Stone's Fall

by Iain Pears

  “Well, she wasn’t. Not when I first met her.”

  “Anyway, it wasn’t really my doing. He invited me to dinner, I said I was going to this soirée, and he said he wanted to meet this woman. He’d heard of her, you see, and you know what he’s like. Tell her, by the way, not to get any ideas. If she goes anywhere near him, I’ll put a stop to it.”

  I became quite indignant on her behalf. “You know quite well what I mean,” he said severely. “I know perfectly well how she makes her money. It doesn’t concern me, as long as she confines herself to continentals. The Prince is a man with a weakness, and he likes to visit Paris.”

  “Is that why…?”

  “It struck me that it might be a useful insurance policy. She is in our debt now, and part of the price is no scandal. Sooner or later they would have met in Paris; and he is like a child in a sweetshop when it comes to women. He really cannot resist. Certainly he would not have been able to resist her. You have no idea how much time the Embassy spends clearing up the mess from these affairs. I want to stop this one in advance. Tell her that, if you please.”

  “Very well.”

  “Besides, he is notoriously stingy. She will earn more from knowing him than from sleeping with him.”

  “I’ll pass the message on.”

  CHAPTER 10

  If I am spending a great deal of time digressing on the subject of this woman, rather than recounting the excitement of life as a gatherer of intelligence for the British Empire, it is for two reasons. The first is that she is relevant to my story; the second is that she was very much more interesting than my daily routine. For example, on my return to Paris I spent some considerable time putting the finishing touches to my investigation of French naval policy, and that involved a good deal of time interviewing people (in my capacity as journalist) at the Coal Exchange, and poring over daily lists of bulk coal trades. Fascinating? Exciting? Do you wish to hear more? I thought not.

  In fact, I would even say that coal itself is a more interesting subject than the people who trade it. Each commodity and financial instrument attracts different sorts of people. Dealers in bonds are different from dealers in shares; those who trade in commodities are different again, and each commodity and each exchange—rubber, cotton, wool, coal, iron ore—has its own character. Coal is dull, the people who buy and sell it duller still. Their world is black, colourless and without pleasure. The brash young men who are beginning to sell oil and create a whole new market out of nothing are much more interesting; they have a touch of the desert about them, while the coal dealers have infused the gloom of the Picardy coal mines, or the Methodism of south Wales.

  And two days a week I traded on my own account. Perhaps I should describe this, as it illustrates the true nature of espionage better than anything else can. I rented a dingy little office in the rue Rameau as soon as I arrived—chosen carefully so that there were several possible exits, and a clear view of the street below in both directions; I had learned from Arnsley Drennan better than ever he realised. It was bleak, uncomfortable and cheap, perfect for my needs. Then I registered myself as Julius de Bruyker, import-export broker, and under the name of that fictitious gentleman of uncertain Low Country origins, I wrote to a young man at the German Embassy who dabbled in intelligence matters. A pleasant but not particularly bright fellow, he came to see me, and I offered him information about the forthcoming British naval exercises. It was interesting, although entirely safe information, but he was delighted to get it. More information followed the next week, and the week after that, until the point came when he began to wonder what I wanted.

  Nothing, I said, but any information he had acquired about French troop dispositions in North Africa I would consider a reasonable payment. Such information was of no strategic interest to the Germans, so after a short period considering the matter, they obliged.

  Next, I contacted an officer at the Russian Embassy, the Austrian Embassy and in the French intelligence services and offered all of them the same information. All were keen enough, and in return from the Russians in due course I acquired information about a new French cannon, from the Austrians information about French and German diplomatic correspondence and the French gave me details of German armour plating—when complete, this information was passed on to John Stone’s companies, and helped make up for some of the inadequacies of British steel manufacturing.

  And so it went on; I really was a broker, taking in information and selling it on. The good thing about information is that, unlike gold, it can be duplicated. One piece of information about shipbuilding in Britain, for example, could be traded for information from half a dozen different sources, and each of these could, in turn, multiply themselves many times over. So I supplied information about the new Vickers twelve-inch gun, and got in return detailed information about the German army’s new howitzer, the Austrian army’s requirement for horses, the Italian Government’s negotiating stance on North Africa and the French Government’s real policy towards British domination of the upper Nile. Details of the German howitzer were then traded for more information. The beauty of the system was that no individual was ever asked to provide information which would damage their own country—they were asked for material which on its own was harmless until blended with information from different sources, or which affected the security of a foreign rival. Spies are bureaucrats, by and large; they have masters to satisfy and must take that into account as they go about their lives; by supplying information I made their lives easier, and so they regarded me as a useful person to do business with. Of course, the utility of the system could only last as long as I had a monopoly of the method, otherwise the same information would have started reappearing time and again.

  For a very small amount of start-up capital, so to speak, I began reaping handsome returns, and do not think that the similarities between what I was doing, and what Elizabeth was doing, escaped me. We were both trading in specialised goods, exploiting weaknesses in the market to sell the same thing to many different customers simultaneously. Success depended on each customer being unaware of the existence of the others. That was the danger which faced both of us.

