The Piper on the Mountain

Chapter 11

THE MAN WHO FAILED TO ARRIVE

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Down from the recesses of the northerly col Ondrejov came bouncing and rolling, that lumpy elderly body of his marvellously deft and rapid in movement, his rifle bumping vigorously at his hip as he ran. Hard on his heels came Miroslav Zachar, still in his leather motor-cycling jacket, and sweating profusely, and two young policemen in uniform. They descended upon the hut, where Dominic stood dazed and appalled, staring down into the cauldron below him, from which a thick, choking smoke of dust rose, and the last muted rumblings of the thunder.

Ondrejov turned him about by the shoulders, looked him over for damage, and found nothing worse than a scratched cheek.

“Well for you two,” he bellowed, clouting him boisterously behind in his relief, “that I’ve kept my hand in with a rifle. And well for you I had Mirek on your trail. He was waiting for you below, and you never came. You cost him a fine hunt before he found the van, and a fine fright I got when he rang up to tell me. If you youngsters would only do as you’re told! I had the road well covered for your sake, but we had to reorganise in a hurry. There’ll be two of us on their way up the valley now, and the rest of us came over the quickest way from Král’s inn. And lucky for you the first shot gave us our bearings. You’re all right?”

“Yes. Thank you! I’m all right,” said Dominic, still staring down into the boiling eddies of dust below, beneath which the wreckage of the talus still slid and settled with sluggish, sated movements. He thought of a body buffeted and ground and slashed in that titanic disintegration, and the body became live, and his own. He would never play with those things again! He felt sick, but he was alive. For the moment that was all he could feel, and it was enough.

“Mr. Alda…” he said. His tongue was slow and stupid, and his mouth dry with dust. “Mr. Veselsky, I mean…”

“Mr. Veselsky is on his way down, look! Like one of his own goats! Does he look damaged? Nie, there was only one shot—mine.”

Alda was dropping down the grass slope on the far side of the scar in long, sure-footed bounds, balanced like a dancer. They saw that he carried a rifle in his hands.

“Good!” said Ondrejov. “The gun at least we have, if we can’t have the man.” He laid his arm warmly about Dominic’s shoulders, and turned him towards the descent into the bowl. “Come on, let’s go down. Let’s see what we have there.”

What they had was a wilderness, a new desolation. They foregathered in silence in the safe, hollowed heart of the bowl, where nothing could fall any farther, and ranged the scattered fringes of a desert of tumbled stones, through a pall of acrid dust that still silted down thickly on every blade of grass between the rocks, until there was no green left. Somewhere under those piled cairns the body of Robert Welland’s murderer was buried.

“There won’t be much to identify,” said Ondrejov grimly, “but I suppose we shall have to dig him out. We shall need heavy equipment on the job. You didn’t, by any chance, get a proper look at him?”

“No, nothing. I saw only the end of his fall.”

“And we had no field-glasses. No telescopic sights, not even a diopter. Our best shots were covering the road.” Ondrejov nodded sombrely, looking down at the rifle in his hands, on which the dust was settling pale and fine as talc. “He had, though. A Zbrojovka Brno gun, of course. ZKM 581 small-calibre rifle. Automatic. Light to carry, not too bulky to hide, and a man could run into them by the thousand here. That tells us nothing till we find out who applied for the permit to buy it. As we shall.” He shook himself like an experienced old dog making ready for action, and turned towards the downhill path, coughing. “Let’s get back where we can breathe. We’ll work this out in Pavol.”

“Then we still don’t know who he is,” said Dominic, swept along in Ondrejov’s arm, shaky with reaction now.

Ondrejov hoisted an eloquent shoulder. “We soon shall. We’re in no hurry now.” He looked back once, briefly, at the murky desolation where the murderer lay buried. “Neither is he,” he said laconically. “Even for him, the emergency’s over.”

“I’m officially off-duty,” said Ondrejov smugly, “but as Major Kriebel is at Liptovsky Mikulás, examining Mr. Welland’s baggage at his hotel there, and enquiring into his movements, I shall take the liberty of presiding until he returns.”

