The Poellenberg Inheritance (24 page)

As the situation was developing, Paula knew she might inflict a mortal wound. And this was inconceivable. She owed him too much; she even owed herself the chance of being happy. She got up, checked her bag for the room key, and made a resolution to be especially affectionate and reassuring when he phoned.

Outside the hotel, seated at a café on the pavement opposite, Dunston watched over a newspaper and saw her come out into the sunshine, hail a taxi and get in. He paid for his coffee, threw his newspaper away and went round the side to the back entrance. He had got her room number from the switchboard when he phoned. There was nobody about when he opened the door and stepped inside a grubby passage; there was a smell of kitchens and rubbish, and a dingy cat fled into a closet as he came upon it. Dunston moved carefully, trying doors. He found the entrance to the service stairs and began to climb them. At the first floor he came out on the main landing and went to the elevator. It was automatic; when it arrived, there were passengers on the way up. Dunston got in, touched his hat to the couple, and pressed the button marked 3. At the third floor he got out, and he went up the corridor towards room 339. There was no one about; at that hour all the beds had been made. His only danger was the chambermaid coming in to tidy up that particular room. It was a chance he had to take; in less than a minute he had picked the lock of the door.

It was untidy, the bed in confusion; he walked to the window and pulled down the blind. Then he switched on the light and looked round. It was not a very luxurious room; the colour scheme was pastel blue, the furniture mahogany and modern in design. A bowl of roses stood on the writing table. Dunston guessed they were from Fisher. He went over to look at them and open the table drawer. There was nothing inside but some sheets of hotel writing paper, a few envelopes and a laundry list. He glanced at the make-up bottles and the rank of lipsticks. Powder, very expensive scent, in a five-ounce bottle. He wondered whether that were Fisher again. Then he went to the closet and looked through Paula's clothes. He searched everything without knowing yet what he was looking for; he picked up the silk nightdress she had worn, and suffered a qualm of lust.

Then he went into the bathroom. More bottles, toothbrush, paste, combs and a hair-brush. No pills of any kind. Obviously not a neurotic. There couldn't be any accidental overdose. The floor of the bathroom was still wet; on an impulse Dunston pulled back the shower curtain; drops of water spattered him. He looked up and then suddenly he stood quite still. He hadn't gone to look for it; he hadn't even thought it could be found; the idea was so old-fashioned. But there it was. A long-barred electric fire, high up on the wall above the bath. He reached over and pulled the cord. The element began to turn red. It was above eye level, he was tall and he had to tilt up to see it, burning away there on the wall, designed to warm the bather's naked body as he got out of the water. He pulled the cord again and the heat faded. Twice more he jerked at the cord, and each time he used less pressure. Sometimes they could be stiff. This one was loose. He began to whistle softly. He took the end of the cord and slipped the tiny knob under one of the plastic rings holding the shower curtain. Then he switched the curtain round the bath. Immediately the fire turned on. He unhooked the cord. Then he slipped off his shoes and climbed on to the edge of the bath; this brought him level with the fire. He made a careful examination, and stepped down. He would need time, and no fear of being disturbed. His watch said it was already eleven forty-five. She would be waiting at Galeties Lafayette. He had to go. He went out of the bathroom, pulled up the window shade and slipped through the door. As he hurried down the passage to the lift, he saw the maid come through the service door, pushing her trolley for the dirty linen. Fifteen minutes later he arrived, breathless and full of excuses, to meet Paula at the store.

When Fisher telephoned the hotel that afternoon there was no reply from Paula's room. He had lunched at a pub an hour's drive from the Ridgeways' house. The end of the search was only a flight away across the Channel, a matter of making the necessary arrangements and letting the Princess Von Hessel know that she would soon be in possession of the Salt.

