by Philip Kerr
I wanted nothing to do with it all, of course. What did it matter to me what this Burgess fellow had said about the British SIS on the tape? I’d never cared much for the English. In two wars against Germany I’d seen how they were capable of fighting to the last American. And yet in spite of my commendable moral stance on the subject of Harold Hennig, there was a part of me that wanted to see this vile man brought down, and for good. I liked the old man and I think he liked me. If I could help him defeat a blackmailer like Hennig then that would be some kind of payback for what he’d done to Irmela and, in a smaller way, to me.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Maugham. But I’ll be happy to partner you in this rubber. That’s the least I can do. But in return you can do me a favor and say hello to a lady friend of mine who’s keen to meet you. She’s a writer, too.”
“All right. I’ll be glad to. If she’s a friend of yours.”
“So, tomorrow, when Hebel gives me the tape, I’ll bring it straight here to the villa and you can listen to it and decide what to do then. And if you think I can still be of service to you—well, let’s wait until tomorrow, shall we?”
—
After telling my story I got back in the car and went away with a hole inside me where before a heart and stomach had once been coexisting. That’s the thing about the past; it never quite belongs as much to the past as you think it does. I hadn’t thought about Irmela or her unborn child in a long time, but I still bitterly regretted their passing. The idea that I could have talked about them both with impunity now seemed risible. Time hadn’t healed anything, and I think people who say time makes things better really don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. For me, it was an inoperable tumor that I’d managed to ignore for more than a decade; but the tumor was still there. Probably it was going to stay with me until I died.
You could say I was feeling a bit sorry for myself and perhaps I was also a little drunk because instead of driving straight home I somehow found myself ignoring the lobster pot where I lived and heading out of town and up the hill toward Anne French’s villa. I told myself that if you spend enough time around homosexuals, you begin to feel the need to redress the balance with the company of a congenial woman. It’s not much of an excuse for what I was doing but I couldn’t think of a better one.
I stopped in front of the gate posts, lit a cigarette, and stared along the drive at the house. The lights in her bedroom were on and for a moment I just sat there, imagining Anne in bed and wondering if I was about to make a stupid mistake and spoil everything between us. What would a woman like her want with a man who owned as pitifully little as I? Apart from bridge lessons.
I almost turned around and drove away. Instead I drove slowly up the drive and stopped the engine. Discretion might be the better part of valor, but it has no business between men and women on a warm summer’s night on the French Riviera. I hoped I wouldn’t offend her, but being drunk I was willing to take that risk. So I opened the car door, stepped out, and cocked an ear. Coming from the guesthouse was the sound of a large radio and someone trying vainly to tune it to a more reliable frequency. A few moments later the radio was turned off, the door opened, and Anne came outside wearing just a short, almost see-through cotton nightdress. It was a very warm evening. The cicadas showed their appreciation of her cleavage and shapely legs with an extra loud click of their abdomens. I certainly felt like giving my own abdomen a bit of action, too.
“Oh, I’m glad it’s you,” she said. “I thought it might be the gardener.”
“At this time of night?”
“Lately he’s been giving me a funny look.”
“Maybe you should let him water the flower beds.”
“I don’t think that’s what he has in mind.”
“The heat we’ve been having? He’s in the wrong job.”
“Did you come here to mow my lawn, or just to talk?”
“Talk, I guess.”
“So, what’s your story?”
“I’m all out of stories tonight. Fact is, Anne, I’m feeling just a bit sad.”
“And you thought I might cheer you up, is that it?”
“Something like that. I know it’s a bit late.”
“Too late for bridge, I’d have thought.”
“I’m sorry, but I just wanted to see you.”
“Don’t apologize. Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I was feeling a little sad myself.” She paused. “I was listening to the BBC World Service news on the shortwave. And now that I have I wish I hadn’t. Apparently the Egyptians have nationalized the Suez Canal and closed it to all Israeli shipping.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, for one thing, it means the price of oil is going to go up. But I think it also means there’s going to be a war.”
“When we haven’t finished paying for the last one? I doubt that.”
She shrugged. “A last throw of the dice from Britain and France to prove that these old colonial powers still matter? After all, it’s them who administer the canal. Of course. Why not?” She smiled. “But you didn’t come up here to talk international politics, did you?”
“We can if you like. Just as long as I don’t have to vote for anyone. That never changed anything. Even in the good old days.”
“How old?”
“Very old. Old enough to be good. Before the Nazis, anyway. Speaking of the very old, I spent the evening with Somerset Maugham. At the Villa Mauresque.”
“How is he?”
“Getting strangely older by the minute, if that were humanly possible.”
“Makes two of us.”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
“You’d be surprised. The longer I stay parted from that fifty-thousand-dollar publishing advance, the older I feel.”
In the car, I’d resolved to tell her everything; if I was going to risk my neck for the Englishman there had to be something in it for me, and that something had started to look like it might just be Anne French.
“Then it’s good that I’m here. I’ve got some news that should make you and your publisher very happy. I’ve persuaded Somerset Maugham to meet with you.”
