Why should they think she was you?’
    â€˜She was wearing my headsquare.’
    â€˜I see,’ he said slowly. He hesitated for a second then said: ‘Susan, listen to me carefully. Drive into Schwabisch Hall and make your way to the Waldlust Bar—it is in the main street, just after the traffic lights. I’ll meet you there.’
    â€˜Yes,’ I said waveringly. ‘And, Gunther, please hurry.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, meine Liebe, I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
    Numbly I put down the receiver and walked back to my car. All the time I was driving through the tree-lined streets I tried to ignore what so far had been left unsaid.
    Only Stephen had seen me wear the scarf. Only Stephen … I slammed on the brakes to avoid an oncoming car. The driver wound his window down, shouting unpleasantly as I backed out of the one-way street.
    Determinedly I concentrated on my driving and five minutes later parked in a quiet side street some yards from the bar. I picked up my shoulder-bag and map. I could ponder over the quickest and safest route either to Austria or to home, while waiting for Gunther.
    A short flight of steps led down into the small and dimly-lit bar. High-backed wooden seats separated each table from its neighbour, but all were unoccupied. I ordered a cognac from a