The Poellenberg Inheritance (17 page)

‘You don't suppose my father has been living here, in France, for all those years?'

‘Not a chance,' Fisher said. ‘Far too well known; remember the old woman only saw him once and she remembered him. He was a famous man in his day; he couldn't have lain low anywhere in occupied Europe. Most of them got to South or Central America through that underground organisation of theirs. Code name Odessa – did you know that? They had it all organised with the usual efficiency, when it became obvious the war was going to be lost. My guess is your father holed up in Switzerland or Spain, ditto our friend Black, and that's why he's been able to come here and Black could get to England. He'd been living in Switzerland under a phoney passport for a long time.'

‘So why has my father come back to Paris?'

‘Because he knew Black was going to deliver his message,' Fisher said. ‘So your father comes to Paris. To wait for you. Isn't that obvious? Didn't you realise that was what it meant?'

‘No.' Paula had stopped on the pathway. She pulled free of Fisher and stood alone. ‘No, I didn't think of that. You mean he's looking for me? We're looking for each other?'

‘That's what I think.' She made no move to take his arm again; she just stood there with the sunshine catching her brown hair, alone in the middle of the wood. Fisher didn't like the reaction.

‘He'll be somewhere near the Salt, that's my guess. So if we find one we're almost certain to find the other. Or perhaps not; perhaps he just wants to make sure you get it.'

‘That's a terrible risk to take,' she said slowly. ‘Tell me something truthfully. Do you think he killed Black?'

‘I don't know.' Fisher didn't lie to her. There was no intimacy between them now. She had completely withdrawn.

‘He might have done. Destroying the link when it had served its purpose. But I'm not sure. I can't honestly answer you.'

‘He must be mad if he did. I don't believe it.'

‘Not necessarily mad. Death didn't mean much to people like him. It was often the logical solution to a problem. Personally I don't think there's a connection. Don't worry about it. I'm sure it wasn't your father.'

‘If he is looking for me,' Paula said, ‘he won't come near me if I'm with you, will he? He wouldn't dare.'

‘Well, I
am
with you,' Fisher said, he was beginning to feel angry. ‘So that's too bloody bad, isn't it?'

‘It gives me the most extraordinary feeling to think he might be near me.' She didn't seem to notice his irritation. ‘It's getting cool, let's walk back to the car.'

‘All right,' Fisher said. ‘We'll take a drive through the Bois and then go back. I might invite the man at the Sûreté to have a drink with me. Then we'll have dinner out somewhere. How about Maxims? Would you like that?'

‘Yes. That would be nice.'

The silence that developed between them lasted all the way back to the hotel. Fisher didn't come into her room with her; Paula said she was tired and wanted a bath. He could meet his Sûreté contact and have drinks with him; she would be ready at eight or a little after. Fisher put both hands on her shoulders.

‘What's the matter with you?'

‘Nothing,' Paula said simply. ‘I was just thinking of something else, that's all.'

‘Do me a favour in the next couple of hours,' Fisher said. He jabbed her playfully on the chin, but his smile was strained. ‘Think about me. I'll come back around eight.' He kissed her and went along to his room to telephone.

The first call was to Bonn; they had an arrangement with an agency there; they kept a small staff of half a dozen skilled operators, three of whom were former members of the West German police force, and a woman who had worked for three years with the German Intelligence Service. He wanted information on the Von Hessels. The answer was reserved; it was not easy to get anything except unfounded scandal about the Von Hessels. They were well protected. All right, Fisher had said sharply, let's have the unfounded scandal as well as the society column crap. And where was Prince Heinrich during '43 '44? There must be a record of his war service; that would make nice reading for the beleaguered German population, knowing the big industrial giants were out there fighting for the survival of the Fatherland.

He ordered himself a drink before he looked up the number of the Sûreté office and called the Detective Inspector. The response was hesitant; it was almost four o'clock, and the Inspector had promised to be home early. Fisher offered to come down to the office, but suggested that a drink on the way home might be more pleasant. Finally there was a grudging acceptance. They arranged to meet at a small bistro round the corner from the Sûreté office.

It was a brightly painted place, with a record player in one corner and plastic-topped tables. Fisher looked round with distaste, regretting the garlic smells, checked cloths and comfortable fustiness of the usual French bistro. To his horror the machine was belting out a noisy pop music selection. The Inspector was already seated in a corner, his eyes closed, his pipe in his mouth with a thin plume of foul smoke issuing out of it.