And he did, and the wires hummed. First, the salvage operations in Zbojská Dolina; then a dutiful call, naturally, to Major Kriebel, so worded that he would, with luck, feel it incumbent upon him, in defence of his dignity, to go to survey the devastation in the valley before he came back to Pavol; and lastly, calls to the two hotels at Mikulás where Freeling, Blagrove and Sir Broughton Phelps had installed themselves, and across the square to the Slovan, where Paul Newcombe had taken a room. None of them was actually in his hotel to be contacted personally, which was hardly surprising on a lovely August afternoon; it was a question of leaving a message in each case, asking them all to report at Ondrejov’s office, in person or by telephone, as soon as possible.

That done, Ondrejov assembled his cast for the last act, the Mather twins from their forlorn and fruitless councils of war at the Slovan, Tossa from a long and blissful sleep on her solitary cot downstairs. And they all talked at last, fully and freely.

After that, Ondrejov talked.

“When Mr. Terrell was found dead,” he said, “I was already in possession of the facts about that death, but not of the background. I therefore knew from the beginning that this was not a case of murder. But there were certain curious features about it that interested me. And when you, Miss Barber, applied for a visa, with your friends, the authorities, who were also on the alert, contacted me. We supplied you with Mirek as an escort, and waited to see what would follow. And it was known to me, before the death of Mr. Welland brought things into the open, that you were making enquiries about your stepfather’s movements. Movements which we already knew, but to which your anxiety gave significance. You even uncovered some points which were not known to us. For instance, at the Hotel Sokolie—you remember the waiter who spoke English? He was a very worried man, Miss Barber, very worried. He had thought nothing of the small matter of the card-game, and the paper on which Ivo Martínek kept the score, until you became excited about it.”

Tossa, refreshed and radiant, sat by Dominic’s side, and smiled back at Ondrejov with all her heart. She had never looked younger, and never in Dominic’s experience half so light-hearted. She was clear of suspicion, clear even of her suspicions of herself. Terrell had not been a hero or a patriot, but only an ambitious schemer bent on climbing in his profession, if necessary over other people’s faces. She was free of him, she had her life back fresh and new, and she had Dominic tightly by the hand. She knew now, though imperfectly, how nearly she had lost him.

“Naturally I questioned the Martíneks about that incident; so already I had a picture of another kind of case, with its roots somewhere in the past, even before Mr. Welland was killed. I knew from Mr. Veselsky—shall I call him Mr. Alda, for our purposes?—I knew from Mr. Alda that he had known Terrell, and worked in the same enterprise with him in England. I knew from your activities that you suspected Terrell had been hunting for someone or something in the neighbourhood of Zbojská Dolina, and I knew from Ivo the nature of the lead he—and you after him—had found. Of Welland I knew only that he had known Terrell, and that he, too, was returning with marked persistence to the place where Terrell had died, also plainly in search of something there. It was as evident to me as it was to you that every thread led into the heart of that one valley, and that the person to whom all those threads were leading must be Mr. Alda. The man who had known and worked with Terrell, and reported his death, the man who had an English past of some importance. Which, naturally, we, too, investigated.

“Now you, Miss Barber, have been so kind as to fill in all the gaps. It is very lucky for me, that Mr. Welland was forced by circumstances to confide in you. I had not this detailed knowledge then, but I had enough to show me that certain persons, all English, were very much interested in locating Mr. Alda, and that after the death of the first of them those of you who were continuing the search obviously held that same death to be murder. I knew it was not; but it was interesting to think that there was somewhere, known to someone, a reason why it could have been murder. And the second death was murder. I was not altogether prepared for that, never having taken it quite seriously. Your secret agent game became real, quite suddenly, because it appeared there was someone who was desperate to prevent you from finding Mr. Alda, someone who had killed and would kill again to keep the facts about his departure from England from being re-examined, or the case re-opened in any way.

“But where I had the advantage of you, of course, was in knowing beforehand that it could not be Mr. Alda himself. We preserve his quietness here, but that is not the same thing as keeping his secrets. He lives a life in which not even an Englishman could find anything underhand or controversial, he has nothing to hide and nothing to fear, and he would not care how many English people came investigating him, provided they didn’t hinder his work. For the same reasons, it could not be any other Czech or Slovak, official or unofficial.”

