by Heron Carvic
Dutifully Miss Seeton settled down to worry—and she failed. She looked at the bed, then went and sat upon it. It was, as she had thought, most comfortable. Most . . . comfortable. She caught herself yawning. The whole hotel—most comfortable. No. Comforting would be more correct. One had feared that it would be intimidating. For someone like oneself, that was. But, no. Everyone had smiled, was welcoming. She yawned again. She’d been up very late last night—and it had been an early start this morning—with two journeys. There were still a couple of hours before they would come about her dinner. Really, she . . . She slipped off her shoes, lay down and pulled the coverlet over her. Worrying, of course, but comforting . . . and comfortable . . .
And so, instead of worrying, Miss Seeton fell asleep.
Elio Mantoni had done a hard night’s work. He had reconnoitered the Place des Alpes until he knew every foot of the ground: the ornamental pond behind the Brunswick Monument; the small café restaurant, between the outside tables of which runs the main shortcut crossing the Place, to diverge into little paths ending on the pavement of the Rue des Alpes; the slope down to flat ground at the far end where the Rue Bonivard separates the Place des Alpes from the huge expanse of the Place Dorcière with its bus terminals and heavy traffic, from which vantage point he could see—but could also be seen by—the entrance to the Richesse; last, and best, the footway, screened by evergreen shrubs, leading from the café tables to the back of the parked cars in the Rue Adhémar Fabri. Here, sheltered from sight by the shrubs and cars, there was a clear view of the hotel terrace and, across the road, at an angle, of the door to the hotel itself.
His reconnaissance over, he had crossed the lake, returned to the Old Town and climbed the steep steps of the Passage des Degrés-de-Poules to the first of the two plateaus formed by the bastions below the cathedral. The passage steps are as precipitous as their name implies, though whether “de-Poules” refers to chickens or to prostitutes appears uncertain; presumably the latter, since no self-respecting chicken would attempt the sharp ascent, sinister even by daylight. It is kinder to picture that in times gone by a bedizened lady sat at a window or draped a doorway near the top to act as a reward and consummation for any breathless mountaineer.
Ill-boding though the place might be, it was deserted. Few people go there even by day and it was, in Mantoni’s estimation, an ideal rifle range. For his first endeavor he aimed quite simply at the wall of the Rue Farel. The Rue Farel is not a street in the generally accepted meaning of the term. It is more in the nature of a brick support for the bastion above and disappears in a slow bend where the lower platform narrows. It is ill-lit by a dim lamp set in an iron bracket. At this Mantoni leveled his briefcase, fired—and missed the wall. After twenty minutes’ practice he had improved and twice had come within two feet of the wall bracket. The silencer was satisfactory; he was pleased with it. It made no more noise than someone suffering from indigestion. Mantoni, the amateur assassin on payroll, was not to know that silencers are unprofessional, save in exceptional circumstances, since, apart from the unwieldly length, they make for indifferent aim.
A shadow moved. Two sparks of green fire menaced him. He sighted and pulled the trigger. A flurry of movement and the green sparks disappeared. Putting down his briefcase, the elated Italian danced a short pas seul. He’d mastered it, his aim was true, he’d killed a cat.
Round the diminishing curve of the Rue Farel, tail high with indignation, stalked a cat. Never before had this place been used for target practice, with things that went phut and whistled through your fur.
He’d killed a cat! Tomorrow, down by the lakeside there, he’d kill just such another. In mistaken triumph Mantoni snatched his briefcase and ran down the passage steps to return to his boardinghouse, the Hotel Magnifique, there to enjoy the refreshing, dreamless sleep of the unjust.
Miss Seeton woke late and felt a little guilty. True, she had no actual appointment for this morning and would have to wait until Mr. Telmark told her what to do. Or, rather, what to draw. Nevertheless a slight feeling of guilt persisted and she hurried through her breathing exercises and her knees—she would do her full regimen of yoga exercises this evening before dinner. Nearly nine o’clock. It would be quite dreadful to feel that one had kept the waiters waiting to serve breakfast. The gentleman behind the desk in the hall good-morninged her. She handed him her key. He told her it was a lovely day. Miss Seeton apologized that she was late for breakfast. He laughed and assured her she was not—that guests had breakfast anytime, but anytime at all, it made no difference, until the hour for lunch. But since it was such a lovely day, sunny and warm, would she not prefer to have it on the terrace? She agreed. He smiled and bowed. A smiling boy revolved revolving doors and Miss Seeton emerged to blink in the strong light.
