Vanishing Point, page 19
part #7 of Birdcage Series
“And I despise myself for being what I am. But God made us both this way. Perhaps one day we shall understand why. In a little while when we have drifted far enough up the lake – le bon Dieu has favoured us with the wind – I shall start the motor and we shall cross over to Spiez. You remember how sometimes in the old days we would take the steamer across for the weekend and stay in the Eden-Kurhaus and then make excursions to the Kandertal and Simmental?”
“I remember. But you do not talk to me now, Maurice, out of the memory of good but past days. You talk because you are, you think, gentling me, beginning to woo me again, because you have something to ask me – something which will save your own skin. Underneath everything I think you are – maybe for the first time in your life – frightened for yourself. You have followed some fantasy, tried to live this life like a dream life – everything for Maurice – and now it has all gone sour for you. Maybe, even, made you for the first time frightened.”
“Maybe.”
“So what do you want from me?”
Crillon smiled, his face clear in the starlight to her, and somewhere in her heart a rising sadness for him. He could have been good and done so much with the great gifts God had given him. But he had treated all these gifts like a small and overpampered boy – tired of a new toy presented in the morning long before the morning had worn away.
It was some time before he answered, and then he said, “Just to bear witness to something which is going to happen. To do as I say and ask no questions. To play a true part and know that you will be rewarded for it.”
“You ask me to do something for money?”
“There would be that, of course, among other things. But I am asking you for far more than that. My freedom from certain things in my past.”
Trudi shook her head. “I make no promise until I hear what it is you wish from me – it could be that you will ask too much.”
“Very well, I will be frank. I will tell you after we have reached Spiez.”
He leaned forward from the stern thwart, bending to start the little marine engine, and smiled at her in the bows. Seeing the starlight on his face Trudi sighed, knowing in her heart that she could never find a way to a final rejection of this man who took life so lightly and love so waywardly.
The engine came to life and Crillon, knowing that everything would be as he wanted it, had to be as he wanted it, pushed the tiller round and headed the boat southwards across the lake to Spiez where his car waited.
It was some time after midnight before they arrived at the Merligen hotel. Trudi went up to their room and to bed, but Crillon stayed in the hotel lounge and called for a bottle of whisky. He sat with it for an hour, exasperating the night waiter with chatter which became more and more wayward and inconsistent as he drank. Finally he stumbled away and up to their room where Trudi lay in bed. He was drunker than she had ever seen him. For an odd moment or two her heart found genuine sympathy for him, and admiration. Maurice in all he did – good and bad – was no believer in half measures. When he finally tumbled into the adjoining single bed she put out the light and lay in the darkness, and as the first heavy snoring broke from him, memory took her back to that first day when he had walked into her father’s yard and – so typically – had charmed his way into a job and into her heart.
The next morning Crillon woke late and with a heavy hangover. Trudi had already gone to breakfast. When he came down, looking as she had never seen him before – hung-over and genuinely jittery – she wondered why, even for the simplest deception, he would always insist on doing his utmost (even to the point of exaggeration) not just to play the part he had designated for himself, but actually to abandon the normal Crillon to become the one which fitted his needs. But this time it was different for her because she understood his danger and was now far from lost to any sympathy for him.
He quarrelled and complained over a breakfast which he hardly touched, and insisted on having two large brandies. He was short with her to the point of rudeness. During breakfast he asked for a picnic lunch for the two of them and arranged for the hire of a rowing boat.
When they finally left the hotel to walk through its garden to the small jetty and their boat, the dining room waiter, watching them go, said to the waitress, “There is a pig of a man. With such a fine-looking woman, too. I never tell you this, Hebe Lotte, but so was my father with my mother. Terrible . . . so terrible that my brother and I decide it must finish and we must do the finishing. But the good Lord spares us the trouble. He is staggering home one night in Berne when he staggers too far into the road and under a lorry. You know something, too? Ah, women . . . my mother weeps for him and is in mourning for over a year. What is it about some women that a man can treat them like dirt and abuse them and yet they take their martyrdom with patience and remember only the few good things that marriage gave them?”