Fisher had sat in the pub bar, eating sandwiches and drinking beer, wishing he were able to speak to Paula. He intended breaking his promise; when he told her mother he hoped to prevent her finding her father again, it was a desperate resolve born of his fear that the anti-climax of the night before he left for England was the first sign of Paula moving away from him. She was keeping apart in order to be free, when the moment of choice came. He smoked and sat on, moody and unhappy, despising himself for cheating her and yet convinced that he had no alternative. She wanted love; he could satisfy that need, he had proved that his was more than just a sexual hunger. He wanted her as he had never imagined he could want anyone, she aroused such a dread of losing her, that he no longer recognised his own personality. He had become jealous, obsessed. He would do anything to prevent Paula from escaping on some crazy mixed-up pretext that her father's need of her came first. Fisher had seriously thought of turning the General in to the police if he appeared. He had no other way of contacting his daughter, except by waiting till she came to where the Salt was hidden. And she just wasn't going to be there; Fisher left the pub and began to drive to London; she wasn't going to be anywhere near the Salt, and if her father materialised, then Fisher could either scare him off or turn him in. In his present frame of mind he would have preferred the latter course. But if he were caught she would never forgive Fisher. If he never appeared, as far as she knew, then Fisher felt he had a chance of being accepted as a final substitute. As for her claim to the Salt, he was only too anxious to waive that too, if indeed she really had one. Let the Von Hessels have it; let the whole bloody business come to its conclusion and let him get her back. They could get married and start looking for a home. Fisher, the professional nomad, who had never bothered to do more than rent a furnished flat, found himself yearning for a home, with possessions, and a wife. And children. He had even thought that far ahead. He reached his agency's office and put through the call to their hotel. When she was out he banged down the receiver. Uncertainty remained until he could talk to her, and repair the damage. And he had done damage, walking out like that. His male pride had been affronted, and his insecurity had overwhelmed his common sense. He had behaved like a fool. He booked in another call for an hour later and then telephoned through to Princess Von Hessel in Munich. Her response was short but full of excitement; he could hear the tone of her voice changing as he talked.

‘When will it be?'

‘Tomorrow, if you can fix it with the hotel.'

‘Leave that to me. I shall fly down tonight. You've done very well.'

‘Thanks,' Fisher said. ‘I'm coming back to Paris tomorrow and I'll contact you.' He hung up. It seemed almost unreal that the explanation was at once so simple and so clever. He was a clever man, the General, with an ironic twist of mind. No caves in isolated places, no chilly Swiss lakes, for his treasure. He had hidden it where nobody would ever think of looking, and where it was easily accessible to anyone who knew. Very clever. And not to be discounted even at the end. He would emerge; Fisher was sure of it. At some moment he would step forward out of the shadows, to claim his daughter and the loot he had secreted all those years ago. Fisher was going to make sure that he got neither of them.

The second call came through after a short delay. It was no more successful than the first. Paula had not returned to her hotel.

Dunston gave her lunch after their shopping expedition. They bought a smart coat and dress for his wife; the first of many, he reminded himself privately, when his assignment was complete. He set out to be cheerful and amusing; he had a way with women, which had come in very useful over the years. He had joked his way into some inaccessible beds, rather to the surprise of the women who found themselves laughing and seduced at the same time. He would have given Fisher serious competition with Paula Stanley, if he hadn't been otherwise committed …

‘Well,' he said, taking her arm as they came out of the restaurant into the street, ‘now where to? Back to your hotel?'

‘No,' Paula answered. ‘I'm going to have my hair done, it looks awful.'

‘Not to me it doesn't,' Dunston said. ‘You look good enough to eat, if I hadn't had a good lunch already. Speaking of lunch, what are you doing for dinner tonight?'

‘I'm going out,' Paula said. ‘But thanks anyway. I do hope your wife likes the dress.'

‘She'll be thrilled,' Dunston grinned. ‘So long as she never knows a beautiful girl helped me to choose it. Where's the hairdresser's, I'll drop you off.'

He got out of the taxi, shook hands with her, still showing his excellent white teeth in a friendly smile; he waited until she had gone inside and he saw her checking in at the desk for her appointment. He told the taxi to take him to an electrical supplier's. There he bought pliers with a cutting edge, a screwdriver with an adjustable head for large and small screws, a yard and a half of cable, and a roll of insulating tape. He hailed another cab and gave the address of Paula's hotel.

He went up to the reception.

‘Mrs. Stanley, please.'

‘One moment, I'll call her room.'

Dunston waited. Glancing round the hotel foyer, the package with his purchases under one arm. She just might have used the hairdresser as an excuse to get rid of him. She might have gone in without booking an appointment and been told they were full up. He had to make absolutely sure she wasn't in her room.

