Read Online Prelude to Terror by Helen MacInnes - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen MacInnes
Ads: Link
highway.”
“There’s someone who already has a problem,” Grant said, pointing just ahead. A small grey Fiat was drawn up at the side of the road, its hood raised. A man straightened his back from his inspection of the engine and looked at the oncoming Mercedes. A girl, sitting by the opened door, swung her legs out on to the ground, and rose. She had smooth dark hair, cut short to show—even from this distance—the neat silhouette of her well-shaped head.
“Do we stop?” Frank was asking, slowing his speed.
“Sure.” Grant recovered from his initial shock. The girl could have been Jennifer if her hair had been longer. She was the same height, had the same proportions. “They don’t look like terrorists to me.”
Frank didn’t smile. But he agreed, for he brought the Mercedes to a halt. He spoke in German. “Can we help?”
“Nothing can be done. I’ve checked,” the man replied in German, closing the hood. “It’s the battery. Just faded out on us. Can you give us a lift to the nearest place where I can find a tow-truck?”
“That will be on the outskirts of Vienna itself,” Frank said in English, looking at Grant.
“Better tell them to hop in,” said Grant, opening a door. The first isolated drops of rain, large and heavy, were beginning to plop on the car’s roof, promising a sudden deluge. The girl made a dash for the Mercedes, hands over her head, her blue summer dress fluttering round her excellent legs, laughter in her voice as she said, “Thank you,” and then “ Vielen Dank! ” as she slipped in beside Grant.
“English will do,” he told her.
“Bob!” she called in delight to the man who was now leaving car keys under the Fiat’s visor, “we found an American!”
He ran to join them—a man about Grant’s own age, of medium height, with even features and longish brown hair. He was dressed in tweed jacket and flannels. He came round to the other side of the car and climbed in, so that Grant—a little to his surprise—now found he was sitting between the newcomers. Even if his feet had a precarious hold on the raised central section of the floor, he was comfortable enough once he had hoisted his overnight bag into the front seat beside his suitcase.
Apart from the fact that she was slender, the girl didn’t take much room: she had pulled herself as far into the corner of the seat as possible, leaving extra space for him. “No need to do that,” Grant told her, and won a shy smile. She still kept her distance. For a moment, he watched her profile, her face now turned to frown at the heavy rain. No, she wasn’t like Jennifer: not close up. This girl’s eyes were dark brown, not blue; her features were less perfect, pretty but not startlingly beautiful. Definitely not a replica of Jennifer, not even in manner. Jennifer would have been talking, making amusing comments with her usual vivacity, getting them all to smile and relax. This girl seemed withdrawn, almost cold in her detachment. Or painfully shy? Nervous?
Her companion certainly wasn’t. His manner was easy, as if being picked up on a lonely country road were a daily occurrence. “My name is Renwick, Robert Renwick. This is Miss Avril Hoffman, at your right elbow. Sorry to put you to this trouble. We’re grateful for it. We were due at the office ten minutes ago.”
I see, thought Grant in a flight of romantic guessing: business associates (boss and secretary?) returning from a night in the country. Travelling light, too; but Miss Hoffman’s outsize shoulder-bag could hold two toothbrushes quite easily. “Glad to help out. The name is Grant, by the way, Colin Grant.”
Renwick stared at him. “Colin Grant?” He was incredulous. “Well, well, well...”
The next thing he’ll tell me, Grant was thinking, is that he has read my book—one of the two thousand and sixty-three people who have actually bought it. Or perhaps he borrowed it from a library: that was usually the case. In spite of the lack of
“There’s someone who already has a problem,” Grant said, pointing just ahead. A small grey Fiat was drawn up at the side of the road, its hood raised. A man straightened his back from his inspection of the engine and looked at the oncoming Mercedes. A girl, sitting by the opened door, swung her legs out on to the ground, and rose. She had smooth dark hair, cut short to show—even from this distance—the neat silhouette of her well-shaped head.
“Do we stop?” Frank was asking, slowing his speed.
“Sure.” Grant recovered from his initial shock. The girl could have been Jennifer if her hair had been longer. She was the same height, had the same proportions. “They don’t look like terrorists to me.”
Frank didn’t smile. But he agreed, for he brought the Mercedes to a halt. He spoke in German. “Can we help?”
“Nothing can be done. I’ve checked,” the man replied in German, closing the hood. “It’s the battery. Just faded out on us. Can you give us a lift to the nearest place where I can find a tow-truck?”
“That will be on the outskirts of Vienna itself,” Frank said in English, looking at Grant.
“Better tell them to hop in,” said Grant, opening a door. The first isolated drops of rain, large and heavy, were beginning to plop on the car’s roof, promising a sudden deluge. The girl made a dash for the Mercedes, hands over her head, her blue summer dress fluttering round her excellent legs, laughter in her voice as she said, “Thank you,” and then “ Vielen Dank! ” as she slipped in beside Grant.
“English will do,” he told her.
“Bob!” she called in delight to the man who was now leaving car keys under the Fiat’s visor, “we found an American!”
He ran to join them—a man about Grant’s own age, of medium height, with even features and longish brown hair. He was dressed in tweed jacket and flannels. He came round to the other side of the car and climbed in, so that Grant—a little to his surprise—now found he was sitting between the newcomers. Even if his feet had a precarious hold on the raised central section of the floor, he was comfortable enough once he had hoisted his overnight bag into the front seat beside his suitcase.
Apart from the fact that she was slender, the girl didn’t take much room: she had pulled herself as far into the corner of the seat as possible, leaving extra space for him. “No need to do that,” Grant told her, and won a shy smile. She still kept her distance. For a moment, he watched her profile, her face now turned to frown at the heavy rain. No, she wasn’t like Jennifer: not close up. This girl’s eyes were dark brown, not blue; her features were less perfect, pretty but not startlingly beautiful. Definitely not a replica of Jennifer, not even in manner. Jennifer would have been talking, making amusing comments with her usual vivacity, getting them all to smile and relax. This girl seemed withdrawn, almost cold in her detachment. Or painfully shy? Nervous?
Her companion certainly wasn’t. His manner was easy, as if being picked up on a lonely country road were a daily occurrence. “My name is Renwick, Robert Renwick. This is Miss Avril Hoffman, at your right elbow. Sorry to put you to this trouble. We’re grateful for it. We were due at the office ten minutes ago.”
I see, thought Grant in a flight of romantic guessing: business associates (boss and secretary?) returning from a night in the country. Travelling light, too; but Miss Hoffman’s outsize shoulder-bag could hold two toothbrushes quite easily. “Glad to help out. The name is Grant, by the way, Colin Grant.”
Renwick stared at him. “Colin Grant?” He was incredulous. “Well, well, well...”
The next thing he’ll tell me, Grant was thinking, is that he has read my book—one of the two thousand and sixty-three people who have actually bought it. Or perhaps he borrowed it from a library: that was usually the case. In spite of the lack of
Similar Books