He had reached this point, when there was a knock on the outer door. Mirek got up from his place and looked enquiringly at his chief.

“Let him in,” said Ondrejov, settling his solid body more complacently in his wooden arm-chair, and his chin more contentedly into his chest. “Let’s see who’s the first.”

Every head turned to watch the doorway; and into it, all the more belligerently for his considerable inward disquiet, marched Paul Newcombe. He looked quietly round the circle, caught the excitement that burned in them all, and was alarmed, caught the glow and animation of Tossa’s face, and was reassured. He halted, uncertain what to make of them.

“You left a message for me at the hotel. I was only out for a walk.”

“Come in, Mr. Newcombe, come in. Mirek, find Mr. Newcombe a chair. You’re just in time,” pursued Ondrejov amiably, “to hear me conclude that the only person who could possibly have an interest in preventing an Englishman from finding Mr. Alda was someone connected with the circumstances in which he left England, someone who had gained by that case, and stood to lose by any reappraisal. In fact, another Englishman.”

“I know absolutely nothing about this affair,” Paul said loudly and aggressively, his bull head lowered in an instant. “I came from Vienna only because of Tossa, and that’s all I care about. But I can account for every minute I’ve spent in this country.”

“Ah, but you need not, Mr. Newcombe. Sit down, and be easy. You were never a very likely suspect. Now if it had been Terrell’s murder, I might have wondered… But in any case you have accounted for yourself quite adequately,” said Ondrejov, grinning like a happy demon, “simply by being here—and alive.”

“We have, then, our hypothetical Englishman. Can we give him any distinguishing features? A face? Not exactly, but an office or a status, perhaps, yes. He was connected with Mr. Alda’s life and work in England. He gained by his leaving England. That, at least, was my theory.

“Now, thanks to Miss Barber, I know much more about Welland, how he came into the case, what his motives were, what sort of man he was. We know that he went to the Marrion Institute, and proposed that he, being here on the spot, should investigate what he believed to be Terrell’s murder. He saw it as something they owed to the dead man, and to justice itself. Now I ask you, how could any of those in authority openly deprecate his zeal? They could not. In any case it seems he would not have agreed to drop his quest. I invite you to look closely at Mr. Welland, for I think he is worth it. There is every sign that he was a good, conscientious and honest man. And what follows? He would have insisted on investigating to the bitter end, and I think he would have made the truth known, no matter what that truth turned out to be. Which would not have suited X at all, for X alone knew exactly what was there to be uncovered.”

“I hope,” said Alda drily, “that you can make that good. For I tell you plainly, I am still in the dark.”

“Well, let me theorise, it was all I could do then, and what Miss Barber has told me since fits in with my theory. As for you, you do not know only because you do not care. You will see!

“Given, then, a devoted avenger who means to know the truth, and will not be stopped by persuasion, and cannot for shame’s sake be stopped by a prohibition, what is to be done? Use him! Let him find Alda, and then both he and Alda can be eliminated, and there’s an end of it. Let him find Alda, yes, but only if it can be ensured that he shall report his whereabouts only in the right quarter. It seemed to me that X must be in a position to know all about that interview at the Institute, and also to give orders to Welland concerning this case, to say in effect: ‘You will preserve absolute secrecy, reporting only to me’, and be trusted and obeyed. ‘Security’ is such a useful word, and can blanket so many personal meannesses.

“Now see what Miss Barber has told us about the last words Welland ever spoke to her. ‘He couldn’t have known…’ He? Obviously the expected he, the defecting scientist, the one who was thought to have things to hide, and had nothing, except his personal privacy. ‘—no one else knew…’ No one else but the one, or the ones, to whom he had already reported, the ones who had the right to know! He said it himself, and then he understood what it meant, and he cried: ‘Impossible!’ Impossible that his superior, the person, or one of the persons, for whom he was working, could also be his murderer. But he knew then that it was not impossible, that it was the truth.

