by Heron Carvic
Two plainclothesmen from the Swiss Sûreté, their clothes—dark suits, dark ties, dark shoes, white shirts, fawn raincoats, felt hats with feathers in the bands—so plain, so uniform that they were that in effect, glanced at each other, shrugged in unison. Some ladies didn’t travel well. No doubt that was why . . . But, even so, she could not now be long delayed. Not for them to ask for information at the desk. For them to shadow, to watch, to be discreet, unnoticeable. But with a new flight—no, two flights—coming in, it would be more discreet, less noticeable to get back to their car. They turned as one, strode out as one, encarred as two and settled down to wait.
A young man was expostulating at an information desk.
“But after all, I say, you know, she must be here. There’ll be fair old ructions if she’s got lost again. You’ve got to find her. After all, that’s her case”—he pointed to where Miss Seeton’s suitcase rested lonely and abandoned against the barrier—“and if that’s there, where’s she? After all, I’m from the embassy—in Bern, you know—and the consulate here asked me to whiffle along and pick her up—meet her, you know—and do a spot of looking after, so you’d better stir your stumps and find her.”
The girl at information could not help him. She telephoned here, asked questions there, but no one seemed to know. The young man, now popeyed with frustration, turned away, surveyed the ever-increasing throng of travelers. Stay by the case? Or sit outside? Outside’d be best with all this mob. He went to his car reluctantly and settled down to wait.
A smartly dressed woman stood close to the wall. She had been standing there now for quite some time, toying with Vogue. In her thirties? Early? Late? It was difficult to tell. Fair hair brushed back tight to the head, twist-rolled, brilliant blue eyes alight with laughter and intelligence; no beauty, but she would outshine all women in whatever company she chose to grace. Fashionable? She gave the impression that, whether or not she followed fashion, fashion followed her.
She had watched, expressionless but with amusement, Elio Mantoni’s shifting from foot to foot, his distracted glances around, his oh-so-casual examination of the label on Miss Seeton’s case, and then his departure. That bulge in his briefcase—could it be a gun? He was, she guessed, seated in a taxi outside, waiting.
The uniformed policeman’s dilemma, before his final retirement, had made her smile. He, she imagined, was still waiting, still outside.
That chauffeur, so correct, had also glanced at Miss Seeton’s case and then had gone outside. To wait?
The young man—diplomatic?—in a fever of fiasco, of bafflement and failure, after getting no satisfaction from information—he too had gone outside and was, she was sure, still waiting.
For herself, she had finally guessed Miss Seeton’s whereabouts. Better, for the moment, not to intrude; not to interfere. It would appear that this Miss Seeton had the trick—conscious or not—of attracting publicity. And publicity, vis-à-vis Miss Seeton, was something that she preferred to avoid. She glanced at her watch, lifted her shoulders a fraction as though deploring the non-arrival of some friend, passed between the glass doors near her, went to her scarlet Lancia sports coupé, slid into the driver’s seat and settled down to wait.
Four cars and two television vans crept down the lane formed by the vehicles parked on the left and those drawn up with their drivers by the right-hand curb waiting for passengers. The leading car stopped; in consequence its followers braked, while in the rear other cars were forced to halt and, not understanding the delay, began to play a cacophony upon frustrated horns. From the first car the driver jumped, opened his back door with a flourish, bowed, and from it stepped Miss Seeton. He accompanied her into the airport building. They returned, he carrying her suitcase. They were interrupted. Miss Seeton’s appearance had acted as a signal. Doors opened down the line of waiting cars, except for the taxi in which Mantoni kept his vigil, and the scarlet Lancia of which the occupant remained in place to observe and to admire.
The uniformed policeman intercepted Miss Seeton and her cavalier, demanding explanations. The young man seconded to the consulate from the embassy in Bern interposed, expostulating. The chauffeur ordered by the Banque du Lac intervened with mild insistence and the two men from the Sûreté, indisposed to interfere, stood back to listen.
