The Salzburg Connection by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online Page B

him when you leave the car. Whiten your hair a bit—use some flour. Not too much! Where’s his hat? Didn’t he wear a—”
    “Here’s something,” Anton said as he searched in a deep pocket. “A beret! Imagine wearing a beret with a loden jacket,” he added contemptuously. “Who was he working for?”
    “It would be nice if we could ask him, wouldn’t it?”
    “Oh,” said Anton, and shrugged his shoulders again. “Don’t think we would have got much out of him.”
    “He has a wife,” Grell said simply.
    Yes, that always made a good threat, Anton thought. But why blame me for what I had to do? After all, Bryant would be alive and tied securely to a chair, ready for questioning, if old Grell hadn’t been caught up in all the precautions he took for security’s sake. He was secretive about the methods he used for an emergency call, but he wouldn’t have locked himself up in his bedroom if he wasn’t decoding the double talk that hadcome over the telephone in thick, rich Saxon dialect. “Didn’t you find out anything?” Anton asked, challenging as much as he dared, his eyes innocent.
    “If he hadn’t died today, he would have been killed tomorrow.” Grell hesitated, then added, “Two men were being sent from Warsaw to Salzburg. They intended to get the chest from him, and then silence him completely.”
    “But he hasn’t got it. I searched the trunk of his car in case he had carried it that far before he doubled back through the woods to get his jacket.”
    Grell studied Anton with amusement. But his tone was gentler now. “And what about his equipment? You think that all a man has to do is take off his shirt and dive into Finstersee? There is more to it than that.” He relented completely. “You’re right. I don’t think he could have found the chest.”
    “This jacket is too small. I can’t button it.” Anton laughed at his wrists popping far out below the cuffs.
    “You aren’t going to be seen closely by anyone. You’ll drive quickly through the village, climb the hill at high speed—give every appearance of a good driver who takes chances. You are someone going home in a hurry.”
    “His wife—how much does she know, I wonder?” That’s what we should be worrying about, thought Anton. A faked accident to Bryant would be easy; but loose ends might be more difficult to deal with.
    Grell was reflective. The woman must have known something. Why else would she have sounded so upset? As if she knew that Finstersee was a dangerous spot, yet dared not mention it. But she had spoken about Yates’s call from Zürich quite freely. Grell allowed himself one small deduction. “She doesnot know everything, or else she would never have mentioned a man called Yates.”
    So that’s what all his telephoning was about, thought Anton; he was checking on the name of Yates. “And who is he?”
    “A man who has been sending messages to Warsaw from Zürich.”
    “The man we caught?”
    “Come on, come on,” Grell said brusquely. “Time to get Bryant moved out of here.”
    Anton took his cue. “How far do I drive?”
    “Well outside of the village—beyond the old church on the high meadow. There’s a sharp curve at that point. You go around it, and just where the road—”
    “I see what you want.” But, thought Anton, not that old cliché! Every time I hear of a car going over a cliff and ending in flames, I wonder who pushed it. He repressed a weary sigh, said diplomatically, “I’ll start a skid and stop the car near the edge. I’ll put his jacket around his shoulders, leave him slumped over the wheel, smash the window, take my loden, and get out of sight. And don’t worry, I’ll keep my gloves on all the time.”
    Grell was frowning as he pulled and tugged at the sweater to fit it over the body. “It may not be enough. The skid, I mean.”
    “Well, I’ll turn the car over on its side—it’s small enough.”
    Grell shook his head. “Better push the car right over the edge of