‘A quiet, dull little dormouse, you mean,’ said Trudi.
‘Is that what I mean? Perhaps. But not without other attractions. Anyway, suddenly in the last twenty-four hours, there’s all this.’ He made the kind of gesture the first man to see the aliens in a science fiction movie might make when he got back home. ‘My first instinct last night was to run for cover,’ he said.
‘But you decided venery was the better part of discretion,’ she said tartly.
‘No. I resisted the discretion without thought of sex,’ he said seriously. ‘That came later. And then that fellow Carter turned up. You know what I thought? Just for a second, I thought that it was all some complicated set-up, like in the old pictures. You know, where the private eye busts into the hotel bedroom with a flash camera!’
‘My God!’ said Trudi.
‘I’m sorry. Well, I soon realized it wasn’t, but I needed to get away to think. It didn’t take me long to realize that I needed to have a serious talk with you. I rang up and asked you to meet me for lunch and you sprang this thing about going back to Vienna. I thought hard and long, Trudi. And I decided that either I got involved or I got out. I can’t sit on the sidelines, that’s never been my way. I picked up the phone. I had a choice. Ring the Lewis Agency and put myself back in the system, or ring a travel agent and put myself on this plane.’
The stewardess leaned over and asked Dacre to put on his seat belt as they would soon be taking off. The interruption gave Trudi a chance to examine her ambiguous feelings.
Part of her was delighted to have James Dacre’s company.
And part of her wanted to ask him in bitter mockery what he expected from her for his noble decision – applause?
The plane was taxi-ing forward. She stared out of the window as though fascinated by the passing scene. Soon the preparatory roar of the jets released her from that pretence. The plane began its take-off run. So absorbed was she in the problem of her relationship with Dacre that she missed that moment of pure terror when it seemed impossible for this huge weight of metal and flesh to unstick itself from the ground.
But that other and consequent moment of exultation when the plane soared, and the earth dwindled, and with it all its problems and irritations, did come.
Releasing her seat belt, she turned to Dacre and said with a smile, ‘At least I’ll be able to accept that luncheon invitation now. And I won’t count anything we’re likely to get on this plane!’
2
Jünger took James Dacre’s presence in his stride, nodding at him as though at a familiar if casual acquaintance when he came back to check that Trudi was comfortably settled. There was something perhaps a touch satirical in the way he held open the door of the car that met them at Vienna and motioned Dacre to get in beside Trudi, but it was not until they drew up outside the Hotel Regina in Rooseveltplatz that he actually addressed the Englishman.
As the driver removed the luggage from the boot, Jünger opened the car door on Dacre’s side. As Dacre climbed out, Jünger said, ‘Frau Adamson’s room is 451. Perhaps you would see her luggage gets there. I do hope you can get a room on the same floor, Herr Dacre.’
Then he slid into the vacated seat, and the driver, who had abandoned the cases on the kerb, sent the Mercedes speeding away.
Trudi began to protest, but Jünger merely said, ‘Forgive me. First things first and there is little time if I am to keep my promise and send you home after only two days. Herr Dacre would, I think, prove to be a distraction.’
The car took them the short journey to Astrid’s flat. Almost before she was aware of where she was, Trudi found herself climbing the stairs to the olive-green door.
Jünger had a key.
‘Enter, please,’ he commanded. ‘Look around. Take note. Let me know what you see that may be different from your last visit.’
He opened the door. For a second Trudi saw Astrid’s narrow, lively face, heard her high surprised voice.
A blink of the eyes, a shake of the head, put paid to that ghost. But a reality more devastating than any phantom awaited her as she entered the apartment.
On the long low table between two armchairs in front of the gas fire were the remnants of a meal. Plates with traces of egg on them and forks left lying askew. An open pickle jar. A basket with half a mildewed bread roll. A bowl of rotting fruit. An ash tray with an apple core and several plumstones in it. Three wine bottles, two empty, one almost. Two tall wine glasses.
These were the relics of their meal together that night; Astrid’s last meal; Astrid’s last night.
Her closeness to Astrid’s death had not registered till this moment. She remembered offering tipsily to help with the dishes. Astrid had laughingly rejected the offer saying she liked to wash up after guests had gone, it got her sober before going to bed.
She dragged her eyes with difficulty from the table and turned them to the bed on the mezzanine level. The half-packed suitcase lay there, the legs of a red ski-suit trailing grotesquely over the side just as they had been on the night of her visit.
She began to walk round the apartment. It felt like sleepwalking. Jünger stood by the door and watched her.
When he spoke, it was merely a prompting. ‘So?’
‘It’s all the same,’ she said dully. ‘Only that. I don’t remember that.’
She pointed at a piece of black plastic sheeting about four feet square, against the skirting board under the wall-mounted telephone.
‘No. That wasn’t there,’ agreed Jünger. He drew it back.
On the wood block floor beneath was drawn a chalk outline, irregular, vaguely rhomboid, like an attempt at Great Britain on an ancient map.
‘She tried to reach the telephone, I think.’
