by Mary Stewart
I lifted Johnny’s photograph and kissed it. It was the last time I should ever do so. Then I laid it gently back in the case, and picked up my dress again.
A short time later I opened my door, called Louise, and went out into the sunshine to meet Richard.
29
O frabjous day!
(Carroll)
The terrace of the Hôtel de la Garde almost overhangs the edge of the sea. It is wide, and flagged with white stone, with beautifully formal little orange-trees in pots to give it shade, and a breeze straight off the Mediterranean to cool it. The bright little boats bob, scarlet and green and white, just below your table, and the bouillabaisse is wonderful.
We were a gay enough party. Richard and Marsden had spent the greater part of the night and morning with the police, and both looked tired, but about the former I noticed something I had not see in him before; he was relaxed. The last of the strain had been lifted, and though his eyes were weary, they were clear, and his mouth had lost its hardness. As for David, he was in tearing spirits, and kept us all laughing until coffee and cigarettes came round.
Marsden got out his pipe and settled back in his chair with a long sigh of satisfaction. He, too, looked as if some strain were lifted, but with him it was rather a slackening of concentration, a putting, so to speak, of his intelligence into carpet slippers for a while. He had come off duty.
His blue eyes studied me over the match-flame as he held it to his pipe. At last this was going nicely.
‘If I may say so, Mrs. Selborne,’ he said, ‘you’ve come out of this affair looking remarkably fit. How do you feel today?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ I said. ‘Nothing to show but a few bruises.’ I caught Richard’s rueful grin, and smiled back. ‘How restful it is, isn’t it, now that everybody knows whose side they’re on?’
‘It certainly is,’ agreed Marsden. He cocked an eye at Louise. ‘I take it you’ve put Louise in the picture?’
‘She told me the whole story,’ said Louise, ‘except for the most important thing – the reason for it all. That was just guesswork. Have you found out anything further about why Kramer employed those two to do the murders?’
‘Our guesswork was right,’ said Richard. ‘The police searched Kramer’s premises this morning, and there’s evidence galore. The whole thing is clear enough now.’
‘Tell us, please,’ I said.
‘I’ll try.’ He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the sea, then stared thoughtfully at the tip of it for a moment, before he spoke.
‘We were right,’ he said, looking at me. ‘It all began on that beastly January day in 1944, when Tony Baxter and I, on our way to a prison camp, were witnesses to Kramer’s murder of Emmanuel Bernstein – and, incidentally, to his connection with the mass-murder of the Jews.’ He glanced at Louise. ‘Did Charity tell you about that?’
‘Yes. What a beastly affair! I don’t wonder you lost your temper and blew up.’
Richard’s eyes met mine. ‘I do, sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a fault I have. But this time Tony did as well. I’m glad of that, because if I’d been solely responsible for attracting Kramer’s notice I’d feel a very heavy burden of guilt for Tony’s death. As it is’ – his face darkened for an instant, but he resumed in a normal tone: ‘Well, you know what happened; we were eventually permitted to go, but Kramer had occasion to remember us, and his memory was excellent.’
He paused. ‘That wouldn’t have mattered at all, of course, if it hadn’t been for the next connection between us: both Kramer and I were in the same line of business, the trade in antiques, and both, as it happens, particularly interested in old silver. When the War finished, and the Nuremburg witch-hunt started, Kramer somehow or other managed to disappear. He got out of Germany, and appeared in France as an Austrian refugee, one Karel Werfel. He had managed to salt away a pleasant little fortune in money and loot, and before long he was doing very nicely, with his headquarters in Paris, and branches in Lyons and Marseilles. I should mention here, perhaps, something that we found out this morning. Loraine was his’ – his gaze fell on David, wide-eyed and absorbed – ‘Loraine was with Kramer for a time immediately after the War.’ Richard’s voice was sombre, tinged with a kind of pity. ‘She had a bad record; she was suspected of collaboration, and of having a hand in the murder of two French officers. Kramer helped her to avoid the consequences, but kept the proof himself and used it to gain a hold over her.’
