CHAPTER SIX

‘She’s dead,’ the young woman said. The child was balanced on her hip, greedily sucking its fingers; she stared at Fisher with hostility, holding the door half shut.

‘I’m sorry. When did it happen?’

‘The day after you came here,’ the woman said. ‘The excitement was too much for her; she went on raving after you left – I blessed you and your lady friend, I can tell you! Then she just went to pieces, the next afternoon she had a heart attack and that was the end of it. Thank God!’ She rolled her eyes upwards. ‘I ought to thank you – I thought she’d live for ever, the old cow …’

‘Then perhaps you could help me?’ Fisher was desperate to keep the door open; one hand was in his coat pocket holding a wad of notes. The woman looked at him, suspicion closing her face against him.

‘Help with what? Not that old wartime stuff again?’

‘Your brother-in-law Jacquot, the one who was shot by the Germans …’ he said. ‘I want to know about him.’

‘There’s nothing I can tell you.’ She shrugged, dislodging the baby’s fist from its mouth. ‘Christ, monsieur, my husband was six years old when it happened. I wasn’t even born! The old cow told you all there was to know. He got himself caught like a fool, meddling with what wasn’t his business, I daresay, and the Germans did for him. Always talking about him, she was, raving on and on. She drove me crazy; thank God she’s gone. Old cow.’

Fisher brought his hand out of his pocket without anything in it. He gave the young Madame Brevet a look of disgust.

‘I expect your mother-in-law’s glad too,’ he said. ‘Living with you can’t have been much fun for her.’ He turned and walked away; she was shouting abuse after him. At the end of the shabby street he said out loud to himself, ‘Hell’s teeth, now what?’

The only source of personal information about Jacquot was gone; he had been full of hope when he left the hotel to see Madame Brevet that morning.

He was ready to exercise patience, to spend hours with the old lady if necessary, until he could dredge up something about her son which might make sense of the General’s inclusion of his name. Now hope was gone. The door which appeared to be opening had slammed shut; added to which his partner Dunston had phoned early that morning to say that he had to make a trip to France on another case and intended stopping over in Paris. Fisher liked Dunston, but he didn’t want him intruding at that moment, booming on about the Von Hessels, putting his foot in it about Paula. Most of all he didn’t want Dunston meeting her, eyeing her up and down and making his bar-room jokes to Fisher afterwards. Now he had another reason for resenting Dunston’s visit. He had come to a complete dead end. He had pinned his hopes upon the old lady; the senile have a happy facility for the past, whereas the present confuses them. He had memories of an old aunt in a dreary home near Brighton, who could talk with amazing clarity about the first world war but didn’t know which day of the week it was. He thought of the vixen-faced daughter-in-law, and swore. Jacquot was as clear in his mother’s mind as if he had met his brutal death on the day before. She could have answered questions, Fisher was certain of that. But he had come too late. With her death there was nobody left to ask about Jacquot. He searched through his pockets for the cigarettes; there was only one left in his packet, and when he tried to light it, he found a split in the paper. He swore again and threw it away. He saw a tobacconist’s on the other side of the road, and crossed over.

Three children were playing a game with coloured chalks on the pavement; they were hopping from foot to foot among the chalked-out squares, calling to each other and laughing. Fisher sidestepped them and went inside the shop.

It was dark and the air was stale; there was a woman inside, counting out money, and a man waited behind the counter. He wore a soiled shirt, collarless and open at the neck, showing thick black hairs like creeper at the base of his throat; his moustache was bushy and stained yellow at the ends. He looked up at Fisher as his customer handed her coins across the counter.

‘Monsieur?’

‘Forty Gauloises.’ Fisher found his money; the man scooped up the coins with a horny workman’s hand; instead of turning away he peered at Fisher for a moment.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but you are a friend of Madame Brevet?’ He spoke hurriedly, as if he had been waiting to get it out since Fisher came into the shop. The question took him unawares.

‘Which Madame Brevet?’

The man jabbed with his thumb out of the window.

‘Not that bitch. The old lady; I heard the other one shouting after you. I saw you standing at the front door. She wouldn’t let you in, eh?’

