Snare of the Hunter by Helen MacInnes Page A

twenty minutes past nine he laid the paper aside, poured himself another cup. He looked at the building opposite, wondering which of its small apartments was now answering the telephone. How very satisfactory, he thought, to sit and watch something happen when you had done most of the planning. Then his attention suddenly focused on the two men who sat at the next table. What the hell were they watching, to make them so intent?
    Two bird dogs, he thought and picked up his paper again to disguise his curiosity. Yes, they were looking at one window on the fourth floor of that tenement over there. A man had opened it wide. He was standing in plain view, lighting a cigarette, looking down at the street. Then he leaned his elbows on the sill, stuck his head out as if to enjoy the summer morning. Light hair, noted Krieger, broad shoulders, and a blue shirt. And, damn it, he was looking right here with a smile on his face. Then suddenly he withdrew his head, retreated into his room, leaving the window open.
    The two men were on their feet, paying for their coffee. They left directly, headed across the street and entered the building. Now, thought Krieger, this is really interesting. And worrying. He put his paper down, filled his pipe, and watched.
    Someone was coming out of the building: the light-haired man, wearing a grey jacket over his blue shirt. He was tall, well exercised too. He disappeared round the street corner, twenty yards away, in a couple of seconds.
    Krieger raised an eyebrow. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes later a girl appeared at the doorway of the building. Brown belted coat, blue scarf, blonde hair. She carried a handbag over her shoulder. She wasted no time either. She headed straight for the corner, reached a grey Fiat that had paused there, and within another few seconds she was in the car and it was moving away.
    Krieger looked at his watch again. It was twenty-seven minutes past nine. That was Irina. And she was en route. A very satisfactory morning, Krieger decided, except that his pipe had gone out. He relit it, and prepared to leave, money in his hand ready for the cash register.
    The baker’s buxom wife was ringing up his change when suddenly, cutting right across her pleasant remarks, there was a woman’s piercing shriek. He turned to the door, saw something hit the street in front of the building opposite. It was a body. The body of a man. The screaming woman was only a few yards away from it. And now the women beside her were screaming too. A man shouted and ran. More shouts, more people running!
    Krieger didn’t join the gathering crowd. There was nothing that could be done. The baker’s wife had rushed to see, but soon returned—remembering the open till, or perhaps her curiosity was satisfied. “Poor man!” she told Krieger as he stood by the shop door. “He was so quiet. Very pleasant. Always polite.”
    “Oh?”
    “Who would have thought he would jump out of a window? Nearly killed those women too. He came all the way down from that fourth floor. No warning. Terrible, isn’t it?”
    “Who was he?” Krieger asked. He was watching two men who had come out of the tenement’s entrance to move round the edge of the crowd, the same two who had sat at the next table and scanned the street. They began walking towards the corner where Irina had met the car.
    “One of those Czech refugees.” She might have said more, but someone called to her from the shop and she hurried inside.
    There was a vague disquiet in Krieger’s mind. He left without any more delay, following the direction the two men had taken. They had already reached the corner of the street, and turned it. Krieger quickened his pace, glimpsed them entering a small garage. What did he do now? Wait? The last thing he wanted to do was to draw any attention to himself. Even as he hesitated, a small Volkswagen shot out of the garage. The two men hadn’t wasted a moment. He made a pretence of studying the nearest shop window,