Read Online Prelude to Terror by Helen MacInnes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen MacInnes
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investing in it. Ironic, isn’t it? The artists got enough to keep them alive, and—”
“Oh, Sir Peter Paul Rubens didn’t do too badly.” Let’s get off this subject, Grant warned himself, and tried a small diversion. “He didn’t only paint bouncing beauties and collect a fortune: he also was a diplomat, travelled widely, and turned secret agent when necessary. Interesting life, wouldn’t you say?”
Renwick wasn’t diverted. He went on, “Today the prices have gone sky-high. In Brussels, even the enthusiasts for—”
He leaned across Grant to ask the girl, “What was the name of that painter who was bought for two hundred thousand dollars a few months ago?”
“Ruysdael,” she said. “Salomon van Ruysdael.”
“Good old Sal. Two hundred big ones. Enough to have him leaping out of his grave. Even the Bruxellois thought it ridiculous.”
“It’s a bit high,” Grant agreed. He was worried. Not only by the mention of Ruysdael, but by the price. God, he thought, do I find myself carrying back to New York a picture that’s into six figures?
“What would you pay for a Ruysdael?” Renwick asked, all innocence.
“If I had the cash?” Grant mustered a broad smile. “Well, I don’t know. Between fifty and seventy thousand, I suppose—depending on its state, of course.”
“I hear they’ve been getting a hundred and fifty thousand, recently. But this two hundred thousand sale—” Renwick shook his head. “I’m in the wrong racket. I’d better take up painting.” There was a brief laugh all around, and then silence. Renwick reached into his pocket for a small note-book and pencil. He wrote: Boltzmanngasse 16, tel. 34-66-11. “That’s our Embassy,” he said. “Ask for extension 123 and get through to me direct. Okay?” He tore off the page, handed it to Grant. “Get in touch if you need any help.”
“Help?”
“Some emergency—you never can tell.”
“I’m here to enjoy myself,” Grant told him. “And I do know Vienna. I’ll find my way around.”
“I’m sure you will,” Renwick said soothingly. He leant forward and tapped Frank’s shoulder. He spoke in German again. “That garage looks a likely place. Let us out over there.” He held out his hand to Grant. His grasp was firm. “We’ll meet again, I hope. Many thanks. Come on, Avril—let’s get that new battery and find us a taxi.”
“You’re going all the way back?” Grant asked.
“May have to—if there’s no tow-truck around.”
Avril said, “At least it has stopped raining.”
Grant watched them go. She isn’t as simple as all that, he was thinking. There had been a sudden smile repressed, a moment’s laughter in her eyes, when he talked about Reubens.
* * *
Avril Hoffman and Bob Renwick had only to wait five minutes at the gas station. “There he is,” Renwick said as their grey Fiat with Prescott Taylor at the wheel made a careful turn to reach the garage. “Right on the button,” he added, glancing at his watch. “Hi, Prescott! Did you get your feet wet?”
“Only slightly damp.” The trees at the side of the road, where the Fiat was left abandoned, had been thick enough to shelter Taylor from most of the rain and Grant’s quick eyes. “Did it go well?”
“Hope so.” Renwick helped Avril into the front seat, climbed in after her. “This will warm you,” he told her, crushing her between him and Taylor. “Didn’t even bring a cardigan, you idiot. What do you think Austria is? The Caribbean?” Then, serious, he turned to Taylor. “At least we started him thinking. My God—the questions he asked: you’d have thought I was the one being quizzed. He’s no slouch. I’ll say that for him.”
“Frank—how did he do?”
“He makes a pretty good chauffeur: said nothing, listened to everything.”
“That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?”
“That was the deal. Without his information, we’d be fighting this thing blind.”
Avril said, “He frightens me.”
“Frank?
“Oh, Sir Peter Paul Rubens didn’t do too badly.” Let’s get off this subject, Grant warned himself, and tried a small diversion. “He didn’t only paint bouncing beauties and collect a fortune: he also was a diplomat, travelled widely, and turned secret agent when necessary. Interesting life, wouldn’t you say?”
Renwick wasn’t diverted. He went on, “Today the prices have gone sky-high. In Brussels, even the enthusiasts for—”
He leaned across Grant to ask the girl, “What was the name of that painter who was bought for two hundred thousand dollars a few months ago?”
“Ruysdael,” she said. “Salomon van Ruysdael.”
“Good old Sal. Two hundred big ones. Enough to have him leaping out of his grave. Even the Bruxellois thought it ridiculous.”
“It’s a bit high,” Grant agreed. He was worried. Not only by the mention of Ruysdael, but by the price. God, he thought, do I find myself carrying back to New York a picture that’s into six figures?
“What would you pay for a Ruysdael?” Renwick asked, all innocence.
“If I had the cash?” Grant mustered a broad smile. “Well, I don’t know. Between fifty and seventy thousand, I suppose—depending on its state, of course.”
“I hear they’ve been getting a hundred and fifty thousand, recently. But this two hundred thousand sale—” Renwick shook his head. “I’m in the wrong racket. I’d better take up painting.” There was a brief laugh all around, and then silence. Renwick reached into his pocket for a small note-book and pencil. He wrote: Boltzmanngasse 16, tel. 34-66-11. “That’s our Embassy,” he said. “Ask for extension 123 and get through to me direct. Okay?” He tore off the page, handed it to Grant. “Get in touch if you need any help.”
“Help?”
“Some emergency—you never can tell.”
“I’m here to enjoy myself,” Grant told him. “And I do know Vienna. I’ll find my way around.”
“I’m sure you will,” Renwick said soothingly. He leant forward and tapped Frank’s shoulder. He spoke in German again. “That garage looks a likely place. Let us out over there.” He held out his hand to Grant. His grasp was firm. “We’ll meet again, I hope. Many thanks. Come on, Avril—let’s get that new battery and find us a taxi.”
“You’re going all the way back?” Grant asked.
“May have to—if there’s no tow-truck around.”
Avril said, “At least it has stopped raining.”
Grant watched them go. She isn’t as simple as all that, he was thinking. There had been a sudden smile repressed, a moment’s laughter in her eyes, when he talked about Reubens.
* * *
Avril Hoffman and Bob Renwick had only to wait five minutes at the gas station. “There he is,” Renwick said as their grey Fiat with Prescott Taylor at the wheel made a careful turn to reach the garage. “Right on the button,” he added, glancing at his watch. “Hi, Prescott! Did you get your feet wet?”
“Only slightly damp.” The trees at the side of the road, where the Fiat was left abandoned, had been thick enough to shelter Taylor from most of the rain and Grant’s quick eyes. “Did it go well?”
“Hope so.” Renwick helped Avril into the front seat, climbed in after her. “This will warm you,” he told her, crushing her between him and Taylor. “Didn’t even bring a cardigan, you idiot. What do you think Austria is? The Caribbean?” Then, serious, he turned to Taylor. “At least we started him thinking. My God—the questions he asked: you’d have thought I was the one being quizzed. He’s no slouch. I’ll say that for him.”
“Frank—how did he do?”
“He makes a pretty good chauffeur: said nothing, listened to everything.”
“That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?”
“That was the deal. Without his information, we’d be fighting this thing blind.”
Avril said, “He frightens me.”
“Frank?
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