The Poellenberg Inheritance (4 page)

‘This way, please,' the butler said. He opened a door and Fisher stepped through. It was like walking into the sunlight. The room was large and painted white. The colours were yellow and green and the sunshine poured into it from three floor-length windows. Three people waited for him like figures in a stage set; the centre one was sitting, very upright, her back to the light, holding a cane in one hand. Behind her two other figures were silhouetted, standing sentinel either side of the sofa.

‘Your Highnesses, Herr Fisher.' He heard the butler's voice and then the click of the door closing. He walked forward into the room, across an Aubusson carpet covered in green and golden flowers woven in garlands from the centre, and stopped in front of the sofa. The Princess Von Hessel held out her hand, palm downwards. Fisher looked her in the eye and shook it firmly.

‘How do you do, Mr. Fisher. Let me present my sons.'

Seventy-six. She looked about fifty; there wasn't a white hair on her head, and the face was like a predator bird's, beaked nose, taut skin, dark eyes bright and unblinking, with a yellow circle round the iris. Formidable wasn't the word. But he hadn't kissed her hand. He felt comforted by that.

‘My eldest son Prince Heinrich. My second son Prince Philip. Please sit down.'

He took his eyes off the woman and examined the sons. The younger attracted his attention first because he was extremely handsome, in his late thirties, and very blond. He looked out of place beside the South German darkness of his mother and his elder brother. The elder was very like the Princess. He had the same birdlike face, but the sharp lines of character and pride were blurred, the contours sagged and the dark eyes were sunk in puffs of flesh. He stood very upright, shoulders well back and one hand, with a big gold crested ring on the last finger, rested on the back of the sofa.

‘Did you have a good journey?' That was the younger son, Philip.

‘Fine, thanks.' They were all speaking English. Fisher would have preferred to converse in German but there seemed no way of changing over. He decided to take the initiative before the old woman did. He suspected that the sons were not expected to contribute much.

‘You didn't say very much about this investigation in your letter, Princess.' He had no intention of calling her Your Highness, like a bloody footman. His hostility was rising with every minute. He resented the imperious stare, the arrogance which was quite unselfconscious. ‘You mentioned the recovery of some property, but that's all.'

‘I thought it best to wait until you were here and we could discuss the details privately. I believe one should keep these things out of correspondence, Mr. Fisher. As a family, we have learned to be cautious.'

‘Would you like to give me the details now?' Fisher suggested. He was in need of a cigarette, but he remembered the chauffeur's warning. The inhibition made him even more irritable than the deprivation. Who the hell did she think she was, that he couldn't have a cigarette when he wanted one …

‘As you know.' The Princess began what he suspected was a prepared speech. She had folded her hands and settled in her seat. He recognised the symptoms of rehearsal. ‘As you know, the Nazis conducted a systematic policy of looting art treasures during the war. They confiscated pictures, jewellery,
objets d'art
and every kind of valuable; I had the misfortune to go to Goering's house and see the result of this disgraceful pillage for myself. The houses of all the high-ranking Nazi officials were stocked with other people's property. They stole from some of my dearest friends in France, for example. The property was recovered after the war and returned to them in a deplorable state. It was in Berlin and the house was shelled by the Russians. There was a magnificent Titian which was ripped to pieces by shrapnel. It was very sad.'

Fisher sat still. It was going to be a long speech. Her eldest son shifted his position behind the sofa. Fisher noticed that he gripped the back of it so hard that his knuckles were taut against the skin. Unrelaxed, that was Prince Heinrich. Finding it a strain standing at attention like a dutiful soldier behind the general's chair …

‘All this you know, Mr. Fisher, as I said before. What you probably don't know is that these creatures stole equally from their fellow Germans. There are many old families in this country who were looted as if they were enemies. A lorry with S.S. troopers just pulled up outside the door, and loaded everything from a list which had probably been made when some senior official was a guest in the house. It was infamous, and I could quote you several cases.'

‘And is that what happened to you?' Fisher interrupted. He wasn't interested in the vicissitudes suffered by those who wined and dined the members of the Nazi hierarchy. The woes of the aristocracy seldom moved him to compassion.

