The Poellenberg Inheritance (12 page)

‘No,' Fisher said, ‘I won't. My clients want the Salt, that's all.'

‘They can have it,' Paula said. ‘And that's a promise. Because I believe Black; I believe my father owned it legally and it's mine. But I'll give it back on one condition.'

‘That I lay off looking for your father?'

‘No. That you help me to find him, if he's still alive.'

Fisher hesitated. ‘You really mean this? You know what you're doing?'

‘Not really,' Paula said. ‘I'm still confused. I'm still looking for something and I haven't found it.'

‘Does it have to be a father?' Fisher asked her.

‘I don't know that either. He must be an old man now; I've been thinking about it all day, thinking of what he was and what kind of man he must have been. An S.S. general. I've grown up with the idea of the bogey men in the black uniforms. But I want to find him. I want to see him for myself. That's as far as I can go at the moment. I've helped you and I trust you to help me. It's not your job to expose him but it's mine to help him if he's still alive. I want to search with you, Eric. And even if the Salt is legally mine I'll hand it back. Is that a bargain?'

‘All right.'

She turned and held her hand out to him. He thought she was crazy and he wanted to say so. He also wanted to kiss her, which was nothing to do with Nazi generals or hidden masterpieces. He had expected almost any development but this one. He had undertaken to find the Poellenberg Salt and she wanted to find the General. So for good or evil they were in it together. He took her hand and shook it. He went on holding it for a few moments until she drew it away.

‘All right,' he said again. ‘It's a bargain. Next stop is Paris.'

‘Well,' Dunston said, ‘so you're off to Paris. Lucky you.'

‘I'll be busy,' Fisher said. ‘Don't tell me you've still got the music hall Englishman's idea of Paris, all tits and Folies Bergère! I've got a lousy assignment and you're welcome to take it over any time you like!'

‘No thanks,' Dunston laughed. They were sitting in a public house down the street from their office; Fisher had ordered beer and Dunston had a double whisky on the counter in front of him. In Fisher's opinion he drank too much. He was a tall, thickset man, with bushy black hair and eyebrows, a genial ugliness redeemed by splendid white teeth. He laughed very easily, showing them off. He had a pretty little wife and three children; he was a lot cleverer than his cheery personality indicated. On his own admission, he was no gentleman, and he professed a passion for making money. ‘No trips to Europe for me at the moment,' he said. ‘I'm up to my balls in work right here. How do you think it's going?'

‘Don't know,' Fisher said. ‘My guess is the General is alive and hiding out. Everything points to it. My second guess is that when he does show up, if he does, he'll make for his daughter. From what I've heard, he was crazy about her as a kid. And he's apparently made contact now through Schwarz. So he's still interested in her. And he wants her to find this Salt. From the point of view of our clients, that does worry me. From what Schwarz said to her, she seems to think she's got a legal claim to it. So there could be quite a fight over the bloody thing. Of course she's saying now she'll give it back to them.'

‘That's all very well till she sees it,' Dunston said. ‘I've heard those generous gestures taken back before. You've told Princess Von Hessel about this?'

‘I sent her a long report. Personally, I think Mrs. Stanley might keep her word. She's a funny sort of girl, not the usual grabber at all.'

‘Oh?' Dunston's bushy eyebrows lifted and the spectacular teeth appeared. ‘First time I've heard you giving a bird a good character reference. Taking her to Paris with you, aren't you? I suppose that'll go down on the expense account …'

‘I'm not taking her, she's coming.' Fisher answered rather sharper than he intended. Dunston's grin irritated him.

‘Have fun.'

‘Get stuffed. Have another whisky?'

‘So long as you're paying. When do you leave for Gay Paree?'

‘Tomorrow morning. We're staying at the Odile; that shouldn't break the expense account. I'll be in touch with you to let you know how things are going. I wish I knew what the hell it means. Tante Ambrosine and her nephew Jacquot.'

‘Try the telephone directory,' Dunston suggested. ‘It could be a restaurant. Suppose some poor bloody foreigner was told to find the Great American Disaster, what do you think he'd make of that? Tante Ambrosine and her nephew – could be anything. You've checked round about?'

