She looked at my dark expression. They used to call it in novels “a brown study.”
“Madame — your wig!”
I had evidently been in the company of English people too long. How just a few days can make one forgetful! In sensible English, of course, an inanimate wig is an “it.” In Czech, as well as in French, it was a “she.” I had visions of this wig crawling back to the hotel on her own from the railway sidings or from wherever she had jumped ship last night, bedraggled and disconsolate.
“I’m afraid it has been lost. I really don’t think we can find it.”
“But Madame, that was the only one. Shall I send out for another?”
I couldn’t imagine the hotel housekeeper’s choice of wig being at all presentable. Perhaps they kept a couple of moth-eaten spares in a cupboard just in case. Maybe I should wear a hat, and pull it down a little. Or, maybe…
With the breakfast dealt with, I was sitting in front of the dressing table’s triptych of mirrors and Sabine was just combing the hair I had attacked with nail scissors a few weeks ago when it had first dawned on me that females may have “wiles,” but very few other advantages in the world, compared to men. As I was remembering this I was thinking of a labourer I had noticed from my window last summer. He was going to work, wearing one of those blue overall suits which are popular with working men. He had no socks to his shoes, no underwear I should have thought, carried no papers nor purse. All he had to do in the morning was to wake up, put on this one garment, two shoes, a belt to heave in his beer tummy a little, and leave his lodgings. He might pick up a discarded clay pipe somewhere and borrow some ’baccy from a workmate and he was happy all the day long. That’s why I had cut my hair. It had been the first signs of my protest at being an incapable, helpless, overcomplicated female.
“Madame, I can cut a little ’ere — even these ragged ends. Maybe even shorten a little ’ere, too, and then we have a new cut.”
If I could be brave enough, then I would at least be at the start of a fashion. In a month or two all the shopgirls would be sporting their “Countess Cuts.” Or I would be laughed at. Hmm. A risk, but all it would take was nerve.
Thus, I braved it to the New Baths. I didn’t know what to expect. In school in Switzerland the library had possessed such edifying classics as Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Out of twelve volumes, there were three or four which each had several sections of very well-thumbed pages. The Sabine Women, for example, had “lost their glorious crowns of virginity.” We had to imagine how. The direct cause of the fall of that great empire was Emperors fooling about in bath-houses when they should have been out killing Goths. There had been a particularly vivid description of the carnal nature of the Roman Baths.
I therefore steeled myself so that I could ignore these rulers disporting themselves in their Birthday attire. No amount of persuasion would make me remove any garment, not even my gloves. Perhaps I had been foolish not to have questioned this invitation, which had, however, been in the form of a command. By now I had learned precisely what would happen when the King chose a new hat at a certain milliner’s here, and this little Mizzi had to take it round to the Weimar personally — when the King’s door would be locked for an hour. I, however, would defend my honour.
I was shown in through marble corridors. I was somewhat unnerved by the fact that the splendid baths, built less than ten years ago, were in Roman style. Very Gibbon. I glimpsed a large pool with many fat men wallowing. Another pair of doors was opened. There they were, in a small private chamber. My fears had been groundless.
In two wooden contraptions, side by side, sat the King of England and the Kaiser of Germany. They were up to their necks in steaming black mud. King Edward was smoking a cigar between phrases of his conversation:
“But how could you have been fooled for an instant, Willy? You know we would never have taken Caesar to a meeting with you. We know you hate small dogs — ‘yappers’ didn’t you call them once?”
They had not noticed me. “Good morning,” I said rather timidly.
Their two heads turned simultaneously.
“Good Heavens, Trixie! — what an admirable hair arrangement! Is this the latest thing in Prague? We really didn’t notice it yesterday, otherwise we would have commented on it then. We wonder if Mrs. Keppel will be trying it?” Then he turned to his nephew: “Willy, this is the Countess von Falklenburg. She allows some men to call her Trixie.”
“Charmed, Madame. I hope you will forgive the mud.”
“Mud, Willy! It’s ‘Mineral Peat’ and we heard Ponsonby complaining on the telephone to someone how much it cost per hour. So don’t call it ‘mud,’ please. It devalues it, don’t you think?”
The King stubbed out his cigar in some of the mineral peat — which made a sudden hissing sound. “Trixie’s the detective who’s spent the last however many weeks unravelling this whole damned business.”
The King then asked me to turn away as four gentlemen attendants in smart white uniforms came and released their royal victims from the contraptions. In extremely large towels they were escorted to a shower room. As they were walking away, I heard the King saying to his nephew “In a few moments Trixie Falklenburg is going to explain to you exactly how the confidence trick was to have worked.” I heard the Kaiser reply sourly, “And in my case, did.”
I had to wait, not knowing quite what to do. I really do hate hanging around for people, however grand. Shortly, however, a gentleman in a dark suit asked me to follow him out onto a glazed verandah, where a circular table was set with three comfortable cane chairs. The table had an admirably thick white starched linen cloth and a small vase of gardenias. The warm sun was streaming through the glass, one tall pane of which was open just a chink. On a green slope below the verandah, four horses were tethered to nibble at the grass; they belonged to the hiring carriages which were on the street opposite, below the Catholic Church. After the horrors of the night before, all seemed well with the world again.
