Vanishing Point, page 13
part #7 of Birdcage Series
He said, “Cara mia – I am so sorry but I have had trouble with the car. I’m stranded in this little hole until the garage gets it fixed. I’m afraid I’ve got to stay the night here.”
At once she was suspicious. She said, “And where is it you are?”
He gave her the name of the place which was on their route, though she only had a vague recollection of it. She said, “Have you got a place to stay yet?”
“No – but I will find somewhere. I will be with you tomorrow, car a – and a new life begins.”
She was silent for a moment or two and then said, “Maurice – you are not beginning to play games again, are you?”
“Why should I? It is not my fault that the car breaks down. I shall be with you tomorrow. My heart is broken that I am not with you now.”
“Good. That I will believe because I love and trust you . . . with all my heart. But my head is a different matter. That is always logical. So, caro mio, you will give me the number you call from, and then wait for me to make a call back to you.”
Maurice laughed. “All right.” He gave her the number. She rang off, waited a few moments and then called back. Maurice answered her. “So you see – I tell you the truth. That is how it shall always be between us now. Tomorrow I shall be with you and then we go to Aldo together. Is the Zais still there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I can finish it for him. Sleep well, cara, and dream of me.” He rang off.
Carla walked to the window and stood looking out over the river and the lights of Florence, remembering how he had insisted that she should go ahead of him on the road back so that if she broke down he would be following up to help her. A lover’s fond concern . . .? How could one know with Maurice? But if one could not know it was not right to think the worst.
Two mornings later, when Gaston came to work in the garden of the Crillon cottage, he found that the side entrance door to the house had been forced open. He went inside and looked around the rooms. There were the remains of a meal which someone had eaten in the kitchen, together with an almost empty wine bottle. But everything else was in place downstairs and upstairs so far as he could see for he knew the place well from often having cleaned it when Maurice’s mother, ailing fast, had been alive. It was no fault of his that he did not realize that the painting of Sir Andrew Starr in Maurice’s bedroom had been taken, for he had never known of its existence. He reported the break-in to the gendarmerie and also to Monsieur Bonivard when he met him later that day. The priest told him that he would let Maurice know of the break-in. Which he did when he returned to his house, sending the letter to the Swiss address.
* * * *
Alone in the study of his apartment overlooking the Avenue Foch, Sir Julian Markover – who had flown over from England that morning in his private helicopter – laid the large, brown-paper-wrapped parcel on the low window table, slipped a penknife from a pocket of his double-breasted black waistcoat and cut the cords holding the paper in place.
Freed from its wrappings – no hurry in him now, the prospect of permanent ease from old and lingering guilt imminent – he propped the painting up on the arms of a Louis Quinze chair and studied the youthful features of the man who had held so much power over him for so long. And this a rare circumstance for him, he who had long known power and its pleasures and not the least of the pleasures the moments when some arrogant opponent faced with the moment of truth suddenly became a beggar, suppliant and willing to do his bidding. But this man – youth here with the future to come – had never been his. The tables had been turned by events and for years and years he had been a victim – justly or not made no difference. The pain of a wound received honourably or dishonourably remained the same.
Without hurry he cut free the top layer of thick backing paper and then eased away two neatly folded layers of newspapers and then a final layer of thick porous cardboard so that the back of the canvas on its stretcher was exposed. For a moment or two his disappointment was frozen. He walked to the window and watched the traffic moving down the avenue, marked the flight of a handful of pigeons circling and then coming to rest on the roof of a building opposite, and then the movement of a high-heeled girl tapping her way up towards the Arc de Triomphe, one hand swinging in that of the young man who walked with her, and then slowly felt the bite of his face muscles tautening as anger and bitter disappointment possessed him.
He turned and went back to the picture and picked up one of the newspapers which had backed it. It was a month-old copy of Le Monde. Below it were some spread-out pages from Paris Match of a more recent date.
The following morning he was with Warboys at the Birdcage Walk office. The canvas had been propped on a chair in the window, the sheets of backing material spread on a nearby table.
Warboys, straightening from looking at the painting and then picking up the loose pages of Paris Match, said, “The painting has also been cleaned quite recently.”
“By this damned Crillon fellow?”
“Who else?”
“Why should he bother to do that?”
“God knows – perhaps he was bored and had time on his hands. I don’t suppose Sir Andrew had ever had it cleaned since it first came into the family.” He paused and shrugged his shoulders, enjoying himself but giving no sign of his pleasure at Sir Julian’s discomfiture. “What do you propose that we can do for you? Crillon could have burnt the old back packing and the documents on the fire or shoved it in a dustbin.”
Angrily, Sir Julian said, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Hardly. But I must admit that there’s a certain irony about it which I find piquant.”
“Does this Crillon understand German?”
“I’ve no idea. I could give Sir Andrew Starr a ring and see if he knows. You won’t mind my telling him what has happened?”
“Tell him what you like. In the meantime —”
“You will be looking for Crillon?”
“And I shall find him.”
“And then?”
