House of the Hanged, page 21
Leonard was far harder to read. Assuming he was involved in the plot, then he would be aware by now of the photo – Yevgeny and Fanya would have told him – and he would be wondering why Tom hadn’t mentioned it to him. Tom was quite happy to alert Leonard to his suspicions of him; he was far more likely betray himself if he knew Tom was holding out on him.
But Leonard had given him nothing to go on. In fact, they had barely spoken since that morning. Leonard had taken him aside briefly when they arrived at Les Roches saying that he had news and they needed to talk, but that was it.
Tom stared at his old friend across the table – laughing with Klaus as they recalled their favourite moments in Charlie Chaplin’s films – and he tried to imagine him as a traitor. He just couldn’t see it. Leonard didn’t have a Communist bone in his body. He had despised the new regime in Russia from the moment of its brutal birth. This meant nothing, of course. One would have been hard pushed to find more vociferous critics of that same regime than Yevgeny and Fanya.
It surprised him how quickly he was changing. Like a snake, he had sloughed his old skin, the one browned and dried by five years in the French sun, and he was beginning to enjoy the fit of the new one beneath. The senses and instincts he’d worked so hard to blunt were still there, and they seemed to be sharpening themselves by the hour. Two days ago he had been reeling in shock and thinking about fleeing. There was no longer any question of that.
Yevgeny’s absence spoke volumes. The enemy was worried. Twice they had tried to kill him and twice they had failed. He should have been a footnote in a long-forgotten saga by now; instead, he could sense the wind beginning to shift in his favour. They knew he was on to them and they presumably knew what he was capable of. They were right to be worried.
Tom forced himself back to the conversations unfolding around him. On his right, Barnaby was telling Ilse, somewhat pompously, that it was hard to be a journalist in England and remain a gentleman. Across the table, Venetia was addressing herself to Walter.
‘Lucy tells me you studied at Harvard.’
‘That’s right – Class of ’33.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It means he graduated in 1933,’ interjected Leonard. ‘Which house were you in?’
Walter seemed surprised by the question. ‘Adams House. You know Harvard?’
‘A little.’
‘Hardly at all,’ said Venetia. ‘He went there once.’
Leonard ignored her. ‘Remind me where Adams House is.’
‘On Bow Street,’ replied Walter. ‘Well back from the river.’
‘And what did you study?’
‘History and Literature.’
‘Then you must have been taught by Matty,’ said Leonard.
‘Matty?’
‘Francis Matthiessen . . .?’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
‘I thought everyone knew him as Matty,’ Leonard persisted, a little unnecessarily.
‘Not me.’
Venetia emitted a little gasp and gave Walter’s wrist a playful slap. ‘Not I,’ she corrected. ‘And you a literature graduate!’
Was she flirting with him? If so, it didn’t suit her.
The conversation turned to President Roosevelt – a Harvard man – and the New Deal he was in the process of pushing on the American nation.
‘I can’t imagine his ideas are going down too well at the old alma mater,’ said Leonard. ‘All those wealthy sons of wealthy men . . .’
‘I imagine not.’
‘And where do you stand, Walter? Are you a New Dealer? Are you also a traitor to your class?’
It was unlike Leonard to adopt such a challenging tone, but Walter took it in his stride, weighing his words carefully before responding.
‘My class brought the nation to its knees . . . the greed of a few. I remember the day Roosevelt took his oath of office. Every bank in the country was closed that day. Every single one. You couldn’t touch your savings, assuming you were lucky enough to have any left by then. Unemployment had climbed twenty per cent in four years and prices had fallen by the same.’ He paused. ‘So much for the old maxim: Let the government take care of the rich, and the rich will take care of the poor.’
Barnaby, like everyone else, was listening in now. ‘I say, you’re not a Communist, are you?’
He was joking, but Venetia wasn’t when she rounded on him. ‘Oh shut up, Barnaby. You do talk a lot of rot.’
