The Poellenberg Inheritance (18 page)

He knew Heinrich better perhaps than anyone outside his family; he wondered whether the Prince were capable at this stage of even remembering. But the roots of fear went deep; he would remember if the General mentioned certain things. The telephone rang beside him; he picked up the receiver and spoke into it in German.

‘Prince Von Hessel?'

He recognised the throaty voice immediately. It hadn't changed over the twenty-five years since he'd last heard it.

‘Yes. This is Heinrich Von Hessel. Who is that?'

‘Ah,' said the General. ‘Now listen very carefully to me.' A few moments later he put the telephone down, lit another cigarette and walked down the lounge to one of the armchairs. He chose one which had a view of the lift, and sat down in it, one leg crossed over the other, perfectly relaxed.

Fisher had been out since lunch-time, going through the old press-cuttings of
France Soir
, whose editor had been a friend of his.

It was a long and tedious task on a hot day; the files smelt dusty and the bright strip lighting in the filing room had given him a headache. There was enough material about the General to occupy him for more than two hours. His first visit to Paris had been in 1942; there was a picture and a short piece about him visiting the military Governor of the city, General Von Stulpnagle. It was a poor photograph, taken from a distance. By 1944 the scant references to him flying to different parts of France had become a steady flow of propaganda handouts, which the French newspapers were obliged to print. There were items about him attending the opera, spending the weekend with some of the notorious collaborators, and finally taking charge of the situation in June 1944 when there was a serious outbreak of sabotage.

This was what Fisher wanted to find out: the exact duration of the General's stay in Paris, and whether there was an item which could account for his choice of the 25th of that month. But there he had met failure. There was nothing. He handed back the files and returned to the hotel. As he crossed the foyer he glanced at the notice-board and saw something white in his room slot.

There were in fact two messages, both telephone calls. One was from Prince Heinrich Von Hessel, who had called twice in fifteen minutes. The other was from Inspector Foulet. The Prince had phoned in more than an hour ago. Foulet's call was more recent. Fisher had known a number of drunks and they all followed the same type of routine. If the Prince had made up his mind to telephone, he would do so again, and again. But the call from Inspector Foulet might be very important.

He looked at his watch; it was nearly five. Foulet might be in his office still. But the switchboard at the Sûreté said that the Inspector had left the building and advised him to try again tomorrow.

Fisher swore. He dialled the Ritz.

The valet Josef answered. Fisher asked for the Prince. Josef sounded worried, his English was very bad indeed as he tried to explain.

The Prince was not in the hotel. He, Josef, had gone out for a moment on a private errand, leaving the Prince settled comfortably in his sitting room with a television programme (and a bottle of brandy, Fisher said to himself), and when the valet returned, the Prince had gone out. He was very anxious but as he had no idea where the Prince had gone, there was nothing he could do but wait.

Fisher said that the Prince had tried to telephone him twice, had Josef any idea what he wanted? No, the answer came quickly, no, he didn't know anything except that the Prince had a telephone call which seemed to disturb him, and he began trying to contact Fisher after that. Fisher decided it was some alcoholic foible and told the valet not to worry. He would telephone again in an hour and see if the Prince had returned. He went upstairs to find Paula, and forgot about him.

Heinrich Von Hessel came down in the lift and walked carefully across the hotel vestibule. He had found his hat and walking stick. The hall porter sprang forward to open the doors, and asked whether his Highness wished a taxi. The Prince hesitated; the bright sunlight in the street hurt his eyes, people were hurrying past him, the effect was confused and he had an impulse to turn back and resume the shelter of the hotel. He wasn't used to the outside world without Josef there to cushion the impact for him. But the hotel wasn't shelter. That was why he had left it. Josef had gone out; when he discovered that, he had panicked at the thought of being alone in his suite after that call. His first reflex was to try and get Fisher. But there was no reply, and he had sat by the telephone, muddled and becoming increasingly afraid, while the hotel operator tried to reach him.

Josef had given him a lot to drink because he sensed that his master was upset, and the Prince had not intimated his intention to go out. He had done so as a consequence of finding himself alone. Now the porter was beside him, asking about a taxi. The Prince had no idea where he wanted to go.

