Prelude to Terror by Helen MacInnes Page B

followed Frank across the road. He ought to be grateful for the neat black Mercedes, whose doors were now being unlocked: the few cabs around were already taken.
    “In here, sir,” Frank was saying, holding open the rear door. “You’ll be more comfortable.” He made that certain by taking the suitcase and dropping it by the driver’s seat.
    They took the long highway north-west from the airport near Schwechat. Frank was an excellent chauffeur, holding the steady pace of sixty miles an hour with no compulsion to pass every vehicle in sight or to tailgate the car ahead. When they came to the little town itself, he took a left turn, saying easily, “We’ll make a small detour to the south-west and avoid the traffic block on the main road. It was bad earlier this morning—thought I’d never get to the airport.”
    “You’re the driver,” Grant said. “What’s the trouble with the traffic?” He was remembering the spider-web of highways around Vienna.
    “Ever since that Danube bridge collapsed last year we’ve had one big headache. Besides,” Frank added, “the route I’ll take is much prettier. We’ll be in the country most of the way.” He lowered his speed to fifty as they turned on to a narrower road.
    And Grant, remembering that the unique thing about Vienna was that hills and woods and vineyards often began on the immediate outskirts of city streets and concrete, found no fault with that. “How much longer will this detour be?”
    “Just over half an hour. I know the short-cuts well. In fact I follow this route most of the time. It’s easier on the nerves.” Anything would be better than the monotony of a long straight highway, thought Grant. “Your English is excellent. American accent?”
    “I was two years in Chicago. But I missed the mountains and forests. Here, a three-hour drive at the week-end and I’m among the big boys—nine thousand, ten thousand feet high.”
    So they talked about climbing and skiing as Frank drove through woods and villages. As he had said, the empty roads he was so skilfully following, branching from one to another without any delays or traffic jams, were much prettier.
    “Isn’t that Baden?” Grant asked, suddenly jolted into vigilance. The country town lay south of Vienna—probably some twelve, even fifteen miles south.
    Frank pointed to the cosy houses, nestling between trees and multitudes of flowers. “Quite recovered. You’d never know what it went through in forty-five.”
    “I know,” Grant said curtly. This peaceful place had been the most raped—from young girls to grandmothers—and the most systematically looted town in all of Austria, perhaps in western Europe.
    Frank sensed his disquiet. “We’ll take the road to Mayerling—no traffic there, pure country—then swing up to Vienna. No trouble at all. I’ll have you at your hotel in good time.” He looked round to add, “No extra charge. Your drive is paid for.”
    Grant just shook his head, restrained a smile. He had to admit that there was no urgency in reaching his hotel: he had no meetings, no business to attend to. For the next few days he was entirely free to do as he pleased. He relaxed, settled back in the comfortable seat of the Mercedes. The airport was a long drive from the city, so why fuss over a few extra miles? He might as well enjoy a taste of scenery before he plunged into city streets: this twisting road, as empty of traffic as Frank had promised, displayed plenty of it.
    Frank was looking worriedly at the sky, bright blue only five minutes ago, now darkening with a mass of clouds moving in from the west.
    The cumulus clouds have caught up with me, Grant thought. “Rain?”
    “And plenty of it. Glad we’re not in the middle of a traffic jam.”
    “What about this road?” It was running straight now, along a narrow valley with wooded hills on either side.
    “Good surface. No problem, even in a downpour. There’s less wind-force here than on an open