Over The Years Quinn had interviewed anything and everything that would talk: from Maharajahs to murderers, politicians to prostitutes. When it came to interviewing a man he had no preferences. But he preferred a woman to be pretty.
Mrs. Haupmann was very pretty: blue eyes, fair complexion, the unlined skin of a girl. She had a youthful figure, too. As Quinn took the seat she offered him he told himself it must be difficult to tell mother and daughter apart.
He admired her beautiful legs, her slim waist, the graceful carriage of her head. When she smiled at him he felt glad he was not wearing his usual shapeless collar and stringy tie.
If Gizelle’s anything like her mother she must be quite something. No wonder she knocked Piper sideways… even if he won’t admit it.
Mrs. Haupmann told Quinn to pull his chair nearer the fire if he felt cold, invited him to take a cigarette from the silver box on the table beside his chair, and asked him if he would like a cup of coffee. Her voice and her smile were very charming.
She waited until he had lit his cigarette and then she wrapped her arms around herself and said, “Now, Mr. Quinn, what do you want me to tell you about my husband?”
“Everything you can. I’ll make notes as we go along and I’d appreciate it if you’d give me as much detail as possible.”
“Well, where should I begin?”
“Tell me how you first met him. That’s as good a place to start as any.”
She went on smiling but her eyes became thoughtful. She said, “That was about a year before the war ended … I mean when I got to know him properly. We’d met once or twice before then but not to say much more than just hallo. I hardly remembered him. He was merely someone who’d been introduced to me. You know how it is, don’t you?”
Quinn said, “Sure. It happens to me all the time.”
Her voice fascinated him. He wanted her to go on talking no matter what she talked about.
In a subdued tone, she said, “I had gone to stay at a farm on the outskirts of Gastein. I’d friends there and they’d persuaded me to go and live with them—after Hans was killed.”
With no change of voice, she added, “He was my first husband. Circumstances were very difficult for me at that time. I had a six-year-old daughter to look after … and no one could tell what the Germans might do. They’d shot her father because he’d been collaborating with the Allies in acts of sabotage. When my friends got the news of Hans’s death they arranged for Gizelle and me to be smuggled out of Gastein and taken to the farm.”
“There’s a story in that experience alone,” Quinn said.
“Oh, yes, I could tell you many stories, some that you wouldn’t believe people could live through, but I want to forget those days.”
She took a cigarette from the silver box and revolved it between her fingers while she stared at nothing. When Quinn gave her a light she thanked him with a sudden pretty smile that drove the shadows out of her eyes.
Quinn said, “I won’t ask you to talk about things that are unpleasant. How long after that was it when you met Mr. Haupmann?”
“Three or four months. I’d heard about him before in connection with certain things that were never discussed.” She looked at Quinn through the ribbon of smoke from her cigarette and added, “People didn’t ask too many questions in those days.”
“So Mr. Haupmann was a member of the Free Austria movement, too?”
“Yes. It’s a subject he doesn’t like to talk about. If you make any reference to it in your article I know he’ll object.”
“Then I’ll leave it out,” Quinn said.
He thought he now understood the forces that had conditioned Fritz Haupmann into becoming a man whose life was bounded by fear. In those far-off years fear must have been with him day and night and he had learned to live with it. But he had been younger then.
Mrs. Haupmann said, “He didn’t stay at the farm very long. The Gestapo were hunting for him and he had to keep on the move. I didn’t see him again for several weeks … and then it was only a short visit.”
“Getting properly acquainted must’ve taken some time.”
“No, not as long as you might think. People who can’t be sure of to-morrow make every minute count to-day.”
Quinn made a note of the phrase and added a shorthand comment: She must’ve been as lovely as her daughter’s supposed to be. If they’d taken a fancy to each other, the fact that each meeting might well be their last would speed up the process. And danger would add some spice, too.
As he looked up from his notebook he was thinking along the same lines. They’d have to take what they could get out of life while they could get it. He had the Gestapo breathing down his neck; she was young, beautiful and pining for a man.
But wars don’t last for ever. Toung people grow old and the glamour wears off. Husbands are never heroes.
In middle-age, men find that frustrating. Some take to drink or other women. Fritz took to spiritualism.…
But Piper’s analysis of the situation posed a question that was still unanswered. If the fire at Haupmann’s factory had not been just a coincidence, what motive did someone have for trying to ruin him? Why was Haupmann afraid to disclose it?
