The gun-metal sky had darkened almost to black, and it started to snow in earnest. I switched on the headlights, but they didn’t seem to help much.
I had no time to spare for thinking, beyond the need to press on, somehow keeping the unfamiliar car on the narrow, tortuously twisting road. To escape from Brett.
After a few miles I came to a village, a small place that seemed completely shuttered against the snow. Suppose I were to stop and ask for protection—there might even be a local gendarme.
But protection against what? Against whom?
Against the man who had been my lover, who had become my lover again? The man who had been my companion on a journey of hundreds of miles, who had apparently done nothing but help and sustain me in my search for my uncle?
I passed straight through the village without stopping.
It seemed like hours before I reached a main highway, where there was other traffic to reassure me. But I had lost all sense of direction. A signpost by the roadside was obscured by driven snow, and I had to get out of the car and clean it with my fingers to read the directions. I found it was Routes Nationales 207. To Digne, it said. And Sisteron, Grenoble.
My geography was hazy, my mind hazier. I went back to the car and consulted the map Brett had bought, finding the road and tracing it with my finger. Digne was in the right direction, and Grenoble. A good road, it looked, right through to Geneva.
At Digne I stopped for gas and then pressed on again. I had never driven in such bad conditions. Even on the main highway I had to concentrate every second. Faster, bolder traffic passed me, flinging up a veil of snow and slush that my windshield wipers found difficult to clear.
The need to escape from Brett was not quite so urgent now. Surely I was well clear of him. But through all the confusion of my mind one thought stabbed relentlessly. I had to reach Alexis. It seemed more vital than ever before. Something told me that this was the last opportunity I would be given. Fail now, and I would have to abandon the search and return to Madeleine defeated.
It was past three in the afternoon when I reached Grenoble. Daylight was fading fast and still the snow fell, streaming back unendingly into the beams of my headlights. My eyes pricked with the strain of peering into blinding whiteness for hours on end. My head throbbed. I longed to stop and rest. I needed a hot drink, something to eat.
I decided to give myself a break of thirty minutes.
To avoid the problem of finding somewhere to park in the center of the city, I waited until I was out on the other side. Then I pulled up at the first roadside cafe I came to. It turned out to be a drive-in for truck drivers, a scruffy place. But I was past caring.
I found I was ravenous. I demolished a large plate of veal cutlets and fried potatoes which was surprisingly good. Then in the hot, steamy atmosphere, with the pulsing beat of the jukebox, I could no longer fight off tiredness. I dozed, my head resting against the bare wall beside me. When I awoke, my coffee had gone cold.
A truck driver at the next table got up and brought me a fresh cup, flatly refusing to let me pay for it. I realized that in my grubby coat and torn slacks I must have looked in need of charity.
This act of kindness from a stranger gave me new hope, and when I got outside I found the snow had stopped. There was even a faint rose-red glow in the western sky where the clouds were beginning to part.
Even so, the last lap to Geneva seemed a long one. By the time I drew up at the customs post it had been dark for some time. The Swiss officials dealt with me efficiently, courteously. Within a few more minutes I was entering the bright lights of Geneva.
A policeman, equally courteous and speaking excellent English, gave me directions to the Hotel Cosmos. I drove past clanking streetcars and over a bridge, following the one-way system. There seemed to be hotels everywhere, all along the waterfront. But then I spotted the Cosmos—immense, a modern palace of white stone and stainless steel and glass, bathed in a golden glow from floodlights.
I turned into the driveway which ran the entire width of the building and found an empty parking space. I had the car door open when I hesitated. Dougal’s words came back to me in a rush. Play it canny ... the press boys won’t let you get away so easily a second time.
For all these long, tortuous miles, I’d been spurred on by the need to reach Alexis. And now that I was here, so close, I mustn’t ruin everything by being too impetuous.
Yet I had to take risks if I was to get to see him. And I was really past caring if the reporters did recognize me. I decided to walk straight into the hotel and simply play it by ear.
Inside, the Cosmos was every bit as magnificent as the hotel at Nice. But unlike the Edwardian splendor of the Alpes-Maritimes, this was up-to-the-minute luxury—subdued, flattering lighting, acres of thick-pile carpeting. Another place in the very top price bracket.
