by Alen Mattich
“Welcome to Hampstead. Do you know where you’re going?”
“It’s a building set into the park, up on the hill. Do you mind driving round?”
PC Nicholas didn’t mind. He seemed to enjoy marvelling at the big houses the rich people lived in, guessing at how much they might cost.
They made a circuit of the vast park called Hampstead Heath, looking for a likely building. They briefly got lost on the Highgate side, up a steep, narrow lane bordered by heavy cast-iron railings and overhung by ivy-strangled trees, where they caught glimpses of weathered stone angels in the shadows. It was only when they passed the gates that della Torre remembered. Highgate Cemetery. Eternal home to Karl Marx. They muddled their way to the road at the wooded top of the Heath and then drove down its eastern side.
“There,” della Torre said. “Stop here.” He’d remembered Strumbić’s description. It was five storeys high, red brick, and built around the turn of the century — the southernmost of a pair of buildings that dug into the Heath, surrounded on three sides by the parkland and on the fourth by a narrow road. Crowned with white dormers, which della Torre had kept his eyes on from the top of the hill.
They pulled up directly in front of the building. Della Torre got out and tried the keys on the front door. One of the Yales worked.
PC Nicholas seemed disappointed that they had arrived so soon; he’d have to drive back into the depths of south London now. Della Torre came back to grab his suitcase from the car and shook the officer’s hand with heartfelt thanks.
He carried his near-empty suitcase and his shoulder bag up the stairs, ignoring the lift. He tried to remember — had Strumbić said the third floor or the fourth? Whichever it was, he knew it had a long view over central London, which put it on the south side of the building.
He worked his way methodically along the parquet-floored hallways, knocking on doors and, when there was no answer, trying the keys. Once a maid answered, but she didn’t seem to speak English. Otherwise, no one seemed to be around. When he’d run out of doors on the third floor, he went up the stairs.
The security key fit the corner flat. Although he heard the deadbolt clank and the Yale turned in the door handle, he couldn’t open the door. He tried to force it but the wood protested against his weight. And then he remembered the Chubb lock.
The apartment was spacious and light. A small entrance hall opened into a large sitting room, which bent around in an L shape. The bottom leg of the L was a dining room, and there was a galley kitchen in the angle. The windows, covered by fine muslin curtains, looked to the south and the east over a large expanse of woods, rolling meadows, and ponds glinting in the morning light; beyond, the hill ended and London’s vastness took over. The apartment was furnished along simple lines, the way he’d seen in Swedish houses. Nothing looked cheap, but it was all understated, with spare lines. There were a few older mahogany pieces, but none of the fake, heavy rococo that was all too common in Italian households. He wandered along the hall, looking into one, two, and then a third bedroom, the last with its own bathroom.
The apartment was vast. Had Strumbić said two hundred square metres? Della Torre could easily believe it. There was nowhere like it in Zagreb that he knew of. Come to think of it, he’d only ever seen places like this in magazines, as backdrops to celebrity photo shoots. He’d long known Strumbić was a crook, doing dodgy little sidelines here and there, but he never imagined it could be on such a scale. The apartment was worthy of a Mafia kingpin.
He’d have felt comfortable camping out for a couple of weeks while he decided what to do, but it was obvious someone was living here. The flat was spotless but the refrigerator was full of food. Stockings were hung up to dry in one bathroom, and the other was full of well-ordered toiletries. There were women’s clothes in the closet of the main bedroom. The decor was neutral or slightly feminine.
He went back to the front door and tried all the keys again. There was no mistake — this was Strumbić’s apartment.
Della Torre sat on a cream sofa and was about to light a cigarette when he noticed there was no ashtray. He found a saucer in the kitchen and brought it back to the living room.
He was tired and he smelled. He wished he had a change of clothes, but then he remembered seeing a washing machine and dryer in the bathroom. Maybe Strumbić had a mistress whom he kept in the place. He’d never mentioned one. In fact he’d said it was empty, waiting for him.
The only woman in London Strumbić had mentioned was the agent who handled the apartment for him. Della Torre remembered the conversation. He’d asked how much the apartment had cost.
“You don’t want to know,” Strumbić had said. “On your salary, you’d probably have to work for the next 250 years to buy it — that’s if I gave you a sixty percent discount and you didn’t eat or pay taxes along the way. It’s not cheap to run, either — the building charges, taxes, utilities . . .”
“Who’s handling it for you?”
“All the bills get paid automatically out of an English account I’ve got set up. There’s enough cash in it to cover costs till I’m a great-grandpa. The agent who sold it to me has it all furnished. Real nice. Not cheap. She’s got taste. Which means I’ve got taste. I give her a call a couple of days beforehand and it’s all ready for me when I get there. Clean, tidy; beds made, dusted, sorted, and nice little touches like flowers, fruit, milk in the fridge, and that feminine smell that makes a place feel like home.”
“She sounds a dream.”
“Not bad-looking, either. Bit older than the ones I usually go for.”
“You mean she’s not sixteen.”