‘No, it was not,' she answered. ‘We were too important to be treated in that way. My husband had a certain amount of influence with people like Goering, for instance. He was a dreadful gangster but he had come from a gentle family and it was possible to trust his word. We were not harmed in any way.'

‘But something was stolen from you.'

‘Yes. Stolen. Taken out of Schloss Würtzen, our house in the Rhineland. I must tell you, Mr. Fisher, I had given up any hope of recovering it until I read this in the newspaper. Philip, get the cutting of the
Allgemeine Zeitung
, will you? It is in the second drawer of my bureau, on the left.'

Fisher watched the son move across the room. By contrast with the rigid figure of his elder brother he was pleasant to watch. He walked like a human being. He even looked across at Fisher and smiled as he handed his mother a newspaper cutting. She held it out and Fisher took it. He read it quickly; he showed no sign of surprise. Impassivity was part of the job. But if this tied in with the Princess's desire to recover her stolen property, that thousand-pound cheque was just confetti. He gave the cutting back to her.

‘It's only a report,' he said. ‘There've been a lot like it.'

‘Not for this man,' she said. ‘He's been accounted dead since 1945. Believe me, Mr. Fisher, we made our own enquiries after the war, and they all said the same. Dead. Positively identified and buried. Now this report says he was seen in Paris, walking down a street in broad daylight.'

‘I presume this means he's the thief,' Fisher said.

‘It does.' She nodded. The eyes reminded him of something but he couldn't think what. Some kind of bird. And certainly no domestic pet. It was the circle of yellow round the dark-brown iris. ‘He stole the Poellenberg Salt from us, Mr. Fisher. It's never been found, and if he's alive he's the only person who knows where it is hidden. That is why I've sent for you. I want you to find him.'

CHAPTER TWO

Mr. Black was a small man. Paula was behind her desk when he was shown in, and she was surprised to find that he was a head shorter than she was. She had expected someone tall.

But Black was thin and small-boned; he took off a dark felt hat and his hair was completely white, brushed back from a wide forehead. It was a Slavic face, high cheek-boned, with heavy-lidded grey eyes and a narrow mouth.

Paula held out her hand and he made a little bow and kissed it. It was not a real kiss, just an upper-class German gesture where the lips never made contact.

‘How do you do, Mr. Black,' she said. ‘Please come and sit down.'

‘How do you do, Mrs. Stanley. Thank you. Over here?'

She pointed to one of the two modern armchairs which furnished her office. It was a cheerful room, the walls covered with Paula's own fabric designs. This room and what it represented was a very important part of her life. During the latter part of her marriage to James, her career as a designer had provided self-respect.

‘What can I do for you?' she said. ‘Have a cigarette?'

‘No, thank you, I don't smoke. Mrs. Stanley, I have something very important to tell you, but I think I should explain myself a little first.'

‘You said something on the phone,' Paula said. ‘You mentioned knowing my father. I'd like you to tell me about him. Please.'

‘What do you want to know?' he asked her. ‘I served under him for three years and I was also his friend. And his devoted admirer. He was a great man, Mrs. Stanley. I hope you realise that.' The grey eyes were dilated; his stare made her uncomfortable. ‘A very great man. I was with him and I know. You resemble him very much, did you know that?'

‘No,' Paula said slowly. ‘I didn't know.'

‘You have his eyes,' Black said. ‘The moment I came into the room, it was like seeing the General again. He was very proud of you; he carried a photograph of you in his wallet. He used to show it round. You don't remember him, do you?'

‘No,' she said. ‘I was too small. I haven't even a photograph of him. I don't even know what he looked like.'

‘Ah,' he said slowly. ‘Your mother married again, didn't she – to an English officer? Yes, I heard about it. She would prefer to forget the General. They both would. You didn't tell her I had telephoned, did you?'

‘Yes,' Paula admitted. It seemed pointless to lie. There was a fanatical look about him which disturbed her. For a small man, white-haired and frail, he was rather frightening. She had never met anyone like him before, and she couldn't have described why she was afraid. Then he smiled, and his face became gentle again.

