Snare of the Hunter Read online

  David Mennery kept trying to concentrate on his desk. There was plenty of work to finish there before he drove back to New York tomorrow morning. This week-end he had written a fairly good article, in spite of distractions from the weather (Saturday and Sunday had been perfect for swimming and lazing), but it needed editing, tightening up. As always, before writing a piece, he’d spent days worrying that he hadn’t enough material; and then, once he started, he would find he had far too much. So he re-read his typescript with a hard critical eye, began sharpening a batch of pencils, and made an effort to ignore the rhythms of the Atlantic breaking over firm white sand, or the afternoon sun baking down on the high dunes outside the beach cottage.

  Its windows, recessed under the roof’s deep overhang, were opened wide, shutters folded back, letting the south-west breeze play through the free arrangement of rooms. (But not near this alcove, where loose papers and notes and concert programmes were scattered around to suit his reach.) The lighting, from a plexiglass skylight overhead, was efficient and tilted towards the north. He was almost cool, even with the temperature on his front porch hovering around ninety-four degrees. No complaint there. Since Caroline and he had split up—four years ago, my God, could it be really four? He had made sure his working conditions were good, simple but satisfying. Out had gone Caroline’s tripping rugs, draperies, cushions piled on unsittable couches, baroque-framed mirrors and Venetian sconces, however charming; in had come bookshelves and stereo and hi-fi speakers, a few comfortable armchairs on a wooden floor, lamps to read with, and a telescope for the stars over the ocean. He could accomplish more here than he did in the city, even allowing for a morning round of golf or a walk along the beach, or an afternoon spent soaking in the sun, or a dinner in the evening with one of the charmers who spent their summers perfecting their tans: pretty girls bloomed as rampant as roses in this stretch of Long Island. Four years had slipped easily away.

  The city, of course, was his necessity, his base of operations as a music critic for The Recorder, a monthly magazine with an appreciation of sound whether it was classical or contemporary, jazz or rock, lieder or country-and-western, opera or symphony. David Mennery was one of The Recorder’s permanent stable of writers, with a couple of pages of general criticism in each issue. In addition to that, he headed a specialised department of his own, which he had more or less invented by virtue of having written a book dealing with music festivals. He had combined two of his chief enthusiasms, travel and music, and discovered that thousands of Americans who loved music were also travel-prone. A Place for Music established him as a foot-loose critic with wide-ranging tastes. Just as importantly, it had provided for his travels as well as for such necessities as butcher’s bills and house repairs. He had never quite fathomed how a book he had so much enjoyed writing should have earned him money and won him an opening into a steady career. The freelance criticism which he had done, previous to the book, was all right for the feast-or-famine years when he had been in his twenties and was still searching. Now, at thirty-nine, he knew what he could do and couldn’t do; and at least he could feel he had a definite idea of where he was going. He would settle for that and count himself lucky. (He need not have been so modest. He wrote well, with a good critical bite. He had standards and wasn’t afraid to judge by them. He knew a lot about music, about the composers, about the people who conducted or performed it. He belonged to no clique, followed no fashion. He was very much his own man.)

  He had sharpened his last pencil, poured himself some cold beer, and could find no more excuses to postpone the compulsory, always painful, self-amputation. He began crossing out the unnecessary sentences, obliterating phrases, making rewrite notes in the margins. A passage he had somehow imagined last night to be tactfully diplomatic was a fuzzy mess to today’s colder eye: a spiritual wallow in intellectual ooze. There was just no way to handle a modern composer gently when his jangle of sounds was basically thin and tedious. Just no way. The kindest criticism you could give such a man was to tell him to stop wandering down a path to nowhere, avoid the cute tricks, and 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 helping you with the ty
ping?”

  “I’m alone.”

  “Good.” There was another pause. (He is consulting with someone else, thought David.) “I’ll see you about eight o’clock.”

  “You’re driving a hundred and ten miles in two hours?” That wasn’t Bohn’s style. “You know,” David added, “there are other cars—not to mention trucks—on the highway. I think you’ve a fixation on accidents today.” And what’s so urgent that he’d even suggest this idea? “What’s it all about?”

  “I’ll see you around eight, perhaps half-past. I’d like to find your cottage before it’s too dark to judge what turn I make at the potato fields. Last time I visited you, I came down the Montauk Highway, made a sharp left at the pond, passed the village green, kept on going along Main Street—old houses and big trees, then some shops, et cetera, and then a windmill. And then what?”