She moved to her left under the awning—and blinked again, this time in surprise. Goodness. A little extreme, surely, even in these days. Really, more what one would expect upon the stage. And in the morning, too. The makeup, she meant. So—so excessive. In the angle formed by the end of the low balustrade which runs the length of the terrace to the steps stood a blonde, an over-blonde, blond in excelsis. High heels, sheer black tights on superb legs; the clothing extreme, extremely extreme; heavy pancake makeup of a sunburned color, vermilion mouth, the eyes blue-shadowed, the ends of the false lashes tipped with large mascara blobs, the brows drawn in black; the whole surmounted by an effusion, a profusion of blond hair caught by an Alice band and flowing backward in a cloud to reach, had it hung straight, below her shoulders. Surely, thought Miss Seeton, it must be false. Or, some of it at least. There was so much of it. And so improbable.
The blonde gave a tortured smile. Miss Seeton responded primly, “Bongjour,” which she trusted was correct.
A waiter hurried forward and led her to a table. Miss Seeton, the crook of her umbrella on the back of her chair, placed her handbag on the seat beside her and sat down, while the waiter suggested fruit juice, bacon-egg, or a café complet? Miss Seeton looked blank. Coffee, with rolls, croissants, butter and brioches with jam. Just the—er—that last, it sounded quite delicious. The waiter departed and the blonde moved to settle herself at the table behind Miss Seeton, pressed the bell and the waiter returned to take her order: fruit juice and coffee.
How pretty it all was. The troughs of zinnias all along the balustrade. Geneva seemed full of flowers. In window boxes, in the gardens, everywhere. Miss Seeton was enchanted. Protected from the direct sunlight by the awning, she could look about in comfort. On her right across the road, behind all those parked cars, was such an attractive garden with a little notice on a stand saying CAFÉ RESTAURANT. While, straight ahead, beyond all that heavy traffic, she could see a portion of the lake, where boats were sailing. Close to, and all around her, hopped and twittered sparrows hoping for crumbs. Her breakfast arrived. The croissants were warm and melted in the mouth, the coffee excellent. It was all so very, very charming. And so peaceful.
Karl Telmark had dealt with his correspondence at the bank. Before leaving home he had glanced at the morning papers. Now he studied them carefully: Swiss, Italian, French—all featured Miss Seeton, her activities and her arrival; with photographs. Later, when the English and American editions were on sale, added to the interest roused by last night’s television feature, the situation would be worse. He instructed his secretary to cancel two appointments and left shortly before nine. He would call at the Richesse, have a word with the proprietor and arrange to see this woman, this MissEss, privately in her room. She should, evidently, be up and dressed by nine o’clock.
The proprietor made inquiries and informed him that his guest had had early-morning tea and was now upon the terrace having breakfast. The two men sauntered casually out onto the steps so that M. Telmark could gain the advantage of an unnoticed preview and assessment of his temporary employee. The ruse was unsuccessful since all he could see were Miss Seeton’s shoulders and the back of a most ill-chosen hat.
Nineish. Thrud
d Banner had decided to catch her before she was likely to go out. Last night he’d rung a friend in London to try and learn a bit more about her and the general idea seemed to be that once things started happening to her they didn’t stop till half the criminal population was either in jail or dead. Copywise, he’d been advised, she was a good investment timewise. So he thought if he could winkle out of her, chattily, something of her movements or her plans, he’d get a rough idea of where to keep tabs on her.
He crossed the Place Dorcière, had to await his chance to dive over a pedestrian crossing in the Rue Bonivard and reached the garden of the Place des Alpes. He looked toward the hotel and grinned. That hat—there couldn’t be two like it in the world; there it was, sitting on the terrace drinking coffee.
Thomas ffoley did not care for early rising and deplored the Swiss habit of starting work at eight. However, this morning, with his career in mind, he had made an effort. He’d skipped breakfast—he’d give himself an innings when he got to the hotel. But with these old girls you never knew. They might go jaunting off at any old time instead of staying decently put until about eleven. He’d better, he supposed, get there around nine.
