The Poellenberg Inheritance (27 page)

‘What the hell's happened?' Fisher exploded. He had returned in the early afternoon, and gone upstairs to Paula's room. The door was open and it was crowded with people. He pushed his way through.

‘Where's Mrs. Stanley? What's going on …'

Suddenly he found himself facing the manager; the man's face was pale and two sweat streaks glistened down each cheek. ‘There's been an accident, monsieur!'

‘What accident?' Fisher shouted at him. ‘Where's Mrs. Stanley?'

‘One of the cleaners; she was found a few minutes ago. She was cleaning the bath and she was electrocuted – please, monsieur, you must excuse me.'

‘A cleaner …' Fisher's mind only registered one fact. Whatever the accident, it hadn't happened to Paula. ‘Look, where's Mrs. Stanley?'

‘She left, monsieur.' The manager turned back to him with impatience. ‘She checked out of the hotel last night. That's all I can tell you, Now, please – excuse me!'

Fisher could see two men coming out of the bathroom, carrying a limp body in a blue linen dress and a rumpled white apron; he caught a brief sight of a head lolling back, and a blackened face from which two round eyeballs protruded. For a moment he felt sick. Electrocuted, cleaning the bath. He turned away and went to the stairs, too anxious to wait for the lift. He went down them so fast he was short of breath when he reached the reception.

‘Mrs. Stanley,' he said. ‘She left last night. Did she say where she was going?'

‘No, monsieur. She just checked out.'

‘But you've got a message for me?'

‘I don't think so. One moment and I will make sure – no, nothing. There is nothing for you.'

‘I don't believe it,' Fisher said. ‘She must have left a message. What did she say, why did she leave?'

‘I can't help you,' the receptionist answered. ‘There was a gentleman with her. They came in, collected her luggage, she paid her bill and she left. I'm sorry, but that's all I know.'

‘A gentleman,' Fisher repeated. ‘She had a man with her?'

‘Yes, monsieur.'

‘I see,' he said. ‘Thanks. Oh, wait. Did they go in a taxi? Would the porter know where they went?'

‘You could ask him,' the receptionist said. ‘Perhaps he can remember something.'

But the man only shook his head. Fisher had given him ten francs.

‘They didn't take a taxi, monsieur,' he said. ‘Mrs. Stanley and the gentleman left in a car. A big Mercedes. I just put in the luggage and they drove off. I'm sorry.'

‘Never mind.' Fisher turned away and slowly he walked back into the hotel. He couldn't quite believe it. Paula had gone with a man, leaving no message, nothing. Just walked out of the hotel and out of his life. It didn't seem possible. He was about to go back and ask the receptionist to check once more if there was a letter, and then suddenly he thought there might be something in his room. He raced up the stairs again and rushed inside. There was nothing. His bag was on the bed. There was no envelope anywhere. She had gone. Now he did feel sick. He pressed his fist against a sudden cramping in his lower gut, and fought against the pain. It was a real physical fact, a reaction of his body to the volcano bursting in his mind. He had lost her. And somebody else had come and taken her away, somebody she had never mentioned, somebody intimate enough to arrive and drive her off in his car, with her suitcases in the back.

Then Fisher thought of James Stanley. He must have come back to her. But they had spoken on the telephone the same evening; she had been gentle and tender, patient with him when he was jealous. Jealous of Dunston taking her shopping and to lunch.
Dunston!
He grabbed the telephone and gave the number. There was a long pause while his hotel tried to find him and then reported that his key was with the desk and he'd gone out. Fisher swore. He asked to be put through to Mrs. Stanley, and was suddenly confronted by a raucous Middle Western voice claiming to be her. He hung up. She wasn't there. Paula wasn't with Dunston. It had been a crazy idea. It was probably the husband. That was the explanation. He got up slowly and went into the bathroom; he washed his face and looked at himself. He looked debauched by the shock.

