The Pearl Thief

by Fiona McIntosh

  Her mouth was too dry, her throat too choked to respond. He could surely tell this and was enjoying her shock. In spite of the panic, her mind was taking in information clearly.

  It was as though nothing else mattered but her and him. They were in a bubble of the past but Rudy hadn’t aged well. His face was deeply lined, no doubt a canvas of stories of the pain and torture he’d inflicted in his time. She was reminded of the wood carvings she’d watched the artisans make during her childhood. The designs were achieved by deep grooves being dug into blocks of soft wood before paint was rolled over them and they were placed down repeatedly onto paper or fabric. That’s how his face appeared to her now: as if a tool had been taken to it to etch out the lines. Wrinkles were sketched haphazardly across his cheeks, bags hung beneath his eyes. His mouth was still meanly thin, still amused. Those watery-pale eyes seemed dirtier, rheumy, their once fierce outline now smudged. His gaze did not regard her from a clear white background but stared from a nest of spidery bloodshot capillaries and puffed lids. His chin was furred with white, like his hair which had grown out past his ears. The blond had become cloudy white. It was thin but he was not balding and it flopped loose and unkempt with two distinct cowlicks at the top of his forehead. In days gone, he might have smoothed those lank flops back with hair cream. Now he just looked old. Ill.

  ‘You spoiled my surprise,’ he said, his tone conversational. He was enjoying himself. ‘What gave me away? I was careful not to wear cologne or anything that might smell distinct. I switched on no lights. I made barely a sound.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  The lips pouted in a sort of shrug. ‘Since the evening you didn’t return home. I was going to take a taxi back to my accommodation but I decided I should simply wait for you to reappear. And here you are. I enjoyed sleeping in your bed, Katka: smelling your perfume on the pillow, lying on your invisible shape.’

  She began to tremble with revulsion but mostly with fear.

  ‘You haven’t answered,’ he continued. ‘I’m intrigued. I know you guessed in those few seconds before you turned and saw me; what was it that clued you in?’

  She swallowed. ‘Ernte 23.’

  He frowned, a half smile forming. ‘Cigarettes?’

  ‘Your brand. German. I remember them from when I was little.’

  He shook his head, puzzled. ‘I haven’t smoked in here.’

  ‘But you smoked outside,’ she replied. ‘You discarded the packet.’

  Mottled hands came together in slow, mocking applause. ‘Very good, Katka. That’s impressive. And still you came upstairs.’

  ‘I … I was distracted.’

  ‘By the young man. Yes, I noticed. Is he in love with you? I’m sure any man who meets you falls for your cool poise. I’ve watched you for weeks now, trying to find the right moment. You’re incredibly beautiful – far more … ethereal, I think is the word, than any of us might have imagined. You always promised beauty – but this?’ He swept a blunt hand in the air in front of her. ‘Magnificent … even barefoot.’ He chuckled and the sound was ugly.

  She had no reply for him. Instead her mind was reaching to Daniel; he would have no idea that Mayek was already with her so no one would be coming to save her. She needed to give a sign to the outside world that she was in trouble; maybe one of his men … anyone – Billy? – would see.

  ‘I can see your mind working, Katka. Are you imagining a plan? Are you thinking to scream?’ In a blink he produced a knife – a thin-bladed stiletto – and it was at her throat. ‘Don’t scream, Katka.’

  So it was a knife, after all, she thought redundantly.

  Her throat felt locked anyway, so screaming would be impossible. He led her into the tiny sitting room. She walked like a doll might, with stiff legs that had no joints. His hand was clasped around her neck, easily closing around most of it. She was reminded of Daniel’s fateful words skin on skin and gagged.

  ‘Sit.’

  She obeyed.

  He sat next to her on the small couch. It was intimate. ‘This is satisfying, to be back together again after all these years, eh?’ He chuckled at her silence. The thin blade was poised now near her belly. She glanced down at it, imagining the damage it could do. ‘My, my, but you are truly delicious. Where were you these last days?’

  She tried to speak but it came out as a mumble.

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘With a friend,’ she repeated.

  ‘A friend you spent the nights with?’

