Goodbye Again

by Joseph Hone

We were coming down the steps to the hold, into a narrow central corridor. There was quite a decent-sized galley to the right, bottled gas cooker, fridge, dirty sink, plates and wine glasses. Further on he opened a cabin door. ‘The master bedroom, bathroom en suite.’ We looked inside. Chaos again. ‘I’m sorry – haven’t done it over yet.’ No bunks, but a double divan filled nearly all the space, with a headboard, gilded plaster cupids playing at the top. Two portholes, hundreds of dead flies and a pot of brown geraniums on a shelf beneath.

  ‘Great,’ Ben said.

  ‘I’m sorry – no chairs. No room.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. We can just sit on the bed.’

  ‘There’s a shower here.’ He pulled a curtain across on the far side. ‘Have to be a bit careful with the water, but you’ll always get a minute or so out of it – warm water, I mean.’

  ‘We … I don’t shower much.’

  Geoff swayed as we left the cabin. We moved into a long, narrow space, the covered hold of the old barge, wooden benches piled up on each side, a small proscenium arch at the end, curtained and crowned by two more gilded cupids.

  ‘A lot of cupids,’ Ben said.

  ‘Yes, from a movie studio clear out here, a job lot.’

  ‘Glut on the market these days I expect, gilded cupids,’ Ben murmured. Then he was enthusiastic. ‘“The smell of the greasepaint, roar of the crowd”!’

  ‘Interested in theatre?’

  ‘Oh, yes, used to act a bit.’ Ben had gone forward, peeking through the curtain. ‘May I?’ Geoff nodded. Ben got up on the small stage, disappeared and then returned. He was wearing a shiny top hat, holding a silver topped cane. He did a little dance, swinging the cane, doffing the hat. He laughed. I didn’t.

  ‘Great!’ Geoff shouted up. ‘That’s part of my ‘The Man who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo’ act.’

  Ben immediately started on the song, in an off-key voice. ‘“As I walk along the Bois Boolong, with an independent air, you can hear the girls declare, he must be a millionaire … He’s the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo!”’

  Geoff clapped vigorously. ‘A bit of make-up and my dress suit and you’d be perfect.’

  Ben jumped down from the stage and shook hands with Geoff. ‘Great! We’ll take it.’

  ‘But Ben … George …’

  Ben turned, looked at me fiercely. ‘Yes, a bit of make-up and a dress suit. Wouldn’t recognize me, would you, Isobel?’

  ‘No. No, I wouldn’t.’ I saw what he had in mind. Disguises. He was mad.

  ‘We’ll take the boat, for a week.’

  We went back up into the wheelhouse. ‘I’ll take that drink now.’ George poured Ben a large Ricard, with just a splash of water, then offered me the bottle. I shook my head. He added a little water to his own glass. They toasted each other. Ben took out his wallet and counted out £550 in crisp £50 notes. They toasted each other again. Ben handed him the money.

  They drank again and talked of the trip. ‘Where would you like to go?’ Geoff had some maps by the wheel, the canals of France. Ben turned to me. ‘Where would you like to go, darling?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The Marne and Rhine canal might suit you,’ Geoff put in quickly. He opened up a plan of it, in a tall, narrow book, with the route detailed on each page. ‘Goes east through some fine country, and some good pike fishing if you wanted it. There’s two rods in the stern locker. A week’s trip – to Bar-le-Duc – here.’ He pointed a finger. ‘There’s a little restaurant just off the square, Le Coq d’Or. Tell you what: would you leave the boat at Bar-le-Duc for me, and give the keys to the patron of Le Coq d’Or? Monsieur Jacques is an old friend. I said he could have the barge for a family holiday, until I get back.’

  Ben took another gulp of Ricard and looked at the map. ‘Fine. We don’t want to come back the same way anyway. We’ll leave the boat at Bar-le-Duc, and take a train back from there. Can we leave today? Now?’

  ‘Sure. Just sign a few papers. What about your luggage?’

  ‘Back at the hotel. We’ll – I’ll – go pick it up, and get some food.’ Ben turned to me. ‘Since you’re feeling tired, why don’t you stay here, darling, take a rest down in the cabin, while I do the chores. That okay, Geoff?’

