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

they entered the tea-room. But it was still there in the street, in the speeches that continued to presume their self-celebration on to an Alpine village that was too comfortable with the ways of nature to put up any kind of resistance beyond the crotchetiness of the old lady in the tea room.

Frank nudged his hostage in the direction of the Parsenn station. When they turned the corner, Frank saw two young men approaching. Breitner quickened his pace slightly, opening up some space from Frank, as they drew closer. The men wore the uniform of what he knew at once to be Germany’s so-called youth sports group. They swaggered down the street looking for all the world as if they thought the emblems of hatred they were dressed up in invested them with authority over every inch of the world. Frank’s watchful eye could not escape the movement of Breitner’s shoulders expanding with a new confidence as they came closer. He quickly closed the gap and pushed the barrel of the gun into the small of Breitner’s back. Frank sensed him stiffen.

“Not a word,” Frank grunted.

The two men appeared to recognise his captive. They invoked their leader’s name as they passed – “Heil Hitler” – and their arms shot out like serpents’ tongues – threatening, sinister and at the same time rather ludicrous in their forage caps. He saw that one of the men bore a scar on the side of his face that had a cold deliberate look about it, suggesting it had been self-inflicted, as if deliberately to underline his menace.

Breitner made no response. It took another prod in the back to prompt any kind of reply. But his half-hearted effort brought questioning looks in their direction. Frank was a stranger to them, so his evident influence over Breitner aroused their curiosity. And when Frank glanced back, he saw the two men had stopped to watch their conspicuous walk to the Parsenn station. His looking round was plainly the signal they had been waiting for. As soon as his head turned, they exchanged a few words, then moved suspiciously in Frank’s direction. They stayed on Frank’s tracks all the way to the station and stood in the doorway watching as he bought two return tickets up the mountain.

“Going to the top, Mr Breitner?” the one with the scar called out. “It looks a bit too cloudy up there for my taste. And it’ll be getting dark soon.”

Breitner said nothing. His submissiveness irritated Frank. It seemed to him a consciously exaggerated effort to arouse their suspicions. The two men watched expectantly, waiting for a reply. His silence would be a signal to intervene, and this was plainly what he was counting on. He had to say something.

“We just need the fresh air,” Frank called back. “We’re not going for the view. Come on, Willi. We’ll miss the train,” he added, ushering Breitner out of the foyer and onto the platform of the funicular railway with a hasty “Auf Wiedersehen” to the two watchdogs as they vanished from view. The pretence of intimacy suggested by his use of Breitner’s first name went so hard against the grain that it almost wedged against Frank’s tongue before he got it out. But it gave him the short gap in their mistrust that he was looking for. And the train was heading out of the station before the two youth sports thugs could do much about it.

“I told you I have a lot of friends here,” Breitner said smugly, preening himself on his sense of position and authority, as the train pulled them up from the station and out onto the mountainside. It was Frank’s turn to say nothing. The train was otherwise empty. They were alone. Whatever Breitner might think about his position, Frank was the one with the instrument of authority in his pocket. He could relax, and let his nerves do the talking.

“I don’t know what you have in mind, Eigenmann, but I have an appointment this evening in the Davoserhof. If I’m not there, my friends will get worried. And they’ll come looking for you.” He fixed Frank with his cold stare, and added with dark emphasis: “Davos is a very small place.”

He maintained a cool exterior, but Frank could not escape the jittery, agitated edge to his words. He was used to cracking the whip. And to watch him now without the whip in his hand was like witnessing the desperate fidgets of an alcoholic in search of his next gin. Frank enjoyed every minute of the spectacle. Nonetheless, those words had managed to chip away at the self-confidence that had been sired by his blind rage. And now that this rage had given way to a certain clarity of mind, doubts began to grow in the cracks.

The chill that pricked at his face as they left the station and walked out onto the mountain did nothing to dispel the doubts. But he had taken on a mission, and he had to see it through. The last train down left just after four according to the sign at the exit. That gave him three quarters of an hour. He nudged Breitner out onto the snow, and they took the path towards the Strelapass.

Despite what the scarfaced watchdog had said, the cloud cover was quite thin, and the limpid light over the sheer expanse of snow made the air almost sparkle with clearness. The few remaining skiers of the day were beginning to make their way down. Frank was put in mind of the long walks he had taken here with Patricia these last few days. How different his circumstances were now.

Frank watched him trying to negotiate the slippery path in his smart city shoes. He was not dressed for mountain walking. Frank had the advantage over him in every respect. And he meant to keep it that way. This was emphatically not the time to expose his weaknesses. Breitner had to know that he was in the mood