Vanishing Point, page 17
part #7 of Birdcage Series
“How should I know?” Carla smiled. “Dear brother – not since your lovely new car was stolen last year have I seen you so upset.”
“This is no matter of a car. He goes today to see a most important customer, and I wait for him. This customer means the beginning of great things.”
“Good. I like to see the money look in your eyes. So you are both to be rich – honestly I hope?”
Angrily Aldo said, “Were you not my sister, you should feel the back of my hand across your face. Can you not see that this is a matter of great importance to me? I sit here waiting for him to bring back good news for us all.”
“Good news, dear Aldo, will always keep. But if you would like a little now I can give you some. The wedding will, I think, have to be brought forward.”
“Impossible – the date is fixed, all is being arranged. But do not bother me with that kind of talk when you can see that I have more important matters on my mind.”
“Ah. . . in these charming moods I can see how my dear sister-in-law found you irresistible. You do not wish to have my news?”
“I wish to have Maurice. I ring and ring – and no answer.”
“Sometimes I have been there and it rings and rings and I want to get out of bed and answer it but he keeps me with him, saying, ‘Who would leave paradise to answer a wrong-number call?’ Once I insist and it was a wrong number. So I learn.”
“You think he is in bed with . . .” He exploded. “And I am here burning for news! And you do not care that he may be with another woman?”
“I care. But no other woman can change matters now. Maurice is mine. I am going to have his baby. Is it not splendid news?”
“Putana!”
“I knew you would be pleased. Come – we go together to see if he is there and to give him the good news. Which do you fancy, dear Aldo, a niece or a nephew?”
“Have you no shame?”
“No – only happiness. Now he cannot escape me. But to make you happy we will go together. I have my key and if there is some other woman there – naked – you make no fuss. After all he can no longer use me for a model since that would not now be proper.”
Some minutes later they were in the apartment. Propped against a vase of white roses on the studio table were two notes. One for Carla and one for Aldo.
Aldo’s note read:
I did not care for Signor Andretti – and so I must go. You are at liberty to show him this. Thanks for everything. Maurice.
Carla’s read:
Although you would never speak your thoughts you knew it would never last with a man like me. Put me from your mind and find someone worthy of you. For all the happiness you have given me I kiss your hand. All the fault is mine. God did not make me for staying or true loving. Maurice. P.S. I have left little Marco’s birthday present by the Sernesi painting. I hope he will like it. Tell him it was very useful to me.
Automatically, scarcely knowing she was doing it in her grief, Carla went to the Sernesi painting in the window. Alongside it lay a heavy-weight replica model of a Walther pistol and the presentation box which had held it.
At this moment came Aldo’s angry voice, “Who does he think he is, that he can fly away like a bird? Santo Gesú– we could have made a fortune! Pray God that Signor Andretti does not hold me responsible for then I am a lost man . . . a lost man.”
Carla turned and said hoarsely, “You were lost a long time ago. For me it just begins. For me the fear I have always had is a truth. What is left for me?”
Suddenly, surprising himself, Aldo was entirely aware of Carla’s grief and loss. He put an arm around her comfortingly and said, “Cara sorella mia . . . begin now to put him out of your mind. He was not worthy of you. In a little while I find you a man who will be understanding and gentle. It will be arranged and you will be married. Aldo will make everything right for you. Your child will become respectable – and think his voice rose with a note of hope, “– he may inherit his father’s genius. He will do big things.”
At that moment there was a banging on the inside of the bedroom door and a man’s voice called. Aldo gave a worried look at Carla and then went to the door, turned the key which was in the lock and opened it. On the threshold stood Berini, whom Aldo knew.
“Signor Berini – how come you are there? And without your trousers?”
Berini smiled. “It is a long story which I will tell you later.” Then seeing Carla, he went on, “Signorina, I apologize to appear before you in my underclothes. Perhaps you will be kind enough to call the portinaia and ask for my trousers. Signor Crillon said he would leave them with her.”
