The Poellenberg Inheritance (7 page)

The Prince stood up. ‘It was my pleasure. Goodbye, have a good journey.'

Fisher went through to the departure lounge to board his plane. The Von Hessels thought he was returning to England. In fact he was on his way to the Interpol headquarters at Bonn. That was the place to make enquiries about General Paul Heinrich Bronsart. They would have the complete dossier on him there.

Three days later Fisher walked into Paula Stanley's office.

He had a preference for blondes; redheads he avoided, he disliked the freckles and the temperament that went with the hair; brunettes he could take or leave.

He was unprepared for the combination of her colouring and her astonishing eyes. It gave him a shock, because his photographic mind registered instantly that they were listed among the General's distinguishing marks. She got up and came to shake hands with him. He caught a drift of expensive scent; she had a firm grip, which he liked. Limp handshakes from either sex always repelled him. Pretty. Very pretty indeed, smartly dressed, upper class, didn't look German, but on closer inspection wasn't typically English either. He sat down in the chair once taken by Black, and produced his cigarette case. He had given the name of a French manufacturing company when he made the appointment. People were none too pleased to give interviews to private detectives. He was prepared to be thrown out when he revealed himself.

‘What can I do for you, Mr. Fisher?' A pleasant voice, an attractive smile. It would very soon be wiped away when he produced his identification card. There was no point in wasting time. He walked over and put the Agency wallet on her desk. His photograph was on it.

‘I'm sorry, Mrs. Stanley. I'm here under false pretensions. I'm from the Dunston Fisher Investigating Agency. I'm making enquiries for a client and I hoped you might be able to help.'

Paula looked up at him. ‘You said you were from Levée Frères,' she said. ‘If this is the normal way of getting in to see people, Mr. Fisher, I don't think much of it.'

‘I'm sorry,' he apologised. ‘But you wouldn't have given me an appointment otherwise. People are very cagey with investigators. It makes our life that much more difficult.'

‘I feel very sorry for you,' she said coldly. ‘Now either you can tell me very quickly what you want, or you can leave. I have exactly five minutes to spare.'

‘Make it ten.' Fisher grinned at her. ‘And stop looking so angry. It won't take very long and it might even interest you. You're General Paul Bronsart's daughter, aren't you?'

‘Yes.' By God, he said to himself, that had hit her where it hurt.

‘I plan to talk to your mother, but as you're in London I thought I'd come and see you first.'

‘Why?' Paula kept her voice calm: she put her hands below the level of the desk. The man had sharp eyes, they ranged over everything, noting detail, storing it away. She didn't know why she was nervous or why he mustn't see it. ‘I never knew my father. He was killed in the war. What is the enquiry about?'

Fisher made a snap decision. His friend at Interpol Bonn had emphasised this point. ‘If the bastard is alive, and coming out of cover, he'll go to the daughter, if he goes to anyone. The mother's remarried, he won't contact her. The daughter could be the key. If there's anything in it at all …'

‘The enquiry,' Fisher said, ‘is on behalf of German clients, and I'm not allowed to give their name. They want to trace your father.'

‘But I told you,' Paula said. ‘He's dead. He was killed in Russia in 1944.'

‘Mrs. Stanley.' Fisher got up. ‘I don't want to raise any hopes on your part, but it's just possible that he's alive. Would you let me give you lunch and I can tell you about it? It's a long story, and you only have five minutes.'

An hour later they were sitting side by side at the Caprice. It was Fisher's favourite restaurant; he was well known there and was given a banquette table, close to a large party where a famous theatrical knight was holding court. It gave Paula something to look at; the first few moments when they met in the bar had been difficult. Fisher had tried talking, but she found herself unable to make conversation.

‘Marvellous looking man, isn't he?' Fisher said. ‘I saw him play Othello, and it was the greatest thing I've ever seen on the stage. Did you see it?'