The policeman required the man’s identity. Thrudd Banner, World-Wide-Press. Humph. And where had he been—he and all these others? He waved at the cars and television vans. And where, where then, had been Miss Seeton, instead of with her luggage as was to be expected? In the V.I.P. lounge, giving a press conference. Humph again. A press conference? The young man from the embassy grew shrill with horror. But that was exactly what he’d come here to prevent.
“Too late, friend. Too bad,” said the reporter.
“But look here, after all, I say, she can’t, she’s much too tired, she’s not responsible.”
Thrudd Banner winked at Miss Seeton. “He says you’re gaga, ma’am.”
The young man spluttered. “I—I—you don’t realize who I am.”
“Too wrong; I do.” He did. They all knew Thomas ffoley, Tomfool, attaché at the embassy. Bern got rid of him on any and every pretext and sent him to Geneva. The consulate here had become adept at inventing errands, harmless ploys, to keep him from their hair, and both cities prayed for the day when he’d fall flat on his foolish face and be recalled.
“If you print one word without permission, I—I’ll speak to the ambassador.”
“Do that, and write me what he says. I’ll frame it.”
Thrudd could afford to grin. MissEss had proved good copy, earning his high regard. In verbal thrust and parry she had, in his judgment, matched or outmatched the lot of them, wielding her words with wit and all the skill with which reputedly she wielded an umbrella.
“And what is your opinion, ma’am, of life in jail in Italy?”
Miss Seeton looked reproving. What a way to put it. Like a naughty little boy asking silly questions during class. Still—her opinion? “Oh, very high,” she assured him earnestly.
“And would you tell us,” asked a female cub, “your reason for coming here?”
Her reason? Why, of course. “A holiday.”
And was this her first experience of foreign travel? Oh, yes, indeed. And did she, when on holiday, normally go a long way round to get where she was going? Oh, no. But then, of course, this was not. Normal, she meant. Not normal? Then she admitted that there was, in this case, some extraordinary reason behind her jaunt to Genoa? Oh, yes. Quite extraordinary—pens poised, they leaned expectant; microphones were lowered on their booms; cameras came to close-up—the extraordinary likeness of the names, that was. And what was, Thrudd insisted, her opinion of the police in Italy? So very kind. And such good food. So thoughtful. So understanding. Though, perhaps, almost too much of it—the food, she meant. Would it be true to say she’d come to an understanding with the police in Genoa? Well, one hoped . . . And had she, they chorused, come to a further understanding during the three-hour conclave at Milan? Well, yes, she thought so. Or did hope so. They had certainly seemed most understanding. And very kind. And so hospitable. Except, of course, the coffee.
“Tell me, MissEss,” Thrudd finally had asked with an appreciative twinkle, “so that I don’t misquote: in all this misadventure—as you claim—if the Italian police had misbelieved you, what charge would they have preferred on your arrest, a mischief, a misconduct, or a misdemeanor?”
She looked perplexed. She didn’t quite . . . Was worried, then she smiled. “You see, it was,” Miss Seeton told him, “a mistake.”
And that, Thrudd decided, had given him his heading: MISSESS’ MISTAKE?
And where, the policeman wished to know, did M. Banner think that he was taking the English miss? To her hotel, where else. He would not. The officer drew himself up to the full height of his importance. His orders were, his duty was—and both would be accomplished—to escort the English miss to her hotel.
Mild but stubb
orn, the chauffeur pointed out his orders were, his duty was—and for both he would be held answerable—to escort the English miss to her hotel.
In stridulous tones the attaché overrode them. He felt his reputation was at stake. He had been entrusted with, at last, a significant assignment. He must not fail.
“I represent the British embassy—the consulate—and I’m afraid I must insist that Miss Seeton is handed over to my charge.”
Finally the matter was arranged; without reference to Miss Seeton’s wishes: ffoley would drive her, the chauffeur would follow with her luggage, the policeman would act as escort, thus fulfilling both his orders and his duty, and Thrudd, if all this was okay by MissEss, would follow; the rest of the news hounds having already gained the most of what they wanted.
Once clear of the airport, the other press cars and the television vans cut on ahead, leaving Thomas ffoley to grind his gear changes sedately and in triumph. Firmness, that was what was wanted with foreigners. Britain could still look after her citizens when they got themselves into a spot of trouble when abroad. Just put your foot down and be firm.