  ‘Sure. Come up and fix the papers, then I’ll get my things and go with you.’ Geoff was in a hurry now and Ben more or less pushed me downstairs. He joined me a few minutes later in the cabin and closed the door. ‘What would you prefer?’ he said at once. ‘The men who got Martin-Beaumont? Or the guys in the Turkish baths? They’ll have friends. Or the police who went to see Harry? They’ll be looking for us now. Or those men back at the Sorrento, whoever the hell they are. We have to get out of Paris on this barge.’

  ‘We might get out some easier way.’

  ‘What way? The stations, airports, main roads out – they’ll be checking them, they know what we look like, we’re on video. This way, on the barge, no one will know.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘We can get off at Bar-le-Duc, take a train, get straight back home from one of the channel ports.’

  ‘And your boat?’

  ‘Hell, that can wait. We can deal with all that when we get back safe on home ground. Just not get tied up here in France, with the police or with any of these other guys. That’s all that matters now. You got a better idea?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Just – frying pan, and now the fire.’

  ‘There’s no fire here. Geoff’s not going to make any trouble. He’s pissed already, and not the sort anyway.’

  ‘Ben –’

  ‘Either that or you can take your chances on your own.’

  ‘No, I was going to say – this is all really crazy. What are we doing?’

  ‘I’m not sure. You might know better than me.’ He looked at me pointedly. ‘I’ll leave with Geoff now, pretend I’m picking up our luggage and get some food and things.’ He tapped the Modigliani, secure in its bubble-wrapped parcel. ‘Keep an eye on this, Isobel.’ He put it under the divan, turned and left.

  I looked out the porthole. Part of the quay was visible above me. I saw a couple of cops, and then another two, walking up and down, looking around. Christ, Ben would surely be caught. He wasn’t. I watched as they left the barge – Geoff with a big backpack and carrying another one. They walked along the quay, laughing, swaying, boisterous shipmates taking shore leave. The cops took no notice of them.

  Ben was back an hour later, with tins of food, vegetables, wine, two T-shirts emblazoned with the legend ‘J’aime Paris’, two flimsy windcheaters, a toothbrush and some toothpaste, all stuffed into a Euro Disney rucksack with a picture of Mickey Mouse on the back.

  ‘Sorry, they only had one toothbrush left in the pharmacy. We’ll have to share it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘They’re there – the river police, at the lock that leads out to the Seine at the end of the basin. Looking over all the boats leaving. Which means you’re going to have to hide below deck while I take her out of here disguised. There’s make-up back on a shelf behind the stage and loads of theatrical tat in a big skip there. So you’ll have to lie low somewhere, while I play the drunken sailor topside.’

  ‘Ideal casting.’

  ‘Look, I’ve had more bright ideas drunk than sober. We’re in a sheep or a lamb situation, and I don’t intend getting hung for either. See?’ He did his scowl-smile at me.

  ‘Okay, but it’ll be lambs to the slaughter.’

  ‘No it won’t. Come on.’

  We went forward into the hold and up onto the little stage. The make-up, moustaches and things were there on a shelf. ‘Darken my face, anything, make me look swarthy. And that moustache is made for me.’ Then he opened the wicker skip. A terrible stale smell of old unwashed costumes emerged. He started to rootle round. ‘Look, this is just the job – French matelot costume, striped T-shirt, blue sailor’s cap.’

  He got into the matelot costume. I brushed his face with some dark Leichner powder,
stuck the moustache on. He added the cap, angled jauntily over his brow. He was certainly changed, and unsteady on his feet now. The drunken sailor, absolutely.

  ‘And where am I going to hide?’ I asked.

  ‘Not in that big laundry skip. First place a cop would look.’ He looked around the stage. In one corner was a tall wardrobe-like thing, colourfully decorated, with a sequin-bodiced woman in a tutu painted on the door, two fencing foils attached to the side. He went over and opened the door. Inside was a circular platform with two full-length mirrors angled at the back against a central pole. Ben moved the platform a bit. The mirrors moved, displaying a hidden triangular space behind. He moved the platform back again. ‘Ideal. It’s an illusionist’s cabinet.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘One of Geoff’s tricks. You disappear in it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on, get into it! I’ll turn the platform and you’ll be perfectly hidden, that’s the whole point of the trick.’