“Such was my theory. And if this was true, then both Miss Barber and Mr. Felse were in danger after that death, simply because they had been present, and he might have confided something to them. Fortunately the circumstances made it possible for me to place Miss Barber in safety by holding her on suspicion. You would have made things much more difficult for me if you had told the truth the first time, but luckily you did not. And this, again, enabled me to inform the British Embassy that she was being held. You will surely understand how very curious I was to see exactly who would turn up to take charge of her…”

It was not a knock this time, only the sudden, rather high-pitched, imperious English voice in the outer room. Ondrejov drew in a long, contented breath, knowing this one, and knowing him the most expendable.

“Another chair, Mirek.” He rubbed his hands; how convenient that he had been able to secure all the time he wanted, simply by deflecting Major Kriebel’s most avid attention to the salvage operations already under way in Zbojská Dolina. “Ah, Counsellor! Come in, come in! You received my message, then.”

Charles Freeling closed the door after him with quiet precision, to show how perfectly he was in control of both his own reactions and the right manipulation of inanimate things.

“I should have been here earlier, but I had some trouble hiring a car. I preferred to come in person. Am I to take it that the matter is now cleared up, and Miss Barber no longer under restraint? Or is it intended to charge her?”

He took his stand, significantly, at her side, even laid his fingers delicately on her shoulder in reassurance. She did not even notice; she was clinging to Dominic’s hand, but she was watching Ondrejov, with wonder and delight, her newly released and exuberant senses sharing his slightly mischievous but utterly human pleasure in his game.

“No, there will be no charge against her, Mr. Freeling. I am in process of uncovering the murderer of Mr. Welland, by elimination. I hope you will join us for the remainder of my exposition. We had reached the point of demonstrating that the murderer must be an Englishman, and one in a position of authority.”

Freeling’s eyebrows soared. Ondrejov was meant to notice them, and to appreciate, if it was not beyond him, the neat, satirical smile that accompanied their elevation. “I hope, I do hope, Lieutenant, that I am not your man?”

It was an attractive idea, in its way, and even just barely possible. Was it too much to conceive that a devoted and orthodox public servant might feel called upon to wipe out a less devoted and less orthodox one, in order to keep a discreditable case from being reviewed to England’s embarrassment? It would have made a nice ending. A pity!

“You have good reason to hope so, Counsellor,” said Ondrejov earnestly. “My man is already very, very dead.”

“Well, as you know, there were four who ran gallantly to protect Miss Barber, and to argue eloquently that she should be released in their custody. I did not put her in that somewhat risky situation, naturally, since by then I was convinced that one of them had designs on her life. But I did, with planned safeguards, allow them a chance at Mr. Felse. A chance which his own enterprise considerably complicated.

“We have now reduced our four to two. But we still have those two people to choose from, and the motives are surely taking form. Both of these men gained by ensuring Mr. Alda’s disgrace. One of them, as I have learned, assisted Terrell in the compilation of the notorious dossier, was advanced in his profession as a result, and has now stepped into Terrell’s shoes. The other became head of the Marrion Institute, a promotion which would have been unlikely if Mr. Alda had continued—I believe the word is ‘clean’.”

“It isn’t enough,” said Alda, suddenly and with authority. “Neither motive is strong enough for murder. For his whole career, for his reputation, a man might take such desperate measures. But my return now, even my vindication, would not have unseated anyone or disgraced anyone. Even if they all conspired to produce that dossier on me, and so quickly, all they had to do was sit tight and plead that they had acted throughout in good faith. They wouldn’t be broken for that, either of them. Believe me, I know my England. They would be supported and covered to the limit, short of something like murder. I might get my reputation back, a little finger-marked. They wouldn’t lose theirs.”

“They do not discard their failures?” Ondrejov asked with interest.

“On the contrary, they promote them.”

“And we are too quick to discard ours. Somewhere there must be a workable compromise.” He scrubbed his chin with hard knuckles till the bristles rasped, and spared one twinkling glance to enjoy the lofty forbearance of Freeling’s face. “Well, I accept your judgment. Then there must be more.”

Dominic looked at Tossa, and she looked back at him with all her being open and happy behind her eyes, drawing him in. He closed his fingers on hers. “Tossa, do you remember, you told us at the Riavka that there were note-books that vanished?” It was a detail she had forgotten to mention, in her haste, when rushing through her story to Ondrejov, an hour ago. “Tell them about that. What Welland told you.”

