The Poellenberg Inheritance (13 page)

‘I'm asking you to kill them both,' she said. ‘And I'm paying you a quarter of a million pounds. Think of the money, Mr. Dunston. Think how rich you'll be. You don't have to give your answer now. Just think about it.'

‘You're taking a hell of a risk, trusting me with this. What's to stop me going to the police and telling them the whole story?'

‘Nothing but your common sense,' she retorted. ‘Nobody would believe you; you have no witnesses, no proof. On the other hand you have the chance to be a very rich man. I believe you'll make the right choice.'

‘I believe I might,' Dunston said. ‘But only if you double it. And that's my answer. Half a million, and I'll take care of them both. You'll have the Salt and there won't be any Mrs. Stanley round to make counter claim.'

‘If I agree to double the money, you'll do it?'

‘We can shake hands on it now,' Dunston said.

‘Very well. Half a million.'

‘By the way,' he said. ‘Just what did the General have on you to make you give it to him?'

Again her slow, contemptuous smile appeared.

‘If you knew that, Mr. Dunston, your life wouldn't be any safer than Mrs. Stanley's is at the moment. Now we will take you back to the airport.'

CHAPTER FOUR

Paris in July was full of tourists; the heat was not as intense as it would be in August, when the Parisiennes fled their city, but there seemed a preponderance of English and American faces among the crowds sauntering along the elegant boulevards and parading up and down the Champs Elysées.

Paula noticed the numbers of Germans wandering about and going into the expensive shops. She felt no sense of identity with them; they were strangers, speaking the harsh language which she had never learnt. Fisher had booked them into a comfortable middle group hotel near the Madelon; their rooms were not adjoining but they were on the same floor. They had dinner together in the hotel restaurant the first evening, and Fisher came to the door of her bedroom with her. He pulled her close and kissed her. She put her arms round his neck, but she didn't repeat that earlier invitation. She went inside and closed the door, leaving him in the corridor.

The next morning Fisher went to the offices of the Sûreté. He suggested that Paula amuse herself for an hour or so and that they would meet for lunch.

‘What are you going to the police for? How can they help us? …'

‘They can tell me the name and address of the woman who thought she identified your father. Let's get her out of the way before we start trying to find out who Tante Ambrosine and Jacquot are. That's going to be the real problem. You go and buy yourself a hat and meet me at the Tour d'Argent at one o'clock. I'll buy you lunch and tell you what happened. And don't get picked up, will you?'

‘Why not – it might be fun.' She had smiled at him, her eyes with a gentle warmth in their depth. He hadn't seen her look at him like that before.

‘Because I wouldn't like it,' Fisher said. He laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘From now on, Mrs. Stanley, you're with me.'

He saw a detective inspector after half an hour of refusing to accept the blocking tactics of a junior officer, who was determined not to help a ‘flic amateur anglais'. The senior police-officer was a fat man of middle age, chewing on the stem of a very blackened pipe. He greeted Fisher without enthusiasm. Fisher showed his card, explained that he was working for private clients in Germany and asked for the name and address of the woman who thought she saw the former S.S. General Bronsart in the street.

‘Why don't you look up the newspaper files instead of troubling us?'

‘Because it says a Madame Brevet, and gives no further information,' Fisher answered. ‘How many hundred people of that name are there in Paris, monsieur?'

‘About five, maybe more. You could have placed an advertisement in the newspapers. Offer a reward and you'd have every Brevet in France running to give you information. We have other things to do, you know.'

‘So the officer outside explained,' Fisher replied. ‘Less politely than you. I appreciate that this is a nuisance for you, but it only takes a moment to consult your files. And if you would be kind enough to tell me your conclusions in the business …'

The Detective Inspector shrugged. He looked as if he were bored by life, as much as by people like Fisher who made demands upon his time. ‘I will get the file. I can't offer you a cigarette, I only smoke this.' He waved the revolting pipe.

