She shrugged. ‘The eternal search for safety … for atonement.’ A nervous smile distorted her lips. ‘Here, at least if the police come to fetch me I can call on you or on my friend Bonnet. Both of you helped me before, did you not?’ She waited for his wordless acknowledgement before asking, ‘What do you want of me?’
Her confession of fear had pushed him off track, and when he spoke he forgot to be cautious. ‘I have become a victim of blackmail over your husband’s death.’ He saw her touch the scar at her temple. ‘Yes, that day has finally returned. Madame, you swore to tell no living soul.’
‘Yes, I swore it.’
‘Somebody knows. Somebody telephoned me at home, minutes after I received this.’ He passed her the grubby letter that had been delivered to his home on the twelfth. ‘Tell me if you know the writing.’
She handed it back after a moment and her body was trembling. ‘I don’t recognise the hand. He threatens to expose the truth of Alfred’s death. It is blackmail, Monsieur, but the writer is not sure of his ground.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘He threatens to hurt someone you love if you do not pay. Which shows that exposing the facts of poor Alfred’s murder is not enough … because nobody cares any more.’ She murmured in Yiddish. ‘People thought I had killed my husband.’
‘You were arrested on suspicion only, and released almost immediately.’
‘Thanks to you. But to rescue me, you brought others into our secret. Perhaps one of those ‘others’ has crawled out from under a stone to threaten you.’
He agreed, adding, ‘But who?’
‘There was Kern.’
‘The police inspector whom my mother bribed? He died a decade ago and had no reason to talk. After all, we made him rich. There is Célie Haupmann, of course, my mother’s housekeeper … but she’s frail now and her loyalty to my mother was always beyond question.’
‘To your mother, but not to you. Was Haupmann the one who brought warm clothes to me in prison?’ Danielle stroked her sleeves as he confirmed it. ‘She did not like me. I don’t think she liked you either. You say she is frail?’
‘She is dying. I don’t suspect her.’
‘She has dependents though? A son or daughter who pokes her for money, who might benefit from a little windfall?’
‘Haupmann has no children. She was always utterly dependent on my family and will be loyal to her last breath. Could you have revealed the facts of your husband’s death accidentally? Perhaps to Raphael Bonnet?’
‘We agreed on a story that would save us both, and I told nobody, not even my child! As for that –’ she pointed at the letter – ‘that was written by a lout who smokes dung. My old friend Bonnet is a man of proven loyalty. Whatever he has learned of my failings – mein gott, I have many – he would not exploit them for money.’ She clasped her hands, closing the subject. ‘How much does your liver-worm blackmailer want?’
He found a smile. ‘Rather a lot, and I’m struggling to raise it. According to his admirably detailed instructions, I’m to leave it behind a tobacco kiosk near Notre-Dame-d’Auteuil on Good Friday. That’s the day after tomorrow—’ He broke off as a woman walked by. She was slim, dark-eyed, and his thoughts jumped to Alix. ‘How is our Aliki? I’d like to see her.’
Danielle scraped her chair as she rose. ‘I must go.’
Jean-Yves followed her out of the church, catching her arm as she stumbled in the afternoon dazzle. ‘At your request I haven’t contacted Alix, but I hate pretending that I don’t know she’s in the same city. If she needs a friend here, money to study with, a letter of recommendation, anything, you will ask?
Danielle swatted the offer away. ‘You helped her to a position at the telephone exchange and that’s enough. Save your wealth for your daughters. A wedding to pay for, no? Now you look as if I have said something vulgar. I read about it in the newspaper.’
He sighed. He had not wanted a public announcement, considering such fanfare to be indelicate. But Rhona had insisted.
Danielle unwittingly echoed Rhona’s very argument. ‘Why should you hide your great triumph from the world?’ She reeled off, ‘“Marie Louise Alphonsine Rhona Christine, eldest daughter of the Comte de Charembourg, to marry Guy Philippe Antoine, Duc de Brioude, on 15th June at the family estate in Kirchwiller.” It’s a stupendous match and I can understand this is a bad moment to have to pay a blackmailer. So, don’t pay him. Tell him to piss in his own teeth.’ When he hesitated, she raised a finger. ‘Pay a blackmailer, keep a blackmailer.’
‘You read those threats, but you didn’t hear him, Madame. You didn’t hear him gloating at the prospect of ruining …’ he paused because he felt sick, ‘ruining a sweet face. I don’t know by what means. Burning, sulphur-acid, a knife … All I know is, I must pay.’