  She took a deep, silent breath. No one was coming to save her; no one knew he was here. So what was left to her? To die sobbing? To die resigned and complacent as her father and the rest of the family had? Or to die fighting? Cursing his name, even trying to turn his own weapon on him?

  Fight, Katerina. You’ve fought for your life before; fight again for yourself, for Daniel’s sweetheart, for your parents and sisters … for Edward.

  That kiss. Its delight returned to remind her of everything she’d missed out on in life because of Ruda Mayek, and everything she might potentially have if she outmanoeuvred him one more time.

  She let go of the kiss; she would have another with Edward! She didn’t stop shaking, she didn’t stop being scared, but Katerina found her voice and her defiance once again. If she was going to die by the hand of Ruda Mayek, then she would give him no satisfaction and she would say to him what she had intended. She would take her last breath enjoying his pain.

  ‘More than a friend, actually,’ she said, careful not to sound overconfident. ‘My lover.’

  He didn’t like that. ‘The man from Paris, I’m guessing?’

  ‘Daniel? No. Daniel is a friend. My lover is called Edward Summerbee … You know him; he’s handling the Pearls you stole from my family.’

  If the way his amused expression bled to confusion could be termed a triumph, then Katerina felt momentarily like a winner.

  ‘From Lincoln’s Inn?’ he said, in a voice full of disbelief.

  She nodded; she couldn’t be flippant because she sensed his grip hardening around the blade.

  ‘You are sleeping with my solicitor?’

  ‘I am,’ she lied.

  ‘I feel betrayed.’ But he shocked her by laughing. ‘And I thought I was your man, Katka.’

  ‘The first. Mercifully not the last. At least I’ve had the chance to know a good lover.’

  His smile, like an illustration of evil, widened. ‘That’s good, Katka. Try and hurt me before I hurt you.’

  ‘You can’t hurt me, Rudy. The pain from you is done. All that’s left is the killing, so you might as well get on with it.’

  He didn’t enjoy this remark. Clearly, he wanted her squirming, perhaps pleading. Well, she wouldn’t give it to him. Her mind was reaching to Durham but perhaps it was a divine defence mechanism that reined it back. Don’t go there. Only weakness awaits if you go there.

  He too regained equilibrium. The sneer was back to accompany the tsking sound he was making, as though reprimanding a child. She recalled it well. ‘That’s such a pity.’ He began to draw the stiletto across her belly. It was sharp enough to score the fabric; her pinafore began to split. ‘Imagine what I can do with this blade against your pale, perfect skin.’

  She stared at him, hoping her flawed eye would unnerve him again.

  ‘Or what if I poked it into that eye of yours? Hmm? We could make that mark uglier still.’

  ‘What a sad man you are. What a pathetic bully. Looks to me like you’re dying anyway, Rudy. What’s the illness?’

  ‘Diabetes and some other complications, like cancer.’

  ‘Oh, I’m thrilled. I hope it all hurts?’

  ‘I need insulin. I’ve become rather deaf, amongst other oddities. I’ve lost some toes.’

  ‘Well, I hope you lose sensation in all your limbs before you’re taken. I hope you die screaming in agony from the cancer, with the doctors unable to give you anything but an overdose of morphine … but that would be too kind, in my
opinion.’

  ‘Spirited.’ He nodded. ‘You impress me.’

  ‘I don’t want to impress you.’

  ‘How will Mr Summerbee feel when he sees you lying here dead?’

  ‘I’d like to spare him that, but if it is Edward, then this thick fabric will help cover some of your mess, won’t it?’

  ‘Not if I undress you first. Perhaps have one last go with you. One part of me still works.’

  She grimaced. ‘You might as well do it after you’ve killed me, Rudy, because a corpse is the only way you’ll have me compliant. I don’t fear your blade.’

  He threw his chin up to laugh. She wanted to slash the throat that stretched before her but he’d pulled the blade away; she couldn’t get close.

  ‘I’m not ready to kill you just yet. I’m astonished to see you alive and so well. We haven’t even discussed that yet, have we? How you dodged my bullet, how you appeared so very dead in that forest. We even buried you. I’m trying to imagine you climbing out of the grave. Were your family stiff with death by then?’

  She knew her features betrayed her. He’d hit his mark and he laughed again.