Fisher went over, sat down and enquired what his guest would like to drink.

‘A Pression, thank you.' The Inspector's name was Foulet, and he shook hands with Fisher across the table. They exchanged remarks about the weather; Fisher said he had spent the afternoon in the Bois, and Foulet nodded, remarking that it was a beautiful spot. There had been a hideous sexual murder committed there only six weeks ago, and the criminal was still at liberty. Woods attracted madmen, he observed. Some psychiatrist had suggested that it was a return to primeval conditions, in which the retarded mentality felt at home. Personally he believed the assailant chose it because it was a place favoured by young girls out walking, or riding alone. The victim had been on a horse, dragged off it and horribly mutilated. Fisher decided to interrupt before he was given the anatomical details. The police, the law and the medical profession were all akin in the one vice; they found their own activities the only source of conversation. He headed Foulet off homicide by offering him another beer.

‘I went to see Madame Brevet,' he said.

‘Oh?' The Inspector's pipe came out of his mouth for a moment.

‘She was gaga, just as you said. A waste of time. But thanks for the help you gave me.'

‘It was nothing. We've had a dozen reports about Bronsart since that one. They were all the same; cranks.'

‘Were you in Paris when he was here?' Fisher asked. He had intended bringing the conversation round to the General without letting the police know that the old woman had not been mistaken. He had also decided to tell the Inspector part of the truth.

‘I was,' the Frenchman said. He took the pipe out again and drank some of his beer. ‘He was here in '42 on a tour of inspection; I was a youngster then, I'd come back from the army after 1940, been demobilised and gone into the police. I thought it was the safest place to be, and also that I might get a chance to work against the Boche. The Wehrmacht were in control of Paris at that time; those S.S. swine were longing to get a foot in and bring the Gestapo with them but the army held them off. There was great jealousy between the two branches, you know that – it wasn't that those Prussians were humane, they shot as many hostages as the Gestapo when the trouble really started, but they looked on the S.S. as upstarts, not bred to be officers and gentlemen. Merde – how I hated them! But the worst of them was nothing compared to that bastard. When he came back he was not just picking faults with the army people. He had power, Monsieur Fisher, and he used it.'

‘And when did he come back?'

‘In May 1944. He spent three months here in Paris. The Gestapo and the S.S. were established in force. Why are you so interested in this man?'

‘I told you I was privately employed to try and find him.' Fisher ordered a third beer and a Campari for himself. ‘If he's dead that's only part of it. He stole a valuable work of art from my client during the war and they are trying to get it back. The Nazis hid hoards of treasures all over Europe; this man Bronsart left some kind of clue with a relative, which my clients got hold of – I'm trying to figure out what it meant.'

‘And this is a very valuable art treasure?'

‘Pretty well priceless,' Fisher said. ‘Tell me, Inspector Foulet, does the name Tante Ambrosine and her nephew Jacquot mean anything to you?'

He shook his head. ‘No, nothing. Tante Ambrosine, Jacquot. It could mean anything; everybody lived by pseudonyms in those days. I'm afraid I can't help you. Is that all of your clue?'

‘June 25th Paris, 1944. That's all there is.'

‘Hmm. Well, he was here at that time. I can vouch for that. From May till the end of July. I know because all the districts were alerted for security. He was one of the most hated men in France; by the end of June every Resistance leader had promised to kill him. But they couldn't get near. He moved with an army of S.S. I saw him once or twice at Fresnes. He used to go down there to watch the execution of hostages. I've seen women weeping, going on their knees, begging him for the life of a husband, a son …'

Fisher was beginning to wish he would stop. He kept seeing the look on Paula's face in the Bois, the light in her eyes, as if she were seeing something or someone far away.

‘He had no pity,' the Inspector said.

‘I was told that.'

‘No pity,' Foulet repeated. ‘Some of them were sadists; they got real pleasure from the things that were done. And there were Frenchmen among them, don't let us forget that. The Vichy militia were worse than the Gestapo. But Bronsart was above that. He was just inhuman. Tante Ambrosine, Jacquot.' Again he shook his head. ‘I can't help you, Monsieur Fisher. It means nothing to me.'