* * * *
Five days later Warboys, a rose in the lapel of his light grey suit, the memory of the girl in the Shepherd Market flower shop warm and promising, as, indeed, he hoped the day would be, fingered briefly his old Etonian tie and looked up with a bright and almost youthful smile as Kerslake came in.
He waved him to a chair and said, “Splendid morning. Pippa passes and all that, what? And so, we must presume, has our elusive Maurice Crillon. Such sadness. Cut off, if not exactly in the springtime of life, at least in full manhood. Death as it must . . . and all that. And no body yet found. Possibly never to be found.” He tapped the report in front of him. “You seen this, of course?”
“Yes, but I’m not inclined to believe it.”
“Why not? Dead drunk. Had been most of the weekend. Strips to his bathing trunks and goes into the lake for a cool-off. Then – Hey presto! – goes down like a lead plummet. Had an uncle, you know – Regius Professor of Theology or something at Oxford. Not sure which now. Salmon fishing on the Wye one June . . . no fish, low water, bloody bored, too much port at lunch, so strips and goes in and never comes up again. And Crillon – let’s face it – was sooner or later for the high jump with Andretti after him.”
“He’d hardly have tucked the documents in his bathing trunks. There was nothing with his clothes and luggage.”
“True. But they could be in some safety deposit box. After all, it was Switzerland. What secrets and what fortunes do the little gnomes there protect?”
“If the drowning were faked then Trudi Keller must have been in the know.”
“Finger to the side of the nose? Arranged?”
“Could be, sir.”
“How?”
“Her statement to the Swiss authorities says that they rowed the boat up the lakeside some way towards Interlaken and then went ashore to sunbathe and have lunch. His, according to her, was chiefly an alcoholic one.”
“Drunk – and then insists on going for a swim. My father was a martinet about that – no bathing until two hours after a meal. And then?”
“He gets into difficulties. Goes down, comes up and shouts for help – and then goes down again.”
“At which, like Grace Darling in different circumstances, she mans the boat and rows to his help.”
“Quite so – and goes in after him. But she can’t find him and there’s nothing she can do.”
Warboys smiled. “I can see the scene. Dreadful.”
“If it ever occurred.”
“You’re doubting the word of a lady?”
“And an actress of sorts. Member of long standing with a Zurich Amateur Dramatic Society, and produces the children’s school plays at Gunten – according to our man out there.”
“Who must still have a very red face at being hoodwinked by Crillon. But go on – the main point has still to rise above the dawn-flushed Eastern horizon.”
“She goes back to the hotel and carries on the act. She’s playing a part and giving it everything.”
“If I don’t ask why yet it is because first I’d like to know what really happened, do you imagine, to Crillon?”
“He’d got it all arranged. He never went into the water at all, I think he simply walked off, leaving her – with her agreement — and caught a bus on the lakeside road. There’s a Thun-Interlaken service.”
“Dark glasses? False moustache? Don’t tell me he was a Dramatic Society buff?”
“He didn’t have to be. He was, or is, a born natural. For him – ‘All the world’s a stage . . .’ ”
“Ah – Hanc personam induisti: agenda est?”
“You escape me, sir.”
“Seneca – ‘You have assumed this part: it must be acted.’ ”
“Hopefully I’ll come to that level one day, sir. But, to revert to Crillon. He had it all arranged before he even co-opted her help.”
“I don’t quarrel with that. But – why on earth did she agree to help him, lie for him, act the distraught woman in the hotel, and the grief-stricken girl friend at the official enquiry? She had no reason to do him any favour.”
“There must have been a quid pro quo. And a very substantial or compelling one, too.”
“I wonder what?”
“I’ve no idea, sir.”
