Prelude to Terror by Helen MacInnes Page A

is. This Friday. Eleven o’clock. Didn’t you know?”
    “Not yet. They said they’d let me hear as soon as the auction was scheduled.”
    “It has been arranged for the last three weeks—on July eighth, actually.” And that, she thought, was the day after he had met Lois Westerbrook and Gene Marck. She didn’t press the point: superfluous, judging from his face.
    The series of shocks subsided. His voice became matter-of-fact, almost cold. “Are either Westerbrook or Marck, or both of them, connected with this plot to divert money to Geneva?”
    Avril hesitated. “We’ve no evidence of that. We do know that last December, and again in March, Lois Westerbrook came to Vienna and bought two Impressionists for Basset’s collection: a Monet and a Degas. There was nothing complicated about those auctions. She appeared, quite openly, as Basset’s representative. He wasn’t a friend of the owners of those paintings, so he didn’t insist on secrecy to protect their safety.”
    “How were the payments made?”
    “By cheque. Through his Vienna firm. The man there, who was authorised to sign the cheques, is close-lipped. He doesn’t disclose any of his boss’s financial business. Admirable, of course. But—for us—infuriating. We enlisted a less stalwart employee, who tried to find the cancelled cheques. They weren’t on file. Destroyed, perhaps.” She sighed, smiled ruefully. “Tantalising, really. Basset is the sole buyer at those auctions whose name we actually know, yet we couldn’t risk approaching him with mere suspicions and deductions. That might have blown our investigation before it was completed. Bob Renwick is thinking of an indirect way to reach Basset, make him listen, but only when the timing is right. You see?”
    “Not altogether,” he admitted. He’d see better if she’d tell him more. “What about Gene Marck—Basset’s adviser on purchases?”
    “He visits Europe half a dozen times a year. Partly on business for Basset, partly for his own pleasure. He’s a convivial type—lots of acquaintances in Vienna.”
    Convivial was not exactly the way Grant would have described Marck. Of course, he told himself, he had only seen Marck twice: the first time, silent and respectful; the second time, capable and brusque. There were men who kicked up their heels when they went abroad, the old who’s-to-see-me syndrome—a release, perhaps, from too tight a routine at home. Disciplined would be his word for Marck. And Lois Westerbrook? “I can’t see Westerbrook betraying Basset’s trust. She is just another innocent who—”
    “Are you sure?”
    That brought him up short. “I’m not sure of anything,” he admitted unhappily. But he did remember her face when she had told him about a man who was trying to reach freedom. “Ady... Was that his name?”
    “Ferenc Ady.”
    Was all this really true? Uncertain, baffled, his anxiety increased. So did his distrust. He watched her face, so frank and innocent, wondering if eyes that were so deeply warm and sympathetic could be deceivers. “Why did you tell me so much?” he asked bluntly.
    “Because you needed to know. Because we have a need to know, too.”
    “I’ve a feeling you already have most of my story.”
    “We guessed it, and then verified what we could.”
    “Don’t you want a play-by-play description?” he asked bitterly.
    “Not necessary.” She smiled. “You aren’t under suspicion, Mr. Grant.”
    So I’m in the clear, he thought with a surge of relief. “What do you want from me?”
    “The name of the man who owns the bank account in Geneva.”
    “And how do I get that?” Fantastic, he thought, totally impossible.
    “The treasurer of Allied Electronics—”
    “The guy with the closed lips?”
    She almost smiled. “He will write the cheque when you take possession of Ruysdael’s View of Utrecht . Notice the name on the cheque. That’s all.”
    “That’s all?” It seemed simple enough.
    “But please be careful.