She caught the glitter of his excitement without understanding it, and turned quickly to look at Alda. “Mr. Welland said they told him at the Marrion that you took all your papers away with you, when you went. All your notes, all your plans… They told him the potential value was enormous, that you had planned work with you that could easily account for murder.”

“Notes? Plans?” Alda met her eyes across the circle with a grey-blue stare of detached astonishment. “I never intended to leave. I went on holiday with a rucksack, and when I got back to Briançon I found myself already a traitor. I took nothing with me. What I stood up in, a change of shirt and underclothes, some music paper, and a little money. Nothing more.”

“But you had projected work?” said Dominic intently. “Ideas that might have worked out and been worth a lot? You had them there, in the Institute?”

“Oh, yes, several. Some might have foundered. Most would have worked out. But I give you my word I left them there.”

“Yet Robert Welland told me,” said Tossa, her shining eyes fixed eagerly on Ondrejov, “that somebody there in the Institute—he didn’t say who, but one of them—told him Mr. Alda had removed all his notes and papers. He said nobody knew it, except the Institute and the Ministry.”

“And, don’t you remember,” Dominic took up just as ardently, appealing to Alda, “up there in your hut you told me about the crop-sprayer? The helicopter adaption? One of your ideas, put on the market by a commercial firm in France? How many years’ work would it have taken, to put it into production?”

“Three. Four, perhaps, without me. It was a completely new engine, driving a re-designed three-blade rotor. I was glad to see it produced for ordinary, human uses. But someone else must have hit on it. Why should my design turn up in France?”

“Because it was safer than selling it in England,” said Dominic. “Are you even sure it’s the only one?”

“No,” admitted Alda, startled. “How can I be sure? There could be others. I shouldn’t care, I shouldn’t think myself robbed. Better they should be used in the open market than filed for Institute modulations. They were always military! And we were not even a military establishment.”

“And how many were there in all, in these notebooks?” asked Ondrejov. “How many such marketable projects?”

“It’s hard to remember. Perhaps as many as nine or ten, at this same stage. Some others merely conceived and sketched out.”

“A fortune!” said Ondrejov, and sat back with a long breath of fulfilment, spreading his hands peacefully on the table. “Is it enough to kill for now? To keep this from being uncovered? Would they have kept their jobs then? Their reputations? Either of them could have done it. You are gone, your papers are there. How easy, if the idea dawns in time, to make away with them, and say: You see, his flight was premeditated, he removed everything! Who would doubt it? Who would stop to wonder? It is a time of hysteria, press and public would make enough outcry to cover one man’s orderly retreat with a stolen fortune under his arm. Either of them could have done it. Either of them was a natural repository for Welland’s reports—one the Director, the other the Security Officer. Both of them turn up here. Either of them could have followed Welland to his rendezvous and shot him, and then returned from the scene, the one by plane back to Prague, the other to the White Carpathians—three or four hours by car, what is that?—in time to be fittingly surprised and distressed when he heard of Miss Barber’s detention. Either of them could have acted on my hints, and followed Mr. Felse this morning, waiting to pick him off and make away with another possible witness. Mr. Blagrove could have hired a car in Mikulás—was that why you had difficulty, Counsellor?—Sir Broughton Phelps already had a car, hired in Bratislava. One of them had bought a ZKM 581 hunting rifle, with telescopic sights and the special sixteen-cartridge magazine. Which?”

The knock on the door and the abrupt burr of the telephone came at the same moment.

“Come in!” shouted Ondrejov, and reached for the telephone. “Ondrejov! No, islo to! Dobre, dobre!” Hanging upon the telephone with held breath, and watching the door with snapping, sparkling blue eyes, he saw Adrian Blagrove enter the room, his long face wary, his long lips faintly disdainful, his aloof eyes more than a little defensive.

“D’akujem, uz to viem,” said Ondrejov gently to the telephone. “Viem, kto to je.” He hung up. “I know,” he repeated in English, more to himself than to them, “I know now who he is.”

He pushed the instrument away from him wearily but contentedly, to the length of his arm. “They have found the car from Bratislava, a little above the place where you hid your van, Mr. Felse, but better hidden. He had more cause to hide. And in the head of the valley they have also found Sir Broughton Phelps. What remains of him.”