‘Thanks, I have my own.' Fisher took out a packet. He knew the French and liked them; he had worked in Paris for nearly two years and grown to love the city and its citizens. They were usually described as the most insular, hard-headed people in the world, who would see you dead before they did you a favour. Taken in the right way, with allowances made for mood and suspicion, they were obliging, hospitable and kind. The Inspector proved this by settling down to a long discussion of the Bronsart case and showing Fisher everything in the Sûreté file upon him. Having complained of the waste of his time, he spent over an hour with Fisher, smoking and going over his memories of the war.

‘We followed the lead at once,' he said. ‘Nothing would please us more than to find that bastard still alive and able to face justice. He was here in Paris for six months. I could show you the graves of men and women who were executed at Fresnes by his personal order. Humble citizens who had done nothing but be caught on the streets by his murder squads, looking for hostages.

‘But the woman didn't make any sense, Monsieur Fisher. She babbled on, insisting she had seen him, but it was nothing. Just a face in a crowd. Just her imagination. He's dead. I'm sure of it. But there is the address if you want to prove it for yourself.'

Fisher got up and the two shook hands. ‘I agree with you,' he said. ‘But I have to earn my fee.'

‘Make it a fat one,' the policeman advised him. ‘They are all the same. Boche. Make them pay.'

Fisher saw Paula walking along the street as he arrived in a cab outside the restaurant. The sun was shining and he felt happy. It was a strange sensation, powerfully connected with the presence of the girl who was coming up to him, waving, one hand holding a wide-brimmed felt hat on her head. Fisher was not a coward; he would have faced anything physical. But the implication of Paula Stanley and the way his heart kept jumping every time he saw her, required a different kind of courage and he didn't have it yet. He took her arm and guided her to the table. The waiters recognised him and there was an animated exchange in French. Paula sat down and watched him. His hair was on end, where he had brushed his hand over it; it was a habit she had noticed when he was concentrating. He was not a good-looking man and nothing could be done to make him suave and Establishment. He had the kind of body that resented anything but the most casual clothes, and a face that was wary in expectation of trouble. But with her he was gentle; she felt his sexuality whenever they made contact. When he kissed he showed it, and when he handled her on trivial excuses like getting out of taxis or going into a lift.

He took a grip of her and she could feel the proprietary attitude which was so clearly male. ‘From now on you're with me.' James would never have said or thought such a thing. He had never been responsible for her in five years. Fisher had taken control of everything from the moment they left England. And it would need all her resolution to resist a final appropriation of herself.

‘What happened?'

He grinned at her over a glass of Cinzano.

‘I got the name and address of the woman. But it's a dead end; they looked into it and found nothing. I'm half inclined to suggest we hire a car and drive through the Bois this afternoon and give the whole thing a miss for today. What do you say to that?'

‘I'd rather see the woman,' Paula said. ‘I want to get it over, one way or another. And you won't find the Salt for the Von Hessels by driving through the woods with me.'

‘A day never made any difference. Besides, I'm not all that enthusiastic for my employers. I'm inclined to agree with the Inspector this morning. They're real Boches. Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it.'

‘Oh yes, you did,' Paula said. ‘But I don't mind. I'm sure they're awful. I remember reading an article in
Time
, I think it was, all about their money and how they'd come back after the war. Can you tell me about them? Don't look like that, I know you didn't mean anything by calling them Boches. I'm not that silly.'

‘I'm glad,' he said. He reached out and took her hand. He was relieved to feel her fingers grip in return. ‘I'm a clumsy bastard. You know I wouldn't say anything to upset you. All right, the Von Hessels. The mother is the interesting one; she's just like a bird, something like a cross between an eagle and a peregrine falcon. About as feminine and inviting, I should say. Tough, arrogant, clever – runs the whole show. She didn't exactly treat me like dirt, but she showed that's what she thought of me. There are two sons, the old man died during the war. The elder must be in his fifties; he was very odd. There was something about him I couldn't figure out at all. I had half an hour's interview with her and he never said a word. He just stood there like a dummy.'

‘Probably frightened to speak with a mother like that,' Paula said. ‘They sound ghastly.'