This was making more of my effort on her behalf than was perhaps warranted, of course, but it sounded like the sort of thing she probably wanted to hear, which, for obvious reasons, was the kind of thing I was keen to tell her.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Really? That’s fantastic.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Frankly, I think he is a kind of vampire.”
“All authors are a bit like that.”
“I wouldn’t know. But I feel like I lost a lot of blood up there tonight. I feel drained.”
“Then you’d better come in the house and let me mix you a transfusion.”
“I think I’ve had enough to drink already.”
“Something else then. Coffee, perhaps.”
“Are you sure? It is late. Maybe I should go.”
“Look, Walter, I’ve never been one for knowing what I should and shouldn’t do. I always wanted to be good but now I realize I should have been a little less specific. Especially now you’re here. Now I think I just want to be wanted.” She shrugged off the nightdress like an extra skin and stood there naked in the moonlight. “You do want me, don’t you, Walter?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go in before I change my mind, or I get bitten by something while I’m standing here naked. A mosquito, perhaps.”
“Not if I get there first.”
SEVENTEEN
The subject of the tape was printed on the box, which now lay on the refectory table beside the tape machine. “Interview with Guy Burgess, May 28th, 1951, SS Pamyati Kirova.” I carefully threaded the leader onto the Grundig, lit my fifth cigarette of the day, poured some coffee from the brightly
polished silver pot that Ernest the butler had brought for me, and, under the eye of a tomato-colored nude by Renoir, sat down to await Maugham’s delayed arrival in the elegant drawing room. On the lawns the garden sprinklers were already spinning around like dervishes and the chauffeur had washed the car again. The nude was a bit too pink and chubby for my taste; she only lacked a lollipop and a Teddy bear to be wholly unsuitable. I was tired but in an almost pleasant way, suffering a little with the equivalent of a hangover from an excess of sex, if such a thing is possible for a man living alone. My balls felt like they’d spent the night on a beer-hall billiard table. I closed my eyes for a moment and opened them again as Robin Maugham came into the room and sat down heavily, more like an old housewife after a day trailing around the shops instead of a man wearing a blazer who had only just finished breakfast. He smelled strongly of cloying cologne and false courtesy. I sensed that he had started to dislike me almost as much as I disliked his cologne.
“My uncle is going to be another five or ten minutes. He had an uncomfortable night. The heat, you know.”
“I had a bit of a rough night myself.”
“Well, I always say, there’s nothing quite like a bit of rough.” Robin smiled at his own little joke. “Anyway, he’s just getting dressed.”
I nodded. “Fine.”
“You know, every time I open a door in this house these days it seems you’re there, Walter. Why is that?”
“Does that make you nervous?”
“No. It makes me wonder, that’s all. I mean, what’s in it for you, that kind of thing. What do you want from this house, Walter?”
“You asked me to come here. To play bridge. Remember?”
“No, what I mean is, why are you helping my uncle now?”
“Because he asked me to.”
“Oh, come on, Walter. I’m not a fucking idiot. Everyone wants something from the old boy. What’s your angle?”
“Would it make you feel a little more comfortable if you thought there was money in it for me?”
“Yes, I suppose it would. I mean, it’s like Dr. Johnson says about being a writer: No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money. Well, surely the same is doubly true for a man who used to be a private detective like you.”
“Who told you that?”
“What?”
“That I used to be a private detective?”
“I suppose my uncle must have mentioned it.”
“No, he didn’t. I asked him to remain silent about it. And he gave me his word he wouldn’t mention it to anyone.”
“He and I have no secrets. You should know that by now.”
“That’s not true, either. I’m not sure your uncle Willie trusts you as much as you think he does, Robin. Plus, your uncle Willie’s word actually means something. Which means someone else mentioned it to you.”
“Like who?”
“Why don’t you tell me? Who knows? You might appreciate a little confession. No?” I smiled patiently. “Besides, I am getting paid. That’s what’s in it for me. Since you ask. Your uncle promised me five thousand dollars. Or maybe he didn’t tell you that, either.”
“That was to handle the money transfer at the hotel. But you’ve done that. This tape business seems to be a lot more complicated.”
“All part of the same Grand Hôtel concierge service.”
“Yes, I suppose one could look at it that way.”
“I do.”
“Good of you. Thanks.”
“Will you be joining us to listen to the tape?” I asked.
“Yes. Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Have you listened to it, yourself?”
“Not yet. It’s really none of my business. And it seemed more courteous to wait until your uncle was present. He’s the one who’s been asked to pay two hundred thousand dollars for the tape, after all. Besides, I’m not sure any of it will mean very much to me. My English is good but it’s not perfect. I still have a problem working out what any of you people really mean. English is very different from German in that respect. In German people say exactly what they mean. Even when they would prefer to say something else.”
“Oh yes. Of course.”
It was time for me to play out a hunch I had.
“Maybe this is a good opportunity for us to talk frankly, Robin.”
“About what?”
“I was hoping you might volunteer something about this whole dirty business.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do.”
