The Poellenberg Inheritance (23 page)

The line crackled, with the atmospherics peculiar to English rural telephone systems.

‘Brigadier Ridgeway?'

‘Yes. Who is it?'

‘Eric Fisher; Dunston and Fisher detective agency. I came to see you and your wife about two weeks ago.'

The Brigadier held the receiver closer to his ear. ‘Who? I'm sorry, the line is bad.' He hadn't wanted to hear the name, his denial was instinctive. The words were repeated. This time he couldn't pretend to himself, there was no escape. He swore, one hand over the mouthpiece.

‘I've nothing to say to you.' He raised his voice. ‘And you've chosen a very inconvenient time to telephone.'

‘I'm coming to England tomorrow,' the voice said. ‘I want to come and see you. It's very important. You know Paula's with me.'

‘I know,' Ridgeway said. ‘What my step-daughter does is her own affair. It's nothing to do with us.'

‘It's very much to do with you. I have to talk to you and her mother. Will you see me?'

‘No.' The Brigadier was shouting down the telephone. ‘No, certainly not. I won't have you here bothering my wife!'

‘There's a strong possibility that she's not legally married to you.' He could hear Fisher clearly now, the crackling on the line had stopped and the awful words might have been spoken in the room.

‘I'm pretty sure that General Bronsart is alive. I think you'd better see me. I'll fly over tomorrow morning and drive straight down.'

‘Go to hell!' He rammed the telephone down and stood there looking at it as if it had displayed a malevolent life of its own. Slowly he sank to a chair, an old man whose knees were trembling. His legs were the only part of him to show the sign of age; that and the weakness in his chest which worried his wife every time he caught a cold. He put his hands over his face and his head dropped.

‘Oh my God,' he said. ‘Oh my God, my God.' Outside in the bright sunshine the couple who had been waiting for him to come back gave up and decided to walk on.

Philip Von Hessel faced his mother; she was sitting up in bed, the breakfast tray across her knees. It was a brilliant morning, and the room was full of sunlight. Paris was emptying as the summer advanced; there were few Parisiennes left. The tourist crowds abounded, making the city an alien place. The Ritz was full of Americans, which annoyed the Princess, who found their accents and their ubiquitous presence in the hallowed places of the European aristocracy particularly irksome. She glanced at her handsome son and her expression softened. Of all the human beings with whom she had made contact in her long life, she loved Philip the best. No qualm of sentiment for her dead son had troubled her mind. She was a relic of an age when grief was regarded as an indulgence, the luxury of the inferior classes whose women shrouded their heads in their aprons and cried. Marriage with the Prince Von Hessel had withered any sensibilities she might have had in her youth. She held out her hand to Philip; he bent and kissed her.

‘You're sure you don't want me with you?' he said.

‘No, it's better you stay here. Fisher will be away in England for a day and a night. The funeral will take place privately; I shall give it out that you're ill. You must be here in case he comes back with something decisive. He seemed very confident on the telephone.'

‘There will be photographers at the airport,' Philip said. ‘There are half a dozen hanging round the entrance already.'

‘The authorities have promised that we shall get away without being bothered,' she said. ‘As soon as it is over, I shall fly back. In the meantime I leave it in your hands. I feel it will all turn out for the best for us. Promise me you won't worry. This will be the end of a long and troublesome period for our family. From now on it will be up to you to expunge the past and build up what I have preserved. I know you'll do it.'

‘I will,' he promised. ‘You have my word.'

She thought how much he resembled his father, that gallant airman who had come so briefly and decisively into her life. Power, wealth, world influence. She leaned against the pillows, a little tired with the onset of emotion, yet mellow in her triumph that in spite of everything she had succeeded, and through her son, the future would be safe. For a moment their hands clasped. ‘My son,' she said gently. ‘I'm very proud of you.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was mid afternoon when Fisher's car drove up to the front dor of the Ridgeways' house. He got out and the labradors came leaping up to investigate him, barking a welcome. Fisher didn't like dogs; he could honestly say that it was his only fear, that instinctive recoil from the leap and the bared teeth. He swore at them and they went backwards, puzzled and hurt. It was some moments before the door opened, and then it was the Brigadier who stood facing him.

‘I told you not to come,' he said.

