The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

“Horst unluckily struck a telegraph pole as he fell. I’m told that death was instantaneous. Wolfgang was more fortunate, probably because he was unconscious when he left the train. He’s still recovering in hospital, but I shall be seeing him on my way back. I’ll give him your regards.”

“And you can tell him that the bruises he inflicted on Miss Roche are also healing nicely.”

Breitner’s expression turned stone-cold with contempt as he watched the old lady put the carrot cake on the table in front of him. He studied it in silence, as if wondering what he should do with it. But his thoughts were plainly on more sinister plans.

“It would be amusing to have you put away, Eigenmann.” His mouth twisted with malice. “Manslaughter is the very least we could get you on. And we might even stretch to murder.”

“You would get nowhere without witnesses,” Frank observed with a naivety that embarrassed even him as the words came out.

“I have Wolfgang,” he said. “And I have Mademoiselle Roche – a witness of impeccable character.”

Patricia looked up for the first time since Breitner walked in. Panic filled her eyes. It was a look that told Frank she had an understanding of the man so intimate it gouged a deep furrow through his heart and deposited its heavy waste in the pit of his stomach. A look that told him her tormentor was no longer playing. He was deadly serious.

“You said yourself that Wolfgang was unconscious, so he can testify to nothing. As for Miss Roche,” he added hopefully, “I cannot imagine she would have any interest in becoming your witness for the prosecution.”

“Don’t be so sure, Eigenmann.” His confidence unnerved Frank, much to Breitner’s enjoyment. “Patricia,” he added, “I think it’s time for us to go.”

She said nothing. Her eyes were still frozen with panic. But Frank could see from the stirring motion of her body that she was ready to go with her tormentor. Disbelief and feverish confusion seized hold of him.

‘What’s she playing at?’ he asked himself. He had to stop her. Decisions forced themselves on him with a crazed logic that had him act more quickly than his disabled brain was able to follow. With one hand securely on the gun in his pocket, he took the key to Burow’s chalet from the other pocket and laid it firmly on the table in front of Patricia.

“Go home, Patricia, and wait for me there. You don’t have to go anywhere with this rat.”

To Frank’s dismay, she did not instantly reach for the key, but looked at him with a desperate appeal in her eyes. And hesitated.

“I think you’ll find, Eigenmann, that she would prefer to go with me.”

And she reinforced Breitner’s smug assumption: “Please, Frank. Don’t make a scene. I know what I’m doing.”

The blood in Frank’s veins ran hot with an acrid bitterness that set his head spinning. His thoughts raced around in fragmented confusion. But the largest fragment stuck, an embolism of hatred that knew only one remedy. He took the gun from his pocket and laid it on the table concealed under his arm to all but Breitner.

“Take the key Patricia, and go back to the chalet,” he insisted, his gaze fixed on Breitner.

“Look before you leap, Eigenmann. I have a lot of friends here.”

Patricia too lent her support to his arrogance: “Let me go with him, Frank. Please. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

But they had long since passed the point where Frank could listen to her appeals. His mind was locked on Breitner.

“Then your friends will enjoy the opportunity of paying tribute to another hero,” Frank said, picking up the key and thrusting it across the table into Patricia’s hand.

“Could I have the bill, please?” Frank called over to the counter and saw Breitner making ready to leave. Frank put a restraining hand on his arm.

“We wait. She goes first.”

Frank returned the gun to his pocket and, as the old lady shuffled over with the bill, Patricia got up to leave. A peculiar petulance on her lips, but fear still in her eyes.

“You didn’t like the carrot cake.” The old lady’s halfquestioning observation lay somewhere between rebuke and disbelief. And it brought a sick expression to Breitner’s face that was not lost even on her failing eyes. Only its significance escaped her.

“Well, the world would be a sorry place if we always had what we wanted,” she mumbled, and took the ten franc note Frank offered her.

“Keep the change,” he said in cheery tone.

She was an unlikely ally, this crotchety old woman with her folk wisdom. And Frank appreciated her commitment, however unsuspecting it was. He gave her a conspiratorial smile as she turned to shuffle her way back to the counter, her duty reluctantly done. But she wanted no part of an alliance with any foreigner, and she scowled at his smile with contempt.

“Go back to the chalet and just wait there,” Frank insisted as Patricia sidled uncertainly towards the door.

“You’re making a big mistake, Eigenmann,” Breitner growled. But the more he tried to throw his weight around, the firmer the ground became for Frank’s blind obsession, which matured with every second that he kept his gaze on Breitner’s visible discomfort.

He enjoyed watching the layer of smug self-assurance peeling off. The lupine eyes that earlier had flashed a cold detached indifference now shifting. Nervous and vulnerable.

“Let’s take a walk,” Frank said, and reinforced the image of vulnerability by lifting Breitner from his seat with a supporting arm and leading him out of the tea room.

“Auf Wiederluege,” said the old lady. Frank’s unwitting ally was plainly not sorry to see them go. And he was no less sorry to leave the air of chocolate and cheap cigars.

“Auf Wiedersehen,” he replied without conviction. In his relief to breathe the fresh mountain air again as he stepped out behind Breitner, he overlooked the atmosphere of sneering arrogance that he and Patricia had left behind them when