Trudi gasped and put her hand to her mouth. There was little humanoid about the chalk shape. Worse was the tiny space Astrid Fischer must have crumpled into. Suddenly the wavering white line took on significance. She saw the body drawn back into itself in an effort to hold on to life. Back arched, knees tucked tight under the chin, head forced down hard, body as foetal in death as it had been in birth.
She said, ‘May I sit down?’
‘Oh yes. It is all right now. All the forensic examination is finished.’
She sat in the same chair she had used that night. Her hand, trailed lifelessly over the arm, touched glass. She looked down. It was the brandy balloon she had left there and that smudge on the rim was the mark of her own pale lipstick.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
She went into the bathroom and let herself be violently sick.
When she came back Jünger said, ‘I’m sorry. The flight and the airline food …’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Neither, as you know, Herr Jünger. It’s all this. Just as I last saw it. Except that Astrid was alive and well, laughing, full of life.’
‘Yes,’ said Jünger. ‘Now, tell me, Frau Adamson. Why did you visit her that evening?’
‘She was a family friend. She used to work for my husband when he was with Schiller-Reise, the travel company.’
The Austrian put his hand to his face and massaged his fleshy cheeks.
‘So, a social visit only?’
‘Yes,’ said Trudi.
She had not known what she was going to say about the purpose of her visit till this very moment. Back in Sheffield she had felt she would probably tell the truth. Here the truth seemed irrelevant, almost unseemly.
Also, despite her long sojourn in this country, she felt suddenly afraid of what powers a man like Jünger might have if he decided it was necessary to pressurize a witness.
The Austrian made no effort to pursue this line of questioning. Indeed he yawned widely as if the fatigue of his journeyings had married with a growing boredom with this case and his mind had turned to home and bed.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘You must be tired too, I think. Nothing has changed here, you are sure?’
‘Not as far as I can see. I’m sorry.’
‘No need. I
t is helpful in that it suggests how little time must have passed between your departure and … well, whatever happened. But time enough for all that tomorrow. A car will come for you at eight thirty in the morning. I’m sorry it is so early, but the sooner we start the sooner we finish. Now my driver will take you back to your hotel and the anxious Herr Dacre. Good night, Frau Adamson.’
‘Good night,’ said Trudi, bewildered but not displeased by this sudden dismissal.
He opened the door and ushered her out.
‘You’re not coming?’ she said.
‘No. The driver will pick me up on the way back. Good night.’
Trudi paused in the doorway. A question had formed in her mind but she was not altogether certain she wanted to ask it.
But if concealing things from others was part of her new game-plan, concealing things from herself wasn’t.
‘Herr Jünger,’ she said. ‘How did you know it was me who visited Astrid Fischer that night?’
He looked at her with a faint expression of surprise as though the question was unnecessary.
Stooping, he picked up the brandy balloon her hand had brushed and held it towards her. Now she saw there was a change. A faint white dust clung to the outside of the bowl.
‘Fingerprints, of course, Frau Adamson,’ he said. ‘You left your fingerprints.’
He laughed as if amused at her simplicity and she found herself smiling back and nodding as if in accord with this judgment.
But as she descended the stairs, her legs once more felt weak as she tried to imagine why the Austrian authorities would have a record of her fingerprints.
James Dacre was waiting in the hotel lobby. She told him she wasn’t hungry but was very tired and would go straight up to her room. But after a shower and a change of clothing, hunger revived and, as her mind by now was running round like a mouse on a treadmill, she knew that any attempt at sleep was likely to be fruitless.
She rang Dacre’s room, told him of her change of heart, and they met in the restaurant. Over supper, they talked about everything but the reason for her presence in Vienna. From time to time as she relaxed she strayed in that direction, but always he steered her away as if sensing that the time was not ripe. After their meal, they walked from the hotel towards the Votiv Kirche but the sharpness of the night soon drove them back indoors.
When they reached her room, she did not hesitate but opened the door, stepped in, and drew him after her. It was a need not to be alone that was strong inside her, but the sex was good and released that last notch of tension, so now she was able to talk without the risk of recreating the state of fear and panic which her visit to the apartment had left her in.
They talked deep into the night, or rather she talked, he listened. Then they made love again and she fell asleep, as happy as she had been for more years than she could recall.
The next morning she would have been late for the car if Dacre had not woken her. He was dressed and shaved, and a breakfast tray stood on the table by her bed.
‘You’d better get a move on,’ he said. ‘Otherwise friend Jünger will probably arrive with a gang of storm-troopers to drag you from your bed.’
She smiled and stretched luxuriously, realized the bedclothes were pushed down to her thighs, and pulled them up over her in modest confusion. Dacre seemed to enjoy the rôle change hugely.
‘I’ll see you in twenty minutes,’ he said, grinning broadly as he withdrew.
She took half an hour. Keeping the official car waiting presented her with no problems this morning.
Dacre appeared immediately when she tapped on his door.
‘James,’ she said, ‘what are you going to do today?’
‘First of all, I’m coming to Jünger’s dungeon with you, to check whether he’s letting you out on parole at lunch time or not. It won’t do any harm for him to be reminded that you have a friend in the vicinity, anxious for your well-being. Then I suppose I’ll see the sights. What are the sights, by the way? My knowledge of Vienna is restricted to The Third Man.’