  “Bear right and take the next turn on your right. Follow that until you reach the golf course. Then turn left keep on going for half a mile.”

  “And then the potato fields. Are they still there?”

  “Mostly. Take the second lane on your right towards the ocean.”

  “And there you’ll be, among the honeysuckle, thornbushes, and dunes. See you.”

  David was left staring at a dead receiver. He replaced it thoughtfully. Mark Bohn’s telephone calls were usually brief. Bohn liked his comforts, and five hours of driving (here and back to New York) wasn’t his idea of bliss. Bohn never did anything without a purpose. So what was bringing him out all the way here? Urgent, he had said. It must be damned urgent.

  David put one of his long-playing tapes into the machine, adjusted the volume and tone, went back to his typewriter. He had the work completed by half-past seven, with a varied selection of Vivaldi and Albinoni keeping him cheerful company. The special thing about that kind of music, he thought as he changed into his swimming trunks, was that it didn’t add to your aggravations and annoyances. It didn’t jar your spine, set your teeth on edge. And the miracle was that it didn’t cloy either. Small wonder that people were still listening to those clever old Venetians after two hundred and fifty years.

  He went into the porch, waited for the last movement of an Albinoni concerto to end. You couldn’t walk away from that interweave of strings with the trumpet dominating the intricate background. Just the finest trumpeter in the world, he thought as Maurice André let his last notes ripple and soar. Soar as high as these white clouds, tinging now with gold, over the immense sea. Then there was only silence and the steady beat of breaking waves.

  He walked over the short stretch of rough grass, followed the path between beach-plum bushes and dog roses, came to the big dunes that blocked his cottage from winter storms. The path went round one side of them—Long Islanders didn’t approve of breaking down dunes by trampling over them—but tonight David went straight over, running now as he jumped on to the deep soft sand. His pace increased as he reached the harder stuff, packed and smoothed by the tide’s reach. He let out a long war whoop as he raced for the edge, running slow-motion until the water was waist-high. Then came the big ones rolling in from the Atlantic. He dived at the base of an upcurling wave, got safely through before it smashed downward. Another dive and he was beyond this line of surf and swimming strongly. It was almost calm tonight, by Atlantic standards, but it was wiser to turn back before he reached the second line of breakers which rose and fell over some unseen reef or sand bar. This was far enough from the shore: he might enjoy taking a risk, but he was not foolhardy. The return was easy, with the ocean helping him tonight: the spasms of the hidden waves floated him in. Some days, he almost had to fight his way back; other days, he wouldn’t put an ankle into this water.

  He flopped down on the empty beach, rested in its peace. There wasn’t a fishing boat in sight. Some gulls. Some sandpipers, scuttling along the frothing edge of the waves, their sharp bills busy searching for food before the brilliant sunset ebbed away. At last he picked himself up and began walking to the cottage. He was beginning to feel cold, but pleasantly: it was the first time he had been really cool today. He wondered, still listening to the perpetual waves, how the whalers in the old days managed to get their boats launched through that surf. They did, too. Now that was real toughness for you, he told himself, as he broke into a jogging run.

  A Buick was standing in the driveway beside the cottage. Two men were waiting on the darkening porch.

  “Eight-fifteen,” Mark Bohn called out. “I told you we’d manage it. And I brought a good driver along with me, just to make sure. Hugh McCulloch.” He nodded to a tall man beside him.

  Hugh McCulloch? David studied the stranger briefly. Am I supposed to know him? he wondered. “Let’s move inside,” he suggested. He shook hands and led the way, switching on the lights. “Pour yourselves a drink. I’ll find some clothes. You both look so damn formal.” Hugh McCulloch was carrying a briefcase, looking round uncertainly for a place to drop it. David moved into the bathroom for a quick shower to free the sand from his hair and skin. Dressing took a couple of minutes: chino pants, short-sleeved shirt, feet shoved into loafers. Outside in the living-room he could hear Marie fixing the drinks and doing all the talking. It struck David suddenly that all three of them were embarrassed by this meeting, each in his own way. It was an intrusion on him, certainly. (“Look at this,” Bohn was saying near the desk, “he really has been doing some work!” It obviously surprised him.) On the other hand, it had certainly been one hell of a nuisance for these two men to come chasing down all this distance. Bohn would go anywhere in search of a story. But McCulloch did not look the type to make unnecessary journeys.