The traffic in the Rue Bonivard was heavy so he paid off his taxi at the bottom of the Place des Alpes—he hadn’t been able to wangle a car out of the consulate again. No good bringing his own bus—nowhere to park. In front of him he saw that awful reporter fellow who’d been with her at the airport yesterday. Well, just as well he’d turned up really. After all, with fellows like that about she’d need a bit of help, and at the same time he’d be able to get a bit of an idea of what was what and what was on.
The sky was a cloudless blue, the sun was shining and Mantoni felt on top of his world, in full mastery of himself, his weapon and events. He had bought a cheap Japanese camera and had affixed it to his briefcase so that when unzipped and ready for the fray, in raising it, he would appear to be a tourist taking photographs. Also the viewfinder of the camera would improve his marksmanship. His intent was to follow his quarry when walking in the street, come up behind her at a crowded moment, fire at close range, rezip, and saunter on, one of a throng who had not noticed the elderly lady who had slipped, had stumbled, fallen. He had forgone breakfast at the Hotel Magnifique, where, although included in the charge, the meal was not magnificent—the croissants stale, the jam a watered jelly.
Now, at a table outside the café in the Place des Alpes, he was enjoying a second pot of coffee, a second plate of croissants with butter and black cherry preserve. At intervals he would leave the table like any tourist to give the impression of taking photographs. It appeared that he was particularly interested in recording the frontage of the Hotel de la Richesse and, finally, at a few minutes past nine o’clock, his perseverance was rewarded. Lurking behind a shrub, he raised the briefcase with its camera and peered across the road. There on the terrace in plain view, almost opposite him, sat Miss Seeton. And the distance was no more than last night when he’d killed the cat. It was—irresistible. It was Fate. He pulled the trigger and in the camera’s eye he watched Miss Seeton’s head—and hat—fall forward, sideways, then vanish from his sight beneath the table. He’d done it. His orders—and his vendetta—were accomplished. He’d done it—as he knew he could. The Italian restrained, contained himself. This was no place to indulge in triumphal dances. Aglow with pride, he sauntered through the garden to the Rue des Alpes, turned left, then waited dutifully until the lights signaled permission to cross the quai, and lost himself in the pedestrian crowd that flowed toward the bridge.
The blonde at the table behind Miss Seeton, lifting the heavy mascaraed lids, surveyed the garden of the Place des Alpes. A small man, half concealed by shrubs, was preparing to take photographs. She shook a cigarette from a packet, rose and put her hand on the back of Miss Seeton’s chair.
“Say, excuse me.” Her voice was low and pleasantly modulated. “Could you favor me with a light?”
“I’m so sorry,” apologized Miss Seeton. “I’m afraid that I have no matches. I don’t smoke.”
In removing her hand the blonde dislodged the umbrella, which fell and caught between her ankles, making her lurch. To save herself she clutched Miss Seeton’s shoulder, pulling her over, and she, Miss Seeton, Miss Seeton’s chair, the tablecloth and most of Miss Seeton’s breakfast, all landed in a tangle on the tiles. There was a whining buzz: a small hole appeared in the window just above them; the glass starred and fragments tinkled; and in the hotel writing room, to the accompaniment of cries and exclamations, part of a large mirror on the farther wall disintegrated and cascaded to the floor.
Among the onlookers the crash caused various degrees of consternation.
The proprietor sighed: another careless waiter; another tray; more cups; more glasses; more stains upon the carpet. He retired into the hotel to learn the damage.
Thrudd Banner’s ever-ready camera had caught the moment of the befalling; now he raced forward and from below the balustrade snapped a quick shot of the starred window, showing, unless he was off the beam, a bullet hole.
ffoley dashed after him. “Look here—stop that—after all you can’t do that—look here, after all—look here—” How like these awful fellows who take awful pictures just at the wrong moment. Anyway, he’d jolly well see these never got into print. He’d throw a scare into the fellow—quote the embassy—pull rank—and put his foot down. Thank God he’d beetled over early—just in time. This would show the consulate—show them in Bern as well—that he was Johnny-on-the-spot and on the ball.