“I’d put her at around thirty,” Strumbić had said, ignoring the comment. “Blond — real blond, not the bottled stuff. Not married, though I don’t know why. She’s put together pretty well, though her tits aren’t as big as I like. A bit on the tall side. She’d suit you better than me. Still, I’d nail her.”
“Except what? It’d ruin your professional relationship?”
“My English isn’t good enough to explain just why it would make so much sense for her. My seductive technique relies a lot on getting the right message across. Maybe I’ll bring you along as translator.”
No mention of any mistress.
Della Torre would just have to sit there until the mystery resolved itself.
But he smelled. And having finally found a quiet bit of comfort, he minded. He decided to chance it, throw his clothes into the machine and then try to explain his way out of any awkwardness later. He was too tired to think straight.
Della Torre stripped and shoved everything into the machine apart from his wool cardigan. He decided to burn it once he’d bought himself a jacket. He took a shower in the en suite bathroom, luxuriating in the lavender soap, using a lady’s razor to shave. He dried himself on a big towel folded over the heated towel radiator, a hitherto unknown luxury.
He wandered into the bedroom, where he found a dressing gown made of heavy damasked grey linen. It fit perfectly. Either the woman was a giantess or she liked flowing robes. A thought flitted across his mind. Maybe he should try on her underwear to see how big she really was. He laughed. The poor priest. The secrets of the confessional meant that he wouldn’t be able to share the story with anyone else. Or would he? Maybe priests kept secrets in the way that secret policemen kept secrets. Which was to say usually, but not always.
Her scent was on the robe. Not a perfume, but her — a light, delicious fragrance. It reminded him of his tiredness. He went into one of the spare bedrooms and lay down. “To stretch his legs,” as his father would confusingly say, mangling the English expression.
It was late afternoon when della Torre woke to the sound of birds. He resisted at first, wanting to prolong the feeling, to rest his bones until they’d savoured every last possible grain of sleep. But he knew he had to get up. Nearly four o’
clock. He was hungry.
He went to check his clothes and cursed. They were sitting in a machine full of water. He’d neglected to switch on the spin cycle. They’d need drying too.
Nothing to be done. His stomach rumbled, so he went into the kitchen to see what he might be able to rustle up and fixed himself a couple of fried eggs with bread. He opened a beer and was surprised to find it was drinkable. No wonder: it was Czech. He was enjoying a cigarette when he heard a key click in the door. Once again, he thought of his gun too late. It was still in pieces inside his suitcase.
He was standing, facing the door, when the woman stepped in. She stopped, pulled back into the doorway, and stood there, holding the frame as if she was going to push off it when she bolted. She paused before speaking.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here? And why are you wearing my dressing gown?” There was a tremor in her voice.
He held his hands up in a show of peaceful intent.
“I’m a friend of Strumbić’s. He gave me the keys to his place and told me I could stay here while I was in London.”
“Who?”
“Strumbić, he owns this place. I used his keys to get in.”
“I don’t know anybody with that name.”
Della Torre shrugged.
“I think you might have to leave.”
“Let me explain.”
“I think the only thing you have to explain is why you haven’t gone yet.”
“Can I keep your dressing gown, then? My clothes are in the washer. You see, I flew in from Italy last night and I was robbed of my money and my things.”
She watched him, her eyes alert, fearful. And cold.
“I know what it looks like, but I promise you it’s not how it seems,” he said. “Listen. You stand there. I’ll stand here, right up against the wall. I’ll turn around if you like. And maybe we can talk. Put a chair in front of the door if you like. But I promise you, I’m pretty sure I have as much right to be here as you.”
She considered him for a long time, tense, poised to slam the door shut and run. But she stayed.
“I’ll listen,” she said slowly, “as long as you do one thing first.” She’d loosened her grip on the door frame but continued to watch him intently, unblinking.
“Tell me.”
“Do you see that little wooden bookcase beside you?”
Della Torre looked at the simple three-shelf stand, then turned his attention back to her, puzzled.
“Think you can pick it up?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said. Only the bottom shelf was full, a few broken-spined paperbacks skulked on the other two.
“Pull it out from the wall a little. Then get behind it and pick it up.”
“Pick it up?”
“Pick it up and don’t let any of the books fall off,” she said. There was a determined air about her, a hard, metallic edge, despite her obvious unease.
He did as she demanded: stood behind the bookcase and picked it up. It was heavier than he’d thought. His back didn’t thank him. Nor did his ribs or knee.
“Now put it on your feet,” she said.
“On my feet?” He looked down at his bare toes and couldn’t avoid wincing. “Is that really necessary? I mean —”
“If you want to talk, you keep that bookcase on your feet. Otherwise I go straight down to the porter and he calls the police.”
Looking at her, he knew there’d be no give. He shrugged and then regretted it; the muscles in his shoulders complained at the weight. So he lowered the case onto the tops of his feet, taking some of the strain with his arms to prevent it from crushing his arches and to keep the books from piling onto the floor.
