The Salzburg Connection Read Free Page B

must drag himself to his clothes, get some brandy down his throat, get this suit off, get his flannel shirt and sweater and thick trousers on to his body. Something warm, for Christ’s sake, something warm and light. His body felt as if it were encased in a ton weight.
    It took him another half hour to accomplish these simple things. And then, suddenly, he began to feel more in command. His chin, which had been exposed under water, felt frozen. And his hands were stiff. Their palms had been scored by the rope when his grasp had slipped. Now that he could see the sun andbreathe the fresh air, he would admit the worst moment down in that pit of darkness—the moment when he had rid himself of the weighted belt and the flashlight, sensing them go over the edge and sink into the depths; and he was left with only his grip on a quarter-inch thickness of rope to keep him from drifting out over the abyss too.
    He had drunk all the brandy—its only effect was to bring him up to normal—and eaten some of the slab of chocolate to give him energy. He was far behind schedule now. He ought to have been back at the Volkswagen by this time, heading down into the valley where the highway would take him back home to Salzburg for breakfast. But as he worried, he worked. He removed the knife from its sheath and bundled the rest of his gear around the tank, empty now and heavier, and added the stone that had anchored his clothes. That should be weight enough. He would tie the package firmly with the rope once his use for it was over, and drop it all into the lake. Four feet out from the bank wouldn’t cause too much of a splash, he hoped; the bundle should sink as far as his belt had travelled.
    He was ready to haul up the chest. He had bandaged his hands with a shredded handkerchief, and was preparing to dampen his wool gloves to give them some grip (the torn mitts were now bundled with the suit), when the sun came out from behind a cloud and shone right along this side of the lake. He took cover among the trees and boulders, staring through the branches at the opposite shore thick in fog with the mountainsides above it shrouded in low-lying clouds. And they were stationary. So I’ll have to wait, he thought gloomily, I may have to wait until dusk this evening. Where was that prevailing wind, damn it, that brought mists and rain from thehuge mass of storm-breeding mountains far to the south? But at the moment, Finstersee looked like a stretch of dark-green glass. It was almost too still. That could mean bad weather. Perhaps, he thought, hope surging again, I may not have to wait in this trap until evening. For trap it was, with this side of the lake washed in early-morning light.
    He sat there for almost an hour, kneading his body to keep the circulation moving, rubbing his legs, watching the lake. And at last the wind was rising, sweeping clouds from the south, packing heavy mists down over the treetops. The sky was shrouded, the sun obliterated, and all the bare slopes of crag behind him were swathed in grey. Visibility was scarcely ten feet. I’ll manage it yet, he thought, and moved quickly.
    He unfastened the rope but left its coil around the tree, safely padded with the tyre, and pulled on its end until he had taken up the slack on the ledge below and he could feel the chest resist. Now let’s say you are bringing in a thirty-pound salmon, he told himself. He stood a little to one side of the tree, again made sure the piece of rubber was in place, and began to haul. His hands hurt like hell, but the less attention he paid to them the sooner the chest would be raised. With four short pauses, letting the tree take the brunt of the dangling weight, he made it. The chest broke the surface, tilting dangerously. Rapidly, he cinched the rope around the tree. He reached for the box with both hands and lifted it safely on to solid ground. It had become much heavier to handle. He carried it into the small encampment of boulders and trees,