‘No,’ Fisher said. ‘I came to see her mother-in-law. She told me she was dead. I was sorry to hear about it.’

‘Don’t be sorry.’ The shopkeeper leaned over the counter; garlic and sour wine sighed over Fisher. ‘It was a mercy that she died. For ten years she lived in that house with that vixen, nag, nag, nag at her all the time. Always calling her dirty names, never a kind word. It broke our hearts, monsieur, to see the poor woman go to pieces as she did. Just for the want of a little kindness in her old age. And what a woman she used to be!’

‘Oh?’ Fisher had been about to turn and go. He wasn’t in the mood for a back-street gossip. ‘You knew her well?’

‘She lived in this street all her life,’ the man said. ‘We went through the war together, her family and mine. One never forgets something like that.’

‘No.’ Fisher came and leaned against the counter; he took out the Gauloises and offered one. ‘No, I’m sure you don’t. Then you must have known her son, too.’

‘I’m glad to meet you,’ Dunston said. He shook hands with Paula. Fisher hadn’t been pleased to see Dunston; he didn’t listen to Dunston’s alleged reason for being in the city, which was a fictitious client with a business problem. He had tried very hard to avoid Dunston meeting Paula, but Dunston refused to be put off. He was genial and thick skinned, and finally he won. They met in the lounge of their hotel, and immediately he gave Fisher credit for good taste. The girl was certainly attractive. He appraised her quickly. Good figure, nice legs, pretty face with marvellous eyes. He shook hands with her and smiled, showing his bright white teeth. Pity it had to be her. But still. He took them both to the bar of the Tour de France for a drink, and set out to get as much information as he could. He thought Fisher looked hung up over something; probably she hadn’t gone to bed with him yet. He kept watching her. Dunston didn’t like it. He had never seen Fisher behave like this with anyone before. He was deeply hooked by this one. Which might prove to be a bloody nuisance. He hadn’t reckoned on having to fool Fisher, but now this factor couldn’t be ignored. The bloody fool was mad about her. And she, so cool and gentle, with her upper-class manners and her elegant clothes – how did she feel towards him? Dunston made small talk about the city and the weather for the first half an hour, and watched them very closely. He couldn’t decide about her. He couldn’t be sure how she felt about Fisher or how closely she was involved. And this could be important. If he were going to set something up for her, she had to be alone, and he had to be sure that she would walk into his situation without suddenly referring to anyone else. He decided to play it along and see what happened.

‘Now tell me.’ He leaned forward towards her. ‘How do you feel about finding this treasure, Mrs. Stanley?’

‘Not very enthusiastic,’ Paula said. ‘I’ve said all along to Eric, that if we do find it, and I do have a legal claim, I don’t intend to keep it. The original owners can have it back.’

‘That’s very noble of you,’ he said. ‘Mind you, you might change your mind when you actually saw it! I don’t think I’d give it up in a hurry!’ He laughed and looked across at Fisher.

‘And what do you do all day, while our boy here is out playing Sherlock Holmes?’

‘She comes with me,’ Fisher interjected. He wouldn’t have put it past Dunston to try and make a date. He found the steady grin and the flickering eyes up and down Paula so offensive that he could hardly keep his temper. He had never imagined he could dislike Dunston. Now he could have taken him by the collar and told him to keep his dirty looks to himself.

‘Does she? Everywhere?’

‘No, of course not,’ Paula said. ‘I do quite a lot of sight-seeing, and I’m afraid I shop. Paris is a terrible place for spending money.’

‘And that reminds me,’ Dunston said. ‘I must look round for something nice for Betty. That’s my wife – maybe you’d come along with me one day and help me choose a dress – I’ve got her size.’

‘I’d be delighted,’ Paula said.

‘How long do you expect to be here?’ Fisher asked. He didn’t want Paula going shopping with him; he didn’t want her going anywhere with anyone. He caught himself up with surprise. His latent jealousy had surfaced until he was sullen and suspicious when they were apart.

