by Ann Bridge
‘And made a note of the number?’
‘Certainly.’
‘She provided you with des pièces justificatives which satisfied you?’
‘My good Chambertin, for what do you take me? I work in this bank for forty-five years! What is all this? Why these questions?’
‘I too come on behalf of Mademoiselle Armitage,’ Julia put in, ‘and I fear very much that something may have gone wrong—some confusion have occurred. As you know, Mademoiselle Armitage is not of age, and cannot yet take control of her fortune.’
‘Bien entendu, Mademoiselle. But there was no confusion; she was accompanied by her guardian, who signed all the receipts.’ He looked more puzzled, now, and turned to Chambertin. ‘You know Monsieur le Pasteur de Ritter? A man of a very old and respected Bernois family.’
Again Julia spoke before Chambertin could reply.
‘But you, yourself, are not personally acquainted with Monsieur de Ritter?’
‘Till last week, no—only by reputation.’
Chambertin made to speak; Julia gestured him to silence.
‘Monsieur de Kessler, this guardian who signed the receipts—was he tallish, rather stout, and with an iron-grey beard slightly parted in the middle?’
‘Exactement, Mademoiselle,’ de Kessler said, looking relieved. Julia quickly put a term to his relief.
‘Monsieur Chambertin, would you be so good as to describe your old friend Monsieur de Ritter to your colleague? He is more likely to believe you than me.’
In pitiable embarrassment, but firmly, Chambertin said—‘Mon cher, the Pasteur de Ritter, whom I have known for thirty years, is a short man, and noticeably slender.’
‘Clean-shaven, also, n’est-ce-pas?’ Julia added.
‘Yes—certainly.’ While de Kessler gaped Chambertin turned to Julia and asked—‘How comes it that you know so well the appearance of—of the man who came and signed the receipts?’
‘The impostor, you mean? Oh, I happened to see him, and the girl who was impersonating Miss Armitage, on my way here; they travelled to Calais on the same train.’
De Kessler, now quite bewildered, said irritably—‘Mademoiselle, what is all this talk of impostors and impersonators?’
Instead of answering him, Julia turned to his colleague.
‘Monsieur Chambertin, wouldn’t it be as well to let Monsieur de Kessler see the documents I have brought?’ ‘Certainly. Les voici, mon cher.’
De Kessler went round behind the desk, put on his glasses, and studied Julia’s papers, muttering to himself as he did so:—‘The bankers, yes, and the lawyers; the executors, yes; and the British Consul-General in Istanbul has gestempelt the death certificate.’ Last of all he read de Ritter’s letter; then turned back and read the date aloud —‘C’est hier!’ Now thoroughly upset, he turned to Chambertin. ‘But this is impossible!’
‘Oh no, Monsieur de Kessler—unfortunately it’s all too possible,’ Julia said. ‘You have been tricked by a gang of crooks.’
The old man drew himself up (to Julia it was the most pitiable thing of all) and said:
‘Mademoiselle, this does not happen with la Banque Républicaine!’
‘Well, it has happened this time,’ Julia said crisply; she was sorry for the old man, but more important things than his feelings were at stake. She turned to Chambertin. ‘Do ring up Monsieur de Ritter now, and ask him if he really came in last week and signed Miss Armitage’s fortune away? That will settle it. I know he didn’t; but it may satisfy Monsieur de Kessler.’
‘Mademoiselle, I accept no statements made over the telephone,’ de Kessler said angrily.
‘Oh very well—then we must drag the wretched man down here.’
Chambertin was fluttering the telephone book. ‘Fri-bourg is 037,’ Julia told him, ‘and La Cure is 1101.’ When the call came through she firmly took the receiver. ‘Allo? Ah, c’est toi, Germaine. Ici Julia. Est-ce que Jean-Pierre est là? Ah, très-bien—j’attends.’ She noted the effect of all these Christian names on the two bankers while she waited, receiver in hand. When Jean-Pierre came to the telephone she spoke rapidly in English. ‘Listen, I am at the bank. There has been a complete disaster, which I would rather not discuss on the telephone. Is there the least possibility that you could come down—this afternoon?’
‘Only with great difficulty? Why?—what is happening?’
‘We have been too slow. Those I spoke of have been ahead of us, and have gone off with everything. Someone else signed for them in your name.’