‘I know,' Fisher answered quietly. ‘But I have to see you. I'm not trying to be difficult or upset anyone. I told the truth on the phone. It's very important.'

The older man turned away, leaving the door open. Within the shadowy hall he turned.

‘All right, come in then. My wife's waiting.'

Paula's mother was in the drawing room; she looked tense and there were shadows under her eyes. Fisher saw a resemblance to Paula in the way she stood, and the carriage of her head. He should have felt distaste for what he was going to do but he didn't. They had had their life together, these two, standing with their arms linked, united against him as they had been against her daughter.

‘My husband told me what you said,' she began. ‘Why do you say my first husband is alive? What proof have you?'

‘He was seen in Paris,' Fisher said. ‘That newspaper report was right. I interviewed the woman. She remembered the General, and she had good reason to; he ordered her son's execution. She saw him in a street and then he disappeared.' He saw Paula's mother clutch at the Brigadier's arm.

‘I'm certain he's alive,' Fisher said. ‘And in the circumstances you'd be well advised to help me get this business over. If the police pick him up, I imagine you'd find it rather embarrassing.'

‘We married in good faith,' Ridgeway said stiffly. ‘My wife was told he was killed in action. No blame can be attached to her.'

‘It's no use, Gerald,' Mrs. Ridgeway said suddenly. ‘He knows what we have to fear. Public knowledge of my past, isn't that right? The wife of a war criminal, a woman who was arrested when the allied troops marched into Munich and held for weeks in prison. You didn't know that part, did you, Mr. Fisher? I was the wife of a man who consorted with Hitler. I was spat upon, abused, humiliated – accused of complicity in my husband's crimes, denounced for having slave labour in my house. If one thing could have been proved against me I'd have been sent to prison for years! When they let me go home to my child, there was a screaming mob, howling and spitting at me outside the gates – I was almost broken; I thought of suicide. Then Gerald found me, burning the furniture in the grate to keep myself and Paula warm, without enough food to eat, too ashamed to go out and beg for it like the rest of the German civilians. I hated my first husband; he was a cruel and heartless brute and I thanked God when I heard he was dead! But I was the only one who could be punished for what he had done. I suffered, Mr. Fisher; it's taken all these years of living with a man like my husband to make me forget it. If I have to live through that shame again, I shall die. So there's no point in your talking about “embarrassment” and trying to frighten us. We know what we have to fear. The loss of our friends, the glare of publicity. Can't you see it? “War criminal's wife discovered in Essex village. Brigadier committed bigamy during the war.” My God, embarrassed! This means the ruin of our lives. We're respected and liked here; Gerald has had a distinguished career; we've lived happily and decently for nearly thirty years. If you want to ask me questions, I shall answer them. But understand that nothing you can do or say can frighten me now. No, darling,' she turned to her husband. ‘Let me do this. We can't go on hiding. We will always have each other.'

‘One moment,' the Brigadier interrupted, speaking to Fisher. ‘One moment; before my wife says anything to you I want to ask a question. If you find the General, what do you propose to do?'

‘Nothing,' Fisher said. ‘I'm looking for the Poellenberg Salt, I'm not interested in catching war criminals. In fact, Mrs. Ridgeway, as things have turned out, I'm as anxious to keep him under cover as you are. You know Paula's looking for him? She's got an obsession about him; she thinks she's going to find a helpless, hunted old man who needs someone to take care of him. I don't think she knows it herself, but she hasn't the slightest intention of seeing him once and then letting him go out of her life. And if they come together, I shall lose her. She'll go off with him. I don't want that to happen.'

‘We didn't know you were involved,' the Brigadier said.

‘You didn't ask,' Fisher said sharply. ‘You've left Paula to get on with the whole dirty mess, just thinking of yourselves. If I may say so, Mrs. Ridgeway, you had no right to keep your daughter in the dark about her father. If you'd told her the truth, she wouldn't have this terrible hang-up. God knows what effect it'll have on her if they ever do meet. I want to prevent it. As far as I'm concerned the General can stay hidden for ever. If he does come into the open, I want to be sure that Paula's not anywhere near. He can go straight back where he came from and stay there. That's why I want to find the Salt. If he's going to appear at all, that is where he'll choose, hoping to find her digging it out. I'm not going to let things happen that way. I want to marry her. I hope you get the picture now.'