“Full marks for frankness. But perhaps time will show. Your time, not mine. Only a little while to go, Kerslake. So, there we are. Freedom lies only a few bow shots ahead of me. Sir Julian is never going to get what he wants. Nor are the archive blokes here. And for that I shall weep no more nor sigh nor groan. Our late enemies, now staunch Nato companions, will have a permanent gap in their archives, too. And Sir Andrew – with whom I have lunch at Lord’s today before enjoying the slow delights of cricket – my father, as a stripling of sixteen, once bowled out the great W. G. Grace but irascibly he not only refused to leave the wicket, but also to give chapter and verse for his reasons – and to come back, belatedly, to Sir Andrew . . . well, in his coarse English-before-Agincourt manner he will no doubt utter some jolly profanity. Quite frankly, I’m sick and tired of this whole business.”
Kerslake said gently, “Are you asking me to close the file?” Feigning horror, Warboys raised his hands. “Good God, man – that is the blasphemy of all blasphemies. The archive boys still have hundreds of ancient files open. They still hope that one day something will turn up to prove conclusively who murdered the Princes in the Tower.”
“I think, sir, that we should keep an eye on the girl, Trudi.”
“Poor heart-broken lass. But yes – why not. Also, I think a call to Signor Andretti would be a politeness. There is no more he can do. But tell him that we will honour our side of the bargain appertaining to his gambling relation. We may, who knows, need him for some other quite different help in the future. Allies, no matter how reprehensible, must be treated with outward courtesy.”
Later, after lunch at Lord’s, and sitting in the Long Room while an unexpected gentle summer drizzle fell outside and the covers were on the wickets, looking like the canopy of a sunken canal barge, Warboys – undeterred by the other people close around them, knowing that the best security for secrets was to pass them in a crowd, particularly this crowd, well-fed and wined, and still wining – said to Sir Andrew, “Bit of news for you, my old dear.”
“Good, I hope. Why does it always bloody rain when I come here? Perhaps I’ve offended the rain gods. Touchy buggers. Have been ever since Noah cocked a snook at them.”
“Well, not so good – since you took quite a fancy to him. Your artist laddie – Crillon.”
“What about him, the dear chap?”
“Well, he was week-ending with some girl friend on Lake Thun. Boating excursion. Lap, lap of wavelets as they loitered in paradise. Sip, sip, too, of vino. Girl said he was well away. Decides to go for a swim. Wades in – strikes out – and then suddenly goes under never to come up.”
“Good God! I always thought that bit about never bathing right after a meal was apocryphal. Poor chap. What an end! What a waste! Still, there you are . . . in the midst of life. You’re absolutely certain about all this?”
“Certain. Girl went in after him. Couldn’t find him.”
“Plucky. Got guts some girls. I say, old chap – this has really upset me. Won’t mind, will you, if I give this caper up? Rain’s in for the day, anyway. Dear, dear – such talent. Christine will be quite cut up. She took a fancy to him. She’ll be home soon from France, you know. Oh, dear – slog all the way up here to be rained off, and now you tell me this.”
“Sorry, Andrew. But I felt you would want to know.”
When Sir Andrew had gone Warboys lit a cigar and watched the rain fall on the covers. He sat, puzzled. Sir Andrew had he wished could have simulated grief. . . in his time he had played many parts. But the odd thing was that he had no doubt that his friend had been reacting quite genuinely.
* * * *
Signor Andretti – at a table in the great window bay which held as though framed in a picture a view over the garden and distant Florence – gently lifted one of the pieces of a vast jig-saw puzzle based on the Hieronymus Bosch painting The Garden of Earthly Delights thus completing the flowing tresses of a naked woman in the act – though this he had not completed yet but knew from memory of the original – of being embraced or raped by a naked youth – looked up at Berini and said, “The one thing about the English is that you can trust their given word. It is, perhaps, the most endearing of their many stupidities. Your cousin in London will come to no harm.”
“And do you believe that Crillon is dead?”
“The girl, Trudi, says so. Drowned.”