Aldo let out a long, slow wail and raised his hands to heaven. “He has done this to you? Mamma mia – your uncle will kill me.”
“I think not – since he will understand it is not your fault. In fact, he will laugh at the whole thing – at first. But then later . . . Dio mio . . . already I am beginning to be sorry for Signor Crillon.” As he spoke he walked to the Sernesi painting and picked up the Walther. “So . . . you know, it did cross my mind. But then when it is a matter of life and, maybe, death one falters to trust entirely one’s judgment.” He turned and smiled at Aldo, and added, “I am embarrassed that I should meet your charming sister so attired. Perhaps you will ask me to dinner one night?”
Aldo beamed. “But, of course, Signor Berini. Oh, of course.” At that moment, the car radio playing gently, Maurice Crillon was driving along the autostrada northwards, heading for Milan and then Switzerland.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SIR JULIAN MARKOVER, having asked to see Warboys, was surprised and annoyed – though he covered both emotions – when he was shown into Kerslake’s office.
Kerslake said, “Mr Warboys is in Downing Street at the Cabinet Office. He was called there unexpectedly this morning.”
Sir Julian, without rancour, said, “Sometimes Warboys has the most convenient early morning appointments. However . . .”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Possibly. I want some information. You’re briefed, of course, about this Crillon business?”
“I am.”
“You know that Signor Andretti is handling it for me?”
“I do.” Kerslake was taking a mild pleasure in the brevity of his replies.
“Are you aware of the latest development?”
“No, Sir Julian.” He was, however, well aware, for Andretti had telephoned Warboys late the previous evening and he had been fully briefed by Warboys this morning.
“Well, yesterday Signor Andretti found Crillon in Florence, saw him, and sent a man with him to his apartment to pick up the . . . well, my property.”
“Signor Andretti has worked fast. So now, as far as we are concerned, the whole thing can be forgotten.”
“Not at all. At the apartment Crillon gave the man the slip and made off with the documents.”
“Indeed?” Kerslake widened his eyes, letting false surprise take his face.
“Yes, indeed. I see your surprise, and I share it with you. I would never have thought that Signor Andretti would ever have let this man slip through his fingers.”
“Nor I, Sir Julian.” Kerslake’s eyes marked the movement of a blue-chequered cock pigeon that had just settled on the window sill of the room. The bird was in poor condition. Not like the birds which had once graced his father’s lofts.
“The thought occurs to me that there may be something not quite genuine about this story.”
“In what way, Sir Julian?”
“Ways might be a better term. Signor Andretti could be lying. He has the papers and has let Crillon go.”
“Why should he do that? You took everything from our hands and put it all in his. Why should you doubt his word?”
“I am not doubting – merely keeping an open mind.”
“For what reason?”
“I see that Warboys has trained you well.” Sir Julian permitted himself a rare and bleak smile.
“Naturally – but the imputation escapes me.” The small curl of a wave of pleasure broke in Kerslake’s mind and, since secretly he had long been filling some blanks in his education, he let the word imputare float gently on the crest of his hidden bonhomie. He could never replace the lack of a classical education but at least he might come to the stage when he would be far from a complete Boeotian . . . Greek though that might be and for ever out of his reach.
“I doubt it. But I will make myself clear. The master of a certain Oxford college – for which at times I have made available considerable gifts and donations – had dinner with me recently. He has a weakness for port which makes his brain and his tongue work uncontrolled at times. He let slip the suggestion that soon there might be available – not for public perusal, of course – certain wartime documents detailing the constitution of the government which the German Reich would have set up here when they took this island.”
“Not knowing, of course, your involvement?”
“That is so. And not to be made public for many years. True or false?”
“I would have no idea.”
“And Warboys?”
“You could ask him.”
“And get no satisfactory answer. So now you see.”
“What do I see, Sir Julian?”
“That I trust neither you people, nor Andretti.”
To his own surprise Kerslake heard himself say, “Did you ever?”