Walter, maybe out of sympathy, made a point of replying to Barnaby’s question.
‘No. Not to my knowledge. But something had to give. In two years Roosevelt’s shown that the government can take care of the poor, and the rich can take care of themselves – even with the regulations he’s put on them.’
Klaus had been silent for much of the meal, but he now said in his thick accent: ‘Roosevelt has saved capitalism . . . from the capitalists.’
Tom and Ilse were the first to laugh, possibly because they were the only ones present acquainted with the delicious irony of Klaus’s writing.
Leonard insisted on paying for the meal. Tom then insisted on splitting the bill with him.
‘As you wish,’ said Leonard.
It was the excuse they’d both been waiting for: a chance to be alone together. As they made their way inside to settle up, Venetia shot a sour glance at her husband for not putting up more of a fight, but she kept her tongue behind her teeth.
The moment they were out of earshot, Leonard said, ‘You had me worried this afternoon when you didn’t reappear.’
‘I should have called earlier, but I assumed you were all down at the beach.’
‘We were. I hooked four very respectable bream off the rocks. I was thinking we could have them for lunch tomorrow.’
If he knew how Tom’s afternoon had really gone, he was doing a very good job of hiding it.
They took themselves out the front of the restaurant while the bill was being drawn up.
Leonard didn’t waste any time.
‘Well, by rights you should be dead. It’s as I thought, the syringe contained a concentrated solution of potassium chloride, enough to kill you several times over. Even then, an autopsy wouldn’t have picked it up because it breaks down into potassium and chlorine, both of which are naturally occurring compounds in the body. It would have looked like a heart attack.’
‘The perfect murder . . .’
‘Except he’s the one who’s dead,’ observed Leonard, drily. ‘We’ve had our people in Rome looking into him. Minguzzi wasn’t his real name.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because the name you found on the sweatband of his hat came up trumps.’
‘Cesare Pozzi . . .’
‘A known criminal, suspected of a string of murders in Naples, where he worked for a certain Michele Greco. Say what you like about Mussolini, but he’s come down hard on organized crime. About a year ago Pozzi showed up in Rome because Naples had become too hot to hold him. The description you gave me fits with what we know of Pozzi.’
‘Short and dark? I should have thought that covers most of the male population of Italy.’
‘True, but since arriving in Rome Pozzi has become a known associate of Alfiero Tosti.’
It was the name Tom had extracted from Pozzi in the railway cutting just before the Italian lost consciousness.
‘Tosti’s a small-time criminal, a racketeer, a fixer.’
Tom tried to contain his excitement. For all he knew, it was a pack of lies served up to appease him, to convince him that the investigation was moving in the right direction. Had Leonard even been in touch with their people in Rome? He made a mental note to tell Clive to look into it when they spoke again tomorrow.
‘Can we bring Tosti in?’ he asked.
Leonard’s answer did nothing to reassure him. ‘Under the circumstances, I’m happy to do far more than simply bring him in. The only trouble is, we don’t where he is. He’s disappeared off the map.’
‘Pozzi mentioned Viterbo and Pescara.’
‘And they’re on it. I don’t know what else to say.’
‘So we wait.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
They broke off their conversation as an attractive young couple emerged from the restaurant. They looked so joyously devoid of anxiety that it almost hurt to watch them weave off into the night, arm in arm.
‘No news from London?’ Tom asked.
‘None so far. Soon, I hope.’
Tom lit a cigarette, buying himself a little time to think.
‘There’s something you should know. I had a visit from the police this morning, a Commissaire Roche from Le Lavandou.’
Only this morning? It seemed like an eternity ago.
‘What did he want?’
‘He’s investigating Pozzi’s disappearance from the hotel. He seems to have got it into his head I know more than I’m letting on.’
‘This morning, you say?’
‘He came by the villa.’
‘And you wait until now to tell me?’
‘I’ve been trying to make sense of it.’