“There’s only her word. Why should she do him any favour – even a last one?”
“Perhaps he gave her something in return.”
“The document?”
“Idiot. No – something which she couldn’t refuse.”
“But what?”
“Something. But don’t ask me what because I have no idea.”
“And Crillon? Do we still go after him? He has insulted and humiliated me.”
“Just write it off to experience.”
Berini sighed. “Very well. But he is a man I can’t understand. To insult and defy you so.”
Signor Andretti dropped another piece into place and found it was the gleaming eye in the head, now revealed, of a bird like a goldfinch. His mind went to the shooting of little birds in the foothills far up the Arno. Spitted and roasted in the open and eaten with rough Chianti . . . delightful. In old age one went back to simple pleasures.
He looked up, shook his head, and said, “Then you are very stupid. The world is full of such men. They are born out of their time. And the world needs them. Good or bad. Garibaldi. Mussolini. Dante. Cortez . . . Maestro Bosch here He fitted another piece and part of the naked rump of the lover with the girl in the water took shape.
“If he lives, he has insulted us. We should go after him!”
“Idiot. This is no vendetta. Has he raped your sister? Or cheated like some night-club owner over his protection money?”
“He has broken the heart of a woman. Maybe many women.” Signor Andretti looked up and laughed. “Now you are a double idiot. No man can break the heart of a woman. While she weeps her eyes rove looking for the next lover. Women are incurable optimists. Your aunt, my dear departed wife, may her soul rest in peace . . .” He crossed himself. “She was a woman. But also – when she wished – she was a man. I married her knowing nothing. She taught me much, and when she had made a man of me she went back to being a woman. You understand that?”
“No.”
“Perhaps not. It has to be experienced. You should go find such a woman for yourself. One who will love you and deceive you and educate you. If you need a suggestion – then I give you one. Go marry Aldo Pandolfi’s sister. Carla I think her name is. No?”
“Yes. But why her?”
“Because she saw – though not absolutely clearly – what there was in this Crillon for her to make. She might make something of you. And this you certainly need. What man watches the front of a school and has not the wit to remember that there is a back entrance to it?”
“But, I understand she is . . . gravidanza.”
Signor Andretti shook his head. “No. Aldo tells me not. She makes up this story for Crillon’s benefit – hoping to keep him with her. It is time you married. And it would be good to have Aldo in the family for do not think he is nothing, all puffing and blowing. He has the eye for truth in paintings and will find someone else to take Crillon’s place. You think there is only one Crillon in the world? It is full of them. All most of them need is a little encouragement. Now go down to the good Pandolfi casa and tell them that Crillon is dead. Carla will weep for your benefit and Aldo will weep more truly for the loss of an almost irreplaceable partner. But neither will weep long. You will not find written above their doorway – Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.”
“You mean go now – this moment?”
“Idiot. If you delay you may find – to be coarse, which mostly I do not approve of – that another man’s trousers are already hanging over the rail at the bottom of the bed. Mamma mia – for an intelligent man you can be extraordinarily stupid at times. Va via – you are spoiling my pleasure in this puzzle.”
* * * *
Kerslake – now behind Warboys’ desk – was enjoying Sir Julian’s discomfiture. The dark eyes shone angrily. But even so – with no gleam of hope in them.
Sir Julian said, “I don’t believe a word of any of this story. Why can’t you at least be frank with me and tell me that no power on God’s earth was ever going to let you give the documents back to me?”
“What does it matter? They are now rotting somewhere on the bed of Lake Thun. The story has been a long one. But now comes the final chapter. Either the body, from buoyant accumulation of decomposition gases, will surface and something will be salvaged – unless, of course, some passing steamer or speedboat rips into it unknowingly and it is Hail briefly and Farewell finally. But your last point is true – as you have long known – that we could not let you have the documents back. You’ve known that. That’s why you went to Andretti. So why do you come here, Sir Julian? There is nothing we can do.”