‘But this could not happen! Both the men whose names I gave you know me perfectly well.’
‘Of course they do. But unfortunately these persons must have known this too, and were sharp enough to ask for another director—un charmant vieux monsieur qui ignorait les faits essentiels, et s’est laissé duper.’ Julia said the last words in French, deliberately—she saw that cheerful pink face become crimson.
‘Le vieux de Kessler?’ came down the line.
‘Exactement. And he now refuses to accept any statement on the telephone—that is why I must put you to this trouble. I do apologise; it is not my fault.’
There was a pause. At last—‘Yes, very well,’ the Pastor said. ‘Who received you?’
‘Monsieur Chambertin.’
‘Then please tell him I will be with him at half past four o’clock, à peu près’
‘I would rather you told him yourself’—and she handed the receiver over.
The Pastor had a very resonant voice, and Julia could just hear his words. ‘Mon cher Alcide, what are your co-directors up to? This is frightful, what has taken place. I shall be with you between four and half past, and please arrange for your colleague to be present, and see that we are given admittance. Tell Mademoiselle that I will call for her at her hotel on the way.’
Chambertin transmitted both these messages, adding afterwards to de Kessler—‘C’est bien Jean-Pierre —I cannot mistake his voice.’
Julia had been thinking as well as overhearing.
‘Monsieur Chambertin, surely these people ought to be traced, if possible. Did they give Monsieur de Kessler any address?’
De Kessler said only La Cure at Bellardon, and for the demoiselle an address in London. ‘Chez une certaine Madame Conway, à Kensington.’
‘That’s Aglaia’s aunt, of course—that’s no help. They gave no indication of their movements?’ she asked de Kessler.
‘La demoiselle spoke of visiting Interlaken, to see the Jungfrau; nothing more. The fiancé spoke of making some ascensions.’
‘Ah yes, the fiancé. Was he tall, dark, with a markedly olive complexion, and the figure of an athlete?’ Julia enquired.
‘C’est exacte, Mademoiselle,’ the old man said. Chambertin had a question to put.
‘On which day did they come? Six days ago, you say? We must alert Interpol, and also the Fremden-Polizei, the Security Police. It is possible that they have not yet left the country.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to leave the police till Monsieur de Ritter has been,’ Julia counselled. She was thinking that she must try to ring up Colin from the Palais des Nations at lunch-time.
‘Mademoiselle, the reputation of the Banque Républicaine is at stake! There is not a moment to lose.’
Julia refrained from pointing out that the bank had already lost six days.
‘As Monsieur de Kessler has their passport numbers, would there be any means of checking at the frontiers whether they have left or not?’ she asked. ‘No. I expect not—those men in uniform just open your passport, take a good stare at you, snap it shut and hand it back. They couldn’t possibly keep a record.’
Chambertin smiled a little at this description.
‘No, Mademoiselle, they do not. But they are quite observant, and this party of three, whom you seem to have observed very closely, might well be noticed. How was the aspect of the young girl, by the way?’
‘Ask Monsieur de Kessler,’ Julia said.
‘She was blonde,’ de Kessler sai
d, hesitantly.
‘Yes, but her eyes—the colour—and tall or short?’ Chambertin asked impatiently.
‘She was petite—and très jolie,’ de Kessler said. Chambertin turned to Julia.
‘Mademoiselle, can you help us?’
‘Yes,’ Julia said. ‘This girl was certainly most carefully chosen as a double of Miss Armitage—needlessly, since the personnel of the bank failed to notice her appearance.’ She could not resist that crack. ‘She is very short indeed, very slender, with tiny hands and feet, and though she is—or has been made to appear—ash-blonde, her eyes are dark brown.’
Chambertin was scribbling.
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘And her clothes—did you observe these also?’
‘Yes. A pale cream suit, a little blouse to match, a light brown overcoat—and a hat of cream Bangkok straw, trimmed with brown nylon lace to match the overcoat. Shoes and hand-bag of brown crocodile.’
Chambertin went on scribbling. ‘Miss Probyn, you would be worth a fortune as a detective,’ he exclaimed.
‘I want to be worth Miss Armitage’s fortune, Monsieur Chambertin!’ She looked at her watch—nearly twelve. ‘Could someone call me a taxi?’ She wanted to tidy up at the hotel before going out to lunch.