The fact that they were lovers had not improved the relationship for Fisher; it had transformed his uncertainty about her into an obsession. The more he made love to her and she responded, the more he wanted her to relinquish the search for her father, and the deeper his resentment when she showed no sign of doing so. He should have filled the vacuum in her life; he couldn’t accept that there was any need for the fantasy of a neglected child, if she were really in love with him. He looked across at her, talking to Dunston whom he had expected her to find objectionable, and was irritated that she was smiling. Why the hell should he ask her to go shopping for a present for his dreary wife …?

‘How long are you staying?’ He repeated the question.

‘I don’t know,’ Dunston said. ‘Depends on how the sleuthing goes. I shan’t hurry back though; it’s very pleasant here. You’ll be staying to the end of the business, Mrs. Stanley?’

‘Yes,’ Paula said. She avoided Fisher’s look. ‘I’m staying.’

‘In for the kill,’ Dunston said and laughed. He turned slightly towards Fisher. ‘Since it’s all in the family, how near are you to finding it?’

‘I’m going to England,’ Fisher said. He reached across and took Paula’s hand; he didn’t care what Dunston thought. ‘I need to see Paula’s mother just once more. And then we start digging.’

‘Literally?’

‘Figuratively, I think,’ Fisher answered Dunston. He felt Paula’s fingers stiff and unresponsive in his grasp. He hadn’t mentioned the trip to England before; he found it difficult to discuss the progress of the search with her now. Every forward move was a move towards the General and, however hard he strove as a lover, Fisher had no surety that in a confrontation Paula would choose him and not her father. In his darker moods, he would have bet on the General every time.

‘You mean you’ve solved the little riddle about Aunty Ambrosine?’

‘It was a code name for a Resistance group,’ Fisher explained. This much he had told Paula. ‘Jacquot was the name for a courier in the group. I managed to get enough information about him to make sense of most of it. The last bit, your mother may be able to fill in.’ He addressed Paula and squeezed her hand, asking for forgiveness. She responded and for the moment Fisher relaxed. Dunston ordered them another drink. The subject changed to Dunston’s business in Paris, and Paula withdrew from the discussion. She sat holding Fisher’s hand, looking at both of them and wondering what they had ever had in common. The moody, possessive man beside her was a different breed of human being. The other was cheerful and self-confident; she applied that elusive word ‘breezy’ to him and it was an apt description. Nothing would bother Dunston, whereas the more she knew Fisher the more complicated she discovered him to be. Sexual surrender hadn’t satisfied him; he conducted what could only be termed a war when they went to bed, a campaign of calculated seduction which was designed to dominate her completely. And the tragic truth, which she could never let him see, was that his success in one field ensured his failure in another. Paula would not be sensually dominated; her body and emotions were interdependent; she was not yet ready to surrender both to Fisher, even though she loved him. And she did love him; she insisted upon that. She needed to love him in order to deny his constant assertion that she didn’t. When he left her at night she often cried. It could have been a happy, fulfilling relationship, so different from the one she had experienced in her marriage, but his possessiveness and insecurity were ruining it for both of them. She should have warned him, but she couldn’t. He was too strong for her and at the same time too vulnerable. She felt unhappy and confused, but still determined. Fisher was not enough to fill the wasted years; he couldn’t answer the question which had to be answered if she were ever to know peace or independence of spirit. What manner of man was her father, the General? Was he the inhuman brute of old Madame Brevet’s wild denunciation, or the tender father of a little girl, doting and sentimental?

Fisher couldn’t forgive this hunger to know. He saw it as a personal slight, a proof that she was still free of him and able to choose something else. And she was free; with her hand imprisoned in his, Paula felt a desperate need of that liberty of choice, of the freedom to see her whole life in true perspective once. She had been alone too long and independence had been thrust upon her. Now a man had come into her life who wanted her to give herself completely. She couldn’t do it. She gently withdrew her hand on the pretext of lighting a cigarette. Dunston was speaking to her again.

‘Are you going back to England to see your mother too, Mrs. Stanley?’

‘No,’ Paula said. ‘I’m not. I’m staying here.’

‘And when are you going?’ he asked Fisher.

‘Tuesday,’ Fisher said. ‘I’ll only be away one night.’

‘Oh well.’ Dunston’s smile beamed at both of them. ‘In that case Mrs. Stanley could come and help me with my shopping. That would be great. All right by you, Eric?’

