by Iain Pears
“For example,” I said, “French banks have never taken up the opportunities of empire. I would have thought the possibility of loans to your colonies would have stimulated immense activity in the capital markets, yet I see very little.”
Monsieur Steinberg nodded. “We are risk-averse here,” he said. “There have been too many disasters for people to trust the credit markets. And it is all a question of trust. Not, at the moment, something our colleagues in London have to worry about. The banks in London succeed in the most outrageous operations because people think they will succeed. They have a century’s worth of trust to call on. But they do abuse that trust sometimes; it will rebound on them, and maybe sooner than they think.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“Well,” he said, leaning forward just a little, “there are strange stories going around, you know. About Barings.”
“Dear me. What are they up to now?”
“A good question. I hear Barings may be having surprising difficulty getting takers for an Argentinian loan it is floating.”
“That’s not so unusual. It’s part of the negotiating process, is it not? Besides, with Argentina in the state it’s in…”
“This is a bit more serious, I think. Credit International, so I heard, is about to refuse outright to take any of the issue at all. Which is ill-mannered of them.”
“What loan is this?”
“Buenos Aires Water Supply 5 per cent.”
“And the reasoning?”
“Argentine Government is falling to bits, Finance Minister out on his ear, too much debt, fiscal policy in ruins. The usual sort of thing. But that has been known for some time and it has never deterred anyone before. The question is whether anyone will follow Credit International, or whether the magic of Barings will sweep all doubts away once more. But I have never heard of anyone even hesitating before.”
Nor had I. Nor had I heard of a bank making public—even if discreetly—its doubts about taking part in a Barings’ operation. As M. Steinberg said, it was ill-mannered. And generally, when dealing with Barings, a refusal was generally taken to indicate a weakness of the bank which refused.
“I find this fascinating,” I said. “Just the sort of thing that would interest Times readers very much. Do you think the Chairman of Credit International would talk to me?”
M. Steinberg looked shocked at the very idea.
“There must be some way of finding out more,” I said. “Will you help me? I would be greatly in your debt.”
I had realised that, as a practitioner of espionage, asking for assistance is often the most effective way of going about your job. Again, tales of adventure tend to give a false picture, of deceit and subterfuge, of clever stratagems and cunning manipulations. I hope it is clear from my account so far that, in contrast, the most effective weapons in the arsenal of intelligence are money and goodwill. If you cannot buy what you want, ask for it. If you ask the right person, it produces the right response in nearly all cases of importance.
M. Steinberg, for example, was delighted to help. Why should he not be? He wanted to know what was going on as much as I did, and as long as I promised to share with him any discoveries I might make, he was more than willing to guide me in the right direction. Within a few minutes I had the name of a senior figure at Credit International, the information that he had a great weakness for horse racing and so could be found at Longchamp whenever there was a race on, as well as names in other banks which, in the past, had taken part in Barings’ issues.
I had a day at the races to look forward to, and a feeling that I was at last beginning to make headway. I relaxed, and began to enjoy the dinner for its own sake, rather than for professional reasons. It was, in fact, an excellent occasion, largely because of the way Elizabeth conducted the proceedings; there was no doubt whatsoever that, although Stone was paying, it was no longer his dinner party. He was her guest, as much as I was. Not that he seemed to mind this; he was a perfectly agreeable conversationalist, if a little serious, when alone. But he shrank in company, giving short and gruff replies, incapable of addressing the whole table, but rather fixing his attention on one person at a time. I could see the effort involved in not giving his entire attention to the woman next to him; every time the conversation flagged a little, he naturally tended to look back towards her, waiting for her lead. Madame Kollwitz was right; he was more than a little taken. I did not know whether she had any vacancies, but if there was one Stone looked as though he would pay a great deal to get on the list. But did she like him enough? She was gay, amusing, friendly, warm, but she could be so even to people she detested, when required.
When the dinner finally came to its end and the party prepared to disperse, one of the guests, a doctor I had not talked to, mentioned he had been invited to an entertainment, and asked if anyone wished to come along.
“A séance,” he said with a laugh. “Table-turning. Spirits. Madame Boninska. She is said to be very good.”
“I will come,” said Elizabeth. “Why not? Would you like to take me, Mr. Stone,” she asked playfully, “so we can find out all your secrets?”
The reaction from Stone was remarkable. “No,” he snapped. “And you will not go either.”
Elizabeth just managed to control a look of fury that passed over her face like a storm cloud before it burst. “I beg your pardon?” There was ice in her voice; I had known her for long enough to want to signal to Stone that he would be well advised to drop the matter, and quickly. He, however, was entirely impervious to tonal subtleties and equally incapable of reading the expression on her face. Maybe he just didn’t know her well enough.
“It is charlatanry, rubbish, for fools only. Any sensible person… I have seen what these people do to those of a weak or susceptible nature.”
“And which am I? A fool or weak?” Elizabeth asked haughtily.