She did not, however, let the taxi take her to the Bergues; she got out at the foot-bridge leading to the Île Rousseau, and then walked to the hotel. These types seemed to be up to everything; one couldn’t be too careful. And there was that damned detective, too, actually staying in the hotel. What on earth was he up to?
In her room she changed into a thinner frock—Geneva heats up in the middle of the day—and looked in the back of her engagement-book to make sure that she had got Colin’s office number. She had, and she would just have to risk telephoning there from the Palais des Nations after lunch; surely it ought to be one of the safest places. Anyhow Colin was usually pretty quick at picking up what she was driving at, either in their ‘darling-darling’ language or, at the worst, in Gaelic. But oh, why hadn’t she written to him about the girl at Victoria? ‘Because one’s afraid of looking a fool one goes and is a fool,’ she muttered, as she put on scent and lipstick. She telephoned down for a taxi, which was waiting when she reached the hall; as she drove off along the quai beside the lovely green river, in spite of her frustration and worry she began to enjoy herself, and to look forward with pleasure to her luncheon with Nethersole. He was a curious learned creature, but with an amusing outlook on life; what his precise function with UNO—or whatever now used the Palais des Nations—might be she didn’t know, but he had many forms of strange knowledge, any one of which could make him valuable to these international organisations.
Chapter 5
Geneva—the Palais des Nations
The Palais des Nations at Geneva is a very large, completely expressionless building. It isn’t ugly, it isn’t beautiful; it is just pale in colour, and big, with a lot of flags fluttering in front of it from tall pale poles. It stands in spacious green grounds, with a parking-space for cars all down the right-hand side of the broad entrance-drive. Within, the bigness and the functional lack of expression are even more marked. An immense hall stretches to right and left inside the door, with racks full of folders, with polyglot girls in light overalls standing behind counters, casually and chipperly answering the questions of even more polyglot enquirers. The enquirers are not only polyglot but polychrome; every shade of colour that the skin of the human race can take on, from splendid deep black to a pinkness like that of M. de Kessler’s, were exhibited to Julia’s fascinated gaze, standing in chattering knots on the wide marble floor, as she made her way to one of the counters, and asked where the restaurant was?
‘Lift to the twelfth floor; over there,’ a chipper girl said, without giving any indication of the direction.
‘Over where?’ Julia asked coldly. ‘Could you take me, if you can’t show me?’
‘Oh sorry—on the right, round the corner,’ the girl said carelessly. ‘Lots of lifts.’
Julia walked to the right-hand end of the huge lobby and went round the corner, where there were a great many very large lifts. The lift-men were much more polite than the girl—as indeed men usually are more polite than the teen-age chits who answer so many of the world’s telephones, and thus and otherwise conduct so much of the world’s business; perhaps one day the world will get round to teaching them that good manners are a key to efficiency. Julia was wafted to the twelfth floor in an outsize lift which opened into the restaurant itself; an elderly waiter came up to her politely, and asked her pleasure.
‘Monsieur Nethersole.’
‘Par ici, Madame’ —and he led her out onto a broad balcony, where Nethersole and another man were sitting having drinks. They both rose as she came up to the table; the second man was the detective.
‘Ah, excellent!’ Nethersole exclaimed. ‘How good to see you—and how good you look! I couldn’t collect a party for you in the time, but here is John Antrobus, who says he doesn’t know you, unhappy creature! John, let me complete your education by introducing you to Miss Julia Probyn.’
Julia, already sufficiently disconcerted by her morning at the bank, felt that this was the last straw. For once she was grateful to Nethersole for his elaborations, which usually rather bored her; they gave her time to pull herself together, and when she held out her hand to Antrobus she said coolly—‘So now we really do meet.’
‘Why, have you met before un-really?’ Nethersole enquired.
‘Oh yes—Mr. Antrobus infests platforms! We bump into one another everywhere—and in lifts, too. He seems to cover the whole of Europe.’
‘This is most interesting. But first, what will you drink?’