‘I am not criticising her, please don't misunderstand. She was always charming to me,' he said. ‘Things were very difficult after the war. We had to survive as best we could. It's a pity you don't remember your father. He was very fond of you. Very fond.'

‘I didn't know that,' Paula said. ‘I've never been told anything about him.'

‘He loved you,' Black said. He leaned a little forward in his chair, his hands clasped tightly on his knees. ‘He loved you as no man has ever loved a child. He told me in the last months before the end, that if he was killed his only regret would be leaving you. He felt your mother would be able to take care of herself.'

‘She did,' Paula said. She was surprised by the sensation of bitterness. ‘She married and got out.'

‘She was very fortunate. Most of the prominent families lost everything, apart from the unlucky ones in the East, who were taken away by the Russians and never seen again. Many of us committed suicide. I chose to live, Mrs. Stanley. And I have a question to ask you. A very important question.'

‘What is it?' The pale-grey eyes were glittering at her. It struck Paula suddenly that what made the little man frightening was the unhinged expression which came and went on his face. She found herself gripping the arms of her chair. ‘What question, Mr. Black?'

‘Would you like your father to be alive or dead?'

‘There is no question of what I would like,' she said. Now she was frightened. He looked completely crazy. ‘My father has been dead for twenty-five years. He was killed in Russia.'

‘A lot of people were said to be killed in Russia.' He smiled and his look was sly. ‘Or in Berlin during the final Russian advance. But supposing he had escaped, by some miracle – how would you feel, Mrs. Stanley?'

‘I don't know,' Paula said. ‘I'm sorry, I can't take any of this seriously. I know my father is dead, and that's all there is to it.' She raised her wrist and looked at her watch. ‘Mr. Black, I have an appointment in a few minutes …'

‘I understand,' he said. ‘You want to get rid of me. Very well, Mrs. Stanley. But I promised your father I would give you a message, and I must keep my word. The General's money and properties were confiscated after the war. He guessed this would happen; he guessed we would be defeated. So he put something away for you, Mrs. Stanley. Something very, very precious. Does the name Poellenberg mean anything to you?'

‘No,' Paula said. ‘Nothing. I've never heard of it.'

‘In the sixteenth century,' Mr. Black said gently, ‘there was a Count von Poellenberg who married a niece of the Medicis. They were married in Florence, and part of the bride's dowry was at the wedding feast. Benvenuto Cellini had made it. It was the wonder of the city, Mrs. Stanley. A salt, a marvel made of solid gold and covered with jewels, made by the greatest goldsmith the world has ever seen. A huge ornament, so heavy it took a man to lift it. And it was known afterwards as the Poellenberg Salt. For four hundred years it was one of the treasures of Germany. Then during the war it was given to your father.'

‘Given?'

‘Given,' Black repeated. He said the word with emphasis. ‘The General accepted is as a gift. He had done the owners a favour and they wanted to show their gratitude. They knew he was a man of taste, a connoisseur. They gave him the Poellenberg Salt. And he bequeaths it to you.'

‘I don't believe you,' she said. ‘I don't believe any of this. Either you're trying to hoax me, Mr. Black, or you should see a doctor.'

He got out of his chair. He looked at her and there was something cold and authoritative about him, an echo of the past when he had been young.

‘You don't believe me?'

‘No, I'm afraid I don't. The whole story is too fantastic. I don't know why you've come here, and I shan't take it any further if you'll please leave now. If you bother me again with this sort of thing, Mr. Black, I shall go to the police.'

The little man stood up. ‘I told the General this might be your reaction.' His expression was contemptuous. ‘He believed in your love for him; more than he trusted me. He wouldn't tell me where the Salt was hidden. But he gave me this clue to give you. Paris, 25th June 1944. Tante Ambrosine and her nephew Jacquot. If you want the Poellenberg Salt, without your father, then you will have to solve this little riddle. If you want both of them, then you can get in touch through me. I will telephone once more. I leave the day after tomorrow.'