In the lobby there were a good many people around, and I couldn’t tell if any of them were reporters. I got a few curious stares as I walked in, but I put this down to my appearance. I cursed the torn slacks and grubby, crumpled coat. I should have thought to clean up a bit at the cafe, but it was too late now.
The suave desk clerk looked down his nose at me.
“Que desirez-vous?”
“I wish to see Dr. Karel, please. I’ll go straight up. What is the number of his room?”
“Dr. Karel is seeing nobody,” he said loftily and turned away from me.
“But it’s very urgent. I’m his ... his secretary.” I held up my handbag. “I’ve brought some papers from England for him to sign.”
“I hardly think that is likely, m’selle.”
For a moment I hesitated, wondering whether to make a scene. At a top-drawer place like this they would hate that. But I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Dejectedly, I turned away and started back across the spacious lobby. Maybe I could find a rear way to sneak in, bribe a porter, something like that.
There was a sudden flurry of commotion by the front entrance. The doorman, galvanized into action, leaped forward and held open the wide glass door, a service he’d not bestirred himself to perform for me.
Sweeping through, tall and poised, hips swaying, fully conscious of the heads that jerked to stare, came Belle Forsyth. She made a dramatic figure, supremely confident, her copper-red hair cascading to the shoulders of the black fur coat she wore.
She stopped dead when she saw me. We stood facing each other ten yards apart.
“You,” she gasped angrily. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
I ran up to her in a rush. “Belle, I want to see Alexis. I’ve got to talk to him.”
“It would be pointless,” she said icily.
Two men had edged toward us, and made no secret of the fact that they were trying to listen. I guessed they were reporters.
“I must see him, Belle,” I whispered. “It’s important.”
She made no effort to keep her voice down. “You are only making a fool of yourself, Gail. It ought to be obvious by now that your uncle has no wish to see you. Yet you persist in following us around.”
“Please, Belle, can’t we go somewhere private?” I said, glancing uneasily at the reporters. “Surely you understand ... there are things I have a right to know.”
“Right? What do you mean by right? You have no rights where Alexis is concerned, none at all. He is not even a relation, except by marriage. When your parents died, he very generously took you in, but you’re old enough to fend for yourself now. Aren’t you ever going to be satisfied?”
Dismayed, I faltered. “It... it’s not for myself I’m asking, Belle. It’s Madeleine.”
“Madeleine,” she spat contemptuously. “That hysterical madwoman. Alexis has had enough of her. She’s been like a millstone around his neck for years, and he’s sick to death of it. Can’t you understand, Gail, he’s a flesh-and-blood male—and now at last he’s got a chance to live. To enjoy the good things of life. If you’re so concerned about your aunt, then it’s up to you to look after her. I doubt if the Warrenders will turn her out of Deer’s Leap. But if they do, Madeleine will just have to go into a mental home. That’s where she really belongs.”
I was speechless at her vicious outburst. As I groped for words, I saw the desk clerk hurrying over to intervene.
“I am so sorry, madame, if this ... this young woman is annoying you. I have already informed her that Dr. Karel will see no one.”
Belle shrugged carelessly. “She doesn’t bother me. She can beg until she’s blue in the face, but it won’t make the slightest difference.”
She didn’t even glance at me again but turned her back and walked off with supreme contempt. She was heading for the elevator, but when I tried to follow her, the clerk blocked my path.
“You heard what madame said. I must ask you once again to leave the hotel.”
In despair, I saw Belle step into one of the elevators and the doors closed upon her. Some instinct told me to watch the indicator. The needle swept right to the top, the ninth floor.
The two reporters huddled around me.
“Miss Fleming, why do you think your uncle refuses to see you?”
“How do you account for Dr. Karel’s sudden change of viewpoint after all the years he’s been... ?”
I shook my head at them, too choked with misery to speak. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the desk clerk signal to a porter, and I knew I was going to be thrown out. Glancing around desperately, I spotted the illuminated sign of the ladies’ room. I turned and fled there.