‘Why not.’ Fisher was surly. ‘If Paula wants to …’

‘And don’t you worry,’ Dunston said happily. ‘I’ll take good care of her while you’re away. Now let’s go and eat some dinner. I’m starving.’

Paula was sitting in the lounge of the hotel; she had taken a chair facing the entrance and as soon as the tall, fair man walked through the door and stood, looking round, she knew that this must be Philip Von Hessel. She had the opportunity to study him while he paused, looking round the room to see which of the lone women she might be. He was one of the best-looking men she had ever seen; he held himself with an arrogant grace that was without selfconsciousness. So did a man look, with a hundred million and an ancient title to buttress his personality. Added to which were the advantages of youth and that Wagnerian face. He caught Paula’s glance, and moved towards her. She got up and came to meet him, holding out her hand. ‘Prince Von Hessel?’

‘Yes. Mrs. Stanley …’

He took her hand and kissed it, bowing a little. The telephone call had been such a surprise that when he asked her to meet him for a few minutes, in Fisher’s absence, Paula hadn’t been able to think of an excuse. He had sounded older on the telephone, very precise and rather grave, like many foreigners who spoke good English but were out of practice.

The reality was very different. He took a seat beside her, offered her, a cigarette and asked if he might order her a drink. He smiled, and Paula felt an impact of charm. She realised that except for her mother, this was the first of her countrymen that she had ever met.

But she had forgotten Schwarz, with the bright eyes that burned at her, sitting hunched up in her office. He had been German too, like the handsome young man sitting at her side.

‘I hope you’ll forgive me for intruding myself on you,’ the Prince said. ‘I had hoped to talk to Mr. Fisher, but I have also been anxious to meet you. When the hotel said you were in, it seemed too good an opportunity to miss.’

Paula noticed that he wore a black tie. ‘I’m very glad to meet you,’ she said. ‘May I say how sorry I am about what happened to your brother?’

‘Thank you.’ Philip Von Hessel looked down. ‘My mother is here; we are taking my brother’s body home as soon as the formalities are completed. Have you been to Germany, Mrs. Stanley?’

Paula changed the subject gladly. ‘No, never. I shall do one day, but my mother left at the end of the war and she’s never been back.’

‘A number of people have cut themselves off because of the past,’ he said. ‘Even people like your mother, who were only innocent bystanders. I think it is a pity. Do you mind my saying this?’

‘Not at all,’ Paula answered. ‘I was brought up to be ashamed of what I was, without ever being told the reason. Now at least I know it.’

‘You are not responsible for the past either,’ he said gently. ‘No more am I, Mrs. Stanley. Your father committed crimes, well, so did my family. We are just becoming acceptable to the civilised world, both ourselves and our nation. Because, of course, they need us. So don’t feel too guilty. We are not so black and the rest of the world white, I assure you.’

Paula looked at him. ‘My father stole a family treasure from you,’ she said. ‘But you’re not bitter – you can talk about him so calmly. I think it’s very admirable of you. And I’m glad to meet you, Prince Von Hessel, because I have something to say to you.’

‘Please,’ he said. The expression in his eyes was gentle. ‘You don’t have to say anything to me.’

‘But I want to.’ Paula turned towards him. ‘It’s possible that I have a legal claim to the Poellenberg Salt. I don’t know if this is true, but if by any chance it is, I want you to know that as far as I’m concerned the Salt belongs to your family. I shall hand it over to you immediately.’

‘That is a very generous thing to say,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it deeply. But do you know how valuable it is?’

‘I know,’ Paula said. ‘It couldn’t be priced. But that’s not my concern. It was taken from you; by whatever means within the law, it was morally illegal, I’m sure of that. And you must have it back. I just wanted to tell you this. There won’t be any difficulties or wrangling about ownership. It’s your property.’

‘Mrs. Stanley.’ He spoke quietly, twisting the broad gold signet ring upon his little finger. ‘I repeat, that is the most generous thing I’ve ever heard. But can I ask you something?’

‘Yes,’ Paula said. ‘Ask me whatever you like.’