“How can I say? If he has no German and says he has burnt the old backing . . . well that might be an end to the matter.”
“And if he knows German – and says he has burnt the documents?”
Sir Julian was silent for a moment. Then hunching his shoulders, he said, “You expect me, after all these years, to change my nature? What Sir Andrew and you have known for years is one thing. Ironically, we trust one another. But this unknown Frenchman . . . No. For years I have waited for true peace of mind. So, I shall have to —”
Warboys interrupted him. “— I think it better if you don’t spell it out to me.”
Sir Julian laughed dryly. “Don’t play act with me. If this were all the other way round, I know exactly what Birdcage would do. Make sure the only way one can make sure.”
“Do you want me to approach Sir Andrew?”
“You do whatever you like. The thing now is out of your hands. I shall find Crillon – and unless I’m absolutely convinced that he knows nothing . . . well, then.” He paused for a moment, looking down at the painting, and rubbing a well-manicured hand over his chin, said pensively, “Why do I get the feeling that Sir Andrew is hiding something from us both? Why do I find it a little disturbing that he suddenly takes a fancy to this Crillon, gives him work when he appears out of the blue and then makes a present of a picture to him? He’s an odd bird, near eccentric, I know . . . but something smells wrong. Have you considered that?”
“Frequently. But as we all get older I think we all get a little odd – or odder. However, I’m not prepared to advise you either way. So far as we are concerned the whole matter is now out of our hands.”
“You mean you’re withdrawing – completely?”
“Possibly. Your documents are either destroyed or kicking around somewhere disregarded – or regarded by this Crillon. Of course – if you wanted us to join in the hunt we would – for old times’ sake.” Warboys smiled broadly, enjoying himself.
“What you do – or don’t do – is of no significance to me now.”
“Well, that’s refreshing. It’s not often we can close a file here and write – Finis – on it. Post tot naufragia portum.”
Sir Julian was silent briefly, and then shook his head, sighed, and said bitterly, “You people, and Sir Andrew, have harried and bedevilled the best years of my life. But if a list of sins and evils were made – then yours officially would far, far outweigh mine.”
“Take comfort from that then.”
“I will – and do.” Then indicating the Augustus John, he went on, “I’ve no further use for that. Perhaps Sir Andrew would like it back.”
When Sir Julian had gone, Warboys called Kerslake to his room and explained what had happened and finished, “Perhaps you will call Sir Andrew and ask him if he would like the picture back? Tell him exactly what has happened and then I think it would be a good idea if you arranged for a little surveillance of his mail. I’ll get the necessary authority for you. The post-van always collects his outgoing mail when it delivers in the morning. A small concession and convenience owed to a former sheriff of the county.” He paused for a little while, regarding Kerslake with distant eyes, though fragmentarily wondering what it was about the clothes which the no-doubt future head of the organization wore that always betrayed some touch of provincialism . . . sometimes a clearly made-up bow tie, sometimes a shirt, beautifully laundered, but which had never come out of the Asher and Turnbull stable and sometimes nothing but a general impression of being ‘not quite’ as his old friend Quint would have put it. He went on, “I presume you are with me?”
Kerslake said, “I think so. He has a regard of some kind for Crillon and relishes the irony of his taking that particular painting. Clearly Crillon must have taken the documents out to do the cleaning and has either destroyed them or – if he knows German – has read them and may have kept them. Sir Andrew might well decide to write and give him some kind of warning – possibly obliquely – of the position he is now in. But —”
“Ah, yes. The intriguing but”
“According to him – he does not know Crillon’s address.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think maybe he does.”
“Then why keep such an innocuous secret from us? There is no touch of the ‘willing to wound but afraid to strike’ in Sir Julian’s philosophy. Maurice Crillon, one way or the other, unless the gods take his side, is probably not destined to grow old and retire to Provencal bliss with his easel set up under a vine-covered courtyard while his mistress, now fat and comfortable, sings in the kitchen as she prepares the vegetables for the potage.”
Kerslake smiled. “Perhaps we should ask Sir Andrew that question directly. No? Unwise?”
“Let’s try his mail first.”
“Let’s hope that in his old age he has forgotten – if he has anything to hide – some of the simple rules of security.”
“You hope for too much. Some habits acquired young are only cured by death. Somewhere in all this, you know, there is a factor which is escaping us. Happily it is a common occurrence in our work so that we have long lost the habit of being surprised. I’ll bet you that no letter to Crillon turns up in his out-going mail. Yes?”
Kerslake smiled and shook his head. “No.”
Later, when Kerslake telephoned Sir Andrew at the Abbey and told him about the cleaning of the painting and the new backing which had been put to it, Sir Andrew was pleasantly indifferent.
“Well, there’s a dear chap. Can’t think why he bothered though – unless he’s going to sell it and turn a bob or two. As for the original backing and the stuff Sir Julian wants I don’t care an onion-eater’s fart. I’ve no concern with all that now.”
“Sir Julian is going after Crillon, Sir Andrew. Would you like me to give you Crillon’s address? A word of warning from you might be appreciated.”