‘A Martini, like you. I’m dying for a drink.’ Nethersole ordered another double Martini, which was brought very quickly—but not more quickly than Julia was thinking. How could she best turn this meeting to account? Was it a coincidence? Was the detective in with the crooks, or on her and Colin’s side? She wished passionately that she had bothered in London to learn more from Geoffrey Consett about what Nethersole really did; UNO—if UNO was what he was in—was of course liberally bespattered with fellow-travellers. But it was nice up there on the balcony; the air was sunny and warm, the green gardens below were pleasant, blue mountains rose in the distance. After a sip of her cocktail she decided to relax, and pick up what she could while she enjoyed herself.
Once his guest was supplied with a drink, Nethersole returned to the subject of her earlier encounters with Antrobus.
‘Oh, I was very forward at Victoria; I went up and spoke to him,’ Julia said airily.
‘She asked me if I was a detective!’ Antrobus interjected.
‘Oh did you? Why? Do you think he looks like one?’ Nethersole asked.
Julia profited by this excuse to examine that amusing face openly and deliberately.
‘Yes, I think so. Detective-Inspector Alleyne might look very like him, don’t you think? And he was behaving like one, too.’
Nethersole laughed.
‘How do detectives behave?’
‘Well, he was hanging about.’
‘Loitering with intent, did you think?’ Antrobus asked.
‘Well really it was the maid I was taking out who thought it.’
‘Goodness, Julia, do you still travel with a maid?’ Nethersole asked, with intense interest.
‘No, not still, nor ever!—I was taking her out to an old friend, who has fallen ill out here. But Watkins is very shrewd, and she’s been at endless weddings—always plastered with detectives to guard the presents. She was positive that Mr. Antrobus was one.’
Both men laughed.
When they went indoors to lunch, in a long restaurant with big plate-glass windows giving onto the balcony, Julia deliberately abandoned that topic, and started another.
‘Richard, what do you do in this peculiar place? Tell them about the Arabs, or the Walls of Jericho?’
‘That sort of thing.�
��
Antrobus supplemented this uninformative remark.
‘Richard is a tremendous Arabic scholar, you know. Since Sir Denison Ross died, he has no peer.’
‘Oh, does UNO go in for scholarship? That’s quite a new idea.’
Again the two men laughed, and Antrobus said ‘Specialised knowledge generally comes in usefully, even here.’
Julia took him up on that instantly.
‘Do you work here too, Mr. Antrobus?’
Did he hesitate? Barely.
‘No, not really.’
‘At Victoria I remember you said that you were on business.’
‘How inquisitive you are! That was to put you off.’
‘And are you still putting me off? How does one work for UNO un-really—as you and I met?’
This time there was no doubt about it; though Antrobus laughed, Nethersole at least was plainly embarrassed.
‘Julia, I can’t allow you to cross-examine anyone at lunch! Have some more smoked salmon.’
So there it was! Some form of secrecy going on—and she didn’t even know Nethersole well enough to be able to get the truth out of him later. ‘Oh yes, please,’ she said; ‘I really like to make a meal off smoked salmon.’ As she helped herself she said cheerfully to Antrobus—‘I’ll apologise if you’d like me to; but like all women, since Fatima, inquisitiveness is my middle name.’
‘Oh don’t apologise,’ the man said. ‘If we ever get onto Christian—or Mahomedan-name terms, I shall call you Fatima!’
Julia was unexpectedly pleased at the idea of being called Fatima by Antrobus. The luncheon passed very pleasantly indeed; both men were amusing and talked well—Antrobus in particular had a caustic vein which amused Julia, and a free and completely natural approach to any subject—she had never yet met a man so disengaged, or so totally devoid of self-importance. Long before the meal was over she had become far more interested in him as a person than in what he did, conscious though she was of her need, indeed her duty, to learn this—more than ever after Nethersole had so openly shut her up.
At one point the talk turned on the great variety of Swiss trades; Julia, by nature so open, just stopped herself in time from telling how the Iron-workers Guild in Berne paid for the de Ritter boys’ education, and quite casually substituted the little agent for ‘Corsette-Air’. She made a funny story of it, with the letters in German going to Birmingham to be translated; Nethersole laughed heartily; Antrobus smiled too, but after a half-second’s pause—was there a flicker of surprise, of some extra interest, in the grey eyes under those sculptured triangular lids? Almost certainly Yes, for after a moment he asked—‘Where do you say you encountered this entertaining individual?’