He shook his head, said ‘No, thank you,' and began walking slowly away towards the Place de la Concorde. He was a distinguished-looking man, and people stared after him; he walked stiffly and with the deliberation of the unsober, holding his walking stick in the right hand, not knowing where he was going to or why he should feel safer in the street. Normally Josef answered the telephone; he had been sitting by it, having a drink and watching the racing programme on the television in a pleasant haze, when the phone rang and he picked it up. It hadn't been a long call, and he had only spoken twice. The first time he announced himself in answer to a question, and the second time he had asked who his caller was. But no reply was given. The message was brief. If you want to go on living, get out of the Ritz. Today. That was all. No more and no less than an ultimatum, and then silence. The Prince had replaced the receiver and spent some moments looking at it in surprise. He hadn't been frightened until a little later, when he thought about it. That was when he tried to enlist Fisher. Fisher was a detective; he would know how to deal with threats. From past experience the Prince was conditioned never, under any circumstances, to go near the police. He had a hearty dislike of them after the accident in which the child so foolishly ran in front of his car. The fact that it was mounting the pavement at the time had escaped his attention. He distrusted the police; they were only interested in nailing some scandal on his family. He never considered calling them. And because Josef was a servant, he didn't confide in him either. He merely demanded more to drink and felt comforted by the fact that Josef was in the suite and could afford protection. But after the second abortive attempt to find Fisher, he grew restless and called for the valet. That was when he found himself alone, and for the first time he was overcome by an irrational panic. The charming little suite seemed unpleasantly quiet. His bedroom, the bathroom, the sitting room, all assumed a sinister aspect as if something were about to happen. He had been told to leave the Ritz immediately, or something
would
happen. So he had seized a hat and his stick and left.

Now his fear had subsided. The sunshine was bright, but not too warm as it was late in the afternoon; he found it agreeable to walk. He had always liked Paris; he had better memories of France than of places like Switzerland and Denmark, where he had spent a long time in a particularly unpleasant clinic before the war. He had hated the Danes ever since; the Swiss he regarded as jailors but amenable to rank and money, so life was not made too uncomfortable for him under their care. Paris was his favourite city; he felt quite calm and in a nostalgic mood. A walk would do him good; he would show his displeasure very clearly to Josef when he went back to the hotel. It had only been a telephone call, and he shouldn't have taken it seriously. No harm could have come to him. He had forgotten what had frightened him.
The voice
. He was walking up towards the Champs Elysées when he suddenly stopped. A man bumped into him from behind. The Prince removed his hat and apologised. The man swore at him and hurried on. There was a café immediately opposite; he crossed the street. He sat down, placed his cane and hat upon a chair, and signalled the waiter.

He needed a drink. The need had to be satisfied. Then the panic would go away and he wouldn't feel anything. He drank two cognacs straight down, and lit a cigarette. It was a pleasant place from which to watch the crowds walk by. Two more drinks followed, and he had forgotten why he needed them. He had forgotten about the telephone call. It was growing dark, and lights were glittering along the central avenue, as the shops and cafés prepared for the evening trade. There was a dusty smell, with the fumes of petrol mixed with human scents and the odours of cooking, which were coming through to him from the kitchen. He thought that he might eat something, but there was no hurry. He smoked again, and the waiter, who by this time was hovering near his table, came at once and brought another drink. Heinrich had spent two months in Paris just before the war; he had made the trip with his paternal grandmother, a stately old lady who took a floor of the Ritz Hotel to accommodate herself and her staff of maids, hairdresser and nurse.

She had been kind to Heinrich, whose illness she didn't understand. He had liked her; love was too strong a word to describe any of his emotions. He had never loved. Not really loved … He existed, and he drank to make that condition easier. He had gone to Paris with the old Princess, and found a special kind of happiness. A very special kind. He thought of it then, with the sights and smells of the city crowding memories back upon him. They were disjointed and distorted, but they had reality at their core. He fingered his glass of brandy and smiled into the distance. The waiters were watching him and whispering. He was very drunk indeed; he lifted the glass as if his right arm were a crane negotiating a huge load. His cigarette burned unnoticed in the ashtray, and there was a glaze over his eyes as he looked ahead of him. The waiters were taking bets on when he would keel over. It grew dark; the cars racing up the Champs Elysées were a stream of flashing lights; the Prince sat on, stiff as a waxwork, swallowing drinks. He raised his hand and clicked his fingers when he wanted more. Somewhere in his brain a signal warned him feebly that it was time he went home.

