Then he sees it - and it comes as a revelation that makes his heart race - for there at his feet, propped against the trestle of the stall is a small-sized oil painting on canvas and which, although he has naturally never been in its presence before, he instantly recognises. Bright and gaudy in colour, it has at its heart a figure in a long robe, like a cloth of silver, surrounded by a number of winged, angel-like creatures, each bearing a trumpet held to its lips and, at their feet, numerous lamps burning with a lurid kind of light. The dominant figure at the centre is backed by an altar of some kind. He holds a sceptre as would a king at a coronation, but in his other hand there is a skull - all remarkably similar in content, he realises, to that described by his voices - and which seem at present to be clamouring all together inside his head, as if rejoicing at his discovery. But there is more. Stooping for a moment to decipher the signature, he notices the initials ‘PP’ discreetly brushed into the bottom left hand corner, leaving Herman in no doubt any longer this would surely be the work of Penelope Peters, Deborah’s daughter, Poppy.
‘Where did you get this one?’ he asks the vendor, trying not to sound too impetuous as he takes up the canvas and holds it at arm’s length - suspecting, also, and despite his best attempts at nonchalance, that he might be sounding just a bit breathless.
‘Eine Frau,’ the man replies - ‘from a woman.’
Not especially helpful, Herman thinks as he gladly parts with a handful of coins in order to make it his own. But upon further inquiries it transpires it was, in fact, an elegant lady in sables, a foreigner, probably English or American and who had provided him with several paintings and items of costume jewellery to dispose of just a few days ago. She had left him an address at a hotel, asking him to write to her if ever he should sell any of them. In fact, he has sold most of the items already, he says, but whenever he has attempted to notify the lady in order to hand over her half-share, there has never been a reply.
‘Would you be kind enough to let me have that address?’ Herman asks, hoping the vendor would not be suspicious of his motives, and that his valiant attempts at German, along with his obvious sincerity would prevail. In fact, the man is glad to co-operate. The address is that of a hotel in Munich, and there is another written beneath it for one in Frankfurt am Main - confirming to Herman that she would be on the move from place to place and that, possibly - and it comes as a surprise to him - that she might be desperate for money. How odd!
‘Tell the lady, I have over fifteen marks of profit for her if she wishes to call again,’ the man says with good cheer as Herman, with the painting already tucked under his arm and making haste on winged feet, promises faithfully to relay the message.
He prays only that he will have occasion to do so.
Chapter 15
Waiter, I am in mourning, would you remove these flowers, please?’ Deborah asks as the young man hovers in attendance, prepared for any signal to replenish their wine glasses.
He dutifully obliges and removes the modest vase of myrtle and chrysanthemum from the centre of the table, though not before allowing a puzzled expression to play upon his otherwise impassive features as he slips away.
‘I don’t want happy flowers, not even tiny ones like those - not the way I’m feeling,’ Deborah explains to her companion, her hired investigator, Herr Pfeifer - only to be met with a discourteous shrug of the shoulders from the man himself, who would, she suspects have little knowledge of the time-honoured symbolism of flowers still prevalent in polite society. And just as well, perhaps, considering the choice with which she has trimmed her hat this evening, with sprigs of purple-flowering nightshade - that most salient demonstration of distaste for present company.
With the best evening clothes she could muster at such short notice, Deborah removes her gloves and looks across the table to the man with the dull, piggy eyes who has invited her and wonders what on earth could have possessed her to agree to meet him here in Frankfurt once again - and this time, moreover, for dinner. Perhaps it is due, in no small way, to her being completely out of cash and the credit limit at her bank having been withdrawn. Until she can arrange to have funds transferred from elsewhere, there would need to be … well, certain sacrifices. An hour in the company of her private investigator, Herr Pfeifer, in order to obtain a square meal is just such a sacrifice, and hopefully, she trusts, just about the greatest one she will be called upon to make in the foreseeable future.
It is also a chance to talk business, of course, perhaps something positive to report concerning his search for Poppy - though so far the signs do not appear all that encouraging. It’s her own fault, she thinks. She should never have hired him in the first place. His only redeeming feature - for she had chosen him precisely because of it - is his tolerable command of English. Though it transpires this is not his only claim to distinction. Having spent some time working in the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in the United States, he assures her he is familiar with not only all the latest forensic techniques of criminal investigation, but also all the choicest swear words the Americans use when on the job. How very amusing.
It is, in fact, becoming abundantly clear that Herr Pfeifer is not a particularly pleasant individual. He is the kind of man who seems to rejoice in his own boorishness; the kind of man who would neglect to raise his hat or to open doors for you, or who would take his seat at the table first. He is the kind of man who deems it smart to wear a silk tie in combination with an ostentatious leather hunting jacket - the reasoning behind this peculiar combination possibly being that the expense incurred in owning the latter is worthy of the embellishment of the former. Herr Pfeifer is a slob.
‘Anyway, now we are able to speak at our leisure, Herr Pfeifer, would you mind telling me how your investigations are progressing?’ Deborah inquires with a hopeful raising of the eyebrows.
