The Poellenberg Inheritance (16 page)

It was a charming little room, the walls lined with beautiful eighteenth-century boiserie, its colour scheme and pictures were in the same period. It was delicate, restful, and unlike the usual decorated suites found even in a hotel of the Ritz renown. Fisher heard the door open behind him. Heinrich Von Hessel was in a silk dressing gown, with dark trousers underneath. He wore a white silk muffler round his throat and he reminded Fisher of a character in a Noel Coward comedy. He advanced stiffly into the room; his legs seemed difficult to bend, and held out his hand. Fisher took it.

‘Good morning,' the Prince said. It was the first time he had spoken; it was a deep voice, with a guttural English accent.

‘Good morning, sir. I saw your arrival in the paper this morning and I thought I should have a word with you. Did you have a good flight?'

‘Excellent,' the Prince said. ‘Very smooth.' He lowered himself into one of the dainty little French armchairs. Fisher had noticed a tremor in his hand when he shook it. He moved with the uncertainty of someone who was either very old or very delicate. Yet his physique was above average. He was tall, powerfully built, bigger in proportion than Fisher. He didn't look in the least like a man suffering from any infirmity. But there was a deliberation about the way he spoke and handled himself that struck Fisher as abnormal. As abnormal as the position taken behind his mother's sofa on that first afternoon.

‘I find flying agreeable,' he said. ‘Very relaxing.' He seemed to be looking for something, his eyes glanced round the room and came back to Fisher with an expression of abstraction. Fisher produced his cigarettes.

‘May I offer you one?' He was more conventional in his approach to the son than he had been to the mother. There was no attempt to overwhelm or impress; he looked what he was, an immensely rich, pampered man, with nice manners and no desire to impose himself upon anyone. He looked through Fisher rather than at him.

‘I would like a cigarette, thank you. Do you speak German, Mr. Fisher? Ach, Josef …' At that moment the valet came into the room. He carried a large glass in a silver holder on a salver. There was a look on the Prince's face that made Fisher pause before he answered. It was satisfied, secretive. He took the glass with both hands. On an impulse Fisher lied. ‘No,' he said.

‘Ah.' The Prince nodded. He looked round and spoke to his valet in their own language. ‘Bring me another brandy in fifteen minutes. And don't keep me waiting again.' He smiled at Fisher. ‘This is my little indulgence. Cold tea. Would you like some coffee?'

‘No thank you.' For a second Fisher almost asked for the same as his host, then he decided that jokes were not in order, even private ones. He watched the Prince take a deep swallow. He cradled the glass in both hands as if he were afraid he might drop it; or it might be snatched away from him. Cold tea.

Christ, Fisher murmured inside, brandy at ten-thirty in the morning. And another one in fifteen minutes. So that was what it was all about – that was the wooden walk and the glazed aristocratic stare. The Prince was stiff drunk.

‘I enjoy aeroplanes,' he remarked. ‘Flying is very pleasant.' Fisher didn't answer, he was so surprised he forgot to light his cigarette. Now the details began to make sense. He watched the man opposite to him and saw the big body sinking downward in the seat, the hands with their alcoholic tremor gripping the glass of brandy like an animal's claws. For no reason that he could explain, Fisher suddenly felt sorry for him. The eyes were wretched.

‘How is the Princess?' Fisher asked. He couldn't think of anything else to say. Talking seriously to someone in that state was out of the question.

‘My mother is well,' the Prince said. He took another swallow. ‘She is a very active woman for her age. She dislikes flying. I like it. I find it relaxing.'

Fisher recognised the singlemindedness of the alcoholic. He was likely to repeat the remark about flying every few minutes. ‘And Prince Philip?'

‘He is on his way over here. He decided to come because I came. They are afraid I will interfere with you, Mr. Fisher. They want the Poellenberg Salt very badly.'

‘Your brother doesn't,' Fisher said. ‘He came out to the airport when I visited you and tried to persuade me not to take the case too seriously. Don't you want it found either?'