  ‘Ah, there you are, little Katka. I like it when you tremble. Now we’re talking properly. Who helped you, I wonder? How could you have escaped my notice? It had to be someone with influence. Tell me.’

  ‘It was. A better man than you, although that’s not hard to achieve, is it?’

  He ignored the barb. ‘A man. Did he fall in love with you?’

  ‘I was fourteen.’

  ‘Oh, Katka, you really had no awareness of yourself, did you? Tell me his name.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘A local?’

  ‘A German. A real one. Not like you … always pretending. Volksdeutsch.’ She said it in a tone filled with insult. ‘You have to smoke German cigarettes and do the dirty work for the Nazis to make yourself feel German. And yet you were born an impoverished, reluctant Czechoslovakian. At least I was proud to be from Prague. Proud to be a Jew.’

  He hit her. She had expected it but didn’t see it coming. Her head snapped to the side and she thought she heard a soft crack. He heard it too. Sharp pain shot through the side of her face, heating it instantly.

  ‘I like the sound of your bones breaking. Your exquisitely shaped cheekbone is depressed. Shame. I didn’t want to mark your face.’

  She wished she could resist but it was instinctive to place her hand against the pain.

  ‘Hurting? Let me get you something for it.’

  He hauled her to her feet and while holding her tight, dug around in her icebox. He pulled out the tray and placed a tea towel on the kitchen bench. He banged the metal container and a few cubes fell out. He banged again, until he was satisfied. ‘Wrap them up, put them against your face.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I say so. I don’t want you too bruised. You know they remain after death?’

  ‘Only you would know. You must have seen enough bruised, dead bodies beneath your hand.’

  He laughed. ‘Put it against your face.’

  Again, she obeyed, wincing at the double pain now of the pressure against the injury and the freeze. It was like pressing against her sister’s dead body again. The memory brought anger and with it a fresh surge of courage. He led her back to the room with comfortable chairs.

  The Paris office had called London and Daniel, bemused, dialled a number for a Durham guesthouse. He was surprised to find himself talking with Dr Schäfer. He did indeed have a gentle voice, clearly European but not instantly identifiable as German, and no doubt deliberately smoothed off to lean towards the Austrian city he lived in.

  The doctor wasted no time with introductions. His first words were: ‘Katerina lied to both of us.’ He quickly explained what Daniel had feared.

  ‘You mean Mayek is there? My man moved into place at noon. He would have seen him arrive.’

  ‘Well, your man might already be too late, Mr Horowitz. She may well have walked into a trap. What if he’s already in there, waiting for her?’

  Daniel experienced the rare spangles of true fear, making his limbs feel weakened and creating a twisting sensation in his bowel. He needed to think. Adrenaline was being released so fast and hard a low headache began.

  Schäfer was still speaking. ‘I’m helpless up here in the north. Summerbee has gone to the flat and has urgently requested you do the same. Don’t be shy, Mr Horowitz. Smash that door in if you have to.’

  ‘On my way.’

  ‘Ring me … please!’

  Daniel Horowitz took that call in a nondescript office in the gods of a tall, red-brick Victorian building in Harewood Place. This was London W1, and although only a few hundred yards from the chaotic Oxford Circus, it was not only a peaceful enclave that opened into tranquil Hanover Square, but the offices themselves throughout the building were all but silent due to being a mix of mainly accountancy and legal firms. It was little wonder then that people emerged to discover who it was from the top floor that was yelling orders as he descended via the fire stairs, in too much of a rush for the single slow lift. If they had looked out of their windows fronting narrow Harewood Place, they’d have seen the normally reserved gentleman from the import and export company on the top floor all but exploding from the main entrance, leaping into a revving car and instructing the driver to ‘Go!’ before he’d even shut the passenger door.

  ‘Be seated.’ Mayek gestured, pushing her back into an armchair. She could feel strength still existed in him; she wouldn’t win if she tried to physically hold him off. ‘It’s been two decades. I’d hoped you’d have more to say to me.’ He sat opposite her this time, his back to her bedroom.

  Freshly emboldened, she began. The time was right. Whatever happened now she no longer cared, so long as she struck this final blow.

  ‘Where have you been all this time?’ she began.