‘Yes,' Paula said. She and James had gone. She remembered that they had enjoyed the evening. She hadn't thought of James for a long time. She wished desperately that he were with her now. There was something about this man sitting beside her which made her uncomfortable. He was tough. That was it; she recognised the elusive quality for what it was. He had nice manners, he was attractive in a rough-hewn way, he had authority and a sense of humour, but he was fundamentaly a rough, tough man from a completely different world. Nothing in existence would have persuaded her to lunch with him except that one phrase. ‘It's just possible he's still alive.'

She had got over the initial shock; her hands were quite steady, she lit cigarettes and the lighter flame didn't tremble; she ordered a Tom Collins before lunch and watched the famous actor giving a performance for the benefit of the restaurant. Fisher sat beside her, drinking Scotch and soda, letting her take time to relax. She looked strained and he felt rather sorry for her. He wondered exactly how much she knew about her father, and felt instinctively that from the way she talked it was the minimum. Killed in Russia in 1944. Full stop. He had spent two hours reading through the file at Bonn, making notes, reaching back into the past, looking at old photographs.

Many of them showed the father of the girl, whose elbow was touching his at that moment. A good-looking, impressive man, splendidly uniformed. Was it possible she knew anything beyond the fact of a soldier father killed in battle? He didn't think so. He gave her the menu and suggested the restaurant's speciality.

‘Would you like to eat first,' he said, ‘and then we can get down to business? There's no reason not to enjoy a good lunch.'

‘I'm not very hungry,' Paula said. ‘I'd rather talk now. Please tell me, Mr. Fisher, what is this all about?'

‘Can I ask you a couple of questions first? I'm not being difficult, but it will help me to explain if I know how much you're in the picture. Your mother has remarried, hasn't she?'

‘Yes; soon after the war ended. She married an Englishman called Ridgeway, he was billeted in our house. I was about three and a half at the time. I never knew my father, he was away fighting.'

‘Did your mother talk about him to you – what did she tell you about him?'

‘Practically nothing,' Paula said. ‘She's not a confiding type of person. You'll see that when you try asking her questions yourself.'

‘If you can help me enough I may not have to bother her,' Fisher said.

‘I hope you won't,' she answered. ‘It'll upset her very much. She never wants to discuss my father. I think she'd rather pretend he never existed at all. Anyway that's the attitude she's always taken with me.'

‘So she told you nothing; he was a general in the German army and he was killed. On the retreat from Stalingrad, I believe.'

‘If you say so.' Paula lit another cigarette; she had chain smoked since they sat down.

‘You don't like your mother much, do you?' Fisher said suddenly.

‘That's a very personal remark.'

‘I'm sorry. It wasn't relevant; just an observation. So that's all you know? Nothing about his war record, who his friends were, any family left living?'

‘No, nothing.' She hesitated. It was humiliating to admit such total ignorance. He wanted information from her, she wanted to get it back. She had never wanted anything so much in her life. ‘Wait a minute, I do know of somebody. There was an officer who served under him in the German Army. He called himself Black.'

‘Black?' Fisher said. ‘That's funny. He had an aide de camp whose name was Albrecht Schwarz. How do you know this?'

‘Because this man Black came to see me last week,' Paula said.

Fisher didn't twitch a muscle. He even sipped at his drink before he said anything.

‘Black came to see you? Here in England?'

Albrecht Schwarz, anglicised to Black. There was a companion file on him, twice as thick as the General's. He was marked disappeared, presumed killed in Berlin during the Russian bombardment of the city. Schwarz, Jesus Christ. He changed his mind and finished the Scotch. He looked into her face. It was pale but innocent. There was nothing in those beautiful blue eyes.

‘Yes, he came to the office. Actually I thought he was a bit eccentric.'

Eccentric. Oh, just possibly, Fisher said to himself. Just possibly he had bad dreams at night. ‘Why did he come and see you?'

‘Just to introduce himself.'

That was a lie and Fisher knew it because she glanced away and wouldn't look at him. He wished for a moment that he was still a journalist. What a trail this could turn out to be. Albrecht Schwarz turning up in England. If
he
had come through alive …'

The first course came. Paula began to eat it; she felt taut and unhungry. He had ordered a good wine and she drank some of it.

‘Did he talk about your father?'