‘Not very much.' The Prince put down his precious glass, and with some difficulty negotiated a cigarette out of a box. Fisher got up and lit it for him. The stench of brandy was unmistakable; he must have been pumped full to ignite so quickly on one drink. He glanced down and looked at his watch. The time for another refill must be near.

‘Why don't you want it back, sir?' Fisher asked him.

‘Why should I?' He gestured with the cigarette. ‘We have enough. My mother has one of the finest Raphaels in the world in her bedroom. Why do we need any more? We have enough treasures to worry about. But she is determined, Mr. Fisher. My mother always gets what she wants, you know. Sometimes she does what Philip asks but never what I ask. You know I am head of our family?'

‘Yes,' Fisher said. The Prince was not just drunk; he was the product of a permanent alcoholic condition. That was the meaning behind the tag of ‘a recluse, subject to ill health'. He was pickled to the brain cells and must have been for years. Anything he said would be irresponsible. No wonder his brother was following him. To keep visitors away. And yet if he hadn't overheard that exchange between the master and the servant, if he hadn't seen for himself the valet come in with another glass and the same pantomime repeated, he might not have guessed. Which proved how deep seated the Prince's sickness was. The genuine alcoholic is permanently drunk. It's only on occasions that they fall about and give themselves away. And that was where the valet and the family influence would raise a shield to hide him from the world. Poor bastard, Fisher thought suddenly. Poor sick, lonely bastard, killing himself by inches. I bet that bloody mother would be glad to see him dead.

‘I am the head of the family,' Prince Heinrich repeated. ‘But they don't listen to me. How will my mother feel if Bronsart tells the truth? How will she like that?'

‘He can't tell anything if he's dead.' Fisher was going slowly. The sad pouched eyes looked at him and there was a glint of something humorous in them. But it was gallows humour.

‘He isn't dead, is he? I heard them talking. You don't think so, Mr. Fisher. Men like him don't die, they live for ever. To plague and torment. She'll be sorry. He was the only one who beat my mother, do you know that? Most unusual. She always gets her way. But not with him.' He fingered his empty glass. ‘I never liked him, Mr. Fisher, even before it happened. But he got the better of her. Would you be good enough to give me a light – I can't find my lighter.'

Fisher held his lighter flame to the trembling cigarette end. The hand was steadier now, but the heavy head was bobbing on the neck.

‘What truth could he tell, if he is alive? What happened between him and your family, sir?'

‘I can't tell you that,' the Prince said. ‘No, that cannot be told. Besides, I have forgotten the details. In the end one forgets everything. But if you find him and you try to get the Salt back, it will all come out. My mother knows that. Has she asked you to kill him yet?'

Fisher went back to his seat. He took a cigarette and lit it himself. ‘No,' he said. ‘She hasn't. And it won't do her any good if she does.'

‘She will ask you.' The watch was being consulted again. He seemed as calm as when they were discussing his flight in from Munich. ‘She will have to ask you, and you will say yes. Nobody says no to her for long.' He smiled at Fisher; as a young man he must have been handsome in a ponderous way. ‘Josef, you are two minutes late. Ach, Mr. Fisher, perhaps you would like a drink? I only take tea.'

‘No thank you.' Fisher got up. One detail was nagging at him. He refused to take that last suggestion seriously. The man was crazy with drink. He would have said anything. Why in hell had they let him appear at all?

‘If you and your brother didn't want the Salt to be found, why didn't your mother see me alone?'

‘Because I am the head of the family. People are always saying they don't see me. She wanted you to know that there was nothing wrong. Once a newspaper said I was dead. I had to go to the opera with her that night. I hate opera. Philip was there because she relies on him. You see?'

‘I see,' Fisher said. He didn't see at all. With the erratic insight of his kind the Prince seemed to sense this.

‘She's going to need you if the General is still alive,' he said. ‘So you had to see me, Mr. Fisher. She won't be pleased that I've talked to you.'

‘I don't have to tell her,' Fisher said. He held out his hand and the Prince released his glass of brandy and shook it.

‘I'd be obliged,' he said. ‘Good morning, Mr. Fisher. Thank you for calling on me.'

As Fisher left the suite, he heard the voice raised from the romantic little sitting room. ‘Josef! Josef!'