‘If you don’t want the Poellenberg Salt,’ he said, ‘will you use your influence with Mr. Fisher to call off the search? It’s terribly important to me. I don’t want it found, Mrs. Stanley. I don’t ever want to see it again. I can’t make any impression on him, or my mother. I shall continue to try with her if you could possibly talk to him.’

‘Why don’t you want it?’ Paula asked. ‘It’s one of the treasures of the world. Why wouldn’t you have it back?’

‘I can’t tell you that,’ he said seriously. ‘So please don’t ask me. I know I have no right to say this, because I’m only a stranger to you, but you must believe me when I tell you that it is a bloodstained thing, and it’s better left wherever your father hid it. Please; would you do this for me?’

He had nice eyes, as he talked he had leaned across and laid his hand on her arm. Suddenly it moved down and closed upon hers. It gave her a shock to feel its warmth. Slowly she shook her head.

‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘It’s just not possible. I’m not with Eric Fisher to find the Poellenberg Salt, I’m here looking for my father. If I find it, I believe I’ll find him. I can’t help you, Prince Philip. I only wish I could.’

‘I see,’ he said. He took his hand away. ‘I’m sorry, I became emotional. I didn’t know this, or I wouldn’t have asked you.’

‘I don’t expect anyone to understand,’ Paula said. ‘Anyway, nobody does. I never knew him. I told you, I was brought up to be ashamed of being his child, ashamed of being German. My name was changed, my nationality, everything. And then I was told about him. He began to take shape for me. Nobody ever loved me, Prince Philip; forgive me if I’m being emotional now, but it’s true. My mother didn’t and my husband didn’t. Now someone does, but I’m afraid it’s come too late. I need my father. I need to see him and judge him for myself. He’s a war criminal, and he’s been on the run for nearly thirty years. And whatever he’s done I must be the only person in the world who cares about him. Or would help him. That’s why there’s nothing I can do.’

‘I understand,’ the Prince said quietly. ‘I too would feel the same; it is our German blood. We all have a strong sense of family. For your sake I hope you find him – without the Salt. The irony is, only one person wants it. My mother. It has become an obsession with her.’

‘Why did you say it was bloodstained?’ Paula said. ‘What did you mean?’

‘I can’t explain that either,’ Philip Von Hessel said. ‘Mrs. Stanley, would you do me a favour?’

‘If I can,’ Paula answered.

‘Would you have dinner with me before I go back to Germany? I promise not to talk about the Salt.’

‘That’s very nice of you.’ Paula stood up. She held out her hand and he kissed it, touching her fingers with his mouth. ‘I could tell you about your country,’ he said quietly. ‘We have much to be ashamed of, but also much in which we can take pride. It would give me great pleasure. Say you will come.’

‘I will,’ Paula answered. ‘I shall be alone on Tuesday evening. Perhaps we can meet then.’

‘I have an engagement for Tuesday,’ Philip said. ‘But I shall cancel it. I will come here at eight. Goodbye, Mrs. Stanley. Or better still, auf wiedersehen.’

The garden in Essex was a kaleidoscope of roses. The formal rose garden was one of the sights of the district; the Ridge-ways had been persuaded to open the gardens for charity, and on a blazing July afternoon a crowd of well over a hundred were walking through the trees and lawns, wandering alongside the wide herbaceous border which was the loving work of Paula’s mother. The Brigadier hovered on the perimeter, pausing to answer questions about the various plants and some of the rarities in the small walled enclave which he tended himself. Gardening was a passion, taken up as a hobby in the years following his retirement and developed into an absorbing pastime in which his wife shared with as much enthusiasm.

He could see her walking among the roses, smiling and talking to the visitors; he felt a pang of pride and love as he watched her, cool in a pastel linen dress, her grey blonde hair shining in the sunlight, as beautiful and dignified in old age as she had been as a young woman.

There was nothing he would not do or had not done to preserve that air of calm serenity, to see her smile and pass through life untroubled by care. She had suffered too much to endure even a moment’s disquiet or a qualm of pain. She had given him a love and contentment which he had never imagined to be within the grasp of a man as simple as himself. The debt could never be repaid except by a lifetime of care and protectiveness. It made him happy just to be alive and act as a buffer between her and life. He was answering a middle-aged couple’s enquiries about a miniature specie clematis which rioted in shades of purple and white along the edge of an old red brick wall, when the cook, who had worked for them since they moved into the house, came down the path towards him.

