The Final Enemy. An Inspector Faro Mystery No.12. Page 11

'Where is Dieter?' asked George anxiously. 'We must save something for him. Shouldn't he be back by now, sir?'

  Faro tried to sound casual and reassuring. 'I expect he decided it was safer to stay near the telegraph office until daylight.'

  'You mean because of the wolves?' asked George quietly.

  Faro looked at him.

  'We saw their footprints outside, a whole pack, by the look of them.' He sounded scared and Faro realised that he had underestimated the boys' imaginations. Dogs, indeed!

  ‘I imagine Dieter thought it was too dangerous to walk back in the dark. Perhaps he had to wait until the telegraph office reopened this morning to send his message. I expect he'll arrive any minute now with the train. Just think, this time tomorrow you will both be waking up in your own beds,' he added with a confidence he was far from feeling.

  He smiled at Anton, silent, asking no questions, curiously withdrawn from their anxiety about Dieter. And watchful. Watchful was an odd word to use for the boy's complete lack of emotion, which had concerned Faro in the earlier part of the journey and now worried him more than ever. After all, Dieter was his bodyguard, which suggested that his standing in Luxoria must warrant such an appointment.

  As for George, he regarded Faro with an expression of faint disbelief. And no wonder. The boy could count and the train that should have been with them last night was now ten hours late.

  As for himself, he was feeling the full force of the predicament of being in a foreign country in an area where his basic knowledge of German, which he had been at pains to keep concealed, was utterly useless, far too basic to deal with any emergencies.

  He looked despairingly at these two boys - fourteen and twelve and he was entirely responsible for seeing them safely to Luxoria. Not in his wildest dreams had such an idea presented itself.

  As they both finished eating and rushed out to play in the snow, he watched from the window, afraid to let them out of his sight for a moment. The porter smoked a fierce pipe and totally ignored these unwelcome sharers of his hut's hospitality.

  Another hour ticked by and still Dieter did not appear, nor did any trains. Occasionally the distant noise of an engine had them alert and listening, rushing to the door, only to watch with considerable frustration the passage of an express train thundering down the main line.

  Faro had come to a decision. If by the end of the day neither the Luxorian train nor Dieter had put in an appearance then he would have to try to find some way to get himself and the boys to Stuttgart. He hoped for some inspiration, that some bright idea would come to him of how one stops an express train without endangering the safety of the passengers or getting killed in the process.

  Then suddenly he heard it. A sound from far off, but not in the direction of the express trains. This one was coming from over the hill.

  A train's engine?

  He listened, and saw the boys look up from the wooden board they had turned into a sledge and were using on a snowy mound.

  'The train - the train - at last.'

  'No.' Not a train. Rifle shots.

  The porter appeared at the door, shouted something incomprehensible to Faro and waved urgently to the two boys. Whatever he said, they needed no second bidding and raced through the snow to the hut. The porter pulled them quickly inside and closed the door. He was trembling.

  George turned to Faro. 'He says it is not the train. It is the brigands.'

  Brigands. Dear God!

  If confirmation was needed the rifle shots were nearer now, mingled with the sound of horses, and blood-curdling yells and shouts which made the wolves' howling during the night suddenly an attractive alternative.

  The porter was speaking to George again.

  'Translate?' Faro demanded.

  'He says they are like buzzards watching for carrion. They will have been watching us and know how few we are. They must have seen us leaving the train yesterday, seen our luggage - guessed there would be rich pickings.'

  Faro wanted to ask why they had waited so long. Why didn't they attack during the night? George continued to translate the porter's terror into English.

  'When the Luxorian train didn't arrive, they must have guessed we were stranded.'

  Faro glared at the porter and put a finger to his lips indicating that he had said enough. He didn't want the boys to be any more terrified.

  George looked scared. 'What will happen to us?' he asked Faro.