‘Tante Ambrosine and nephew Jacquot,' Fisher said. ‘Jacquot, Paris, 25th June, 1944. That's all we have to go on. That and the fact that I'm certain your father is still alive and in this city. The point is, my darling, where do we start looking and for what?'

They were holding hands in the car, parked under the trees in an avenue of the Bois de Boulogne. He had given her lunch and then taken her for the drive out of Paris to the peace and beauty of the famous woods where the Kings of France had hunted game and the fashionable used to parade in their carriages until the outbreak of the first world war. Now it was a place for trippers, for coach parties eating sweets and throwing ice cream wrappers in the grass, with the echo of the centuries returning as a group of riders trotted by.

Fisher had told her about Prince Heinrich. Paula had surprised him by her attitude. ‘So he's a drunk,' she said. ‘That's not such a terrible secret; surely they don't have to go to all this trouble covering his tracks if that's all it is. There must be something more.' Fisher didn't answer for some moments. The simplicity of what she said was obvious. There must be something more. And of course there was. There was the secret which concerned the Poellenberg Salt and General Bronsart of the S.S. for example. ‘Has she asked you to kill him yet?' He hadn't told Paula about that remark. He refused to take it seriously, and yet it had begun to worry him. Why hadn't the Princess called in Interpol? With her influence she could have instigated a full enquiry into the report of Bronsart's reappearance and got further through official channels than she could hope to do using a detective agency, however competent. Why make a secret of the Salt, why not publicise it, offer a huge reward for information? This was the normal course to take in her position, but she hadn't taken it. She needed secrecy; there was always a shame attached to the wish for a private investigation. Whatever the circumstances which gave Bronsart his treasure, they didn't reflect credit upon the Von Hessels and the Prince had let that much out during their conversation. And so little credit did the family derive from the affair, that both the sons were ready to forgo the priceless heirloom which was lost, rather than court discovery. It was intriguing and a little sinister.

But until he could begin to trace the Salt through the General's message to Paula, Fisher hadn't a hope of solving anything.

‘Jacquot,' he repeated. ‘Who the hell is Jacquot?'

‘What about the date?' Paula said. ‘That means something too. June 1944. What happened in Paris in June 1944?'

‘A hell of a lot,' Fisher answered. ‘D Day for instance. There must be thousands of incidents which could be relevant, but which one and where to start?'

‘Why not start with my father?' Paula suggested. ‘If he hid the Poellenberg Salt, it must have been then. Otherwise the message makes no sense at all. And I'm certain Black didn't know any more. My father told him just enough but he didn't trust even him with the whole secret. Why don't we start with that date?'

‘You ought to join the firm,' Fisher said. He slipped his arm round her and kissed her. ‘Get out and let's walk,' he said. ‘I've had an idea.'

They made their way through the wood on a bridle path; the sun dappled the ground at their feet and glimmered through the leaves overhead. It was cool and still. ‘What's the idea?' Paula asked him. He held her close against him as they walked.

‘I'm going to try and knock out two birds at the same time,' he said. ‘I'm bothered to hell by those Von Hessels. The more I think of it, the less I like to feel I'm working in the dark. The Princess didn't tell me half the truth and what I got out of that poor drunken sod this morning didn't reassure me either.

‘He's the black sheep, and as you say, it must be more than drink. So I'm going to do a little investigating of the Von Hessels for myself. I'm going to call an associate in Bonn and see what they can dig up. Especially in 1944, because I'm assuming that you're right and your father hid the Salt that year. I'm also assuming that that's when he got hold of it. So let's find out what the Von Hessels were doing at the time. Especially Prince Heinrich; he must have been serving in the army about then.'

‘What about the other part, Tante Ambrosine and Jacquot?'

‘I had quite a chat with that chap from the Sûreté the other day.' Fisher lit the usual two cigarettes and handed one to her. ‘I'll take a chance and go to see him. He remembered your father pretty clearly. I've a feeling he was in Paris round that time too. It's just a chance he might have heard those names. Or he could think of someone I could contact who might know. It's all loose ends but it's the best I can do at the moment. Why the frown – what are you thinking?'