“I see a book fall and I’m out of here,” she said.
He made a poor attempt at a smile. This was going to be a painful conversation.
“So talk now.” She’d regained control of her voice but tugged on her clothes nervously.
“My clothes are in the machine, the rest were stolen from me this morning when I came in from the airport. I didn’t know this was your dressing gown. I didn’t know anyone was living here. Strumbić didn’t tell me.”
“Who is Strumbić?”
“Strumbić? Julius Strumbić? He’s the owner. He owns this place.”
“I know the owner and his name isn’t Strumbić.”
“Not Strumbić?”
“No.”
She had wavy flaxen hair down to her shoulders and the bluest eyes he could ever remember seeing. She was slim and small-breasted. Her skin was pale, though her cheeks had coloured, and she had full, red lips. He’d have put her in her late twenties, thirty tops.
“You wouldn’t happen to be the agent who handles this place for Strumbić, would you?”
“I’m an agent. But I don’t know anyone named Strumbić.”
“He’s about forty years old, a couple of centimetres shorter than you, big belly. The hair’s thinning a bit, but it’s mostly curly and sort of sandy coloured. Piggy eyes, fat cheeks, and smokes constantly. He might have tried to pinch your bottom. That’s his style, anyway. Carries a big roll of cash and likes to show it off.” His lower back was aching and the edge of the wood was cutting into the tops of his feet.
“It sounds like the owner. But that’s not his name. I suggest you get your clothes and leave before I call the porter and he calls the police.”
“The porter?”
“Yes, the one downstairs. How did you get past him?”
“I didn’t see anyone downstairs.”
“Well, he’ll hear about this,” she said. “Anyway, it was nice to meet you but really it’s time for you to go.”
He was tempted to leave, if only to get out from under the bookcase, but he kept at her.
“Just out of curiosity, what right do you have to be here? You know the owner. Are you a tenant?”
“This isn’t about my right to be here. This is about you having to go now.”
“I’m just curious. You see, Police Constable Nicholas, who drove me here this morning, knows that I’m staying at a friend’s place. He saw that I had the keys and he knew that I’d flown in this morning. So I think he’d vouch for me. I could also give Strumbić a call, and he could call your office and confirm that he offered to let me stay,” he said, hoping the strain from holding the bookcase meant his eyes didn’t give away the bluff. “Could you get the owner to agree that you’ve got the right to be here? Whoever that might be.”
She contemplated him.
“Why don’t you call down to the porter and tell him to come up in half an hour or twenty minutes if you don’t call back down again,” he said. “That way you’ll know a rescuer is at hand. And then why don’t you shut the door and sit down and we can talk, and I can take this thing off my feet before it cripples me.”
Her eyes didn’t leave him. She ran her hand over her forearm. She took a deep breath and then shut the door behind her.
“So what does he call himself, the owner of this very nice apartment?” he asked.
“Julius Smirnoff.”
“Like the vodka?”
“Yes. He said that it had been a family business.”
Della Torre laughed. “You could certainly say it runs in his veins. But so does just about any alcohol you could name, and some you couldn’t. Can I take this thing off my feet before they start looking like flippers?”
She barely nodded.
“I didn’t think it was his real name.”
Della Torre edged his feet out from under the case and then settled it on the floor. He shook each foot a little and balled and unballed his fists to work the blood back into them.
“What did he say he did?” he asked, edging his way from behind the bookcase but not moving any closer to th
e woman.
“He said he was a businessman. He’s from east Europe, but he wouldn’t say where.”
“I can tell you that he’s a businessman. Whatever else he is, he’s certainly a businessman. A Yugoslav businessman.”
“Maybe that explains the contact address.”
“Oh?”
“We handle his affairs, his bills and things, but we send invoices and statements to an address in Mestre — that’s just outside of Venice. That’s not too far from Yugoslavia.”
“I know, I came through it last night. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Henrietta. Henrietta Martingale. Everyone calls me Harry.”
“How do you do, Harry. I’m Marko della Torre. Nobody calls me Marko.” He held his hand out but she showed no interest.
“What do they call you, then?”
“Plenty that’s unprintable. But you can stick to della Torre.”
“How do you do . . . della Torre. You’re American, or you sound American, but not completely.”
“You’re right. I’m American. But the accent’s changed a little. I grew up in Yugoslavia and spent most of a year here as a student. I did international law in London.”
“Is that what you are? A lawyer?”
“Yes. Among other things.”
“What might those other things be?”
“Oh, I find things out. Are you going to call the porter?”
“No. I think we’ll be fine for now.”
“So you live here. Does Strumbić know?”
“No. Are you going to tell him?”
“No. He and I . . . well, we’ve got what you might call an on-again, off-again friendship. We’re off again.”
“So how did you get the keys?”
“Long story.”
“Entertain me.”
“Mind if I smoke while I do?”
“Yes.”
“Do you tell Strumbić not to smoke in his own place?” He hoped he hadn’t damaged his feet. Holding the case up had made his rib hurt again. And his knee was still swollen.