  'We two will be all right,' Anton put in quickly. 'No harm will come to us. We will be taken hostage.' He put a comforting arm around George's shoulders. 'They don't kill children and we will be valuable to them. Not like adults.'

  This was the first comment Anton had made and Faro realised he meant well although his remark clearly indicated that Faro need not expect to be so fortunate.

  As for hostages, they might well be valuable to the brigands but not quite as Anton believed.

  For one thing, they would have no idea of the importance of the two boys, that one was heir to the kingdom of Luxoria. Brigands did not move in the circles of diplomacy, or have knowledge of subtle bargaining with royal households.

  Faro shook his head. He would die fighting, but no one could have any doubt of the fate of two well-grown boys if they were captured, or of the naivety of Anton's words. They would not be killed, since two strong healthy boys were useful to boost the brigands' numbers and fighting strength, which was frequently depleted by running battles. Rifles would be thrust into their hands and they would be told how to use them and made to fight alongside the brigands. There were other unpleasant things likely to happen to Anton and George among such men that Faro preferred not to think about.

  The shouts, din of horses and rifle shots indicated that they were now close at hand.

  'What do we do, sir?' asked George, biting his lip but trying to sound brave.

  'We fight them off, of course.’ said Faro.

  'But there are only three of us,' said Anton.

  'And one with a gun,' said Faro grimly, producing the revolver he had never expected to use.

  The porter who saw his action grinned and gave a crow of delight. From under his voluminous cape he produced a rifle and waved it vigorously.

  Saluting Faro, he said to George, ‘I had the honour to serve in the Imperial Army of the Kaiser fighting the French when I was a lad.'

  George translated and said, 'If anything happens to either of you, I can use a rifle. I learned how when I was at Balmoral with the shooting party last year,' he added in casual tones. And with an apologetic smile at Anton, 'Sorry that you didn't get the chance as well, but you were just with the beaters.'

  Normally Faro's eyes would have widened at the idea of an eleven-year-old using a rifle on the grouse moors. How soon did the royals begin teaching their young the art of slaying wild animals!

  But there was not a moment to lose. The shots and yells were outside. The platform vibrated and the little hut shook to its foundations with the sound of horses' hooves.

  Faro's last thought before he went into action was of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

  Was this what it was like to die?

  Chapter 18

  Telling the boys to lie down on the floor well out of range of window and door, Faro broke the window with his revolver, took careful aim and cheered as one of the brigands gave a groan of pain and slumped in the saddle.

  The platform cleared instantly. But surely one wounded man was not enough to scare them off.

  Cautiously, Faro looked out of the window again. Gathered at a little distance a group of twelve horsemen were drawn up together. They were not quite as he had pictured a band of villainous desperados. There was a military precision about the group despite the red bandanas tied around their foreheads. Their horses, no motley collection of stolen animals, had the sleek well-groomed look of regimental steeds.

  As he watched, the men were gathered around one man, conferring or awaiting instructions. The leader suddenly emerged and rode forward swiftly towa
rds the hut, alone and carrying on his rifle a white flag.

  'A flag of truce!' yelled George. 'We are saved!'

  He ran forward but Faro stopped him. 'Wait. I'll go first. You translate for me, George.'

  As he opened the door, the horseman with his white flag rode on to the platform. He did not dismount.

  He looked at George, his expression puzzled for a moment, then at Anton who was standing close behind him.

  'You - ' he pointed. 'You boy - '

  Anton stepped forward.

  'Come here!'

  Anton went over to the man, head up, and Faro marvelled at his bravery. The man leaned over, said something inaudible and, seizing Anton around the waist, lifted him bodily on to the horse.

  Anton stared back at them, bewildered, and Faro guessed too terrified even to protest, to cry out.

  'Anton! Anton I' George screamed as he watched his friend being carried back to the group. Then to Faro and the porter who was watching open-mouthed, he shouted: 'Don't you see, they're taking him hostage. Why didn't either of you kill that man? You could have at least taken a shot at him,' he sobbed.