“If you believe in such things? Both.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Don’t expect me to pander to your desire for fashionable amusements.”
“And what does it have to do with you?”
“You invited me, I believe.”
“Mr. Cort,” said the wife of the banker who had talked to me earlier, taking me by the arm and leading me away, “would you do me the great honour of accompanying me home? My husband has decided to abandon me and go back to his office. So I am quite alone and in need of an escort.”
“I would be honoured,” I said. Relieved was the more appropriate word, I think; I did not want to witness a fight between Stone and Elizabeth. Well, I did, of course; it was fascinating, but I realised it would be safer to be out of range. Neither, I suspected, would give way easily, and both could be unpleasant when their authority was questioned. They were behaving in a way which was unseemly, embarrassing, and Elizabeth was neither of these. Stone had penetrated to a part of her which was never, ever on public view and forced it into the open. He had exposed her, and therefore weakened her. He would not be easily forgiven. I left them as swiftly as possible—not that either was minded to notice—facing each other and, in the most polite way possible, preparing for a battle to the death.
“I thought I would extricate you,” Madame Kollwitz said after we had got into her carriage and lumbered off along the Seine. “I am in fact quite capable of finding my own way home. I have done so on many occasions. But you were staring in a way which was quite impolite, you know.”
“I suppose I was,” I said. “I think that will be the end of it, though.”
She sighed pityingly.
“What have I said now?”
“Do you think a woman like that would ever fight with someone she cared nothing for?”
“But he’s… well, he’s a lot older than she is. Besides, she’s not—well, not the type to…”
“We shall see. Who knows? She may have met her match this time. Mr. Stone does not behave like a lapdog when he is around her. Unlike M. Rouvier, for example. I almost think it is her duty to skin
him alive, although I never thought he would be quite so foolish.”
“What do you mean? The Finance Minister?”
“Of course.”
“Isn’t he married?”
She laughed again. “Of course he’s married. What I mean is that he is not rich. And rumour has it he gives her fifty thousand a month.”
“What?”
“Are you really this naïve?”
“I think I must be,” I said—very convincingly, I believe, for the pitying, scornful look came back to her face. “I’m sure none of it can be true.”
“Well,” she said, patting me on the hand, “that’s very sweet of you.”
“But if it was, I mean, where does he get it from? Rouvier, that is.
” She shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Where might the Minister of Finance get money from? Difficult one to answer, isn’t it?”
“Is there anything you don’t know?”
“I know nothing about you, young man. But then, maybe you’re not very interesting. Perhaps there is nothing to know.”
“I don’t think there is.”
“Everyone in Paris has a secret, and thinks it is theirs alone. Even my husband thinks I believe him when he says he is going back to the office for an hour.” She said it lightly, but turned her head to look out of the window as she spoke.
“Stick to journalism, Mr. Cort, where you never have to understand anything. Or you will find that Paris is a cruel and pitiless place. And tell that to our mysterious Countess as well. Her novelty is wearing off, and many people will take too much pleasure in seeing her fall.”
I left her at the door to her apartment block, her words echoing in my ears. It was late and I had work to do the next morning. I wanted a good night’s sleep.
CHAPTER 14
I took a gun with me when I went to visit Simon in Belleville. I have mentioned that I did not like them; I still do not. But at that stage I could not call on anyone to assist me in such matters, and Simon was (I recalled) a very big man. I was much more nimble and, I thought, probably more skilled, but if I do have to fight, I prefer the outcome to be beyond all doubt. On such occasions there is little virtue in only just winning.
The meeting, in fact, was quite simple; Simon was totally unskilled in subterfuge. All he had done was rent the room under an assumed name: that was the extent of his precautions. It was a simple matter to wait until I was sure he was at home, then go up the stairs and walk in. It was a dingy boardinghouse, unlit and run-down, which let out rooms to day labourers and itinerants with few questions asked. A place of hopelessness and despair, cold and depressing. Because of the time of day, it was all but deserted; only the concierge was there on the ground floor, and Simon’s room was at the very top of the building, well out of earshot. I would not be disturbed.
“Good morning, Simon. I trust you are well. The Countess has been worrying about you. You really shouldn’t have run off like that, you know. Not without giving her proper notice.”
He stared at me in shock, too dim-witted to understand how easy it had been to find him. My sudden appearance at his door in itself was almost enough to win the battle; he was unnerved from the start and, wisely or not, decided the best response was to say nothing at all. All he could manage, however, was a look of bovine incomprehension that made him appear so stupid it was hard not to burst out laughing.
“May I sit down?” I did not wait for an answer, but occupied the only chair in the room, a rickety thing which felt very insecure. To make a small point, I took out the gun and placed it on the table. Not touching it, but making sure it was pointing in his direction.
“The Countess is concerned you were not paid your last week’s wages,” I said. “So she asked me to pay a visit and make sure you are well.”
He briefly seemed to think that he might be off the hook, despite the gun; then even he realised that there was more to come.