‘Yes. He said what a wonderful person he was.' Paula spoke quietly. ‘He said he carried a photograph of me in his wallet. You may think this silly, Mr. Fisher, but I was rather touched by the idea.'

‘I don't think it's silly at all. Was that all? There wasn't any hint that his death wasn't certain – that he might have got away?'

‘Yes, there was, as a matter of fact. But Black was eccentric, as I said. I didn't really believe him.'

‘I see. Where is this Mr. Black, or Schwarz? I ought to go and see him.'

‘I don't know,' Paula said. ‘He just came into my office, and then walked out again. He didn't leave any address and I forgot to ask him. I told you, he was a little – odd, I can't explain it. He said he would ring me again but I've heard nothing from him since. To be honest, I rather doubted that he knew my father at all, he seemed so strange. Rather a frightening little man.'

‘Little?' Fisher prompted. There was a photograph of the General reviewing an armoured corps, with Schwarz walking behind him.

‘Yes, quite short. About five foot six, I should think.'

‘That tallies,' Fisher said. ‘If I got a photograph for you you'd recognise him, wouldn't you – even though it was taken years ago?'

‘Oh, I should think so. He had a rather distinctive face. You could advertise for him.'

‘Yes,' he said, ‘Yes, I suppose I could.' The idea made him smile in irony. He had already been advertised for, but the man had no sense of propriety. He had just kept quiet and never answered. He was really feeling sorry for Paula Stanley now. The trouble was that his excitement kept getting in the way. ‘Here, have some more wine. Is there anything else you can think of? Anything to help me? You've been marvellous so far.'

‘Nothing,' Paula said. ‘Do you mind if I don't finish this – I'm not really hungry. It was delicious, but I just can't manage any more. Now it's your turn, Mr. Fisher. I want to know everything. I want to know exactly why you said my father might just be alive.'

He faced the anxious look, and thought how pretty she was when she was worried. ‘Two months ago there was a newspaper report in Germany that he'd been seen in Paris. It appeared in the
Allgemeine Zeitung
, and was reprinted in all the major European newspapers through A.P. My client saw it, and wanted an investigation.'

‘Seen in Paris? But that's impossible! That could mean Black was right!'

‘It certainly could,' Fisher agreed. ‘It seemed pretty definite. It has to be looked into; anyway, that's what I'm being paid for.'

‘Who said they saw him in Paris? And who is employing you?'

He had the photostat copy of the original cutting in his briefcase. It was a Frenchwoman who had made the claim. And she insisted that she knew. She recognised the General; she knew him by the eyes …

‘Somebody said they knew him during the occupation and saw him walking down a Paris street. They tried to catch up with him but he disappeared in the crowd. As for the second question, I can't answer that. Not without the client's permission.' He couldn't quite imagine the Princess giving it. He had promised to go back in a month and make a personal report on his progress. He was looking forward to seeing the younger son's face when he heard this latest development.

Why in hell had he been so anxious to have the affair dropped cold? And why hadn't the elder, the heir and head of the family, said one bloody word during the interview, except shift from foot to foot and hold on to the back of the sofa as if he was frightened of falling over? Fisher had been too busy in Bonn to ask the questions. Now they came back to him, prompted by Paula's question. He felt awkward at holding out on her, but as he had said to the smiling, persuasive Prince when he tried to doublecross his mother, in his business, integrity to the client was all important. It was the profession's one claim to respectability.

‘Mr. Fisher, you know some of the details about my father. Would you tell me about him – everything you know. I'd be very grateful.'

Fisher signalled the waiter. ‘Nothing else?'

Paula shook her head. ‘No thanks. Just coffee.'

‘Two black coffees. When you say everything I know, you don't want a history from start to finish, do you – I mean you know all that of course. You want to know where he was killed. If he was.'

She wanted to hear it all, but shame prevented her from asking. Shame at not knowing. She felt like a foundling. More and more she judged her mother for that damnable reticence which had closed her out. James always said she was uptight and disorientated. He liked long, medical sounding words and the description irritated her. But if what he said was true, she knew who to blame for it.