Leonard didn’t look particularly convinced by the response. ‘And what did you conclude?’
‘That Roche is no fool. He heard I took breakfast at the hotel – something I hardly ever do. He’s just being thorough.’
‘It sounds like there’s more to it than that. Maybe you were seen leaving Pozzi’s room.’
‘I’d be in custody right now if that was the case.’
‘True.’
‘I asked Benoît about him. Roche is a terrier, a pit bull; once he latches on he doesn’t let go.’
It made sense to mention Roche; he was letting Leonard know that, should anything happen to him, the matter would be far from closed. Also, he needed Roche off his back.
Leonard understood this immediately. ‘I’ll see if I can’t prise his jaws open.’
Tom dropped his cigarette on the gravel and crushed it out underfoot. ‘We should be getting back.’
‘Walter . . .’ said Leonard, trailing off.
‘What about him?’
‘Keep one eye on him.’
‘Walter? Why?’
Leonard hesitated before replying. ‘I don’t know. There’s a false note in there somewhere.’
‘Thus spake the over-protective stepfather.’
Leonard gave a weak smile. ‘You’re right, it’s probably nothing.’
Barnaby was all for motoring over to St Tropez and dancing the night away at the lively little boîte de nuit in the upper town which he remembered so fondly from last year.
‘Or even the Escale. The band doesn’t knock off there until two.’
His heart went out of the idea the moment Ilse announced she was ‘hundemüde’ and ready for bed. Besides, as Fanya pointed out, they all had to conserve their energy for her party tomorrow night.
‘I hope Yevgeny’s feeling better by then,’ said Lucy. ‘If he isn’t, tant pis. The party goes on without him.’
‘If he isn’t,’ said Barnaby, ‘I might have something to help him through the evening.’
‘Mais, toi, t’es incorrigible!’
Tom also reminded them that they had the scavenger hunt tomorrow afternoon, immediately after lunch, and they were going to need their wits about them. A few years ago this might have elicited a few groans, but the scavenger hunt had become one of the high points of the summer.
When they parted company out front, Tom searched for some veiled meaning in the kiss Fanya planted on his cheek. However, there seemed to be as much genuine warmth in it as the others she distributed so freely. She even gave his hand an affectionate squeeze before clambering into the back of the car with Ilse.
Christ, she was good.
It was a short run back to Le Rayol from Aiguebelle, but Venetia managed to smoke two cigarettes in that time.
She was pulling a third from her cigarette case when Barnaby remarked from the rear seat, ‘Do you have to? It’s like a gas attack at Ypres back here.’
Venetia launched a poisoned look over her shoulder. ‘As if you’d have any idea what that was like.’
‘Palestine wasn’t exactly a walk in the park,’ bridled Barnaby.
Venetia didn’t light the cigarette, though; she tossed it out of the window. The other cigarettes in the case followed.
‘Happy now?’
No one said anything. They all knew better – all except Barnaby.
‘Not as happy as the old man bicycling past first thing tomorrow morning.’
Venetia snorted, amused, in spite of herself.
Leonard insisted on dropping them at the front steps of the villa. Tom slipped his pack of cigarettes into Venetia’s hand as he clambered out of the car after Barnaby.
‘Thank you, darling, you’re a mind reader.’
‘Nightcap?’ Tom asked once the tail lights had disappeared back down the driveway.
Barnaby brightened. ‘Oooo, a small glass of calvados might hit the spot.’
They carried a couple of armchairs from the drawing room on to the terrace and sat out there beneath the spangle of stars, lapped in the strange liquid tranquillity of the night.
‘You like her, don’t you?’ remarked Tom.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Ilse.’
‘A bloody Kraut. Who’d have believed it?’
‘It might be best to keep that particular moniker to yourself.’
‘Too late. I’ve already told her she’s a bloody Kraut.’
‘You old romantic. What did she say?’