Once inside the door, I stood breathlessly, undecided what to do. I knew that in a few moments they would send someone in to fetch me out. Two elegant, silver-haired women doing their faces before the pink-tinted mirror turned to stare at me.
I looked around wildly and noticed a small door tucked away in a corner. I guessed it must be for staff use. It represented my only hope, and I prayed it was unlocked.
It led me through to a narrow corridor, lit by unshaded bulbs. A few yards to the right was a service elevator with iron lattice gates and, alongside, stone stairs leading up and down. I heard a door slam somewhere behind me, then footsteps. I dived for the staircase and started to run up.
By the time I reached the third landing I was panting, and I paused to get my breath back. From below I heard the elevator gates slam, then a series of clicks and the whine of the cage ascending.
Was someone coming after me? I ran up a few more steps and pressed against the wall, so as not to be seen. The elevator stopped at the third floor and a girl got out, a chambermaid, carrying an armful of linen. As she passed the foot of the staircase she noticed me. Hastily, I pretended to be walking down. She looked at me a little strangely, I thought, but gave me a smiling nod and went on, disappearing through a swinging door.
The elevator stood invitingly open. I stepped inside, dragged the gates across and pressed the button with the figure 9.
On the top floor was a swinging door like the one the maid had come through on the third floor. I carefully pushed it open a couple of inches and listened. There seemed to be no one around, so I slipped through.
I found myself in a circular hallway. Aside from the service door I had used and the guests’ elevator, there were only two other doors. This was the top floor, so presumably these were penthouse suites. At least, having only two possibilities made my task easier.
My encounter in the lobby with Belle had only strengthened my resolve to see my uncle and plead with him to return home—for Madeleine’s sake, for his own sake, for the sake of all those people who believed in him. And I had to warn Alexis about Brett and the Communists, make him understand that what he was doing could only bring satisfaction to his enemies.
But now there was an added motive driving me on— anger. Blind, stubborn anger. I refused to be brushed off by Belle, on his behalf, so casually and so contemptuously. Somehow, I was going to confront Alexis himself. I was determined to let him know my mind, even if, at the end, it achieved nothing.
I tossed a coin mentally and went to the door on the left. I knocked.
Would Alexis answer it himself? I prayed it wouldn’t be Belle. But if so, I was ready to push my way in past her.
There was no answer, so I knocked again, loudly. The door was suddenly flung open, and I knew at once that I’d chosen wrongly. A short, pink-faced man stood there rocking unsteadily, a large glass in his hand. He leered at me.
“Excusez-moi ...” I said. My limited French deserted me. “I was looking for Dr. Karel.”
“Ach so!” he grunted, obviously not understanding. Breathing brandy fumes, he grabbed at my hand, trying to drag me inside.
Hastily, I pulled away from him. He glared at me with bloodshot eyes, muttered something, and slammed the door.
Scared that the hotel would be sending someone after me at any moment, I ran to the door of the other suite and rapped loudly.
A man’s voice responded, “Qui est là?”
I had a sudden fear that if I said my name Alexis might refuse to let me in.
I called, “C’est la femme de chambre, monsieur” and hoped that the thickness of the door would mask my poor accent.
“Entrez.”
My heart racing painfully, I opened the door and stepped inside.
It was a large, luxuriously appointed suite, softly lit by wall sconces and silk-shaded table lamps. Only one person was in there—Alexis. He lay comfortably stretched out on a long, gold brocade sofa, reading a newspaper. He had his back to me.
I closed the door quietly and stood wailing for him to turn around and see me. Seconds went past, each seeming like a minute. My palms were moist, and I could feel a pulse throbbing at my temple. I watched as, slowly, Alexis reached out to a glass ashtray on a low ebony-topped table and flicked ash from the cigar he was smoking.
At last, aware of my presence, my silence, Alexis closed his newspaper and swung around to look at me. But I saw no sign of pleased recognition in his eyes. Only a glint of anger.
“Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” he asked irritably.
My throat felt so tight and constricted that I could only manage a whisper as I took a step toward him.
“Alexis.”
In a quick, startled movement he sprang to his feet and faced me. And in that same instant I knew the truth. It swept over me, engulfed me, drowned me.
This man was not Alexis Karel. He was not my uncle, but an impostor.