  ‘And those two foils? What are they for?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just get in, hurry! We need to be off.’

  I got in and stood on the platform. Ben closed the door, and suddenly, with a snap of some mechanism, I was swished right round and hidden in a dark space at the back. ‘I can’t see a thing!’ I said. ‘How do I get out?’

  ‘Come to that later.’ I heard his footsteps disappear.

  ‘Christ,’ I said. I heard the engine start, a gentle throb, and we edged out into the basin. Then into reverse, forward again, a more powerful throb, and we were moving down towards the lock leading into the Seine. Then we stopped.

  I heard footsteps coming down into the hold and up onto the stage. Ben’s voice, perfect French. ‘Nothing up there, officer, just our theatre stuff. We have a date up at Joinville tonight, meeting the other guys there.’

  Someone drew the curtains, climbed onto the stage. I heard the lid of the skip thrown back. ‘Nothing there either, officer. Lot of old laundry.’

  ‘Smells like a load of dead rats,’ the cop said, then, walking towards the cabinet, ‘What’s in here then? This pretty girl on the door?’

  ‘Illusionist’s cabinet, but I’m afraid the pretty girl isn’t inside right now.’ The cabinet door opened. ‘See, no one inside.’ The door closed again.

  ‘And these foils? What are they for?’

  ‘Just to show the audience that the girl has really disappeared. You push them in, either side, those two holes.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Well, when I’m doing a show.’

  ‘But if there’s no one inside, why not?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Let me try.’

  I pushed myself as hard as I could against the back of the cabinet. Was the cop going to impale me now? Kill me? I heard the foil swishing in behind my back. The second foil, from the other side, came through a moment later, faster, in front of me. I nearly shrieked.

  ‘See? Nothing inside.’ Ben’s confident voice again. I heard them climb down from the stage, their footsteps disappearing.

  Five minutes later the engine throbbed again. We were moving into the lock. Silence. The lock gates clanging behind us. The boat falling in the water. The other gates opening. The boat moving out onto the river.

  I was stuck, and absolutely furious. Ten minutes later the engine died, and I heard him mooring the barge, and after that his footsteps, running down to the hold, and shouting, ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m not okay, you bloody fool!’ I shouted.

  ‘Then you are okay.’ He jumped up on the stage, pulled the foils out, fiddled with the door. Some mechanism cut in and I swirled round inside the cabinet. He opened the door. I got out, furious. He took no notice, just put his cap up at a jauntier angle. ‘Well, what would you have done,’ I said, ‘if one of those foils had gone through me?’

  ‘They wouldn’t have gone through you. That’s the whole point of the trick.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  We went up to the wheelhouse. He’d pulled the barge into one of the quays a little way upriver. Now he cast off the bow rope, returned, started the engine and we moved out onto the water. Soon we were chugging upstream, going east out of Paris, the twin towers of Notre Dame behind us, cut through with the bright shafts of a midsummer sun, falling in the sky, a flame over the bridges, way downstream.

  He started to sing quietly. ‘“As I walk along the Bois Boolong, with an independent air, you can hear the girls declare, he must be a millionaire … He’s the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo!”’ He turned to me. ‘See, it worked.’

  ‘Yes, all very clever of you. I thought you were just a painter.’

  ‘I thought you were just a cookbook writer.’ He looked at me carefully. ‘Isobel.’

  Con man? Killer? Or just a crazy innocent? I wasn’t sure. Then he took the gun he’d had from the guy in the Turkish baths from beneath the dash board. I’d forgotten about it. A small gun. He looked at it, then at me. He hadn’t been going to kill me with the foils. He was going to shoot me now.

  ‘Don’t shoot! Let me explain!’

  He was puzzled. ‘Shoot you? I was just moving the gun to a better hiding place. Explain what?’

  ‘Everything.’ I started to tell him what had happened to me and my father in Dublin a week before – the men who had visited us both, my father at home in bed, the morphine drip in his arm, which the nurse fixed up, morning, midday and evening, when she came to tend him.