‘Something offensive, I imagine. I caught the word englander in there somewhere.’
‘Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful thing.’
‘You know what?’ said Barnaby, thoughtfully. ‘I think it just might be. She’s certainly shaped exactly for my taste, blonde and slim and –’
‘– big-breasted?’
‘Aren’t they magnificent? I managed to brush against one of them today.’
‘Really? Left or right?’
‘Left.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you, it took some pretty deft manoeuvring, I can tell you.’
Tom laughed.
Barnaby had always been far more brazen than he when it came to girls. At school he’d made a shameless play for their housemaster’s daughter, and when that had failed to yield dividends (Barnaby’s father was a stockbroker) he had turned his sights on one of the girls who worked in the kitchens, detailing his clumsy progress for the edification of his peers in the dormitory after lights-out. He wasn’t bragging; he always painted himself as an inept fool. He was simply consumed by a curiosity for the opposite sex, and not in the least concerned about submitting to his baser impulses. In fact, the baser the better.
It was during their time at university that Barnaby had drafted Tom in as his foil, having developed what he believed to be a faultless tactic for approaching girls. It required assistance, teamwork, and like all the best devices its beauty lay in its simplicity. Barnaby would present himself to the targets, apologizing profusely for intruding on their conversation. He would then announce that his friend – cue a bit of shy simpering from Tom in the far corner of the room – had just wagered him two guineas that he didn’t have the courage to introduce himself. Well, now he had, and it seemed only fair that he put some of his winnings towards more refreshments for the girls before leaving them in peace. ‘The drinks are on me’ – little pause for dramatic effect – ‘That’s to say, on my friend over there.’
As an opening gambit it almost always worked, and on the few occasions it didn’t, Barnaby was able to retreat without loss of face, two guineas (supposedly) in his pocket. There was very little variation in the method. In the seamier clubs north of Shaftesbury Avenue the two guineas became ten shillings, for fear of attracting the unwelcome attention of thieves and hoodlums; at one of the grander London balls, it would become five guineas, in the hope of impressing the scions of the nation’s most notable families. The only irritation was that Tom would inevitably find himself cast for the remainder of the evening as the slightly spineless friend with the deep pockets. There was more than a grain of truth in the first; none whatsoever in the second.
After a while he began to wonder if the true beauty of the ploy didn’t lie elsewhere: in Barnaby’s ability to pick up girls while he, Tom, picked up the bar bill.
Barnaby was quite open about the pleasure he derived from drawing Tom into his netherworld of Soho cabarets and chorus girls and dingy basement bars with postage-stamp dance floors. He saw it as his mission to release Tom from the harmful strictures of his upbringing: the lonely childhood in the wilds of East Anglia, sequestered in a damp rectory with a tyrannical priest of a father whose severe religiosity was matched only by his barefaced hypocrisy.
That wasn’t exactly how it had been, but Barnaby had always had the journalist’s eye for the big story. If the details couldn’t be made to serve the argument then one was entitled to ignore them.
‘I’ve fallen behind in life,’ said Barnaby, lighting a cigarette and staring up at the firmament. ‘I’ll be forty in three months. It might be time to ditch the old motto.’
‘Which one is that? You generally have several to hand, most of them contradictory.’
‘Melius nil coelibe vita.’
The bachelor’s life is best. ‘Maybe it’s time for you to ditch it too,’ continued Barnaby. ‘Make an honest woman of Hélène.’
Tom was impressed that he’d remembered her name. ‘If you’d met her you’d know that’s the last thing she wants.’ Not true; she’d set her heart on a Polish count.
‘Why haven’t I met her?’
‘Oh God . . .’ said Tom wearily.
‘What?’
‘I had Lucy on to me about the same thing last night.’
‘And you’re surprised? Of course she’s fascinated, she carries a big bloody torch for you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Whenever you’re about it’s all she can do to keep her tongue from hanging out, poor thing.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake –’