Down the street a man in a fawn raincoat and a felt hat with a feather in the band had run back to his car to contact the Sûreté headquarters. His counterpart ran ahead and up the steps, onto the terrace, where, joined by Thrudd Banner and Thomas ffoley, he helped to raise Miss Seeton to her feet, replace her chair and restore her blond companion. Two waiters collected and swept up the debris, produced napkins to dab at spotted clothes and laughed away the accident. The ladies were not to distress themselves, they would be re-served at once.
Karl Telmark had watched the fracas on the terrace with misgiving. Who or what was this MissEss who traveled in wrong directions, who surrounded herself with publicity when she should not, who missed appointments and who now could not eat even a simple breakfast in a respectable hotel without overturning herself, her breakfast and her chair—without counting an exaggerated blonde? The proprietor’s news arrested his thoughts and redirected them. So—that was why she had thrown herself to the ground: to dodge a bullet. So—already this MissEss must have discovered something of the Stemkos affair. So—the affair must be more dangerous than he had supposed. Evidently this was no moment to approach her. It would be best . . . yes—he would write her a note inviting her to dinner and arrange with the proprietor to send her there by taxi. At least in his own home no person could learn of their meeting nor would she be likely to precipitate an escapade. Distantly he heard the wail of a police siren. He must go. The police already knew, through Scotland Yard and Interpol, of his engagement of her and could, should they wish it, question him privately. As for the rest, it would be better for MissEss, and for himself, that none of the staff nor the spectators should learn of the connection.
A police car tore around the Place Dorsière, through the halted traffic on the Rue Bonivard and stopped at the hotel. Four men in uniform: one stayed with the car, two sprang to the terrace and the other entered the hotel. The moment they took charge the man in the fawn raincoat had a brief word with them and left. Questions were asked, statements were taken, trajectory and line of fire were estimated, measured and the spot where the would-be killer must have stood was pinpointed. More questions were asked, more statements taken, but nothing of any help became apparent. Miss Seeton failed to get the drift: she’d heard nothing—seen nothing. Except the destruction of her breakfast. Which was her fault. So stupid of her to leave her umbrella hanging there. When she was shown the bullet hole, it could be, she was quite convin
ced, nothing to do with her. It must be, she imagined, some form of demonstration. The blonde was unhelpful. No, there’d been no bang, except—she rubbed her hip—where she’d fallen. But at that she guessed in a way it had been lucky. Seemed like falling over her own feet and knocking everything to hell had got this poor lady out of the line of fire. The hotel staff was equally unaidful. No, they’d heard nothing—only the crash of glass. So that the few facts that the officers could establish were: where the criminal had stood; that there’d been no sound of a shot; and the bullet they dug from the wall behind the mirror.
A message came through on the car radio and was relayed. Would Miss Seeton do them the honor to call at the Hôtel de la Police and make a formal statement that afternoon? Miss Seeton, slightly surprised, agreed and the officers departed.
While the ill-assorted quartet of Miss Seeton, the blonde, Thrudd Banner and Thomas ffoley settled down to a newly served breakfast, Elio Mantoni continued rejoicing on his way. He heard the far-off siren and he laughed. What they would need would be a hearse. He marched up the hill in the Old Town to his boardinghouse and behind him crept, as though looking for a place to park, a scarlet Lancia.
Miss Seeton’s interrogation during the afternoon at the Hôtel de la Police was another failure: they failed to elicit the information they were seeking; she failed to understand what it was they sought. The formality of her formal statement was soon disposed of and the inspector to whom had been assigned the task of questioning her, primarily on account of his excellent command of English, got down to business. Would she care to reveal what it was she had discovered of such importance that someone should risk shooting at her in a public place in full daylight? No? Would she care to reveal the exact nature of the investigation she was to make on behalf of the Banque du Lac and whom it concerned? No? Would she care to reveal why—when they had been given to understand by both their English colleagues and M. Telmark that her visit was to be in strict secrecy, on a private matter which concerned the bank—she had, instead, decided to arrive with the utmost publicity? No? It had not been a ruse to flush—that was the correct word, was it not?—the criminals into the open? No? Would she care to reveal the reason for her journey to Italy and whom—the inspector leaned across his desk, eyebrows raised in challenge, lips twisted sardonically—whom had she been following? No? Elio Mantoni? He flashed the name at her. His shock tactics failed as dismally as had the rest of his questionnaire. The only response he got was a look of complete bewilderment.