Robin smiled and feigned patience even as he fidgeted with his gold cuff links, nervously. “No, actually, old boy, I don’t.”
“By all accounts your uncle’s old friend and companion Gerald Haxton had some quite substantial gambling debts. At the casino in Nice, it turns out. I checked with a friend of mine who was the manager there for a while. Gerald was up to his gills in debt.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. About Gerald, that is.”
“Previously it was Gerald who put Louis up to blackmailing your uncle. To make some money for them both.”
“Yes, perhaps. Louis wasn’t my friend, exactly. He was Gerald’s.”
“Nevertheless you also went to bed with Louis. At least according to your uncle. Gerald as well, probably.”
“What of it?”
“Only this: I think Gerald gave or perhaps sold you some letters and photographs before he died. As a sort of legacy or insurance policy, I don’t know. And you decided to copy his example and use them as a way of making a bit of extra money now and then. When you needed to raise a bit of cash for a new toy like that Alfa Romeo you’re driving.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“Didn’t I make it clear? You’re a blackmailer, too, Robin.”
“Nonsense. I’m a writer. And I make a good living as a writer. A few years ago I wrote a novel called The Servant, which has done very well—look, I don’t have to sit here and be insulted by you.”
“You do unless you want me to tell your uncle exactly what you and Harold Hebel were arguing about the first time I saw you both at La Voile d’Or.”
Robin Maugham paused, blushing to the edge of his handmade shirt collar, and then lit a cigarette, trying to affect a nonchalance that plainly wasn’t there. “No secret there,” he said. “I should have thought that was bloody obvious. He had a compromising photograph involving my uncle and I was rather keen to get it back.”
“In my experience people don’t normally behave like that with a blackmailer.”
“Is there a correct way to behave? Don’t be absurd.”
“Usually people are very meek because they’re afraid.”
“Possibly because they’re the ones being blackmailed.”
“According to the manager at the Voile you and Hebel met for a drink. More than once. Your name is in Hebel’s address book. And his diary. I searched his room at the Grand the other night. I think it was Hebel who told you that I was a private detective. And I think your argument was because you were very anxious to know exactly how he came by that photograph.”
“From Louis Legrand, of course.”
“No. That’s what Hebel said. But it’s just not possible. You see, Louis Legrand has been in prison in Marseilles for several months. I checked with the police, in Nice. Hebel couldn’t possibly have met your little friend Loulou.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“I don’t like it myself. You’re right. It makes me sound like a queer. Like a bitch. Maybe I should paint my toenails, buy a silk shirt—then I could fit right in at the Villa Mauresque. Either way I don’t think your uncle will have any trouble believing me. Even without lipstick I can make an attractive argument about this to him.”
Robin Maugham sighed and then stared up at the ceiling as if hoping
he might find the answer hanging off the dusty wooden chandelier. The French windows were none too clean either; bright sunlight showed up cobwebs like giant fingerprints on more than one pane of glass, and in the lost domain that was one corner under the refectory table was a champagne glass containing a cigarette end. Maybe I did belong somewhere like that; I wasn’t exactly gleaming myself.
“Don’t get me wrong, Robin. I’m no better than you. In many ways I’m worse. Long ago I concluded I don’t have a soul of my own. Not anymore.”
“Look, if I tell you the truth, will you promise not to tell my uncle?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know. It all depends on what you tell me.”
“I’ll pay you to keep silent about this.”
“I think you’re mistaking me for another double-dealing bastard, Robin. I’m not a blackmailer. And I agreed to help your uncle, not help someone else to put the squeeze on him.”
“Look, I’ve made mistakes. I’m only human. But you must believe me, I’d never do anything to hurt my uncle Willie.”
“Not consciously, perhaps. So. Why don’t you tell me? How did Harold Hebel come to be in possession of this photograph?”
Robin Maugham got up and went to close the drawing room door. Then he lit a cigarette, quite forgetting there was one already burning in the ashtray, and walked around the room nervously for a few seconds before sitting down again. It wasn’t yet eleven but already he was sweating profusely.
“I’m not exactly sure, to be honest.”
“Take your time. I’m in no hurry. I took the whole morning off.”
“There’s a man in London who used to be a friend of my uncle’s. Chap named Blunt, Anthony Blunt. He’s queer, too.”
“Blunt’s one of the naked men in the photograph that was taken here at the Villa Mauresque, right?”
“The one taken in nineteen thirty-seven, yes.”
“Go on.”
“He’s now a very prominent art dealer. Very well connected. Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures. Director of the Courtauld Institute of Art. Anyway, I was a bit short of cash and so the last time I was in London, Anthony and I met for lunch at my club and I offered to sell him the photograph and some letters from him to Gerald. You see, Blunt’s a friend of this fellow Guy Burgess, too. In fact, I think they even shared a house during the war. Naturally, it would mean that Blunt would have to resign from all his offices if that picture ended up in the newspapers. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t a fortune I was asking. Just a thousand pounds, that’s all. Cheap at the price in view of how much Hebel is asking for it.”