‘I have already many good leads,’ he announces with pride, ‘from someone close to the group - the Society for the Teachings of Redemptive Mercies, yes, or whatever it is they are calling themselves - an informant.’
‘Ah, yes, I see. And ..?’ Deborah urges, feeling that after several weeks and upwards of fifty marks in payment for his work, the man should have something slightly more extensive to report - the name of the group responsible, common knowledge after all, being the least she needed to have reiterated at this stage.
‘There are some of them up there, these kids, up in the mountains, across the border in Austria. They have some bizarre ways.’
‘What do you mean, bizarre?’ Deborah inquires and, against her better judgement, allowing her glass to be refilled at last, taking recourse in another sip of what, she has to admit, is a perfectly gorgeous Spatlese with all the sweet aromas of some far away hillside bathed in autumn sunshine. She must, she tells herself, make sure her enthusiasm for its excellence does not carry her away and render herself vulnerable. And with this resolve, placing her glass firmly down and at some distance, she returns her attention to the unprepossessing features of her companion at the table.
‘Sexual perversions,’ he murmurs by way of reply, fixing her with his horrid grey eyes, looking for a reaction - like a naughty schoolboy endeavouring to shock the girls.
‘Herr Pfeifer, you must tell me exactly what you mean by that?’ she insists with icy tones, wondering if this is entirely relevant, and even as she says it, feeling slightly scared and dreading the reply.
‘Oh, I think you get pretty well what I mean,’ he answers, becoming positively impertinent, Deborah thinks. ‘Oh, sure we all have our - how do you say - idiosyncrasies, yes?’ he continues on with an almost imperceptible licking of the lips. ‘But these people are involved in group stuff, see - ritual sex, and so on. Guess your girl was caught up in some of this, eh?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Deborah snaps loudly, and in other parts of the restaurant heads turn, seeking the source of the outburst.
Herr Pfeifer holds out his palms apologetically but also rather facetiously, she thinks, as if fen
ding blows from a kitten, and smiles open-mouthed at his success in rousing her to indignation. Deborah is appalled. To think that it has come to this, to find herself reduced to the society of this awful man, clinging to his every word - and, what’s more, paying him for the privilege.
‘Are you saying that your informer actually knows about my daughter specifically?’ she asks, a little more calmly now after a lengthy pause in which their meals have been brought to their table. ‘Are you saying that he knows of her whereabouts?’
‘Er … no, not exactly.’
‘Then what in heaven’s name are you talking about?’ Deborah demands and notices, to her horror, that he has produced Poppy’s photograph from his wallet - the one she had given him some weeks ago. ‘How do you reach the conclusion of her being involved in what you just mentioned if you have no specific information?’ she demands.
‘They’d want her,’ he replies squeezing the already grubby and tacky photo between his fat fingers. ‘She’s nice looking enough, and kind of innocent looking too - the right type, lots of sex energy - you know the way they talk, these freaky types - they’d want her for that. Especially if she has a figure anything like ...’ and he pauses, uncommonly tentative until, with a swig of his beer, he summons up the courage, ‘anything like her mother’s.’
She might have guessed it. The wretched scoundrel has done nothing - nothing but gather a few rumours that he could have picked up as easily from reading the newspapers. Asking her here for a meal this evening, and to a hotel moreover, is no more than some thinly disguised attempt at seduction. And does he really imagine in his wildest of dreams that she would be that desperate? Naturally, she has let things slide a bit lately, she knows that - her hair, and make-up - and with no access to a personal maid other than the staff at the hotel, unable to dress quite as elegantly as she would have wished. But surely, even then, this grubby little man wouldn’t consider himself a match for her, would he? It would be laughable, if it wasn’t already so appallingly horrible. And she rues the day she ever set eyes on him or allowed herself to share her grief with such a vile creature.
‘Herr Pfeifer,’ Deborah murmurs with a great effort at maintaining composure, for her temples are pounding, her hands trembling, ‘in response to your statement of a moment ago, I should tell you that I am in possession of a very long steel hatpin, precisely twelve inches in length, and which I can withdraw at any moment. It has an exquisite motif of a Caduceus in enamel and diamante one end which would probably be of little interest to you, but at the other there is a very sharp point.’
‘Eh ...?’
‘Twelve inches - that’s just under thirty-five centimetres in continental measurement,’ Deborah continues with what she hopes might be a bit more clarity, her eyes staring him down and making him flinch with their intensity. ‘But whichever way you choose to describe it, the result will be the same for you if I were to plunge it into your stomach - which I will do with the utmost pleasure, unless you desist at once from your preposterous efforts at flirtation and start talking business. Do you, or do you not, after all this time, have any idea at all of my daughter’s whereabouts?’
‘Yea, sure. Maybe,’ he answers, with no longer any pretence whatsoever at gallantry, ‘for a price.’
‘You are already hired and working on my behalf, Herr Pfeifer. What price are you talking about now, over and above the exorbitant fee I have already paid you?’