Sir Julian gave a dry grunt. “No. I just wish to say that I am now taking things back into my own hands. Andretti I now trust no longer – and you here I have never trusted.”
“So what will you do?”
“I think when you report this conversation to Warboys that he will be able to give you the answer to that.”
He rose, picked up his hat and cane, and departed without another word.
A few minutes later Warboys came into the room, smiling, a rosebud in his lapel, expertly filched as he had come across St James’s Park that morning, since it was a Sunday and his Shepherd Market source was closed, and through the part-open window now came the sound of church bells making the morning sweet.
He said, “You handled that very well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Ah, the rare ‘sir’. And to which party now do you think Sir Julian has turned?”
Kerslake smiled. “All governments cherish State papers and have scholars and archives.”
“Breeding places for. . . what? That persistent little beast – der Bucherwurm? And let’s face it – the document is still legally the property of the Germans.”
“Poor Crillon.”
“Yes, poor Crillon – poor in prospects, but rich in interest. David faced now with more than one Goliath. Birdcage, the Mafiosi, and the Federal Republic of Germany, maybe even the German Democratic Republic . . . However, for the time being, he has given everyone the slip. Where do you think he’s headed?”
“A fox has more than one earth. I think we wait until we get a full report from Signor Andretti. And in all this – what about Sir Andrew Starr?”
“Ah . . . yes. Yes, indeed. I wonder why I still get that – towards an old friend – reprehensible feeling that he is leading us up the garden path? So easy for him since he has so many to choose from. However, I think he can for a while be left to his rustic delights. By the way . . . I feel I must tell you how pleased I am that so late in life you are now decided to enjoy the delights of Virgil and Horace.”
Kerslake smiled. “Waste paper basket in my office?”
“Yes, indeed. Quite by chance. My eye was caught by amo, amas, amat. Keep it up and remember – though I think Pliny said it of some painter – Nulla dies sine linea. Translate?”
“No day without a line?”
“Splendid.”
* * * *
Maurice Crillon stayed the night in Milan. The next morning he sold his car cheaply – a fact that came to Signor Andretti’s ears within twenty-four hours – and then rented another from the Hertz Company. He then drove to Zurich, where he made certain arrangements with his bank there. He knew quite well that Carla, willingly or not, and probably the former, would be milked of all the information she had about him. And he guessed, too, that Trudi Keller would either be approached for news of him – or watched to see if he made contact with her. He was in Zurich for two nights and during that time took a walk along the street in which Trudi’s father had his stonemason’s yard – this an indulgence of pure sentiment and nostalgia.
Leaving Zurich he made his way leisurely southwards through Lucerne and so down to Brient at the head of the Brenner See. Thirty odd miles away lay Interlaken and the easterly end of the Thunner See. He stayed in a small hotel in Brient, bought a sketching pad, and went for walks, and sometimes, giving up walking and drawing, would sit and consider his future. Time, he knew, was a great healer. Once or twice he considered the possibility of being unchaste with a pretty Swiss girl in the hotel’s reception office, but resisted the temptation. He had arrived in Brient on Tuesday. He had decided – and there was an important reason for his wanting to do this – to get in touch with Trudi on the coming Friday.
During this time, unknown to her, Trudi’s movements were being monitored by three men of different nationalities . . . a German, an Italian, and an Englishman who, had he so wished, could have passed comfortably as a German or an Italian. All three of them were soon, in their different ways, well aware of the little unholy trinity which they formed though none made any sign of it. All three, too, were considerably bored because from the limited information they had been given they felt that Maurice Crillon would not be fool enough – even if he had reason, and reason here seemed a frail flower – to try and get in touch with Trudi. These three each day checked Trudi’s movements to and from school. It was high summer, tourists and holiday parties bathed and boated and some climbed the nearby small alps to catch the tinkling of cowbells and to exclaim with delight over the profusion and beauty of the Alpine flowers. And, although Maurice Crillon guessed they would be there, he had had no curiosity to establish this for himself. They had to be there. When the scent goes cold it was, if a forlorn hope, common sense to hark back and wait to see if the gods of chance would be kind. He guessed that the same thing would be happening at Cragnac and, indeed, might be happening, too, in Salisbury . . . somebody shadowing sweet Margery Littleton to and from work . . . somebody keeping an eye on Sir Andrew Starr. . . his dear pappa.