  3

  “Well,” David Mennery said briskly as he returned to the living-room, “do we eat now or later? There isn’t much to offer you, I’m afraid. Closing up house, you know.”

  “Wouldn’t trouble you,” McCulloch said. “We can stop for some food on the way back to New York.” He left the bookcases, where he had been studying the titles. He had a pleasant voice, quiet and gentle like his manner, yet firm. He stood at least six feet, a couple of inches above David and four inches more than Mark Bohn. His hair had been reddish blond: it was now well mixed with white, and thinning. It was conservatively cut, giving him a neat, smooth look. So were his clothes, a lightweight grey suit, a white shirt, a navy tie. Observant brown eyes; pale complexion as if he spent a lot of time indoors. A man in his mid-forties? Not much more. No, thought David, I don’t remember this McCulloch at all, yet there’s a friendly look about him as if he recognised me.

  “No trouble,” David lied cheerfully. Too bad about that steak he had hoped to broil tonight. Divided three ways, it would supply a couple of mouthfuls apiece. “There’s cheese and some ham. And,” he added with a grin, as he caught sight of Bohn’s face, Mark the well-travelled epicure, Mark the connoisseur of wines, “we can always fill up the corners by opening a can of beans.”

  “I think we should talk first,” Bohn said.

  “Fine,” David agreed, and took the Scotch Bohn handed him. Bohn was trying to appear at ease, but he was definitely nervous. Physically, he looked much the same as always: thin-faced, hawk-featured, with amused grey eyes behind round wise-looking glasses. He had dark hair, straight but now long-stranded with limp locks straggling over his collar. By startling contrast, there was a fuzz of sideburns, thick and grey, bulging from his cheeks. If Bohn had grown all that hair in the hope of looking younger, he had achieved the opposite effect. He looked a tired fifty, with all the weight of the world on his narrow shoulders. Actually, he was two years younger than David, making him thirty-seven. David resolved to have a good haircut tomorrow, not short, but not below the collar line either. “Well, what’s all this about?” And what, he was wondering again, could bring three men like us together?

  McCulloch had taken a chair, his briefcase lying neatly and not too obviously alongside. He was going to leave the talking to Bohn. A very diplomatic type, thought David, sitting opposite him: he lo
oked as cool and crisp as if he hadn’t travelled almost the length of Long Island on a hot and sticky evening. Bohn, by contrast, was feeling the humidity, although the chill sea air was circulating through the room. He pulled his wide Italian silk tie loose, opened his striped English shirt, then went the whole way and took off the creased jacket of his light gabardine suit. He threw it aside, took another drink, ran his hand through his hair. Yes, thought David, definitely nervous. Of me? That’s unlikely. Of McCulloch, who looked like a good-tempered kind of man? Then Bohn’s hesitations dropped away from him. He became his old business-like self; very capable, quick-talking, thoughts arranged in neat patterns. He went straight to the matter. “Jaromir Kusak’s daughter wants to get out of Czechoslovakia.”

  David felt all expression drain from his face. “Irina?”

  “Irina. And she needs help.”

  David made no reply. The door to one of the rooms in his past life had been wrenched open. He had closed it, locked it, eventually thrown its key away, and here it was, forced ajar and gaping. At least, he thought, he could now bring himself to look inside, see it all as a small museum. Sixteen years was a long time in emotional drainage. He had no feelings left about Irina. Now he could even let himself remember her, remember Prague in the autumn of 1956. A girl he had met on his first day there. By accident. The totally unexpected. And himself when young, almost twenty-four, just out of the army, with enough money saved to let him wander through Europe for a couple of months. It might be a while before he’d ever be able to travel there again; it would give him time to decide whether or not he was going back to college. He had enlisted voluntarily at the end of his sophomore year at Yale, in the middle of the Korean War, when the draft had been stepped up. Partly because an enlisted man had some choice in his branch of the service. Partly—to be brutally truthful—because the group around him talking of draft evasion (and let the other guys do it) had given him a small pain at the base of the spine. What other guys? Anyone except me, me, me? Of course, no one put it as bluntly as that: rationalisations were neat as always, and even dear old morality got dragged in by the hair of its head. The comic thing was, he had enlisted in a state of depressed anger, and then he hadn’t been sent to Korea to get his tail shot off. Instead, he had been assigned to West Germany. And when he was free, he had headed for Vienna because the action was there, music and international politics, his two developing interests. (The German experience hadn’t been all sausage and sauerkraut.)