He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘By the time Tony and I appeared again on his horizon, Max Kramer had a lot to lose. He had this perfectly genuine and lucrative business, but he also had other business, even more lucrative, and highly criminal, for which the antique trade was a cloak. His real headquarters for that was here, in Marseilles. I’m not quite sure just what rackets he was concerned in, but at the moment the Marseilles police are having a fine old time rounding up some of the people whose names were in Kramer’s safe. There hardly seems to be any pie he didn’t have a finger in – smuggling, dope-running, and so forth, but the most important thing that came to light when his premises were searched is definite evidence that he’s been mixed up in some of these underground movements to upset the present German government and bring back the National Socialists.’
‘You mean those gangs of Neo-Hitlerites? Werewolves, or whatever they called themselves?’ asked Louise.
‘Something like that.’ It was Marsden who answered her. ‘His genuine business, with its wide trade contracts, and the necessity for a good deal of foreign travel, made an excellent mask for the centre of a widish organization. The police think now that Kramer – or Werfel – was at the back of a good deal of organized thuggery, sabotage, and what-have-you in Germany and Northern France shortly after the end of the War. Go on, Byron.’
‘Well, into this comfortable and prosperous picture,’ resumed Richard, ‘came, suddenly, Tony and myself. There was a big sale in Paris, for the disposal of the Lemaire collection of silver, and naturally I was there. Kramer, apparently, was there too, and must have seen us, though neither of us noticed him. But he made enquiries, and discovered that I was in the same line of country as himself, and had, in fact, opened an office in Paris. We were bound to meet. And if Tony or I recognized him, well’ – his gesture was eloquent –‘even if he escaped a war crimes tribunal, there would be enquiries, and he couldn’t afford the least investigation. It would be the end of Karel Werfel …’
‘It was a pretty frightful coincidence, wasn’t it,’ said Louise, ‘that David should have gone to Kramer’s shop to sell the bracelet?’
‘Frightful,’ agreed Richard, ‘but not so much of a coincidence, if you think it over. The thread that runs through the whole story, after all, is the antique-business: if Kramer and I hadn’t happened to be in the same line of country, we would probably never have met after the War – and certainly the danger of our meeting more than once would have been slight. But we were both interested in the same thing, and would in all likelihood be thrown together again and again: and that Kramer dared not risk. Yes, the whole raison d’être of the affair, you might say, was “old silver”, and the bracelet would almost inevitably act as a link. I bought it for Loraine; Loraine brought it – and David and me – down into Kramer’s country: once David tried to sell such a thing hereabouts it was almost certain to come to Kramer’s notice pretty soon. And that’s what happened; David was advised to take it to him to get an opinion on its value. No, the coincidence lies in the fact that I saw the thing in the shop-window when I did; but that was just Kramer’s luck. I was supposed to be got into his den sooner or later, it just happened to be sooner.’
‘Paul Véry,’ I said, as he stopped. ‘Where did he come in?’
‘He had a criminal record as long as your arm,’ said Marsden cheerfully, ‘and half a dozen aliases. Kramer had enough tucked away in his safe to send Paul Véry to Devil’s Island for several lifers.’
‘He must have promised to hand the papers over to Loraine and Pau
l after Richard was safely out of the way,’ I said. ‘I heard him tell them they’d be free of him once the job was over.’
‘Was she really Paul Véry’s wife?’ asked Louise.
‘Indubitably. They were married in 1942, then he was posted missing the following year. She picked up with Kramer in the autumn of 1945. When Paul Véry turned up again he appears to have accepted the situation (to some extent, I imagine, under pressure), and stayed on to work for Kramer. He seems to have taken a pretty – what shall I say? – liberal view of his wife’s activities. When Kramer saw Byron and Baxter at the Lemaire sale, and decided they would have to be eliminated, he picked Paul Véry for the job.’
‘Greatly helped,’ said Richard bitterly, ‘by the fool Byron, who, seeing Loraine at the sale, began to show signs of interest that made it easy for the precious trio to commit the first murder.’