“No. I don’t want his address. If you want to warn him that’s your business. You get in touch with him. That bastard Sir Julian must have his address since he got the painting. I want no more to do with the whole affair. The last thing I want at my age is to be drawn into any Birdcage business. I worked my passage years ago and, to mix the metaphors, I’m too old a horse to be led out of the green pastures of retirement to be put between the shafts of anybody’s cart. The day will come when you will feel exactly as I do now.”
But immediately after speaking to Kerslake, Sir Andrew went to his study and wrote a letter to Crillon in which he explained in general terms the importance of the document which had been in the back of the picture and asking him to send them back to him at once or – if he had destroyed it with the rest of the back packing – to write to him immediately and confirm this. He posted the letter himself in Salisbury that evening on his way to a choral recital in the Cathedral. He had lived and worked too long with his dear friend Warboys not to know the way his mind worked. He was not over-worried about Maurice Crillon, for in the course of their acquaintance he had learnt that the man had no German. He had probably burnt the document with the rest of the old back packing. Nevertheless there remained an itch in his mind which he knew would take some days to pass.
* * * *
It was true that Maurice Crillon had no German. In the restoring of his father’s portrait he had found the document hidden there. For a while he was undecided what he should do with it, discounting almost immediately the obvious course of sending it to Sir Andrew. Things hidden must always have some importance. It was not in his character to subdue his curiosity – or the thought that, perhaps, somewhere there might be gain for him in knowing what its exact nature was. So, on his way back to Florence he had decided to make a detour to visit Trudi Keller in Switzerland – after making the appropriate excuses over the telephone to Carla.
He had spent the night with Trudi – always eventually ready to succumb to his desires – at a lakeside hotel, given her the document and asked her to make a translation of it into French – which she knew well – and to send the translation and original on to him at Florence.
Shortly after this a man called on Trudi one evening at her lodgings and asked her if she could let him know where he could find Monsieur Crillon. He had enquired for him at his home in Cragnac, been referred to the local curé, and had been given her address. Before she could ask him why he wanted Monsieur Crillon he told her that he had heard of his skill as an expert restorer of paintings and wished him to do some work for a client of his. Maurice had once said firmly that only letters were to be forwarded to Florence. If personal enquiries were made he could be contacted by letter addressed to him poste restante at Bologna. Only twice over the years had she had to do this, then writing to Maurice telling him and never knowing whether he ever did anything about collecting letters from Bologna.
When she told the man this he said, “He seems a very elusive type, Fraülein Keller. This could be a very profitable job for him. My client is very generous.”
Trudi shrugged her shoulders. She did not like the man or the way he looked at her, and, moreover, she felt a sudden irritation at herself for still being Maurice’s pawn. It was all right when he came to see her personally . . . all feeling except her love for him shredded away in the joy of his presence. She was a fool to be so biddable to him. But there was nothing she could do about it, since she still nursed the slim hope that one day he would return to her so that things could be as they were when they had first fallen in love.
She said, “I can tell you no more.”
The man was silent for a moment or two and then reached out and briefly touched one of her hands, saying, “He seems a very odd sort of man. Why do you do this for him?”
She had had this question before, and she gave the same answer as she had given in the past. “That is my business. Not yours.”
To her surprise the man suddenly smiled and said, the quality of his voice quite different, even having, she thought, a touch of long-borne weariness in it. “I’m sorry. But I think I understand. In some ways it is the same with me. I am paid to do as my clients wish and, more often than not, I do not understand what lies behind their wishes. Though in this case, I assure you, it is a simple matter of restoring a painting. However —” he stood up “– thank you for your help.”
When he had gone Trudi took from her bureau the document in German which Maurice Crillon had left with her and went on with the translation which he had asked her to do. She was completely uninterested in what she was doing, and only minimally curious as to why Maurice required it. But then with Maurice nothing was obvious – often puzzling, yes. Sometimes she even felt that he was a little touched in the head and all this business of using her as a post-box sprang from some elaborate fancy he had created in his mind . . . a fancy which she dimly apprehended. He was a man who hated to leave footprints behind him. God knew why. Walking on sand without leaving a mark. This document was donkey’s years old. Something about the war which had all happened before she was born. Perhaps she was a fool still to be his creature. The man who had just gone was personable and towards the end he had shown a touch of warmth and kindness. And there had been other men from whom she had kept herself. . . for what? An adventurer, possibly a scoundrel, here today and gone tomorrow, using her, baffling her with his little quirks of secrecy? Maybe it was time she learned sense and found a new self-respect and broke free from him. A half resolve leaped into her mind then: she would do this translating for him and when she sent it would tell him that she could be his creature no more and, when he came to charm her back, would deny him, stone-hearted and cold-faced . . . Suddenly tears came into her eyes and a few dropped on to her translation, blurring some of the words . . . et les soussignés, ayant accepté les conditions stipulées ci-dessus, sont nommes par la présente Ministres du Gouvernement Allemand d’Occupation en Grande–Bretagne. . .