‘Well, you can still go up on the big wheel at the Prater, if you want,’ said Trudi. ‘And I presume the sewers haven’t changed much. Otherwise it depends on your taste. Museums, churches, the Opera, the Riding School, or you can just sit in a café, drinking lovely coffee and gorging delicious cream cakes. But beware of your figure.’
‘It hasn’t affected yours so I notice,’ said Dacre innocently.
‘You should have seen me this time last year,’ laughed Trudi. But the phrase ‘this time last year’ brought the shadow of the past with it, and her light-hearted mood began to fade as she got into the waiting Mercedes.
She half expected to be taken to police headquarters. Instead they turned off fashionable Kärntner Strasse down what looked like a service lane for shop deliveries, passed through a solid wooden gate and came to a halt in a narrow yard.
Jünger was waiting in a mean little doorway. He expressed no surprise at seeing Dacre but pre-empted his questions by saying, ‘I anticipate Frau Adamson will be with us till mid-afternoon. Let us say four o’clock to be safe.’
‘No lunch break?’ said Dacre.
‘Of course. We will provide lunch here. It saves time, permits us to finish earlier.’
‘And tomorrow?’ insisted Dacre. ‘Will you be wanting to see her tomorrow?’
Jünger shrugged, the gesture oddly Gallic on his solid Austrian frame.
‘Who knows?’ he said.
With this Dacre had to be satisfied.
He kissed Trudi gently on the cheek and turned away. Obedient to the pressure of Jünger’s hand she stepped over the threshold.
Behind her, the door shut with as solid a thud as ever echoed through a castle keep.
3
They walked at a pace just above comfortable along a grid of grey corridors punctuated by unnumbered doors. Jünger was a half step ahead and whenever she tried to catch up to make conversation possible, he matched her acceleration.
Finally she halted. He kept on going for a dozen paces before stopping also and turning to regard her sombrely.
‘Is something wrong, Frau Adamson?’ he asked.
‘I’m not moving another step till I know where we’re going,’ she said, more shrilly than she intended.
‘We’re here,’ he replied, pushing open the door he was standing next to.
Feeling foolish, Trudi advanced and went into the room.
Behind her Jünger said, ‘Fräulein Weigel will take care of you.’
The door closed. She turned, half bewildered, half angry. There didn’t appear to be a handle.
‘Take a seat please, Frau Adamson,’ said a woman’s voice.
There was only one seat to take, a hard kitchen chair placed opposite a plain deal table. Above the table hung a bulb in a heavy frilled shade which directed nearly all the light downwards, though enough filtered to the room’s corners to show that it was devoid of window, decoration, or other furniture.
Behind the table sat a woman, or rather a girl. She looked little more than eighteen and her severe black blouse might have been part of a school uniform. Her face, fine-boned and delicately beautiful, had the rather self-consciously stern expression of a head prefect. Her hands rested palms down on the table on either side of a slim file.
Trudi sat down. The girl flipped open the file.
‘Shoesmith, Gertrud Adele. Known as Trudi. Daughter of Wilhelm and Gertrud Schumacher. Born London, England, June 15th 1939. Married Adamson, Trent …’
‘Hold on,’ protested Trudi. ‘What is this?’
‘I am just checking your particulars, Frau Adamson,’ said the girl, not looking up. ‘It is a necessary procedure.’
‘Well, all right. I’m Trudi Adamson. I know that, now you know it. Where’s Herr Jünger?’
‘Close. Please, let us continue. I must complete the checks.’ The girl flicked over a page of the file.
‘For God’s sake,’ said Trudi, standing up. ‘I haven’t come her
e to hear my life story.’
Now the girl looked up. An expression which might have been annoyance or bewilderment passed over her face.
‘Wait here,’ she said.
She rose and went to the corner of the room. A door, which Trudi had not spotted, opened. She passed through, and the door closed behind her.
Trudi did not hesitate because hesitation would almost certainly have meant inaction. She went round the table and began to examine the file.
It was all there, her life history. Birth, school, exams, work, marriage, where she had lived, where she had travelled, friends, acquaintances, interests, tastes, everything up to and including her time in Sheffield. Janet was there, and James Dacre too, with a note on his background and on the circumstances of their meeting.
Her face burned at the thought that this child, this Fräulein Weigel, not to mention God knows how many others, should have access to this information.
And another part of her mind marvelled at the smallness of the space her life folded into and the dullness of the existence and personality here contained.
She turned the sheet.
Photographs, more than a dozen of them.
Again they followed her through to the present though they only started after her marriage. Most she recognized as snapshots from her own album. Only the last three were new to her. One showed her with Trent. A dumpy figure walking away from an aeroplane. It must have been taken on their arrival in England the previous year. Trent was a step behind her and even this telescopic shot seemed to have alerted that old sensitivity to the camera, for his head was bowed and his left hand was scratching his nose.
The other two showed her in her new widowed persona. In the first the slight, still unfamiliar figure was standing head on to the camera waiting to cross a road. Shops behind her she recognized as belonging to Sheffield. She was taken aback at the look of unhappiness on her face.
Death of a Dormouse Page 16
