Snare of the Hunter Read Free Page A

get back on to a road which could lead him to something with real promise. Music was more than a collection of sounds.
    He worked on, forgot about the sea and the sun outside, forgot about time. He rewrote the whole article, got it into proper shape at last, and began to type it out into good clean copy. He wanted it ready for delivery tomorrow before he took off for the Salzburg Festival. It was then that the telephone rang.
    As he rose to answer it, he noticed the dock at the side of his desk and was startled to see that it was almost six. He picked up the receiver. Cocktail time, he was thinking, and the usual casual summer invitation. He was preparing a gentle refusal, but he never had to use it. The call was from New York.
    At first he didn’t recognise Mark Bohn’s voice, simply because he hadn’t expected it. Bohn was a journalist who now lived mostly in Washington, specialised in foreign affairs, travelled around. He was an old friend, but sporadic in his appearances: it must have been almost four years since he had last surfaced. And here was his voice, as quick and business-like as ever, telling Dave he was one hell of a fellow to track down. Bohn had called David’s apartment in New York several times, had eventually telephoned the superintendent and extracted—with difficulty—David’s unlisted East Hampton number. “And,” said Bohn reprovingly, “I only got it out of him by telling him your brother had had an accident and I was the family physician.”
    “Brother James won’t be amused. What kind of accident?”
    “Automobile accident. If he’s anything like you, he’s car-crazy, isn’t he?”
    Which was Bohn’s way of saying that David enjoyed driving and Bohn did not. David said nothing. He was now past the surprise of hearing Bohn’s voice. He began to speculate on the reason for the call: Bohn in New York, finding the heat and humidity as bad as Washington, thinking of borrowing a cottage beside a cool ocean for a few days.
    Bohn was rattling on. “I want to see you, Dave. Urgent. When are you coming to town?”
    “Tomorrow around noon.”
    “I’ll drop in at the apartment. Twelve o’clock?”
    “Not possible. I’ll be clearing up some things at The Recorder .”
    “Then after lunch. Two o’clock or three?”
    “Packing. I’m flying out early tomorrow evening. I’m heading for Salzburg.”
    “I know. I know.” Bohn sounded sharp, as if he were worried or annoyed. “You’re going to the festival.”
    “How did you know?”
    “I read The Recorder and listen to your friends’ chatter. But I thought the festival was in August?”
    “It begins the last week of July. This Wednesday, I’ll be at the opening night, seven o’clock sharp.”
    “What’s playing?”
    “ The Marriage of Figaro .”
    “Couldn’t you skip it? Hear it the next time round? You must have listened to it twenty times.”
    “But not with Karajan and the Vienna Philharmonic.” David’s voice was cool. Bohn was a highly knowledgeable man, but he was damned ignorant about some things. “And I can’t hear it next time round, because on that night I’ll be listening to Geza Anda, just one of the top pianists in this whole wide world. What’s more, you just don’t switch tickets around at this date. I booked last January, like thousands of others. Sorry, Mark. Can’t see you tomorrow. We’ll have to wait until I get back at the end of August. I thought I’d fit in a quick visit to Bayreuth after a week in Salzburg, and then breeze on to Switzerland for Lucerne, and then to Scotland for Edinburgh.” That silenced Bohn, or perhaps he was making other calculations. Or was he consulting with someone else? At last he said, “Could you possibly cancel any engagement for fun and games tonight?”
    “I’ve no engagements, except for some work to be finished.” David hoped the hint was strong enough. It wasn’t.
    “An hour will do us, not much more. Are you alone down there? No week-end guest