‘I got straight through to Joe Daly at Reuters in Paris,' Fisher said. ‘It meant nothing to him either. It's got nothing to do with any contemporary pop Paris “scene” or he'd have known it. Anyway, we'll see what happens when we get there. My first move will be to check on whoever thought they saw Bronsart.'

‘I'm off to Manchester this afternoon.' Dunston stretched a little. He was very powerfully built.

‘No wonder you're so narky about Paris.' Now it was Fisher's turn to laugh. ‘You won't get into much mischief there.'

‘No, but I might make some money for us. Nice little five hundred guinea fee for a background check. Rich daddy with silly bitch daughter who wants to marry the little pouf who does her hair. If I can get some real dirt on him for Daddy to show darling daughter, I might even get a bonus. I'm off now. Good luck with Aunty Ambrosine.'

‘Thanks.' Fisher nodded to him. At the door Dunston turned and waved again. They got on very well together; as men they were completely different in type; they proceeded in different ways on investigation. Fisher used intuition and took risks, Dunston was methodical, unswerving and possessed a remarkable instinct for anything crooked. Their friendship was not deep but they spent odd evenings together and never seriously disagreed. Fisher enjoyed his company. He could be extremely vulgar and very funny. He paid the bill and left to go back to his office. Outside Dunston hailed a taxi. Inside he leaned back and lit a menthol cigarette. His choice of the brand was an idiosyncrasy which Fisher sometimes used against him. He couldn't give up smoking but he had a morbid horror of lung cancer. Fisher was going off to Paris with Mrs. Stanley. Well, well, Dunston said to himself. He'd picked himself up a piece of crumpet on the way; trust him. He never passed up a chance to get a slice. Fisher didn't think much of women; Dunston knew that. He always chose the same type. They were all loose and hard, and good looking. There had never been a snowball's chance in hell of Fisher falling for any of them. If he bothered with a woman it was to lay her and for nothing else. He was curious about this Mrs. Stanley. She was divorced from Jimmy Stanley, and everyone who read the newspapers knew what a high-powered little playboy he was; always firing on all six cylinders. So she was probably the same type as Fisher's usual, but a better-class edition. And she claimed a legal title to the Poellenberg Salt. Dunston had looked it up, and the photograph of it had been enough. People murdered for a thing like that. She wouldn't give it back. If it was hers, by any unsuspected twist, she'd hang on and fight for it till the blood ran. And that was probably why he was going, not to Manchester, as he had told Fisher, but to Germany, at the urgent and secret request of the Princess Von Hessel.

‘Get in, Mr. Dunston. We are going for a drive.'

The rear door was held open for him by the chauffeur; he had a glimpse of a woman sitting in the seat, her face pale and grim. He got in and sat beside her.

‘I am Princess Von Hessel,' she said. She spoke in German to the chauffeur, and then pressed a knob on the arm of the seat. The glass partition slid up and closed them off from the front of the car.

‘It's very kind of you to meet me,' Dunston said. He wasn't quite sure how to address her. The size of the car, the uniformed chauffeur and the patrician arrogance of the woman beside him had shaken his self-confidence. He wouldn't have been ill at ease if he were dealing with the newly rich. But a face like Princess Von Hessel's was the result of centuries of aristocratic breeding and power.

‘I didn't come to meet you,' she said. ‘I came to have our interview. That's why we are going for a drive. You know my original letter was addressed to you?'

‘Fisher showed it to me,' Dunston said. ‘I was in Portugal, on holiday. I followed your instructions. I didn't tell him I was coming over here. I presume that you're not satisfied with him, is that it?'

‘He was not the man I wanted,' she said. ‘But since I've got him, he can continue his enquiries. He's made a lot of progress in a very short time.'

‘Then may I ask,' Dunston said, ‘why you sent for me?'

The Princess glanced at him; there was something in the eyes which made him wary; he had a faultless instinct for the unexpected, and he knew, by blind intuition, that the interview was not going to be what it seemed.

‘You spent quite a time in Germany five years ago, didn't you, Mr. Dunston? When you were with Interpol.'

‘Yes. I know the country very well.'

‘And your last assignment was breaking up a gold smuggling ring, I believe?'