  ‘They killed him that way?’

  ‘Yes, they tinkered with the drip – gradually pumped much more morphine into him than he needed – trying to get him to talk about where the art hoard was. He told them nothing, except that they were just making dying easier for him, but it was terrible for me. They made me watch.’

  ‘God, I’m sorry.’

  ‘So you can see why I was so nervous with you at the funeral reception and the next day. It wasn’t my father who told me to go and see you – it was them, and they’d kill me if I didn’t or went to the police. They said your father must have known where the art hoard was hidden as well, and must have told you before he died.’

  ‘Well, he may have known, but he never told me.’

  And then Ben told me everything. About the inventory in his father’s cabinet, and how it had emerged, and all that had passed between him and Harry Broughton that morning. We came clean with each other, or almost clean. I didn’t tell him about my finding the drawing of Katie in her journal on the boat that morning, that I knew she looked just like me. That could wait. The drawing and the journal were in my bag now. Meanwhile we talked and talked as the barge made its way slowly upriver into the coming darkness, and we emerged into something of the light together.

  Later, when it was almost dark, and we hadn’t got out of the dreary outer suburbs of Paris, we moored for the night in an old industrial backwater in the shadow of ruined warehouses, near Joinville, wedged between the bows of two great derelict barges, where we couldn’t be seen from the shore or the river.

  I was making a dish with what I’d found in the galley and Ben had bought in Paris, spaghetti puttanesca, with a hot Roman sauce of anchovies, olives, paprika and a tin of tomatoes. I was at the stove. He was at the galley door, still in his matelot costume, with a glass of wine.

  ‘Those men who got onto you and your father in Dublin, and in the baths this morning must be neo-Nazis, or hit men working for old ones. As I said, it fits in with everything Harry told me. How most of this art was looted in Poland by Dr Frank and his pals, then hidden somewhere towards the end of the war, then some of it brought over to Dublin in those crates of marble my father imported from Italy, then secretly sold over the years in that back room of your father’s Dublin shop. So my father and yours must have been well connected with the Nazis. Because there’s the inventory of all Frank’s looted art in my father’s hand.’ Ben had showed me the inventory earlier.

  ‘Yes, but …’ But Ben rushed on.

  ‘We can�
�t get away from it, Elsa – my father and yours must have been involved in this business. Your father must have been a Nazi – in the SS or worse – and my father must have been involved with them all as well.’

  ‘Come on, Ben. Maybe my father was a Nazi – there were millions of them. Why worse? He, and your father, could just have been dishonest, dealing in this stolen art. Middlemen, no connection with this monster Frank.’

  ‘Yes, I’d thought just that.’

  ‘My father was in the ordinary German army, not the SS. He could have come on this hoard, hidden somewhere, at the end of the war, thought he’d have it as a nest egg afterwards, and teamed up with your father in Dublin when he came back from Auschwitz.

  ‘Okay, that’s a reasonable argument, but there’s a hole in it. How could just the two of them have fixed up all this on their own? Nearly everything in that inventory can be identified as Dr Frank’s loot, taken from private art collections, churches, monasteries – and Jews – in Poland and elsewhere. So at some point they must have been involved with Dr Frank and his SS thugs. There were a whole crowd of them, Harry told me. Especially a man called Pfaffenroth, an SS major, Dr Frank’s sidekick. I can’t buy the idea that your father or mine just stumbled on this hoard. They must have been involved with the SS in Poland so that my father was able to hide the loot for them, maybe in one of his Carrara quarries, and had the means to get all the stuff out from Italy to Dublin after the war, by boat, hidden in his crates of fine cut marble. I don’t know how he met your father, maybe in some DP camp in Europe after the war or in Dublin later on. But when they did meet, they had the means to sell it in your father’s Dublin shop, to support them both after the war, having double-crossed the other Nazis in on the game, which is why they’re after us now, fifty years later, to get their share.’

  ‘That’s a worst-case scenario.’

  ‘Take the worst case first, and you can work back from that. Think of innocence first and you’re bound to be disappointed.’

  ‘That’s really cynical.’

  ‘Only because your father’s involved. So you have to deny it.’

  ‘No! You’re just a cynic.’