‘I see.' Mrs. Ridgeway turned to her husband. ‘Darling, this could be the best thing for all of us. How can I help you, Mr. Fisher?'

‘I know he was in Paris,' Fisher said. ‘In June 1944. But I can't find out where he was living. It was naturally kept a secret because the Resistance were after him; he was high on their murder list by that date. Do you know where his quarters were, Mrs. Ridgeway? Believe me, everything depends on my finding this out.'

‘Of course I know,' Paula's mother answered. She had her arm linked through her husband's; now she disengaged it and made a movement with her hand.

‘I know exactly where he was. I spent a weekend with him. Why don't we all sit down?'

‘Mrs. Stanley? Good morning to you. Joe Dunston here.'

‘Oh, hallo,' Paula answered sleepily. Fisher had left her in the early hours. She was tired and depressed after the night they had spent together. For the first time she had been unresponsive, miserable and tense in spite of all his efforts to arouse her. He had failed, and the effect upon him was profound.

He had said very little, sitting up in the bed, apart from her, staring into the darkened room. ‘You're not in love with me any more, are you?'

When Paula denied it he didn't seem to hear.

‘I know you're not,' he had continued as if she hadn't spoken to him. ‘I know it's over for you. You didn't feel a damned thing, did you?'

‘I'm tired,' she protested, near to tears. ‘Darling, it's the first time it hasn't been wonderful for both of us. Don't make something out of nothing.'

‘Nothing,' Fisher had said, throwing back the bedclothes, ‘is the operative word. I'll let you go to sleep now. I'll try and call you from England, I'm leaving early in the morning.' And he had gone, letting in a brief shaft of light from the passage outside as he opened her door. Paula had lain awake for a long time. She had cried, but it was more for him than for herself. She was empty, unable to be rushed away on the tide of his sexuality, able for the first time since they became lovers, to resist his assault upon her. It hadn't worked. The thought came to her that it might never work again. When she finally fell asleep it was an uneasy rest, disturbed by dreams of journeys where she was prevented from arriving. As she took Dunston's call, she looked at her watch and saw that it was past ten o'clock. Fisher had caught the eight-thirty plane.

‘I didn't wake you up, did I?' The hearty voice broke into a laugh.

‘Just as well you did,' Paula said. ‘It's terribly late.'

‘You must have had a gay evening,' Dunston said.

‘Yes,' Paula answered. ‘Yes, I did.'

‘I know our boy's gone to England today and I wondered whether you might take that shopping expedition with me.' There was a few seconds' pause. ‘I'd appreciate it very much, if it wouldn't be a nuisance to you. My taste in clothes is terrible.'

‘Of course it wouldn't be a nuisance.' She pushed the hair back from her face and leaned against the pillow which still bore Fisher's imprint.

‘I'd be delighted. Where do you want to go?'

‘No idea,' he said. ‘Somewhere not too cheap, but not exactly Christian Dior. I'd like to leave that up to you.'

‘Well, let me think – how about Lafayette – they have some nice clothes and they're not desperately expensive.'

‘Anything you say.' Dunston sounded delighted. ‘Where is it? I'd better go direct there, if you don't mind, because I've got an appointment in about twenty minutes. Say about eleven-thirty, quarter to twelve?'

‘That would be fine,' Paula said. ‘I'll meet you downstairs in the main entrance. A quarter to twelve?'

‘Wonderful. And thanks a million. Bye bye.'

Paula got up and went into the bathroom. Under the electric light the dark shadows associated with a night spent making love were deep under her eyes. The first man in her life hadn't cared enough about her; now she was caught up with one who cared too much. He wanted what she couldn't give him, the full possession of herself. James had complained of her shyness; for a time it seemed that Fisher had smashed through the reserves which kept her aloof. But now the barriers were going up again, and this, more than the failure of one night together, was what he had sensed and what had driven him to leave her in despair. Despair threatened Paula too, the despair of her returning solitude, of the knowledge that she was moving away from Fisher, from loving and being loved, back into the world of lonely waiting. Waiting. That was the right description. She showered and dressed, getting ready for her appointment with Dunston. Waiting for something or someone. And what made her glad to spend the time with Dunston was fear that the someone was not Eric Fisher after all. She hated herself for hurting him. He had told her she was the first woman he had ever loved, and she believed him. And unlike her, there had been no holding back, no reservations.