‘You bloody fool,' he said out loud. ‘You poor bloody fool. Let this be a lesson to you.' He had bought her a bracelet that morning. It was gold, with lapis lazuli stones and tiny diamonds set between the links. He had looked at rings, but lacked the courage to produce one when they met. Not till he had got the Salt out of its hiding-place and seen the last of the Von Hessels. And the General. He was in the middle of unwrapping the box to throw the bracelet out into the street when he stopped, rocked back by the solution which had come to him.
The General
. That was who she went away with. They'd found each other. And for all he knew, while he sat breaking into pieces, they had gone to get the Salt.

‘Mother,' Philip Von Hessel said. ‘Mother, where is it? I have a right to know!'

‘You have
no
right! How dare you pick up that woman and bring her to this hotel. Have you gone mad?' He had never seen her so angry; she was pallid with fury, her curious yellow-ringed eyes dilated till they seemed black. She stood in the middle of her drawing room, filled with red roses from the management, and shouted at him. It was the first time in his life that Philip had seen his mother lose control. ‘You imbecile – you've meddled and interfered from the beginning – now you install Bronsart's daughter in the one place in the world … Oh my God, I can't believe it of you!'

‘Where is the Salt?' he repeated. ‘Fisher told you. Where is it?'

‘You really want to know?' She snarled at him like an animal; she moved towards him and for a moment her right hand lifted as if she were going to hit him.

‘You want to know where it is? Very well then, I'll tell you; I'll tell you where it is. It's in the suite! It's hidden in the suite where she is staying! Now do you see what you've done?'

‘You should have told me,' Philip said. ‘You should have trusted me.'

‘Trust you? You never wanted me to get it back – you've been against it from the first. Why should I trust you? This is nothing to do with you!'

‘You are obsessed,' he said. ‘You know the risk involved in finding it. Nothing is worth the ruin and disgrace of us all. Heinrich couldn't stand against you, God help him. But I'm not afraid of you, Mother. I love you, but I'm not afraid. The Salt isn't your property; it belongs to the family. You've pursued this thing in spite of my advice, but you can't go through with it alone. I brought Mrs. Stanley here because she needed help. I also promised her that when the Salt was found I'd tell her; I shall keep that promise. If it's hidden in Heinrich's suite that makes it easier.'

‘I see.' The Princess swung away from him. ‘I see. You want to act the nobleman, the shining knight! That's how you see yourself, isn't it? The man of honour, the good German? You wait, you fool. You wait until the truth comes out, as well it may, and that woman is a witness to it! There won't be money enough to buy her off!'

‘I don't think she'll be bought,' her son said quietly. ‘You haven't met her or you wouldn't say that. She's promised to give it back to us, if she has a legal right. And she may have one; we both know that. I won't stand by and see her cheated. When is Fisher coming?'

‘I'll tell you nothing,' the Princess blazed at him. ‘Nothing! Get out of my rooms!'

‘Very well.' She turned her back to him; then the door closed. It was their first quarrel and it had shaken her. She had depended upon the habit of submission to her will. Since Heinrich's death her son had altered. He had always been mature, serious; now he had developed a direction of his own, irrespective of her wishes. He had a different code, and strength of character as formidable in its way as her own. For a moment she reflected in mixed rage and pride, that he was not her son for nothing. But where was Dunston – what was he doing? It was always possible that he had reneged upon their arrangement and decided to forfeit the money. But in her judgment the Princess didn't think so; he was ruthless and cool-headed. Above all he was passionately greedy. For what she had offered, he would take the risk. There was nothing she could do, no outlet for her impatience; she had to wait. To wait for Fisher to contact her upon arrival and for the commotion in the hotel which would tell her that Dunston had kept their bargain.

Paula was getting ready to go down to lunch when she heard the knock on her door. The maids had cleaned the bedroom and brought a big bowl of yellow and white roses for the drawing room. Paula had been too tired to inspect the suite when she arrived; that morning she walked round the lovely little panelled room, looking at the period ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, and the eighteenth-century bronze candlesticks that stood on the desk. It was a quiet, sunny room, a blend of delicate autumnal colouring, dictated by the soft honey-coloured wood that covered the walls. The carving and design were exquisite, the work of a master craftsman. She had never imagined that such a unique apartment could exist, even in a hotel like the Ritz. It had an atmosphere of peace and remoteness that reminded her of the country. And yet Philip Von Hessel's brother had been the last person to use it, and from the same idyllic setting he had gone out to take his own life.

