Rendezvous With Danger by Margaret Pemberton Page A

smile at the sight of the elegant Gunther chugging at a dizzy five miles an hour up the street and round the corner in search of a garage.
    It seemed rather a waste of time to be sitting in the car with so many attractions outside and a few minutes later I began to stroll up the street in the direction Gunther had gone.
    Gazing idly in the shop windows, being jostled by the crowds, I began to feel like the tourist I really was. I reached the corner Gunther had rounded but there was no sign of him. Succumbing to the magic that the sights and sounds of a strange city always kindles in me, I wandered slowly down the street.
    There were many emblazoned signs hanging above the pavement and I stopped to look closer at one above an armourer’s. It was richly gilded, supported by a fine wroughtiron pole heavily ornamented with twists and curls and with painted flowers and leaves in each curve. As I stood, back to the road, studying the inn sign, some sixth sense made me stiffen and I turned my head slightly.
    Motoring down the street was a white sports car, and behind the wheel was the unmistakable figure of Stephen Maitland.
    I froze, unable to think for the panic that swept over me. The car came closer. He would be bound to see me. With mouth dry and heart pounding I turned, head down, hurrying along the crowded pavement. As I reached the corner I could see the car draw parallel with me as it slowed down to negotiate the turn. I stepped into the shadow of a doorway, my back to the road. It wasn’t until then that I realized he would have to pass Gunther’s Mercedes. It wasn’t the most inconspicuous car in the world. He would see it, put two and two together, know I was here. I choked back the hysterical sobs that rose in my throat. What was he doing here, for goodness sake? Gunther had said they’d all been arrested. All of them, Maitland as well.
    I forced myself to peer round the corner. I had been quite right. Stephen Maitland had pulled up directly behind the Mercedes and was standing like the demon king himself, searching the crowds, looking for me.
    Hastily I stepped back. I must find Gunther. There couldn’t be so many garages in Nordlingen, and he would have gone to the nearest one. Frantically dredging up all the German I was capable of, I stopped a middleaged man in working clothes.
    â€˜ Wo ist die nachste Garage? ’
    â€˜ Links an der Strassenkreuzung? ’ Seeing the blank look on my face he pointed back the way I had come, using sign language to indicate its whereabouts. I hardly let him finish before I was haring off up the street, dodging between the browsing shoppers.
    Further on, past the inn sign I had been looking at, was an obscure turning. I gave an apprehensive glance over my shoulder, then scurried down it. It was a narrow, winding lane, completely deserted, with no pavement or shops, and tall houses rising directly from the cobbles—the perfect place for an unfortunate accident.
    I hugged the walls, keeping as far in the shadow as possible, knowing that if Stephen looked down he couldn’t help but see me. I broke into a run, my high-heeled sandals ringing out loudly, the sound seeming, to my nervous ears, to echo and re-echo from wall to wall.
    Ahead of me I could see an intersection, with a red-roofed inn on the corner, but still no sign of a garage. Had the man said turn to the right or left? I couldn’t remember and glanced feverishly behind me, as above the noise of my sandals I heard the soft tread of a man’s foot, but it was only a business-man, briefcase tucked respectably under his arm.
    It seemed to take me an age to reach the corner and the flower-decked exterior of the inn with its eaves and shutters, but there, not twenty yards away down the left hand turn, was the large sign of a garage. As I neared it, I saw my Morris and the comforting sight of a broad-shouldered Gunther stepping out of a telephone kiosk. At the sound of my running footsteps