Meanwhile, on the day that Maurice Crillon arrived in Brient, Warboys motored down to Hampshire to spend the night at Avoncourt Abbey. He was a self-invited guest, but that was not unusual or unwelcome.
After dinner he and Sir Andrew took their coffee and then port on the small balcony outside the dining room on the first floor of the Abbey.
Looking out over the public-free gardens and parterres, the fountains in the sunken gardens playing late in his honour, the butler given his congé and gone now to his own parlour to drink port from the same bin as that which rested between the two men, Warboys said, “I thought you might be interested in the latest of the Sir Julian saga.”
“My dear chap, of course I would. Don’t tell me you’ve come all this way just to keep me abreast? Damned decent. What do you want from me in return?”
“Nothing. Nothing tangible, that is.”
“Good. This is no night for the tangible. Fairies and Queen Mab . . . perhaps the ghost of one of our old Knights Templar, leading a shagged-out war horse across the lawns, finally back from Acre or Jerusalem. Or maybe out of his chapel tomb to stretch his legs. No horse, of course. The Church for some odd reason denies the holy precincts. Can’t imagine why when you think of some of the sods who get the psalms and the sprinkling of holy water. However – don’t let me stop you in full stride.”
“I thought, too, you’d like to know the latest news of your Maurice Crillon. He’s leading everyone a bloody dance.”
“Ah, the dear chap. Who’s everyone, though?”
“Us. The Mafia—”
“For Sir bloody Julian?”
“No – they parted company.”
“Good for them. Who’s he using now? Not back with you, I hope?”
“No. The Germans.”
Sir Andrew laughed. “Well, well, back in the same old nest. Their archives, I suppose? Well, if they get it he can be sure it will never cause him any trouble. Safer perhaps than if you had it. So what’s dear Maurice done?”
“Ditched the Mafia in Florence. Left one of their respected members trouserless and took off. Left also his girl friend in the family way.”
“Oh, bad show – but boys will be boys. He must have had good reason – for running, I mean.”
“Yes, he did. He’d got a Swiss girl friend to translate the stuff you’d hidden in the Augustus John.”
“Did he now. Well, that rules out looking behind the bog door to check the toilet paper. Well, well, the dear boy. Why should he be making all this stir?”
“Your guess might perhaps be a bit better than mine.”
“And what’s yours?”
“Cussedness. Some people are like that. They don’t like being pushed around.”
“There should be more people like that. Everyone is being pushed around in this fart-ass country. Pickets outside factories, societies for this and that, fill up the bloody census form or else. Don’t park there – don’t park here. Keep off the grass, block up the bridle paths . . . You want me to go on with the list?”
“No thanks. But what’s your guess?”
“Haven’t one. I ran out of guesses years ago. Have you forgotten that for a damned long time I lived and survived by them? What’s A going to do if B does something and C does nothing and I’ve only got one shell up the spout and another in the chamber. Now, was that a mouse behind the arras or just the old house creaking or something that’s going to end up – if you’re quick enough – by your having, to corrupt the Old Bard, the job of lugging the guts into a neighbour room?”
“Andrew, in some way, to be crude – I think that you and this Crillon are deliberately buggering us about. I don’t say without reason. But you know how I hate mysteries. Here’s a chap who is cocking a snook at all comers over these papers of yours – and he knows what they are. His girl friend translated them for him. All right – if he regards them, and quite rightly, as your property why doesn’t he just send them back to you? It would be the straightforward thing to do. Why doesn’t he do that?”