She heard the first knock and then the second. She opened the door to the passageway.

‘Good morning, Mrs. Stanley.'

‘Oh, hello, Mr. Dunston.'

‘Sorry to bother you, but I just wanted a word. Can I come in for a moment?'

Paula opened the door and stood back. ‘Yes, of course. Do.'

The General was still lying on the bed when he heard the cry. It came through the open window, high pitched above the traffic rumble from the street below. He sat up quickly. There was a second cry, but fainter, and it stopped, as if something had choked it off. He stepped to the window and looked out. The window of the suite was open; there was a clinking sound of breakage. Instinct impelled him. The muffled scream had been a woman's; the faint crash indicated some kind of violence. He dragged open his door and with a few running strides he had reached the suite. For twenty-five years he had carried a key on his watch-chain. He used it then and flung the door open.

Inside the drawing room, a man and a woman were struggling. The man was big and powerful; the windows were latched back and he was dragging a woman towards them. One hand was pressed over her mouth, the other arm was locked around her, pinioning hers. A small table had toppled over and a china figurine lay in pieces on the carpet. It was a scene in which the silence intensified its menace. The General didn't wait; he sprang, and with the reflex of his military training, his right arm swept up and crashed down on the side of the man's face, missing the vital spot in the neck which would have killed him. But the blow was enough.

Dunston's grip on Paula fell away; for a moment he reeled, blinded by the pain in his cheek-bone. His vision blurred on the sudden apparition of another man. He grabbed Paula by the arms and threw her violently against the General, knocking him backwards. He heard her breathless cry as he rushed to the door to get away. His head was swimming, and there was a warm rivulet of blood dripping down the side of his face where the General's hand had sliced the skin. He pounded away down the corridor, momentarily panicked. Two floors below he found the safety of the service entrance; he slapped a handkerchief against his face and raced on down towards the exit. He'd failed, and with only minutes to go. He'd got inside the suite, chatting amiably and started some story about meeting Fisher. She was alone, and quite off guard. When he opened the windows and made a remark about the view, she actually moved nearer to make it easy for him. He had gone up to her smiling, and seen by her face that she thought he was going to try and make love to her. When he seized hold of her, that was still her impression. She had shouted ‘No,' and tried to pull away, before he slammed his hand over her mouth to stifle a second scream, and pinioned her, dragging her across the floor. The windows had gaped in front of them, only a few feet away. He didn't dare to knock her unconscious because the assault would leave marks. But they had never reached the sill. Outside the hotel Dunston collapsed into a taxi-cab. His nerve had been badly shaken. Now it was recovering; he held his throbbing face and swore.

They hadn't got near to the window before the unexpected intervention of the other man. It was just possible that Paula Stanley hadn't realised that his intention was to throw her out. She might still mistake the attack for an attempted rape. In the initial stages of the struggle before he got her arms pinned down, he had handled her breasts. He went back to the hotel and straight to his room. In the bathroom closet he examined his face. There was a two-inch opening and a fleshy bruise. It had been a hell of a blow. He found the bottle of brandy on his dressing table and swallowed a mouthful. Failure. At the best he could expect her to charge him with sexual assault, at worst with attempted murder, if she had realised the connection with the open window. There was a sofa intervening; she might have thought him dragging her towards it. He leaned on the table and steadied himself. So much for the money. There wasn't a chance now. There was nothing he could do but get to hell out. He pulled his suitcase off the luggage stand and on to the bed, flinging back the lid. As he began packing the first of his clothes, the telephone rang. He hesitated. He could always deny it; there hadn't been witnesses. Women had been known to allege that kind of thing before, and the man accuse them in turn of being hysterical, or acting out of pique … It went on ringing and suddenly he picked it up.

‘Oh Christ,' he said. It was Fisher on the other end.

‘I've been looking everywhere for you,' he said. ‘What the hell do you do in the mornings?'