  ‘Why? Have you been searching for me?’

  ‘No. I have deliberately not thought of you for all these years. I locked you away, Rudy. You weren’t worth even my vaguest consideration.’

  He showed no offence. ‘Until now …’ He chuckled at her.

  ‘Yes, now I am thinking about you and I do have something to say.’

  His pleasure deepened, horrible eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘I’m pleased to hear that. I’ve been living in Britain, Katka. I came here as a refugee in 1946. I go by the name of Josef Beránek. I stole it from a Gypsy in one of the camps.’

  She gave a sneer of disgust and nodded. ‘Suits you.’

  He laughed aloud, taking great delight in her restraint.

  ‘I hope you’re dying?’

  ‘We’re all dying.’ She stared at him and he shrugged. ‘Perhaps I am.’

  ‘You seem strong.’

  ‘Don’t try testing me. I may not be the man I was twenty years ago, little Katka, but I can snap you in two; there’s not that much of you. I could wish for better hearing, I suppose, but my eyes are still functioning well enough. Lots of other complications, as I say, from my illnesses, but I’m wealthy enough, I’m alive, I’ve found you. Life’s being kind.’

  Edward had run, moving at a pace he didn’t think was possible for him, and casting away all of his inherent politeness, he didn’t give a single glance at the people he shoved aside. He ran out of Lincoln’s Inn with no hat or coat, but idiotically he’d grabbed his brolly like any sensible Englishman. It was now fear and determination he wore, strapped on like armour. Down the busy street he hurtled, moving fast as though he’d just grabbed the elliptical ball on the rugby field and was going it alone towards the touchline – in this case the Underground, where a queue of people were patiently waiting to step into big black taxis.

  ‘This is life or death!’ he yelled as he shouldered his way to the front and hauled back the man who was just easing into the cab, a barrister he recognised.

  ‘Oh, I do say, Summerbee, this is outrageously rude.’

  ‘Bill me, Smithers!’ Edward
snarled and leapt into the taxi, shutting the door against people’s angry calls. Mr Smithers QC irritatedly tapped the glass with his umbrella as though that might change Edward’s mind. Another person shook a fist at him. Edward looked away to the driver, who was grinning.

  ‘Looks like you’re in a hurry, mate,’ the taxi driver observed.

  ‘I’m trying to stop someone getting hurt’ was all he could say, still out of breath from the running. ‘Bury Street, Bloomsbury,’ he said, recalling the address from her letter. ‘Hurry, man, hurry.’

  ‘Do my best.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, I reckon.’

  ‘I’ll give you double if you can halve the time.’

  The man grinned. ‘Righto, we might have to break some rules and it’s not going to be pretty.’

  ‘Do it,’ he said, grimly nodding.

  The taxi driver floored it as best he could, and although the huge car was hardly agile, he drove it like he was riding a stallion in the Grand National. He deftly dodged and wove his way around the restless London traffic, using a labyrinth of streets that Edward barely knew, avoiding the lumbering buses, the crush of pedestrians and the narrowing river of vehicles that often simply and inexplicably stopped. He avoided traffic lights as much as he could, and while it felt like the long way to Bloomsbury, Edward could see they were cutting out precious minutes all the same.

  His mind was like a dropped bottle of milk: glass shattered, contents rolling inexorably away from the main spill of his thoughts, breaking away in little rivulets to all corners.

  ‘What number house in Bury Street?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Actually, what’s the road behind?’ The driver told him. ‘Drop me there, anywhere.’

  He could see the man’s expression in the rear-view mirror; the driver wanted to ask why but perhaps a lifetime of driving strangers around told him it wasn’t worth asking. ‘Another minute at most.’

  Edward remembered what Daniel had said about how he would approach Katerina’s flat from over back gardens, using the fire escape and silently climbing into her flat. He couldn’t be sure the Nazi would even be there but he was not leaving it to chance, and he would not make a ruckus approaching the more convenient way and knocking on her door. Edward had learned to be fleet and light on his feet from his sport as he’d already demonstrated. Now he had to be all about stealth – like the wing, his favourite position, stealing the ball from the opposition or being fed a stolen ball and then flying down the edge of the ground, so the players barely knew he’d captured the prize.