‘If you hadn’t “married” her and taken her to Deepings,’ said Marsden, ‘they’d have managed some other way.’
‘I dare say,’ said Richard, ‘but you can’t say I didn’t help. At least it’s a comfort of a sort to know she was never legally my wife … It was Paul Véry, of course, who killed Tony and knocked David out. It was Paul Véry who tried to ram my car. And when the attempt at double murder failed, they took David to France. I doubt if they had a plan worked out at all, but David was an obvious trump card.’
‘I don’t quite see why, you know,’ said David.
‘Don’t you?’ said his father. ‘Loraine knew very well that I’d never willingly see her again. Kramer wanted me over here, but if she’d tried to get me to see her I’d either have ignored her or put my lawyers on to it. But you’ – he flicked David’s cheek with a casual finger – ‘I can’t afford to let you go. You’re a rebate on my income-tax.’
‘Talking of income-tax,’ I said, ‘your insurance company—’
‘Oh God, yes,’ said Richard. ‘Two cars in four months! I know. I’m going to have a gay time explaining when I get back. … Anyway, that’s the story. You know the rest. They planned to get me down here, where there were better facilities for disposing of me, and, heaven knows, their plan might have worked, if they hadn’t left two important things out of their reckoning.’
‘What two things?’ demanded David.
Richard said soberly, looking at Marsden: ‘The integrity and human-kindness of the English police, for one. I shan’t forget it, Marsden, and neither will David. I’ll write to Brooke tonight. We’re deeply in your debt.’
Marsden looked acutely uncomfortable, and muttered something, then turned and began to tap out his pipe on the balustrade between the table and the sea.
‘And the second thing?’ asked David.
Richard smiled at me suddenly, so that my heart turned a silly somersault in my breast.
‘The spanner in the works,’ he said, and laughed.
‘The what, Daddy?’
‘Chance, my dear David, in the shape of Charity.’
David looked from him to me, and back again. ‘Charity?’
I said: ‘It’s my name, David,’ and blushed like a fool.
‘Oh, I see.’ His bright gaze rested on me for a speculative moment, then returned to his father, but all he said was: ‘I thought you meant that stuff in the Bible about Charity suffereth long and is kind.’
‘That, too,’ said Richard, and laughed again.
‘Your father exaggerates,’ I told David. ‘The only thing I did of real practical value was to find Rommel, and then I nearly killed him.’
‘Your idea of practical value,’ said Richard drily, ‘is a distorted one, to say the least. That ill-favoured mongrel—’
David shot up in his chair. ‘Mongrel? He’s not! Anyone can see he’s well-bred! Can’t they?’ He appealed to Marsden, who grinned.
‘Let us say that a good deal has gone into his breeding,’ he said tactfully. ‘I’m sure he’s highly intelligent.’
‘Of course he is!’ David was emphatic. ‘Look how he found me! Why, he’s practically police-trained!’
Richard said dampingly: ‘I suppose that means you’ve trained him to sleep on your bed?’
‘The police,’ began Marsden, ‘don’t as a rule—’
But David hadn’t heard him. He was eyeing his father with some caution. ‘As a matter of fact, I have.’
‘And a very good habit too,’ I said promptly. ‘He can keep the – the mice away.’
Across David’s look of gratification, Richard’s eyes met mine.
‘I – see,’ he said. ‘Collusion. Conspiracy against me in my own home. I seem to be letting myself in for—’
‘Daddy!’ David’s eyes were round. He looked at me. ‘Mrs. Selborne! Are you going to marry Daddy?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
David got to his feet. ‘I’m terribly glad,’ he said simply, and kissed me.
Above the general babel of question and congratulation the smooth voice of the maître d’hôtel insinuated at Richard’s ear: ‘Champagne for m’sieur?’ They didn’t miss much at the Hôtel de la Garde. Then the magnificent bottle arrived, all gold-foil and sparkling ice and bowing attendant acolytes, and Marsden, on his feet, was making a very creditable speech, unaware of – or unconcerned by – the broad smiles and palpable interest of the people at the other tables. Behind him the blue sea danced, diamond-spangled, and in his uplifted glass a million bubbles winked and glittered.