He put his foot down firmly at a traffic light and his and Miss Seeton’s heads both jerked in unison. The chauffeur, with her cases, swore and braked; why couldn’t the English sot learn to drive. The police driver had more time and, back of him, Thrudd Banner, the two men from the Sûreté and Mantoni’s taxi eased to a halt. The lights changed. Thomas ffoley stalled his engine, clashed his gears and jolted forward and the cavalcade set off again to wend its slow way down into the city, toward the lake. In the rear the owner of the scarlet Lancia kept an eye upon them all.
Miss Seeton found it strange. Foreign travel. So very unexpected. Or, should one say, so very different from what one had expected. Admittedly she had traveled rather more, and slightly farther, than had originally been intended—though, privately, she felt that, mortifying though her mistake had been, it was one that many might have made in the same circumstances. But it was surprising what a lot of people took an interest. The police she could understand, up to a point. They were extending politeness to a colleague. Not realizing that, in actual fact, she wasn’t. Or, at all events, not in the sense they seemed to think.
They had reached the lake and the car came to another abrupt halt. To hooted indignation from behind, ffoley crossed from the right-turn lane to turn left over the Pont du Mont Blanc. Miss Seeton recovered her balance.
“Could you tell me, Mr. ffoley,” she ventured, “to what hotel we’re going?” The car swerved. Oh. One should not, perhaps, talk to a gentleman when driving. ffoley recovered.
“But after all—look here—I say, you said you were on holiday.”
“I am.”
“Well, that’s what I mean. After all, good Lord, you must know where you booked.” He was beginning to regret his chivalry: thought he was rescuing an elderly lady in distress; now it appeared the old dame was slightly dotty.
Miss Seeton sensed something of his feelings. “I did not”—her voice was a little tart—“make the booking myself, Mr. ffoley. They told me that there would be a car to meet me and take me to my hotel, but they did not say its name. So, naturally, I . . .” She stopped, realizing that the car in question had been ordered to meet a plane from England yesterday, and not one from Italy today.
“You’re at the Richesse; with all the confabs that’ve been going on everybody knows that. What firm—who are these ‘they’ who booked you in without telling you?”
“Er—some friends made all the arrangements for my holiday.”
Did they just? Then in spite of how she looked she must be rolling. The Richesse mightn’t be him—old hat, unscenic—but they could charge. Cost you a quid to cough. Hang on a bit—she was from Scotland Yard. Couldn’t be all that dotty. Maybe she was here on some hush-hush do. Yes, that’d be it—then something cropped and she’d switched to Italy. Geneva was always up to its chin in hush with everybody having confabs on the strict q.t. Well, this was one where he’d got himself onto the inside track. Somebody’s sent for her, someone with money. Better stick around a bit; might do the old career a bit of good.
At the far side of the bridge he turned to the right along the Quai du Mont Blanc, past the Brunswick Monument, swung the car left without waiting across the oncoming traffic to the latter’s mechanical and vocal fury, down the Rue Adhémar Fabri, which borders one side of the triangle forming the Place des Alpes, slid by a line of parked cars in front of an awninged terrace, to pull up near the pavement before the wide, shallow steps which lead to the entrance of the Hôtel de la Richesse.
In the fleeting glimpse she had had of it in passing, the monument, with its likeness to a scale model for the Albert Memorial, had given Miss Seeton a restorative sense of familiarity. She felt pleased that her hotel should be so close to, and look out upon, such a reminder of Kensington Gardens. Her hotel? All sense of familiarity left her as a smiling porter in plum-colored uniform, peaked cap in hand, held her door and helped her to alight; as three smiling boys in like-colored uniforms hurried through the revolving doors and down the steps; as an aproned luggage porter with a welcoming smile appeared from a basement at the side. She stood aghast. Oh, dear, how very unsuitable. What could Mr. Telmark have been thinking of? Even if, as she supposed, it was to be for only one night, or, possibly, two, it was still so very—well, really, there was no other word—unsuitable. One had expected, naturally, some superior sort of boardinghouse; so many of them called themselves hotels. But this—the Hotel of Riches; and it so evidently was—oh, dear, it was—it really was—unsuitable.