‘They are,' he said. ‘But the younger son was less so. Quite pleasant in fact, very good looking if you like the blond superman type. Now, he spoke up and seemed quite sure of himself. She must have really taken the guts out of the elder son. It was a very funny set-up. The house was a nightmare; I thought I was in a church when I first went inside. Stained glass windows, potted palms. And everything the size of a cathedral. You could write a good play about a set-up like that, only nobody would believe it. They'd say it was too farfetched. Here come the crevettes. I hope you're hungry.'

‘I am.' Paula smiled at him. ‘Your description is marvellous; but I forgot you were a journalist. And you speak perfect French.'

‘I'm a talented man,' he said. ‘Why don't you take off that hat? I can't see your face.'

‘Oh, don't you like it? I took your advice and bought it this morning. I think it's very smart!'

‘I think so too, but I like looking at you. You're a very pretty sight, don't you know that?'

‘If you say so.'

‘I do. Put it on the seat beside me and get on with your crevettes, they're delicious. You sure you wouldn't rather go driving with me this afternoon?'

‘I'm sure,' Paula said. ‘Let's go and see the woman; please.'

‘All right, we'll go. But tonight we will have dinner somewhere special. And we'll make a pact; we won't talk about your father or the Poellenberg Salt.'

‘What will we talk about then?'

‘Ourselves,' Fisher said. ‘I shall tell you the story of my life and I want to hear all about that nice husband of yours. Incidentally, he must have been a shit.'

‘He wasn't too bad,' she said. ‘I'm not very easy to live with either.'

‘So far,' Fisher wiped his mouth with a napkin, ‘I haven't found you difficult.'

He had hired a car that morning and they drove. There was a fleet of boats travelling down the Seine, carrying merchandise and tourists. A huge coal barge floated past them, a solitary dog standing sentinel in the bows. The streets they drove through became shabbier and dirtier; refuse and prowling cats cluttered the narrow pavements; washing hung festooned out of the windows. It took forty-five minutes of crawling though the traffic in the narrow roads to reach the place where Madame Brevet lived.

It was a crumbling apartment building, the walls scrofulous with peeling plaster, the front door hanging ajar. They went into the dark hall and were assailed by a smell of cooking and cats' urine. Up one flight of wooden stairs, they knocked at another door.

It was a young woman who opened it and stood blocking their way; she carried a fat little two-year-old baby on her arm.

‘Madame Brevet?' Fisher said.

‘I'm Madame Brevet.' She was about twenty-five. ‘I think,' he said politely, ‘that we want your mother-in-law. Could we speak with her for a minute? It will be worth her while to see us, madame.'

‘What do you want?' The woman hadn't moved. She had a tired, sullen face with small dark eyes that stared at them suspiciously. Her look at Paula was distinctly hostile.

‘Information,' Fisher said. He held out a fifty-franc note. ‘Would you ask Madame Brevet to see us?'

The daughter-in-law took the money; she gave the baby a comforting jiggle as it began to whimper, fingers stuffed in its mouth. ‘You can see her,' she said. ‘But you won't get much sense out of her. She drives me crazy, monsieur. She had the police round here a while ago. Come in.' She stepped back and they went into a room which was crowded with furniture and dominated by a large scrubbed wooden table. The smell of cooking was overpowering, so was the heat, for the windows were shut and a big kitchen stove was alight in the corner. An old woman, white haired and dressed in frowzy black, was sitting in an armchair by the stove.

‘There's some people to see you. What's your name, monsieur?'

Fisher came forward to the armchair; a lined white face looked up at him and a hand came out. ‘I am Monsieur Fisher and this lady is Madame Stanley. We are from England, madame, and we wanted to ask you a few questions. Would you be kind enough to answer them for us?'

The eyes were hooded in loose skin; they had a filmy look associated with age. ‘What questions do you want to ask? I'll do my best, but my memory is not as it was. She tells me I forget everything.' The old woman jerked her head towards the younger woman.

‘And you do,' was the retort. ‘You drive me crazy the way you forget.'