They got him to his feet; he took some minutes finding his wallet, and trying to extract a note. A man at the next table, who had been reading a newspaper, got up, paid his bill and came round. He looked sympathetic.

‘I'll get him to a taxi,' he said. ‘I'll see him home. Poor devil, I had a brother like this once.' He picked up the hat and the cane, and took Prince Heinrich by the arm. ‘All right,' he said. ‘Take my arm and lean on me.'

They didn't find a taxi. The Prince struggled to extricate himself. He felt he was able to walk alone, and he resented being guided. He got his arm free, but immediately he staggered, thrown off balance. It was held again and he submitted. They were walking by the Seine, making a slow progress. They didn't speak. Couples passed them strolling with their arms round each other. The Prince had no idea of the time; stars glittered overhead, reflected in the black water of the Seine. The reflections danced and twinkled in the tide. A boat glided past them, its port and starboard lights preceding it like eyes in the water. They had stopped, and the man had taken his support away.

‘Now,' the General said. ‘Why are you here?'

The Prince looked at him, dazed and unable to focus. ‘I wish to go home. My hotel – back to my hotel.'

‘You shall go when you've answered me. Why have you come to Paris – why have they let you come back here?'

The Prince grinned suddenly. He had no idea of what he was doing by the river answering questions. He didn't recognise the man who asked them, who had suddenly taken his supporting arm away just when the Prince most needed it. His mind registered nothing but the last thing he had heard. He thought of his mother.

‘She couldn't stop me,' he said. ‘They don't want me interfering. But I am the head of the family. I have a right to know.'

‘That is correct,' the General said. ‘I hope you make yourself a nuisance.'

‘I don't want the Salt back,' the Prince mumbled. ‘I told my mother to leave it alone. But you know her. She always gets her way.' He swayed and clutched clumsily at his companion.

‘Oh yes,' the General said softly. ‘I know her. But she doesn't always get her way. What do mean about the Salt? It's gone; it's lost to you.'

‘She thinks she may find it.' Prince Heinrich gave a bark of laughter. ‘She thinks that Bronsart is alive. I hope he is, I hope he is. Do you know something? He's the only man who ever frightened her. Do you know that?'

‘Oh yes,' the General nodded. ‘I know that. When are you going home?'

‘I'm not,' the Prince said. ‘I like Paris. It has happy memories for me. Very happy memories. I'm staying where I am. I may stay here for ever. Why should I go home …? I want to go now. My legs are tired.'

‘You are a tired man, I can see that,' the General said.

‘It is kind of you to take me back to my hotel.' Prince Heinrich raised his head and peered at him.

‘It is a pleasure. Shall we go now?'

‘Yes. Yes, let us go now.' They were walking below the parapet on the dark bank of the river.

‘And you are quite sure you mean to stay in Paris? Wouldn't you be safer somewhere else than in the Ritz?'

‘No, no. We have a detective. He is looking for the Salt. He will take good care of me. I thought I telephoned him … I want to go now. Why don't we go?'

‘We are going,' the General said. ‘But separate ways.' There was nobody in sight; the river was empty of traffic. He stepped back a pace and struck the Prince full on the jaw. Before the body buckled and fell down, he had caught it, and was supporting the weight. The General heaved and pushed, and suddenly he stepped away. There was a splash and drops of water spattered the pavement and spotted the front of his jacket. He brushed them away and went to the side. There was nothing to be seen but a turbulence in the water and a circle of bursting air bubbles. Even if he hadn't stunned him, the Prince was too drunk to swim. The General looked down and saw his walking stick, lying where the Prince had dropped it. He left it there, and walked away, crossing to the other side of the road. As he waited for a taxi to come by, he lit himself a cigarette. Now when he next enquired, the suite at the Ritz would not be occupied.