‘Does the farmer’s wife milk her cow only once?’
He had no answer to that and they made their goodbyes. He watched Danielle Lutzman hobble across the square having declined his offer to escort her home on the grounds that they shouldn’t be seen together. ‘People gossip, and it will upset that lady your wife.’
She was wise and he was a fool. But he was also a father, a proud and loving father. He was a husband, a guardian and – perhaps belatedly – a man of honour. So he must find the money. He had no choice.
Easter, 27th March
His daughter Ninette insisted she could always tell when a phone call was from Christine’s fiancé. ‘The ring goes all moist when Philippe calls. It wheezes with unexpressed poetry.’
‘Don’t mock your sister,’ Jean-Yves reproved. ‘Telephones, like all man-made technology, are reliably unimaginative.’
‘No, no, Papa. They mirror our feelings.’
‘Then allow your sister her private feelings and remember that a loving telephone will ring for you one day.’
When, three days after meeting Danielle in St-Sulpice, his telephone rang, Ninette’s theory blew back at him. He knew before he picked up the receiver which voice he’d hear.
‘Where were you yesterday. Not-so-Good Friday? You did not leave the money, broke our sacred deal. You are forcing me –’ the catarrh was getting thicker – ‘to give you one, final chance. I know where those you care about spend their days. I know where they walk, the young ladies, where they shop and take their lunch. Don’t wait until my knife-hand is unbearably itchy.’
‘I tried to pay, I swear. Listen, please—’ A knock at his study door made Jean-Yves curse violently. He shouted, ‘Go away!’ but the door opened to reveal his secretary bearing a sheath of parchment. Jean-Yves dropped his arm behind his desk to hide the telephone receiver. ‘Not now, Ferryman.’
‘These are from the Duc de Brioude’s attorney, Monsieur. Your signature is needed.’
‘I said, later. I’m busy.’
Ferryman made an obsequious half-bow, but did not move. ‘Permit me to suggest you sign them, Monsieur, so I can deliver them—’
‘Just bloody well get out!’
The whole exchange took perhaps a quarter of a minute, but it was too long for the caller’s patience: the line was dead. Jean-Yves replaced the receiver and waited for the man to ring back; waited like a cat ready to pounce. When that posture exhausted him, he got up and paced, never taking his eyes from the telephone. The instrument on the desk had gained the malevolent power of a devil’s familiar. He swore never again to laugh at Ninette’s flights of fancy.
When Ninette herself put her head round his door, asking if she might go to the Bois de Boulogne to ride with her friends, he snapped, ‘No.’
She blinked at him. ‘I only asked to be polite, Papa. You never say no.’
‘Who else is going? Any young men in the party?’
‘Well, yes, of course.’ She named names, all young men of good family, one of them on leave from the cavalry school at Saumur. One couldn’t ask for a better escort for a daughter. Even in his sweating panic, Jean-Yves knew he couldn’t place his girls under house arrest. So he told
Ninette she could go but on no account to leave her friends. And the chauffeur must drive her. Also, Ferryman must accompany her and wait at the livery stables for her.
‘Ferryman?’ Ninette’s face stretched in horror. ‘Papa, no! He bows like a waiter … people might think he’s my boyfriend. Anything but Ferryman.’ He gave in to that too, because she was right without knowing it: life must continue as normal, even though he was unable to focus on anything but a blackmailer with a knife and an itchy hand.
*
He was adding up the value of his Banque d’Alsace shares – arriving at a different total each time – when there came a tap at his door. Expecting Ferryman, priming himself to apologise for his earlier ill temper, he was surprised to find his elder daughter, Christine. Her wedding trousseau consumed her at the moment and she was usually to be found in the morning room, embroidering linked de Charembourg and Brioude ciphers on to linen napkins.
She was dressed for lunch at home, and his first impression was that the copper-green bias-cut dress did not suit her. Christine was tall but not slender, and princess-line would have been better. He kissed her and sniffed. ‘Schiaparelli’s “Shocking”? Did an Easter gift arrive from Philippe, perchance?’
She giggled. ‘You have a good nose for a man.’
‘For a man? The best perfumers are men. I cite Ernest Beaux, who created Chanel’s No. 5; André Fraysse who threw flowers into a pot to produce your mother’s favourite, Arpège. The best couturiers are also men, and undoubtedly the best chefs.’