‘Thank you anyway,' Fisher said. ‘At least you've established one thing; Bronsart was here in June that year. That's something.'

He decided to walk back to the hotel; it was a warm evening and Paris was preparing for the night and its activities. The streets were filled with slow-moving crowds. Fisher found himself staring at faces as he passed. Somewhere in the teeming mass, in some part of that city, the man he wanted was alive and waiting. Waiting for what? For his daughter to solve the riddle passed to her after a lapse of nearly thirty years. To see her recover the Poellenberg Salt as a silent watcher in the shadows, then to disappear for ever. Fisher didn't think so. His instincts rejected this romantic supposition. Men like Bronsart didn't efface themselves from selfless motives. This man was old by now; Madame Brevet, shrieking her hate and grievance, had talked of him as old with white hair. But the burning blue eyes were not dimmed by time, nor was the tenacity and toughness diminished which had kept him alive. The General was in the same city as Paula, and if they couldn't understand the meaning of that message and find the Poellenberg Salt, then they would never find the General. Which, in the interests of his own happiness with the woman he loved, might be the best of all solutions.

CHAPTER FIVE

The receptionist at the Ritz Hotel saw a shadow fall across his counter and he put down his pen and looked up. A tall man, white haired and distinguished, wearing tinted glasses against the hot glare outside, stood in front of him.

The receptionist had a sharply tuned sense of a guest's social status; he could scent wealth and titles, even in the most unobtrusive.

The man was well dressed in a lightweight grey suit, a plain silk shirt and a dark tie; he held himself like a soldier, and before he spoke the receptionist reckoned that he was a German. It was something about the cut of the hair, and the set of the shoulders.

‘Good afternoon. I wish to book a suite.' He spoke in French.

The man behind the desk shook his head.

‘I regret, monsieur, there aren't any suities available. We are fully booked. I can offer you – one moment, please.' He opened his register and looked quickly through. ‘I can offer you a double room and the usual private bathroom. But not until the day after tomorrow.'

‘I wanted the suite on the first floor,' the tall man said. ‘I am not interested in a room. How long is the suite booked for? I am not in an immediate hurry.'

‘I can't say,' the receptionist answered. ‘The present occupant hasn't given any date for leaving.'

‘And who is the present occupant?'

‘I'm sorry, monsieur, I can't say that.'

‘Is the Prince Heinrich Von Hessel in the hotel?'

‘Yes.' The receptionist was very guarded now. ‘He is staying here.'

‘And you cannot tell me if he is in the suite.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said again ‘I am not allowed to give anyone information about him. All I can tell you is that the suite is occupied and I have no idea when it will be vacant. If monsieur is not in a hurry, I have a very nice suite on the second floor which I can offer in ten days' time.'

‘I'm afraid that will not do. The Prince Von Hessel is an old friend of mine. Would you be good enough to connect me to his room.'

‘Certainly, monsieur. If you will go into the cubicle over there, No. 6, I will put the call through the switchboard.'

The General walked across the foyer and into the little soundproofed cubicle. Coolly, he lit a cigarette. Without meaning to, the pompous little Frenchman had given him the information. If Von Hessel had been staying in another room, he would have denied his presence in the suite the General specifically mentioned. He now knew where he was. The idea of the telephone call had come to him in the last few seconds while he spoke to the receptionist. He had come into the hotel without any plan in mind except to check up on the Prince and set a certain anxiety at rest. He had read the account of Von Hessel's arrival in Paris, and the idea of him staying there at that particular time had begun to suggest more than coincidence. He knew all about Heinrich. He smiled a little to himself as he waited in the cubicle. He had known him many years ago; the screen of rich recluse didn't protect him from the General. In fact he could remember the time when he had seen him last, swaying drunkenly with his mother beside him, ashen-faced and trembling, rounding like a tigress on her son because he was demeaning himself by crying. The General had enjoyed that scene, not because he relished the misery of the unhappy alcoholic but because it occasioned the humiliation of the most arrogant woman he had ever known. So proud and disdainful of the outside world and everybody in it. He knew that she tolerated him and his kind because she dared not do anything else, but that she hated and despised them. The General had endured her freezing condescension and the repeated snubbing of his wife, whose birth was irreproachable, but he had been revenged at last.