The reception clerk looked at him and shook his head. ‘There's no reply, monsieur. Mrs. Stanley went out this morning, and I haven't seen her come back.'

‘Never mind,' Dunston said. ‘I just took a chance.'

‘You wish to leave a message?'

‘No thanks. I'll phone this evening.' He walked out into the street and turned left. He passed a couple of women gossiping; he opened the service entrance to the hotel and went inside. He reached Paula's room through the back stairs, avoiding the lift. At that hour in the afternoon none of the hotel staff was about, and he didn't wish to be seen by any of the residents. He picked the lock on her door as he had done earlier and went inside, closing it carefully after him. He slipped the catch down; if anyone should come, or Paula herself returned unexpectedly, he would have warning and be able to clear away any tools …

The room was tidy; the bathroom was draped with clean towels and there was a smell of abrasive cleaner. He saw a trace of white powder on the shelf above the lavatory. The shower curtain was pulled back. He undid his parcel, laid the cable, the insulating tape and the screwdriver on the lavatory seat, took off his shoes, and climbed on the bath edge to inspect the electric fire above it. He picked up the screwdriver and began to work. Ten minutes later he lifted the fire carefully away from the wall. It came down some six inches and then hung, caught by the cable connecting it at the back. Dunston gingerly let go; the cable was thick and strong and the fire held. He hesitated a moment, making up his mind. Then he gave a slight shrug and pushed it back against the wall, he screwed in two main screws to secure it temporarily, and then got down. Outside he found the corridor empty, and began walking the length looking for the fuse box. It wasn't there. He opened the service door and saw it on the wall. It was too high to reach. He swore unpleasantly. There must be some way of getting up to it. He found a door and opened it. It was a cupboard and inside, among the feather dusters, brooms, tins of cleaning powder and polish, there was a step ladder. He opened the fuse box, and looked at his watch. It was three forty-eight. Nobody was likely to have lights on, or be using electricity on the floor at that hour. And by the size of the fuse box, each floor had its own separate electrical unit, so that failure on one floor didn't mean cutting off the entire electricity supply for the hotel.

Dunston pushed the mains switch to off, quickly replaced the step ladder in the cupboard, glanced into the corridor to make sure nobody was walking down, and went back to the room at a run. Inside the bathroom he worked very quickly. He disconnected the fire from its cable and joined the extra length to the end; this he then reconnected to the fire. Gently he let it hang, and the result satisfied him. Fully extended on the new lead, the fire hung down into the well of the bath. It was directly in line with the shower head. He lifted it up and pushed the extra cable length into the hole in the wall; then he wedged the fire with one hand and fitted two screws loosely into their holes, giving a couple of turns. The fire held; he caught the cord and pushed the knob through the ring of the shower curtain. He pulled the curtain, the cord jerked, and at the same moment the fire came loose and toppled down. Dunston caught it long before it had reached the end of the cable. He was standing in the bath, and if he hadn't been prepared it would have hit him. As it would hit anyone standing naked and wet who pulled back that shower curtain. The fire would turn on and fall at the same moment. With the extra length of cable it would be as lethal as a bullet. She would be instantly electrocuted. If she were sitting in the bath and touched the curtain, the effect of the fire hitting the water would be the same. And it would be an accident. The hotel would be held responsible for a faulty fitting. He replaced the fire, put in all the screws, and turned the two biggest just enough to give a slight purchase. He fixed the end of the cord into the curtain ring. He stood for a moment looking up. It was high on the wall and the shower curtain itself obscured it. If she was going out to dinner as she said, she would come back and take a shower. And that, Dunston said coolly to himself, would be that. Fisher would be very cut up. But then, breaking eggs was an intrinsic part of making omelettes. She was a nice girl and he didn't wish her any harm. It was just her bad luck to be the price of being very rich. He put his tools, the paper they had been wrapped in, in his pocket, opened the door and went back to the service passage and the fuse box. He switched on the electricity supply, left the steps in their original place in the cleaning cupboard, and ran down the stairs to the side entrance. It had been completed in just under an hour. He went back to his hotel in a taxi, ordered himself a bottle of brandy and lay on his bed to wait. After the second drink, he fell asleep.