Quinn asked, “When did you get married?”
“Early the following year. A few months later Austria was liberated.”
“And so you lived happily ever after.”
A smile lit up the blue of her eyes. In a quiet, assured voice, she said, “Yes, we’ve been very happy—happier than I’d ever have dreamed possible. As soon as the war was over I wanted to go back to Gastein but Fritz said he preferred to make a fresh start some place where we wouldn’t be constantly reminded of things that both of us wanted to forget… and that’s why we are here.”
“Seems to have been a wise choice.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll never regret coming to England. Of course, we haven’t always lived like this. My husband’s worked very hard. During the difficult early years I helped him as much as I could.”
“He’s obviously built up a very prosperous business. Did he have any money when he came over here?”
“Not very much … not enough, in fact, to keep us until we got established. We had to watch every penny.”
Quinn said, “That’s what’s so interesting in a man like your husband. I know it’ll interest our readers, too. If he hadn’t any capital how did he manage to get started?”
“Well, he borrowed a little, sold the rights of a machine he invented. …” She played with her cigarette and sat looking at Quinn’s notebook as if her mind had wandered far from that gracious room in a gracious house.
Then she took a little puff and let smoke veil her face as she went on, “Those early years weren’t by any means easy but, after all we’d been through, having peace and freedom to work for our own future was wonderful.”
Quinn thought of another cliché to keep her talking. He said, “So all’s well that ends well. Your husband’s certainly shown what can be achieved by hard work and ambition.”
“And considerable ability,” Mrs. Haupmann said.
Someone knocked at the door as she added, “Anybody in the shoe trade will tell you that no one knows footwear manufacture better than Fritz Haupmann.”
The thin, sallow man in the white jacket came in with a coffee tray. He put it down on the table, arranged the cups, and then he went out again.
While Mrs. Haupmann was pouring the coffee she asked Quinn some casual questions about his job, the important people he met, the kind of assignment he liked best. He knew she was only being polite, but he could almost have believed she was really interested.
He found himself talking easily, flattered by her amusement when he said something funny, warming to her smile as she encouraged him to go on. It was an unusual experience for him and he was sorry when he had to get back to the subject of Fritz Haupmann.
For Quinn it had been a very pleasant interlude. He had never known any other woman with the charm that Mrs. Haupmann possessed.
When he could make his coffee last no longer he opened his notebook again. He said, “I’m not supposed to sit here talking about myself… although I must admit I enjoy it.”
Mrs. Haupmann said, “You’ve been most entertaining. I don’t think I’ve ever met a newspaperman before.”
“There are lots of us around,” Quinn told her. “But there’ll be one less if I don’t get on with my job. How many people are employed by the Falcon Shoe Manufacturing Company?”
“I’m not sure … but I believe it’s about two hundred and fifty.”
“And I can say he started from nothing, that he built up this prosperous business on a few pounds of borrowed money?”
“Yes, you certainly can say that. It was such a small sum of money that I don’t know how we ever hoped to manage. Most of people would have said we were foolhardy.”
“Fortune favours the brave, not the foolhardy. Your husband’s evidently a remarkable man.”
Mrs. Haupmann smiled and said, “Everyone thinks so—including his wife. But please don’t put that in or he’ll need a larger size in hats.”
Quinn said, “O.K. I won’t quote you. Now, would you care to tell me something about the third member of the family?”
“Gizelle? What would you like to know?”
“Anything I can use to paint a background to your husband’s private life. How would you describe your daughter?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Mrs. Haupmann’s laughter bubbled up spontaneously. “Gizelle is blonde, beautiful and badly spoiled—mainly by her father.”
“Sounds as if he has every reason to spoil her. How old is your daughter, Mrs. Haupmann?”
“Not quite twenty-four.”
“Is she thinking of getting married?”
Once again Mrs. Haupmann laughed. She said, “Girls never think of anything else. In Gizelle’s case, however, she wants to remain single just a little longer.”
“This isn’t for publication … but is there any young man in the offing?”
“Lots of young men. So far she doesn’t take any of them seriously.”
At the back of Quinn’s mind he was thinking of Piper. The fact that Haupmann was not Gizelle’s natural father might make a difference.