  So, in that period when I was trying to be fascinated by the Coal Exchange, my only real entertainment was provided by Elizabeth. I was curious about her shareholders. Not for any prurient reason, I hope, but for the sake of information only. Accordingly, when I returned to Paris I had Jules, my friendly, trained foot soldier, station himself nearby to watch comings and goings.

  A useful lad, this Jules. He was the son of Roger Marchant, an exsoldier with an incurable hostility to the discipline associated with either the army or any more normal paid work, who was employed on a part-time basis by Thomas Barclay.

  “As you are going to do all the energetic work, you must have Roger to help you,” Barclay begged, although one look at the man—who was swaying slightly when we were introduced—forced me to say that I could not possibly deprive him of such a useful man. It was not Roger who was the main problem—although absolute reliability was not his watchword—but his wife and several children, whose demands for sustenance far outstripped the poor man’s ability to provide for them. The petty-cash box of The Times was constantly being raided, first by Barclay and later by myself, in a desperate attempt to get the wretched woman out of the office, to which she resorted when she felt that death and starvation were only hours away. Roger was remarkably insouciant about it all. The duties of family life did not, as far as he could see, necessarily involve feeding it.

  It was a flash of genius on my part to solve the problem by employing their son to be my assistant, thus guaranteeing a flow of income into the hands of the mother that could not be diverted into slaking the father’s thirst, and securing for myself the services of one of the most useful people I have ever known.

  I do not usually spend time discoursing on the character of sixteen-year-olds, but as young Jules is now a grand man of influence throughout France, and, as I can claim
some proud responsibility for this, I feel I should divert my story awhile to give a proper account of him.

  He was, as I have said, the son—the eldest son—of a poor family, the father a lazy drunkard of amiable disposition, the mother a worrying fusspot, living permanently in a haze of crisis and despair. In one small room lived parents and five children, some of whom were amongst the worst-behaved and most revolting infants I have ever encountered. That they did not all end up in gaol or worse was largely due to the efforts of Jules, who took on the burdens of parenthood which properly belonged to others. He was, in fact, an accomplished criminal by the age of twelve, expert at filching fruit or vegetables from market stalls, milk from dairies, sausages and meat from delivery vans, clothes from department stores. He was also perfecting a good line in picking pockets until I persuaded him that this was an unwise career development.

  “Very risky, and for only uncertain gains,” I told him severely, waving my wallet in his face. “And I understand that the penalties in France are exceptionally high for this sort of activity. You are too young to spend the next few years in prison and, on the whole, it is better to avoid spending time there at all.”

  He was not entirely certain how to take my remarks; I had, after all, just caught him with his hand in my pocket and had grabbed his wrist hard to make sure he did not escape. He squealed in pain as he tried to wriggle free, attracting the glances of passersby in the rue de Richelieu, along which I was walking after my luncheon. I waited until he might realise that he was not going to get free of me, and calmed down.

  “Good,” I said when the noise subsided. “As far as I understand these things you should never, ever work alone, but need someone operating with you to distract the attention of the person whose wallet you admire. Secondly, it is unwise to try and steal from a gentleman; they are far more violent and unpleasant than ordinary working folk, and do not hesitate to call the police. You are only a man of property if you are good at keeping hold of that property. Thirdly, like most well-dressed men, I keep very little cash in my wallet, and much more in the bank. If you want serious wealth, I suggest you address your attentions over there.”

  I waved behind him at the façade of the Crédit Lyonnais, just visible on the boulevard beyond.

  He continued to eye me with ever more doubt, and began to shuffle uneasily from foot to foot.

  “Are you hungry? You have a sort of pinched look about you. Perhaps you were stealing to buy yourself a good meal?”

  “No,” he said scornfully. “I mean, I am hungry, but…”

  “In that case, young man, you must allow me to offer you a good bowl of soup and bread. The contents of this wallet were so nearly yours, I feel such proximity to triumph should not go without recompense.”

  He looked at me with narrowed eyes once more, but did not object when I led him—still holding on to his wrist quite firmly—up the stairs to a bouillon on the other side of the road.

  It was still quite busy, but there was no difficulty getting a table in the corner and I sat the boy against the wall, so he could not make a run for it with any chance of getting away. I ordered him a large bowl of onion soup and bread and water, and watched with satisfaction as he ate.

  “I hope all this makes you realise that I am not inclined to call the police, nor even to inform your father of your activities. Do you wish to be like him when you grow up?” I asked gently.

  He looked at me with a wisdom and sadness beyond his years. “No,” he replied with a touch of steel in his voice. “And I won’t be.”

  I pondered this as he ate his soup. He was very hungry, and ate with both noise and relish; the offer of a second bowl was accepted with enthusiasm. It is remarkable how much you can find out about someone in a short time and a few words. The boy was courageous and defiant. He knew loyalty—even though its object was undeserving. He was prepared to take responsibility, to act where others might have sat and merely accepted their fate.