Soon chairs were being pulled back and the two rulers, this time in Lounge rather than Birthday Suits, were seating themselves beside me. “Now we want you to explain this whole thing to my nephew. He still believes he actually went to our dinner party last night.”
“Before that, Uncle, there’s something else.”
The Kaiser’s equerry with whom we had rowed last night appeared and handed his ruler a leather-bound book and a small circular glass phial. I froze at the sight of it. I felt the King’s hand on my knee — to steady me. He must have seen me go as white as a sheet. I quickly recovered myself, although the hand remained even as the coffee was served.
“So tell me, this notebook here — full of formulas, results of experiments, calculations of all kinds — it means nothing?” The Kaiser began.
The notebook was similar to those we had found in Sir Emile’s stove, although this one appeared new — and of course not signed.
“It’s just gibberish, Willy. A fake. A nothing. The real formula’s been destroyed.”
“And I paid two million marks for it!”
“Only one million, Willy. They’ll never get away with trying to encash that draft. The bank will see to that.”
“And this phial…if we were to crush it in our hand, then it would be…what? Just coloured water or something?”
I could see he was about to do just that. Without a fraction of a second’s hesitation I rose up, pushing my chair backwards, flung myself across the table scattering coffee cups, pot, saucers — flinging myself right at the Kaiser, and grabbing hold of the phial which I managed to hurl into the park outside just as it burst open. I tugged the glass pane back and shut it tight. The two men were astounded — and even more astounded by what they then saw on the grass outside.
For a couple of seconds, it can only have been, although the longest two seconds of my life, the horses there attempted to rear up �
� but they were held back by their tethers. Their expressions were dreadful to behold as their features were horribly contorted, their organs struggling to resist the effect of the deadly gas. The sounds they made were pitiful too. In such an open space, and with such a small quantity, the gas quickly dispersed, but not before it had killed all four of those beasts.
“Oh, our God!” cried the Kaiser. He helped me back to my feet. “You have saved all our lives.”
Then both men fell silent for a moment. Eventually, the King spoke:
“We think it was a good thing that neither of us bought this formula — and from what Northcott has related to us, Brodsky himself destroyed his own monstrous work. Can you imagine that on the scale that the inventor first conceived? Whole cities annihilated in the space of a few minutes? It is too terrible to contemplate.”
There was commotion in the park outside. Inside, waiters and even the plainclothes men were suddenly all over us cleaning up. One had a gun in his hand. Perhaps they thought it was some anarchist outrage.
The manager of the Baths was now with us, apologising profusely — but what for exactly, we didn’t know. The King was saying he would pay for the horses and any other damage. New dress for me, of course. Coffee had ruined it — two gone in as many days. We had to move, for there was the ghastly spectacle outside of four dead horses and an animated crowd pointing to the verandah.
“Look, we’d like you to come to church with our party, if you would. We’ve all had a narrow escape from death — and it’s only thanks to you. The party assembles at five minutes to eleven, downstairs in the hotel,” the King said to me as we were walking back through the marble corridors. Then he said more quietly: “The fact that Brodsky did get rid of his invention deserves some credit, we think. We understand he was no saint in his non-scientific life, but he’s dead now. He should have a proper funeral and the usual honours.”
I simply nodded. I wasn’t quite so sure. Nor was I of the Kaiser. That moment when the King had said how good it was that the formula hadn’t been purchased — I was looking at his face. If anything, it was registering disappointment.
***
At eleven we were all seated in the red brick English church, uncompromisingly British and dully Protestant with its plain ritual. The priest intoned prayers which heavily stressed thanks to God for deliverance from perils for the Sovereign and members of his family. I could see the King smiling wryly. We had all three of us been a fraction of a second away from a ghastly death. After church there would be lunch and after that the two rulers would finally hold their political discussions, where the fate of Europe could hang in the balance of their words or their indigestion.
During the sermon I thought of the elaborate swindle enacted the night before. In fact, two swindles — how audacious and how brilliant it had all been! And how very nearly the whole scheme had come off! Only the German treasury was down by a million marks.
We had been taken in the motors to the church. I had been in the King’s big Praga, and he invited me to sit beside him as we left the service.
“The station,” he said to the chauffeur — and then to me: “We are going to pick up the owner of this motor from his train. He was kind enough to lend it to us for our visit. Giving him a ride in his own conveyance is the least we can do for him, don’t you think?”
Isidor Pinkerstein — for he was the motor’s owner I was just about to discover — was coming out of the station booking hall as we arrived. He looked amused to see me. After greetings, on the way to the Weimar, the King waxed enthusiastically about the fact that I had just saved the lives of his royal self and that of the Kaiser. I wondered, fancifully I’m sure, if he spoke of my saving the Kaiser’s life with just a faint twinge of regret.
As we stepped down outside the hotel, the King told us that he would see us for drinks at one-fifteen, again later than normal, due to the circumstances. So I had time to rest a moment from this whirlwind of continual social — and dramatic — events.