‘Listen lady, you’re sick, you know that, don’t you,’ he whispers with an abrupt change of tone, crudely, leaning over closer with a gasp of impatience to his husky voice. He has bad teeth. ‘There’s nothing we can do to bring back your kid. I’ve met lots of women like you in this business, and I know what it’s like. Me - see, I’ve had troubles with my marriage too. It’s not easy getting old, being frustrated and on your own. But there are plenty of men out there willing, don’t worry. And me … well, I know just the kind of thing you need, anyway, lady. I knew it the first time I set eyes on you. What you need is a good ...’
‘You filthy animal,’ Deborah responds - then screams at the top of her voice: ‘You filthy, filthy animal!’
At which the entire tabletop upon which Herr Pfeifer’s elbows have been resting flies up into the air, and the detective finds himself seated on the floor, dazed, not appearing to understand how he has arrived there and with Deborah’s hands slapping into his face. ‘You disgusting hideous fraud!’ she cries again for good measure. And before he can even begin to scramble to his feet she begins throwing things - ashtrays, plates, anything she can lay her hands on - even a chair - all on top of him.
And then the hatpin comes out.
‘Help me!’ he cries, covering his face with his hands as Deborah thrusts downwards several times before the waiter and one or two brave diners manage to pull her away, to hold her fast while another commences upon the task of extricating the unfortunate man from the wreckage, almost having to dig him out from beneath the pile. He is bloodied and badly shaken.
Napkins are applied to his wounds, which are only minor fortunately, but the deed is done. And Herr Pfeifer, once he has scrambled to his feet, is in no mood to forgive.
‘Somebody fetch the police!’ he demands.
And so it is that once again Deborah finds herself in the custody of the authorities - gradually coming to her senses and regaining some composure in a place that smells vaguely medical and sanitised. Feeling ashamed and even a little repentant, she allows herself to be treated for some minor abrasions prior to being led away to an interview room, her shoes missing and her hat perched precariously and unpinned upon her disordered hair. And here she is delivered into the company of a glum-looking police officer with furrowed brows and who observes her wearily from across a tacky little tabletop lit by a solitary lamp, asking questions in a local German dialect that Deborah herself does not entirely understand. An interpreter is called and he in turn attempts to convey in broken English the charges she is facing. She laughs. Why don’t they just get someone who can speak decent German, she wonders? She is fluent, after all. So she decides to stun them with an outburst of extreme displeasure in their own language - none of which does much to forward her contention of being blameless in the affair. The charge, meanwhile, she learns, is of assault and battery - a serious matter, in fact.
With no possibility of any bail being arranged at this time of the night, she is led away to a dank and virtually unlit police cell. This, she is told, she must share with two working girls from the local red light district about to join her and who, upon their noisy and raucous arrival, prove anything but kind. They fight with Deborah for the best mattresses and blankets, and then when she shouts and protests and cries for help, her pleas are met only with more insults and threats, and even blows from her companions. Nobody comes to assist her.
Apparently, according to the women themselves, who are obviously no strangers to the place, the gaolers usually relish these combinations of prisoners - three in a cell with only two mattresses. They take bets on who will be victorious over the others and rub their faces in the filth and dust of the floor. This evening, however, temperance of a kind holds sway. Everyone is tired, and they resolve not to provide their captors with any such spectacle, especially after Deborah consents to part with her Cartier necklace and earrings, which even though the girls are certain cannot possibly be of genuine emeralds and diamonds, they do like the look of anyway, they say. Peace prevails. And as the girls divide the spoils and eventually take to the bunk beds, Deborah manages to sit up in a corner with a blanket and cry herself to sleep. But her sleep does not last long. Cowering and huddled thus, embraced only by the grip of cold darkness, she is forced to listen to the assorted snores and drunken, half-awake ramblings of the other women, while her mind conjures up endless memories of torment - of all the times in her life when she had been similarly hurt or abused; whenever she had been abandoned by others. Hardly edifying topics to dwell upon, but she simply cannot help it. And despite her best eff
orts to dismiss such memories, the images keep coming.
In particular she is reminded of the dismal history of her marriage - sees it laid out before her, like a series of cameos; sees the steady deterioration over the years as she and her husband grew apart; sees how swiftly the first tiny chink of discord between them had become a gaping wound and eventually a violent chasm that no amount of counselling or ‘fresh starts’ could ever hope to remedy. How awful his behaviour towards her had become then - his dreadful temper; his blatant affairs; his refusal ultimately even to share his living space with her, let alone their bedroom. She recalls their arguments, their wrangling with solicitors, their official separation and, soon after, his custody of their daughter. And now this? This is surely what he would have wanted, to see her consigned here, friendless in this miserable place so far from home.
The weariness overtakes her, and she sleeps for a while - she knows not for how long - but only to wake again and again in a series of fitful starts, as if there were something critical she must attend to, so critical that the bars of her prison cell should not hold her thoughts or contain her spirit a moment longer. Bitter in the extremity of her fury and dread, she wonders whether her mind might reach out beyond the darkness - magnified by the aching of her limbs and the anguish of her heart and powered by a special, savage intensity to some new and extraordinary height of intelligence and telepathic skill. Oh, if only it were possible. If only she could locate and strike a blow to her enemies in this way. Even better, though, she concludes, would be to do just the opposite, to reach out to those she loves instead. Yes, far better. And this she eventually resolves to do …
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 14