While Miss Seeton stood debating the suitability of the hotel and of herself, the chauffeur handed her cases to the luggage porter, saluted and drove off; the police car drew up and halted; Thrudd Banner decided that if the police could double-park so could he too—for a moment. He jumped out and took up his position to get a picture of Miss Seeton as she entered; the men from the Sûreté stopped behind him. With cars parked against the curb outside the hotel and others opposite angled between white lines backing onto the garden of the Place des Alpes, this double-parking had left only a single lane. Mantoni’s taxi driver waited for a break, pulled out, but as he came abreast of Miss Seeton Mantoni ordered him to halt. The Italian wound down his window. He was within a foot of her. Such an opportunity might never come again. It was irresistible. He thought quickly, looked back. A red car was coming up in their rear. That would stop the police—delay pursuit. If the taxi driver realized what had happened he would hold the pistol on him, force him to drive on, at speed, and, when they were clear, hit his head, shoot if necessary, abandon him and disappear. Allora. Mantoni raised his briefcase.
The owner of the scarlet Lancia, blocked by the taxi, sprang from her car and stepped forward with determination, stood in front of Mantoni’s window, waved at her car in explanation and said:
“Mais, je vous en prie, monsieur.”
Mantoni glared at her. His driver turned to stare and mentally wolf-whistled, engaged his gear and drew the taxi forward. Mantoni’s opportunity had gone. Already Miss Seeton had moved to the pavement with the hall porter—it was too far—always, always, this interfering woman was between his aim and them. Frustrated, he said to the driver to drive on. So, so, this then was not the time. But—and he noted it—this was the place. Tomorrow, tomorrow he would be prepared.
One of the hotel bellboys grinned a question. The fair-haired woman smiled and nodded. He took the Lancia and drove it away while she went lightly up the steps and into the hotel.
Flanked by the policeman and by Thomas ffoley, Miss Seeton followed through the revolving door, pushed by another smiling boy. She was led to the far end of the reception desk, her passport number was recorded, a young man, very correct in a black suit, collected her key and preceded her to one of the two lifts, opened by yet one more smiling attendant. She turned to thank her convoy, shook hands with the policeman, who assured her that he was at her service; shook hands with
Thomas ffoley, who declared that he would call on her tomorrow to see how she was shaking down. The lift ascended and she emerged at the third floor.
Her room was large; her suitcase and her overnight bag awaited her. Really, for a hotel, the room was very large; a comfortable-looking bed, an armchair by a table with a standard lamp, a writing desk, another chair, another lamp. The correct young man opened doors: showed her the bathroom, the hanging cupboards and the shelves; was there anything she wished for—a drink, some coffee, or some tea? Well, a cup of tea she would be very grateful for. Indian or China, lemon or milk? Thankfully Miss Seeton opted for China, weak, with plenty of hot water. It would arrive immediately. And as to dinner? In the restaurant—a set menu? In the grill—à la carte—he would reserve a table? Or, should she be feeling tired, would she prefer the meal served in her room? Catching her expression at his last suggestion, the young man smiled and informed her that the floor waiter would attend on her at seven and present a menu for her choice. Should she require anything else before, she had only to ring or use the telephone. He bowed, he smiled again, withdrew.
The tea arrived and, on the tray, an envelope. A letter from Karl Telmark suggesting that, in view of all that had taken place, it would be better if she did not come to the bank, for fear of publicity, and that he would do himself the honor, with her permission, to call upon her at her hotel the next morning and discuss her plans. Discuss? Her plans? But she had none. She was here to work—to draw—for him. Poor Mr. Telmark and that missed appointment for this morning. It was very worrying. One felt so guilty at the trouble one must have caused. And then the police in Italy—they had seemed quite sure that she had had some other reason for arriving there and, when she had explained, they had laughed and made such a fuss over her—and all that food. It had, of course, been very kind, but just a little worrying. And, even here, in Switzerland. So many people to meet her at the airport—she’d understood that no one was to know—and newspaper people, too. The whole of the last twenty-four hours had been so strange and really rather worrying.