A letter awaited me in my room. It was from Karel. I had almost forgotten I had a husband.
My Dearest Trixie,
The railway has lost my luggage again. It is so infuriating. Since you have my butler, who was supposed to have been acting as my valet, as well as that maid of yours, I would be grateful if you would instruct Müller immediately upon his return to send my check shooting clothes, coat and breeches, the new gaiters, the other cartridge bag and that thick white flannel shirt if it finally can be found and the stout brown shooting boots with nails. Have them packed in a cardboard or other box and tie my old shooting stick on. Forward by post to Schloss Sommerberg to which I am returning tomorrow.
Trust you are well. I am sending sixty krone — the halves of three twenties enclosed and the three other halves by separate post.
Hope all is well with you. Have you met His Majesty yet?
Ever your loving husband with sincerest felicitations,
Karel.
So it was back to the domestic round again. I could suddenly picture him standing by me in those very shooting clothes (minus the thick white flannel shirt, of course; I’d have to find something else), clouds of filthy tobacco smoke from that Triumf pipe of his. It would be no good explaining that I had saved the two most powerful monarchs in the world, that I had nearly been murdered by a mad scientist, that I had broken the most elaborate fraud — a double fraud, at that — so instead I got Sabine to ring for Müller who was waiting downstairs.
I told my loyal employees (as servants were now preferring to be called) that by the next post the other halves of these banknotes should arrive. There would be twenty krone for Müller, twenty krone for Sabine, and twenty krone to divide amongst the young men as bonuses for their invaluable assistance. Naturally, there was the packing to do for my husband, and I handed Müller the letter. At this I suddenly had a feeling of emptiness — the parade had gone by, I felt. There was nothing more to do. Tomorrow, probably, I should go back to Prague — with a yearning for another adventure in the pit of my stomach. I had a small supper party to organise, one which had been cancelled due to Uncle Berty’s death. How the trivial would soon begin to dominate my thoughts again.
It was Müller, as ever, who broke my mood — as always by speaking of the purely practical or the completely overlooked. “What about old Alois?” he asked.
My God — I had clean forgotten all about him and the Tontine, where this whole adventure had begun.
***
A good, jolly crowd. The awful events of the last days forgotten. The King and the Kaiser appearing to get on well together, ’85 champagne, the King’s favourite. Pinkerstein came straight up to me and drew me aside.
“I want a word,” he said. “I wasn’t very fair with you the other week when you called. In fact I was — shall we say? — something less than candid with you over that Tontine business.”
“You weren’t?” I said all innocently. I certainly hadn’t been candid.
“It was started twenty years ago, as you know. I really had no idea then how it would all work out. My nominee was just a clerk in my office — a fit enough chap for his age. Naturally, for the first few years I kept my eyes on him, since he was — unbeknown to him — my future investment. I should have told him, of course. But I didn’t want him to demand too much from me. So when the first great Klondike gold rush was on only seven years ago, he suddenly upped and left for the wilds of Canada. Older men than he got taken over by this fever, I can assure you. I was left paying for my meanness — there was gold at home if he had stayed, I should have said. The upshot of it is, I really don’t know if he is alive or dead at this moment — and in all probability will never know. His elder sister kept in contact, and he had survived until last Christmas when he sent this sister a card. But even she has now died. And that’s it.”
“But what about the Tontine Financial Association? Haven’t they checke
d up recently?”
“I said he had gone to live in the country. I pay a doctor there to say he’s alive, and I have paid an old man to sit through the visits by the representative of the Association.”
“So why are you confessing this to me?” He seemed to have been doing all right as things were — and it just seemed to be a contest, in actual fact, of whose impostor might last the longest.
“Because, Countess, it isn’t fair. This bit of profit’s just a drop in the bucket for me — and I’ve already had goodness knows how much interest out of it. So I am simply going to announce the death of my nominee, and the Tontine will be all yours.”
This now posed a severe moral dilemma for me — a crisis even. In the New Year I had listened through a sermon on a priest’s definition of honesty. “You take a train and just before the ticket barrier at your destination you find you have lost your ticket. Now you could say you came from only one or two stations back, and no one would be the wiser, but the honest man will declare his true point of departure.” The priest seemed to know so much about avoiding paying the full fare I had my own opinion on his honesty. It had seemed trifling at the time, but here was the same dilemma, magnified several thousand times over, the essence of any parable.
The temptation was that I could get away with it. Maybe old Alois did outlive his last rival. But on the other hand, maybe he didn’t. However no one would know. Added to that, Pinkerstein was rich, and we von Falklenburgs certainly weren’t.
“Mr. Pinkerstein,” I said firmly, “when we met I proposed a compromise. I still do. We split it down the middle — half each. My nominee also had his problems, that I admit. As you say, let’s be fair and we will both walk away from this affair with honour.”
To Karel and me, even half the Tontine would be a small fortune, one which would keep our heads held modesty high and the old Harrach Palace as our home.
“To say I am surprised is indeed an understatement. I accept with pleasure. Will you allow me to settle this theatre business for the best possible price?”
The Countess of Prague Page 25