  Faro did not reply. He was watching the group, already riding fast, disappearing across the hill. Then he said gently to George: 'You know we couldn't do that. We have to honour the white flag and if we had fired, we might have hit Anton, or they might have killed him in revenge.' He put his arm around the still-sobbing George and said:

  'Dieter will be back shortly. He will know what to do.'

  It was little consolation and he didn't believe his own words. Neither did George.

  'He isn't coming back,' George said shortly. 'I think Dieter is dead.'

  There was nothing more Faro could say. At that moment, he too was certain that they had seen the last of Dieter.

  Still with an arm about George's shoulders, he led him back into the hut. The boy was trembling, his face white with fear, but trying to keep his voice calm, he asked: 'What will we do now, Mr Faro? What is to become of us?'

  Faro had no answer to that. But there were a lot of questions that required answers. There were things in this particular puzzle, this dire and dreadful adversary, the final enemy, death itself, questions with answers that did not make any sense at all.

  He simply had to think. And fast. Because whatever the nature of those horsemen who had taken Anton hostage, time was running out. If George was to survive to reach Luxoria, there was not a moment to lose.

  Inside, the porter was gathering together his few possessions. Waving his arms about, he shouted to George and ushered them outside. As they watched he seized their luggage, dragged it outside and locked the door of the hut, turning on them a face of furious indignation.

  Faro began to protest but George translated. 'It's no use, sir. He says he's an old man and he's not going to be at the mercy of brigands. He has never experienced anything like this before, they have always left him alone and now he is not prepared to risk his life. He is going back to his village, four kilometres away, and the railway can find a younger man to deal with their freight trains and be shot at.'

  It was quite a speech and the old man strode off without another word or a backward glance, leaving them helpless beside their forlorn pile of luggage.

  Faro looked at the railtrack winding away into nowhere. The landscape was empty, but somehow menacing. The brigands had vanished, yet he felt the prickle of unease, an intuition that he knew better than to ignore, that the danger was by no means over.

  Death was close at hand.

  'Pick up your bag, George.'

  'I'll carry Anton's,' said George. 'I can't leave it behind.'

  Faro tested the weight. It wasn't heavy. 'I'll take it,' he said and with little idea where their next meal would be coming from, he gathered the remaining food from the picnic hamper.

  'Now let's get away from here.'

  As he started off down the line, George asked, 'Where are we going, sir?'

  'We'll head towards the telegraph office, find out about trains.'

  'Shouldn't we wait for a while, just in case - '

  In answer a violent explosion split the air behind them. Faro threw George to the ground and sheltered him with his body.

  The great whirlwind of noise was followed by an eerie silence. Cautiously Faro raised his head. Where the hut had been there was only a mass of shattered smoking timber.

  'Someone blew it up, Mr Faro,' George screamed in terror. 'We might have been inside.'

  Faro regarded the ruin grimly. 'That, I think, was the general idea.'

  'It wasn't the porter, surely. He seemed such a nice old man.'

  'No. It wasn't the porter.'

  'But he must have known.'

  ‘He didn't, George. He wouldn't have put our luggage outside and bothered to lock the door if he'd known we were all to be blown up.’

  ‘But why? Who?'

  Gazing anxiously at the horizon, Faro said, 'Let's keep going. We shouldn't linger, in case they come back to inspect the damage.' And seizing the bags, he walked rapidly down the line.

  'Was it an accident, sir, do you think?' George asked hopefully.

  When Faro shook his head, he said: 'If it was the brigands, then it was as well they got chose to get Anton out first.'

  Faro stopped in his tracks and said 'Exactly, George. And that, I am afraid, was the plan. We were the target - and the old man, if he had been foolish enough to stay around.'

  'What will they do to Anton now?'

  'I don't think we need worry too much about Anton. Nothing is going to happen to him.'

  'But they kidnapped him. He'll be a hostage.'