If she’d been his daughter anything off-colour about him would’ve been bound to affect Piper’s attitude towards her. A man like Piper wouldn’t let himself get involved no matter how much he was attracted. But if Gizelle takes after her mother there’s nothing wrong with her heredity.
Quinn asked, “Could you let me have a photograph of Mr. Haupmann and your daughter … and one of yourself, too, of course?”
“Yes, certainly. I’ve got a studio portrait of Gizelle taken quite recently and my husband and I were photographed at a dinner party about a year ago. If they’ll be all right I’ll get them for you. I can always have copies made.”
“That won’t be necessary. We’ll let you have them back soon’s the blocks are prepared.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Mrs. Haupmann said. “If you’ll excuse me a moment. …”
When she left the room Quinn took another cigarette from the silver box and stretched out his legs to the fire. He told himself he could have thought of no better way of spending his day off.
Tou seem to have made quite a hit with the pretty lady. Keep her amused for a little while longer and she might even invite you to stay to lunch.
He wondered what it was like to have a beautiful wife, a sumptuous home, enough money to enjoy all the comforts and many of the luxuries. Fritz Haupmann should have been a very happy man. Instead he went in fear of his life.
How could anyone with intelligence believe in spirit messages? Only people with empty lives, groping for consolation, could swallow that kind of thing.
Fritz Haupmann was well-to-do, happily married, and successful by any standard. Yet it looked as if he was afraid of something he dared not disclose even to his wife—something that had come upon him only in recent months. During the years in which he had been building up his business he must have had a free and -contented mind or he could never have achieved as much as he had done.
From the way his wife behaved she had evidently no suspicion that anything was wrong. How long could he go on keeping it from her?
Women are supposed to have an instinct about that sort of thing. She’ll be bound to discover fairly soon that he’s going around scared stiff.
Mrs. Haupmann returned with two framed pictures. She said, “I’ll have Antonio parcel them up for you if you think they’ll be all right.”
Piper’s description of Fritz Haupmann had been an accurate one but, in Quinn’s opinion, his comments on Gizelle had been too restrained. Quinn said, “All mothers exaggerate a little and I’ve been assuming you were no exception, Mrs. Haupmann. But I was wrong, completely wrong. To say she’s beautiful is the under-statement of the year.”
The remark brought a light to Mrs. Haupmann’s smiling blue eyes. She said, “Well, yes, even if I shouldn’t say it, I must admit that Gizelle’s a lovely girl.”
Then she glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf and murmured, “Oh, dear, is that the time? I’m expecting someone at eleven-thirty and it’s nearly that now. Will you think I’m very rude, Mr. Quinn, if I can give you only another few minutes?”
Quinn said, “Not at all. You’ve been most kind. There are just one or two questions I’d still like to ask you.”
“Then while I’m answering them it’ll save time if I have the photographs wrapped up.”
She rang for Antonio and told him what she wanted. When he went out, Quinn said, “Just some small details I want to fill in, Mrs. Haupmann. Has your husband any hobbies?”
“Well, his main hobby is his business, I’m afraid. But he finds relaxation in music.”
“Does he attend many concerts?”
“No, not many. He’s got a big collection of gramophone records and he can spend a happy evening in front of the fire here listening to his record-player.”
“Alone?”
“ Oh, yes. My daughter and I don’t share his taste in music so we leave him in peace to enjoy himself.”
“Has he any pastimes of a more sociable nature?”
“Yes. He enjoys his weekly game of bridge … and sometimes he plays chess with a young man who’s a friend of my daughter.”
With another quick smile, she added, “Please don’t mention this, but my husband isn’t a very good player and I think the young man lets him win now and again so as to keep on his right side because of Gizelle.”
Quinn said, “I wouldn’t blame anyone for doing that. Does Mr. Haupmann go out a lot or does he prefer to spend most of his time at home?”
She glanced at the clock again before she said, “We go to the theatre quite often and, of course, we do a certain amount of entertaining.”
“I suppose he has a wide circle of friends?”
“No, I don’t think you could really say that. He’s not the gregarious type and his friends are …” She moved her small, graceful hands as if feeling for the right expression. “What is the word I want?”
Quinn said, “Handpicked?”
“Yes, that was what I was trying to think of. He’s a good host and very hospitable but he’s not fond of parties … except once in a while.”