“And she was concerned that you may have inadvertently taken some of her possessions. She wants them back.”
“I didn’t take anything.” He had a low, oddly well-spoken voice; it almost sounded as though it came from a different person entirely.
“Now, Simon, we both know that is not so. I have come to take these things back. In return, I will pay you the wages you are owed.”
He shrugged, his confidence returning. “I have nothing. What are you going to do? Call the police?”
I considered. “No, I think not. You know as well as I do that would be a bad idea.”
“You’re out of luck, then,”
“No. I will shoot you.” I picked up the gun and made a show of checking it was loaded.
“Knees first, elbows second. Where do you want to start?”
I editorialise. I was not calm as I said all this; I was sweating profusely and I only just kept my voice from shaking. That may have helped; it did much, I believe, to convince him that I was serious. A nervous man with a gun is much more dangerous than a calm, reasonable one.
Simon was not overly intelligent, but he was good at calculating his position. He had nothing to gain from resisting. Only stubborn pride might have stopped him from falling in with my wishes.
“Where are those diaries?” I said.
“I don’t have them.”
“But you stole them?”
“She’s no countess.”
“Of course she isn’t,” I replied evenly. “She’s just a whore. You don’t really think that anyone will pay for that, do you? Where are they?”
“Oh, there’s more. There’s much more than that,” he jeered at me. “There’s a lot about her you don’t know.”
“No doubt; but I can’t say it bothers me. Where are they?”
He grinned. “I told you; I don’t have them.”
“Who does?”
“A man. Friend of mine. A good friend. He’s looking after them for me.”
Oh, really! It was late; I was tired. I sighed with exasperation and picked up the gun.
“Who is he?” I repeated.
“Ten thousand,” he said defiantly.
“Just to tell me where they are? You must think I’m a fool.”
“It’s worth that to you, Mr. Cort,” he said. “I’ve been reading about you, as well.”
That was a mistake. I picked up the gun, thought for a moment, then shot him in the leg, the way I had been taught. Simon collapsed onto the floor, gripping his thigh, and screaming; I stuffed a piece of cloth into his mouth and held him down until he stopped, avoiding the spreading pool of blood flowing across the floor as much as possible. I was now entirely calm.
“Who is he?” I said once more.
It took a long time to get it out of him, but what he eventually said made my heart sink. Arnsley Drennan was back in my life. A man calling himself Lefevre, he said. Fifties, fair hair. Thin scar on his face. He had met him in a bar, they’d talked. He’d offered to help, he’d been very persuasive…
I sat down on the chair again, oblivious to his moaning. This was bad news. An opportunist thief turned blackmailer like Simon was a simple problem; Arnsley Drennan was another thing entirely. A much more formidable challenge.
“Where is he?”
Again, it took a long time to get a coherent answer. “I don’t know. I really don’t,” he moaned as I raised the gun in warning. “I told you, I met him in a bar.”
It was the bar where Drennan had taken me once. It was too much to hope he still occupied the same room, but it would be worth trying. I looked at Simon, doubt in my mind. He might tell Drennan of my visit. He knew a very great deal about Elizabeth. And about me.
The building was quiet as I walked down the stairs and into the street a few minutes later. No one paid any attention to the second shot either.
I spent the rest of the day looking for Drennan, but without success. He had long since quitted the rooms where I had first met him. This was the only other thing I learned, but I was not by then at my most effective. I was in a state of shock. I think I hav
e made it clear that I am not a man of action. I do not like violence; it offends me. What I had done terrified me, once it all sank in, even though I tried hard not to think of the scene in that dingy room, the last look on Simon’s face. My lack of emotion was the most frightening of all. I had not hesitated, had not tried to find a way around the problem, had not considered other possibilities. Simon had been in the way. A problem. A threat. He was no longer. I felt no remorse, and I should have; I was not the person I had thought myself to be. I slept that night as well as if I had spent the evening dining in company, with not a care in the world.
CHAPTER 15
The next morning, as I went downstairs to the bar for a coffee and some bread, the barkeeper, who was also my landlord, handed me an envelope. I ignored it for a while, until enough coffee had been absorbed into my system to make me human once again, and only opened it when I felt sure that I would be able to read it through without my attention wandering. It was from Jules.
Dear Mr. Cort,
As you will see, I am writing this to you from Lyon, and I apologise for taking so long about the task you have given me and for spending so much of your money. I wished to see the job properly to an end. I hope you do not mind.
As you instructed, I went to Lausanne, which took a very long time, but then had difficulty finding out about Dr. Stauffer; he was in none of the directories to be found in the town library, even though these were completely up to date. I did eventually come across the name in a listing that was some four years old. I send it enclosed, and hope you do not mind that I tore it out of the library book. I know I am not meant to do that sort of thing. I then went to the house, which is occupied by someone completely different. Dr. Stauffer died some three years ago, it seems.