  They had been walking for some time before Faro decided it was safe to stop by a curve in the railway line, well out of sight of the pile of rubble that had been once been a railway waiting-room. There were some boulders by the side of the track and Faro said, 'Let's sit down here for a moment.'

  George sighed. 'I don't understand, Mr Faro. We both saw that man with the white flag come and take Anton.' He shook his head. 'We saw it with our own eyes - '

  Faro remembered that well-dressed, smartly turned-out band of brigands with their fine horses and military precision.

  'They kidnapped him, sir. Took him hostage,' George repeated.

  'That, I'm afraid, is what we were meant to think. Think back, George, were you near enough to hear what the man said to Anton as he lifted him on to the horse?'

  George shrugged. 'I thought he was telling him not to be afraid - that all would be well. Something like that.'

  'Exactly. Nice soothing words. Not quite what one would expect from a savage blood-thirsty brigand.'

  George thought for a moment. 'Actually, he had quite a nice voice, sir. Well-bred, you know.'

  Faro nodded grimly. 'And I would have expected Anton to struggle more and for the man to be a little more convincing, rougher in dragging away a frightened and unwilling victim.'

  George didn't answer and Faro continued, 'That wasn't the way you reacted with your kidnappers at Glenatholl, was it now?'

  George shook his head. 'No. I fought and kicked and struggled.' Wide-eyed he stared at Faro. 'You mean - you mean, it was all pretend?'

  'I'm pretty sure of that.'

  'But why did they do it then? And what will they do with Anton?'

  'That, my lad, is what I want you to tell me.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'I want you to tell me everything you know about Anton. Who is he, for instance, this vague cousin who was sent to Glenatholl as your companion?'

  George was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. 'I'm not supposed to tell anyone, ever.' He looked up at Faro. 'You see, Anton is actually my half-brother.'

  'Your - what?'

  'Yes, our father is President Gustav, but we have different mothers.'

  At last, thought Faro, a lot of things were becoming clear, not exactly crystal, but well on the way.

  So Anton was the President's natural son, the boy who had been an i
nfant when Amelie came to Edinburgh, childless. His mother was the President's mistress, the reason why he wanted rid of Amelie, to marry her... And declare their son Anton legitimate. The heir to Luxoria.

  'Well, well,' he said and George stared at him when he burst out laughing.

  'Are you pleased, sir?' George smiled. 'He really is very nice when you get to know him. And he is very fond of me. He has always behaved just like an older brother should. Protective, you know.'

  Faro thought grimly that there wasn't much protectiveness about leaving his little brother in a hut to be blown to smithereens. If, that was, he had known in advance what was in store for them from the so-called brigands.

  But although knowing Anton's real identity at least provided some of the answers to the questions that had been plaguing him, it still didn't provide any ideas about what they should do next. And worst of all was the certain knowledge that his German wasn't up to coping with this particular kind of situation.

  As if George had read his thoughts, he said, 'When we reach the telegraph office, sir, I am going to send a wire to Uncle Karl - he is Mama's most trusted servant and he will have returned to Luxoria with her. He has lots of influence with people who can help.'

  'He is not her equerry?' asked Faro sharply, remembering the first victim of the assassin who, according to Sir Julian Arles, had taken the bullet meant for Amelie.

  If that loyal servant was dead, then their last hope was indeed gone.

  Chapter 19

  George laughed. 'Oh no, sir, Uncle Karl is much higher than that. He is a statesman as well as a soldier. He holds the rank of colonel in the Kaiser's Death's Head Hussars.'

  'Is he also one of your President's men?' Faro could not bear to say 'father'.

  'No,' said George firmly. 'He hates him because he has been very unkind to my mother, you know,' he added with a candour well beyond his years.

  Faro did know, but his eyebrows raised a bit at hearing that piece of intelligence from the boy who believed the President to be his father.

  'But Uncle Karl - Count Karl zu Echlenberg,' he added proudly, 'will make sure the train comes for us. And that we are safe.'