  “Now, listen to me,” I said seriously. “I have not paid to pour litres of soup into you for no reason. I have been thinking, and I have a proposal for you. Do you want to hear it?”

  He nodded cautiously.

  “Can you write and count adequately? I know you can read.”

  He nodded. “Course I can.”

  “Good. In which case you are well to leave school. It has nothing else to offer you. You need a proper job, which I am offering you.”

  He gazed at me in that same, steady fashion, not reacting at all, really. Just patient.

  “As you may know, I am a journalist…”

  “I don’t like the English,” he remarked, although without any personal animosity.

  “Nor do you have to. In my work I need messages sent, letters delivered. I will occasionally need other tasks done. Following people, watching people without being seen. Perhaps even going into their houses and taking things.”

  He frowned. “You do that?”

  “It’s an odd job, journalism. And no, I do not. You do. Do you have any objection?”

  He shook his head.

  “The pay will be adequate, even generous, that is to say about a hundred francs a month. Does that suit you?”

  He stared at me. I knew it was almost as much as his father earned.

  “You will be punctual at all times, start work when I say and finish when I say. There will be no days off unless I say so.”

  He nodded.

  “You agree?”

  He nodded again. I held out my hand. “Then we must shake on it. Present yourself at my hotel tomorrow morning at eight.”

  He gripped my hand over the range of soup bowls and, for the first time, his face creased in a broad, happy grin.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jules did turn up the next morning, and more or less from the moment he walked through the door, he transformed my life. I only ever had to tell him once about how to do any task, or where something was to be put. Anything I requested he did speedily and well. He was never late and was as tidy as I was messy. On his own account he began teaching himself English by borrowing a copy of David Copperfield and a dictionary, and showed a considerable flair for the language. When there was nothing for him to do, he retired to a corner and read quietly; when there was something to do, he did it without questioning.

  And so, when the question of the Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala’s shareholders began to pique me, I naturally dispatched Jules to discover who they were. As a test of his ingenuity, I did not tell him how to go about it, but rather let him discover for himself the best way of accomplishing the task.

  It took him two weeks which, on the whole, was not bad going, and at the end of that time he produced a list of four names. I was impressed; professionalism in any field is something to be admired, and in a relatively short space of time Elizabeth had captured a Russian count attached to the Embassy and a banker, both married and of stupendous wealth. In addition there was a composer of a progressive hue, who made up for his limited financial success by the possession of a very wealthy wife; while the last one was an heir, that is to say the likely inheritor of a grand fortune with no personal merit of his own. By the time Elizabeth had finished with him, the fortune was considerably smaller. And that was before she had a reputation for knowing the Prince of Wales. Shortly after she got back to Paris, the composer was replaced—she was quite ruthless in these matters—with the Finance Minister, in whose company I had met her at Biarritz and a few months after that the heir, his fortune now depleted, was also cast aside. Each one of these made her wealthy. All combined rapidly made her prodigiously so; each one, for example, took on the entirety of the rent on her house, paid for her servants and gave her generous gifts of jewellery, which she kept in a safebox, each piece labelled with the name of the giver so she would not wear the wrong piece when being visited. Four-fifths of her income, after a portion of her debts were paid off, was carefully banked.

  By the time I received Jules’s report, I had m
et three of these characters at various evenings to which she had invited me; and I must say that all of them behaved with such discretion that I would never have guessed the reasons for their presence. Each treated Elizabeth with the utmost courtesy and respect, and never gave the slightest hint of any untoward familiarity. If any suspected the role of the others, they again let no hint of it escape them, but conversed in an easy and polite manner as to any other acquaintance.

  In return she was absolutely discreet, and never once caused them any embarrassment or awkwardness—although some at least would have been happy had they been known to have conquered her. Each individual was of high personal worth—I do not mean in financial terms although they obviously were that, but in terms of character. Except for Rouvier, whose position struck me as a strange lapse of taste on her part. Wherever she had learned it, Elizabeth had the art of choosing well. She gave them a sort of loyalty in addition to the other services she provided, and they responded.

  She invited about a dozen people every week. All were men; if Elizabeth had a blind spot it was to have an almost total disregard for other women. Men excited in her no rivalry or jealousy; women did so often and in violent terms. I would not go so far as to say that she detested members of her own sex, but she had no high opinion of them. It must be said that many women returned this emotion in full force, instinctively disliking, suspecting or fearing her. Many would have been glad to bring her low; it was her vulnerable spot, all the more so because she was unaware of it—a surprising weakness of perception in one who in all other matters saw so clearly.

  After a month or so I was promoted to the inner circle of admirers who spent every Thursday evening in her company. I was never offered, nor would I have accepted, a role as one of her shareholders. I didn’t have enough money, for one thing, and besides, I rather liked things the way they were.