Now Dunston's skin was crawling. ‘That's right. You've made quite an investigation of the investigators.'

‘Naturally. I always prefer to know what I am dealing with. And what I discovered convinced me that you were just the man I needed. It was unfortunate that Mr. Fisher came instead of you. It appears he is of honest character.' She turned towards him and smiled; it was an expression of amused contempt. ‘You have gone red, Mr. Dunston. Please don't be insulted. Taking offence is a luxury which I don't believe you can afford.'

‘I don't know what you're trying to say,' Dunston began angrily. ‘But if you're suggesting, Princess Von Hessel, that there's anything wrong …'

‘How much money did you take from the smuggling ring to slow up that investigation?'

The question caught him in mid speech. He stopped and floundered. She went on, still smiling and implacable. ‘You left Interpol under a suspicion of accepting a bribe. Nothing could be proved against you, but you had no future after that episode. The sum mentioned was a miserable ten thousand pounds. Perhaps not so miserable to you in those days, but surely a contemptible amount by present standards. I wouldn't insult you by offering anything so paltry.'

Dunston took out a packet of cigarettes. He was sweating.

‘Put those away, please. I object to smoking; it's a disgusting habit!'

For a moment Dunston hesitated. His composure had been shattered by her direct attack. He felt naked, sitting in the car with the old woman staring him out, the intangible force of her authority browbeating his will. Slowly he closed the packet and put it back in his pocket. ‘All right,' he said quietly. ‘You've got some proposition for me. It must be pretty shady or you wouldn't have brought up that old rumour. And it was just a rumour. There wasn't any truth in it; but the damage was done. I cut my losses and left.'

‘Mr. Dunston,' the Princess said, ‘if you convince me of your moral probity I won't be able to put any proposition to you. Luckily, I know that you began your detective business with a sum of capital which wasn't there before. So I am sure you took the bribe and that you are a man who has a price. Shall I go on, or are you going to persist in this little fiction about yourself?'

‘There's never any harm,' he said, ‘in listening.'

‘Good. You know the facts about our loss of the Poellenberg Salt; you know as much as Fisher knows, is that correct?'

‘He keeps me briefed,' Dunston answered. ‘You want it back and you believe that General Bronsart is alive and can lead you to it.'

‘Exactly. I am determined to recover it.' For a moment she glanced out of the window, frowning. ‘Determined. Nothing will stop me. But there are complications. Mr. Fisher is not aware of them.'

‘Too honest?' Dunston asked her. He was recovering himself now.

‘Much too honest. My younger son tried to persuade him to go behind my back and drop the case and he refused.'

‘Why should your son do that? Doesn't he want the Salt back?'

‘He's not prepared to take the risk,' she said. ‘I am. I am prepared to risk anything and to do anything. That's why I've sent for you.'

‘What are the complications?'

‘The General has a legal right to it,' she said quietly. ‘It was moral theft but he took it legally. For reasons which don't concern you, we can never have a public fight about its ownership.'

‘He's not in a position to fight,' Dunston said. ‘He's a wanted criminal. He can never come into the open.'

‘No.' Princess Von Hessel turned right round and faced him. ‘No, but his daughter can. I wanted somebody to find the General and the Salt, and then remove him.'

‘I see,' Dunston said; he nodded slowly at her. ‘I'm getting it now. But you hadn't reckoned on the daughter.'

‘Exactly.'

‘When you say “remove”,' Dunston sounded casual, ‘what do you mean by that?'

‘Just what you think I mean,' she said coldly. ‘Dispose of; kill, if you prefer plain language. I want the General dead, unable to talk or make trouble if by any chance he is arrested.'

‘And the daughter? She could claim the Salt and get away with it. That's the real trouble, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Once she came into it everything changed. Mr. Dunston, I will pay two hundred and fifty thousand pounds into a numbered bank account in Switzerland. Fifty thousand on account, as a retainer, and the rest later. But I want the Poellenberg Salt and I don't want anyone alive to claim it.'

‘Christ,' Dunston said softly. He pursed up his lips and whistled, but no sound came. ‘You're asking for a murder. You're asking me to kill that girl.'