‘… The only correct ending,’ he was saying, ‘to adventure. So they lived happily ever after. I give you the toast: Richard and Charity!’
He sat down among quite a small storm of clapping and general laughter.
‘When’s it to be?’ he asked me.
Richard took a folded paper from his breast-pocket. ‘In ten days’ time,’ he said. ‘That’s the very soonest you can do it in France. I made enquiries this morning when I got the licence.’
I heard Louise murmur: ‘Dictatorial …’ just beside me, and then David demanded:
‘But when did all this happen?’
Richard was laughing at me across his glass of champagne, with devils in his eyes. I said: ‘Actually, it hasn’t happened. I mean, he hasn’t asked me to marry him at all.’
‘Hasn’t asked you—’
Richard said: ‘Will you marry me?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
David grabbed his glass again. ‘Well, then,’ he said, in briskly practical tones, ‘that’s settled, isn’t it? All in front of witnesses, too. He’ll not find that easy to wriggle out of, Mrs. Selborne. I’ll see he gets held to it. And now may I have some more champagne?’
‘It seems to me,’ I said austerely, ‘that you’ve had quite enough.’
He grinned at me. ‘It was a very nice proposal,’ he admitted. ‘No words wasted, no beating about the bush …’ He reached for the champagne-bottle.
‘No!’ said Richard firmly, as I moved the bottle beyond David’s reach.
‘Collusion!’ said David bitterly. ‘Conspiracy! I can see—’
‘I’ve had a lot of practice,’ I told him, ‘and I’m a very managing woman.’
Richard was grinning. ‘Did Johnny always do as he was told?’
‘Always,’ I said composedly.
Louise laughed. ‘Some day,’ she told him, ‘I’ll tell you the truth about that.’ She got to her feet, and smiled at the others, who had risen too.
‘Well, thank you for my lunch and the champagne. Don’t let me keep you from the police and the other joys in store. Will they want David? No? Then perhaps he could spend the afternoon with me?’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Richard. ‘If the dog’ll be in the way—’
‘On the contrary,’ said Louise, ‘I wouldn’t dream of leaving the dog behind. What do you suggest I do with the pair of them?’
Richard’s hand slipped under my arm as we all turned to make our way out of the restaurant.
‘Most people,’ he said gravely, ‘begin their sightseeing in Marseilles with a trip to
the Château d’If.’
30
Epilogue
Upon the Islands Fortunate we fall,
Not faint Canaries but Ambrosiall.
(Donne)
It was late the following afternoon, and the sun slanted a deepening gold through the boughs that arched the avenue where Richard and I were walking. The columns of the planes were warm in their delicate arabesques of silver and isabel and soft russet-red. Over our heads the leaves, deepening already towards the sere time, danced a little to the straying wind, and then hung still.
‘At least,’ said Richard, ‘we have nine days to get to know each other in before it’s too late. Are you sure you don’t mind being rushed into it like this?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘The least I can do is to leave it to you to choose a place for a honeymoon.’
I said: ‘The Isles of Gold.’
‘Where’s that? Ultima Thule?’
‘Not quite. It’s another name for Porquerolles. You sail from Hyères.’
‘Wonderful. We’ll have a fortnight there – and perhaps Corsica, too. The Dexters say David can stay as long as he likes and we can pick him up—’
‘Oh, Richard, look!’ I cried.
We were passing a shop window, and, backed against a neutral screen of porridge-grey, a single picture on a little easel was standing.
Richard turned and glimpsed it. He stopped.
‘Oh,’ was all he said, but it was said on a long note of discovery.
The picture was small, but against the flat background of the screen the colours in it glowed like jewels, so placed that they vibrated one against the other, until you could have sworn the boy in the picture smiled. He was standing against a shadowed ground of leaves and rock, very straight, with his dark head high, and a gallant look to him.