There was a telephone call for him; he excused himself and went towards the house, walking slowly in the heat, wondering which of their friends had been inconsiderate enough to call on a day when they were open to the public. The local Red Cross was the Ridgeways’ favourite charity and it benefited every year from this particular occasion.

The line crackled, with the atmospherics peculiar to English rural telephone systems.

‘Brigadier Ridgeway?’

‘Yes. Who is it?’

‘Eric Fisher; Dunston and Fisher detective agency. I came to see you and your wife about two weeks ago.’

The Brigadier held the receiver closer to his ear. ‘Who? I’m sorry, the line is bad.’ He hadn’t wanted to hear the name, his denial was instinctive. The words were repeated. This time he couldn’t pretend to himself, there was no escape. He swore, one hand over the mouthpiece.

‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’ He raised his voice. ‘And you’ve chosen a very inconvenient time to telephone.’

‘I’m coming to England tomorrow,’ the voice said. ‘I want to come and see you. It’s very important. You know Paula’s with me.’

‘I know,’ Ridgeway said. ‘What my step-daughter does is her own affair. It’s nothing to do with us.’

‘It’s very much to do with you. I have to talk to you and her mother. Will you see me?’

‘No.’ The Brigadier was shouting down the telephone. ‘No, certainly not. I won’t have you here bothering my wife!’

‘There’s a strong possibility that she’s not legally married to you.’ He could hear Fisher clearly now, the crackling on the line had stopped and the awful words might have been spoken in the room.

‘I’m pretty sure that General Bronsart is alive. I think you’d better see me. I’ll fly over tomorrow morning and drive straight down.’

‘Go to hell!’ He rammed the telephone down and stood there looking at it as if it had displayed a malevolent life of its own. Slowly he sank to a chair, an old man whose knees were trembling. His legs were the only part of him to show the sign of age; that and the weakness in his chest which worried his wife every time he caught a cold. He put his hands over his face and his head dropped.

‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘Oh my God, my God.’ Outside in the bright sunshine the couple who had been waiting for him to come back gave up and decided to walk on.

Philip Von Hessel faced his mother; she was sitting up in bed, the breakfast tray across her knees. It was a brilliant morning, and the room was full of sunlight. Paris was emptying as the summer advanced; there were few Parisiennes left. The tourist crowds abounded, making the city an alien place. The Ritz was full of Americans, which annoyed the Princess, who found their accents and their ubiquitous presence in the hallowed places of the European aristocracy particularly irksome. She glanced at her handsome son and her expression softened. Of all the human beings with whom she had made contact in her long life, she loved Philip the best. No qualm of sentiment for her dead son had troubled her mind. She was a relic of an age when grief was regarded as an indulgence, the luxury of the inferior classes whose women shrouded their heads in their aprons and cried. Marriage with the Prince Von Hessel had withered any sensibilities she might have had in her youth. She held out her hand to Philip; he bent and kissed her.

‘You’re sure you don’t want me with you?’ he said.

‘No, it’s better you stay here. Fisher will be away in England for a day and a night. The funeral will take place privately; I shall give it out that you’re ill. You must be here in case he comes back with something decisive. He seemed very confident on the telephone.’

‘There will be photographers at the airport,’ Philip said. ‘There are half a dozen hanging round the entrance already.’

‘The authorities have promised that we shall get away without being bothered,’ she said. ‘As soon as it is over, I shall fly back. In the meantime I leave it in your hands. I feel it will all turn out for the best for us. Promise me you won’t worry. This will be the end of a long and troublesome period for our family. From now on it will be up to you to expunge the past and build up what I have preserved. I know you’ll do it.’

‘I will,’ he promised. ‘You have my word.’

She thought how much he resembled his father, that gallant airman who had come so briefly and decisively into her life. Power, wealth, world influence. She leaned against the pillows, a little tired with the onset of emotion, yet mellow in her triumph that in spite of everything she had succeeded, and through her son, the future would be safe. For a moment their hands clasped. ‘My son,’ she said gently. ‘I’m very proud of you.’