The Salzburg Connection by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online

voice, uncertain, hesitant. “I’m fine,” he told her quickly, trying to keep her from asking any questions that might give him away. “Sorry I’m late. I’m in Unterwald. I was delayed by the mist and got properly soaked, but I’m drying off at the inn—the Gasthof Waldesruh—and Herr Grell and his son have invited me to breakfast. I’ll be home around midday. By one o’clock at the latest.” There, he thought, I’ve named them. They won’t risk anything happening to me here. “Stop worrying,” he told her, suddenly cheerful.
    “Dick—”
    “Yes?”
    “Perhaps you ought to telephone Eric Yates right away. He called you early this morning. He seemed really upset when I told him—”
    Bryant cut in, even if he wanted to know what she had told Yates. (He hoped to God she had kept Yates guessing; he was pushing far too hard.) “How early?”
    “Just—just after you left. He said it was something about the book. I couldn’t quite understand.”
    “Where is he staying in Salzburg? Did he leave a number?”
    “It was a long-distance call from his home.”
    “Zürich?” Bryant was incredulous.
    “Yes. And such a strange time to call! He sounded so sharp, almost angry. Do you think he won’t publish your book? Was that the reason he—”
    “He’ll publish the book all right. I have a contract and an advance.”
    “I was worrying in case we would have to give that back,” she confessed. “But that was the least of my worries. Oh, Dick—I’m so glad you’re safe.”
    “This isn’t the first time I’ve been caught in a mist,” he told her quickly, before she could add anything more. “See you soon, darling,” he ended abruptly, and cut her off. He counted out some money to cover the cost of the call, and left it beside the telephone. As for a call to Zürich—Eric Yates could wait. Is he checking on me? Bryant wondered. Yates was becoming too damned curious. Last week he wanted to know when the completed set of photographs would be ready. He had mentioned Finstersee in particular, yet in a careful way. Too careful for Bryant’s taste; he had replied vaguely that he would be up at Finstersee by the end of this week, possibly next Friday. But that hadn’t been enough for Yates, seemingly. He had made this phone call shortly after one o’clock this morning just to test if Bryant was still in Salzburg. Was that it? He can trust me, Bryant thought irritably as he moved into the dining-room.
    We were together in the war and did the same kind of work, too. Yates has contacts with British Intelligence, may even be working for them. He knows perfectly well that anything I find in Finstersee is going to be handed over to our side. What doeshe want—everything spelled out? I had to give him a hint, back in June, just to make sure he could act as a go-between when the time came for that. I need his help. He is the quick route to the right people in London. But any more of this pressure and I’ll start thinking about my old friends in Washington. I have at least two there who will remember me from the old days.
    But that was just momentary annoyance, he told himself as he returned the cold stare of the beheaded deer on the wall. There was a personal stake—call it vanity—in showing London what he could do.
    “I see you admire our collection,” Anton was saying at the kitchen door.
    “Impressive. How many did you bag?”
    “Some,” Anton admitted modestly. He was a handsome fellow, with clear blue eyes and brownish hair and healthy skin. “My father shot most of them. Including the chamois.” He pointed to the head mounted over the door. “Do you do much hunting?” Something caught his eye in the hall behind Bryant, and he took Bryant’s arm and drew him firmly but politely into the kitchen. “Do you?” he asked again.
    Bryant didn’t glance back at the hall. He had heard the telephone click as August Grell had lifted the receiver. “No. It’s on the expensive side, isn’t