Recollections of the night before made Quinn’s head throb in sympathy. He said, “One final question, Mrs. Haupmann, and then I’ll be on my way. Is your husband a religious man?”
She stopped smiling and a little pucker formed between her eyebrows. She said, “What a peculiar thing to ask! Why do you want to know?”
“It sometimes casts a fresh slant on a man’s personality.”
“I can see that … but I’m not sure he’d like you to publicise his religious beliefs.”
“Then I won’t publicise them. The subject’s only important because it might help me to get a clearer picture of him in my own mind.”
Her eyes, grave and unsmiling, studied Quinn’s face as if she needed time to think. At last, she said, “So that you don’t get the idea he’s a Mormon or something, I’d better not make a big secret out of it. He’s a spiritualist, Mr. Quinn.”
“You mean he believes in communication with the dead … and all that sort of stuff?”
“Oh, yes, he’s a confirmed believer.”
“How long has he been a spiritualist?”
“Well, he started going to psychic meetings some years ago, more or less out of curiosity at first. Somebody he met in business got him interested. Very soon he found that it filled a need he’d never been able to satisfy with the service in an orthodox church. Since then he’s been a regular attender at the meetings.”
“What about you, Mrs. Haupmann? Do you go with him?”
She shook her head. In a negative voice, she said, “No, I’ve never been. I must confess that the whole idea scares me.”
“How about your daughter?”
“Gizelle won’t go either. Not because she’s scared: just not interested.”
Mrs. Haupmann looked at the clock again and stood up. She asked, “Anything else, Mr. Quinn, or have you got all the information you want now?”
Quinn said, “That’s the lot. Thank you for being so helpful.”
She saw him to the door. There she said, “I ought to thank you. It’s going to be a big thrill seeing my husband featured in your paper. When do you think it’ll appear?”
“Depends how many interviews the editor decides to run and whereabouts Mr. Haupmann comes in the series. Won’t be starting for a while yet, anyway, because we’ll need to have several in hand before we release the first story. Meantime, you won’t mention it to anyone, will you?”
“I promise you I won’t say a word.”
Antonio had left the parcel of photographs on the hall table. As Mrs. Haupmann handed them to Quinn, the front doorbell rang.
She said, “That must be the person I’m expecting. Good-bye, Mr. Quinn. If you find you’ve forgotten something you can always phone me … any time.”
Quinn said, “Thank you again. I’m very grateful.”
By then she had opened the door. Outside in the porch there was a short, stockily-built man with fair hair. He gave Quinn a nod and a forced smile and stood aside to let him pass.
As Quinn went out, the little man was saying, “I hope I’m not too early. If I’d known. …”
There the door closed. On his way down the drive Quinn asked himself, “What brings him here in the middle of the day when Fritz isn’t at home? If he’s the fellow I think he is there’s something funny going on. The odds against there being two of them are pretty big… and he’s the double of the bloke that Piper described.”
… Same height and build and colouring as Howarth, the president of the North London Psychic Research Society. Two with exactly the same appearance would be more than coincidence. …
I’d say he’s the man whom Piper met at the spooks’ convention. Bet his name’s Howarth. Wonder how much he knows about the fire at Haupmann’s shoe factory? And he’s a friend of that Mrs. McAllister. Now there’s a rum character for you. Wouldn’t be surprised if she went home that night on the ten-thirty broomstick.
He walked on with the parcel of photographs tucked under his arm, wondering what his news editor would say when he told him that Piper was on to something unusual—something very unusual. Strange how things worked out nearly every time he took a gamble.
You thought you’d get fired if they found out you’d been taking the name of the Morning Post in vain… didn’t you, cock? But circumstances are different now. Tou never expected that President Howarth would be visiting the fascinating Mrs. Haupmann just when you were leaving.
If he had left only two or three minutes earlier he would have missed Howarth. That was a bit of luck.
He was half-way to the station when he told himself he had no need to go back to town by train. The best people took taxis. Besides, Piper would be paying all expenses.
I’ve got a feeling you’re on to a good thing. Instead of getting fired, more likely you’ll get a rise.…
That was a cheerful thought. At the next pub he came to he realised it had been a long and thirsty morning. A couple of pints would get rid of the hangover taste in his mouth … and he ought to drink Piper’s health, anyway. After all, Piper was paying for the beer.