A frown bent Christine’s brows and he presumed her feminine pride was touched, but all she said was, ‘Philippe is dining with us tonight.’
‘Good. I like your fiancé. In him, I have the joys of a clever son without having had the expense of educating him.’
Christine’s frown deepened. She rarely understood his jokes. ‘Philippe promised to call me to find out what flowers to bring for Maman. You know she likes men to bring flowers that compliment her evening clothes?’
‘I am aware of that charming foible. Has he not called?’
‘Oh, yes, but I told him gardenias because white is always safe. But then I remembered that Maman hates the smell.’
‘So, ring him and tell him to bring roses.’
‘He’s gone out and won’t be back all day, his man says. What shall I do?’
‘How about, stop wasting energy on trivialities?’ He instantly regretted his sharp tongue. Christine was in love; silly things mattered. Unlike Ninette, she hadn’t the confidence to be playful or cheeky. With her heart-shaped face and negligible brows, Christine reminded him deeply of his mother. Like the late Marie-Christine de Charembourg, his daughter expressed her love in detailed care, in absolute loyalty, traits easily abused. So he continued gently, ‘We can remedy the situation by going out and buying white roses. Ferryman can lurk in the hall with them behind his back. Philippe arrives … and a daring exchange is made without your mother suspecting a thing. Voilà.’
Finally she laughed. ‘You are wonderful. Shall we go out for lunch?’ Then, instead of letting him answer, she returned to that small, persistent detail; ‘I suggested white flowers only because I have no idea what Maman will wear tonight. She’s at Maison Javier, having the final fitting for her dress for dinner tomorrow.’
Ferryman knocked just then, entering sideways, as if by narrowing himself he might avoid a further telling-off. He brought a letter, hand-delivered moments before. Jean-Yves tore into it, preparing a nonchalant expression for the young people who watched him closely. He sagged in relief when he saw a familiar signature. ‘It’s from the chairman of FTM. I’m summoned to a meeting,’ he said.
When Christine looked blank, he added drily, ‘FTM … Fabrication Textile Mulhouse – the people who pay my salary?’ He read the letter again. ‘Well, now. There’s a Swiss moneybags in town, interested in buying into the firm. Seems we’re meeting today.’
‘A business meeting on Holy Saturday?’ Christine couldn’t hide her disapproval. Another trait she shared with his late mother was religious devotion. ‘Who is he, the moneybags?’
‘Name of Maurice Ralsberg. A heathen, no doubt.’
‘Ralsberg – oh, he came to a charity function Maman took me to.’ Christine risked a smile. ‘He was quite handsome when he took his glasses off. Very charming to Maman and me. He called her “comtesse” the whole time, which she likes.’
‘Oho. A social climber. Shall I double the price of my shares? Tell you what,’ he continued, ‘we’ll have that lunch. Come to Rue du Sentier with me first. You can sit in on the board meeting. It will be an education.’
‘Me, come to a business meeting?’
‘Absolutely. You can charm the moneybags, after which, since we’ll be in the heart of the fabric quarter, you can choose some pretty cloth for your honeymoon—’
‘Javier’s making my trousseau,’ she said quickly. ‘Maman won’t like me buying fabric without her there.’
‘Shush. You can buy something Philippe will adore, and I’ll have it made up. Then we’ll have lunch somewhere quiet.’
Having sent her away and Ferryman with her, he checked there was nobody in the hall outside, then took a leather satchel from a locked drawer. He inspected the banded wads of notes. Five hundred thousand francs, all present and correct. Astonishing how little space so much money took up. He lifted the receiver, intending to call his broker and arrange the sale of half of his Banque d’Alsace shares. That would raise sufficient cash to make up for withdrawing so much from his bank account. But as he dialled the broker’s number, he remembered that his man of business would be out of town for the Easter festival. The irony was, he had tried to pay the blackmailer. He’d gone to the drop-off behind the kiosk by Notre-Dame-d’Auteuil the previous day as instructed, and discovered there was no ‘behind’. Just a pavement in full view of the world. The situation had felt too risky and – this was a strange choice of word – amateur. He’d walked on, clutching the satchel to him because he couldn’t allow so much money to fall into the wrong hands.
PART TWO
Chapter Eight
On 31st March 1937, the German Condor Legion bombed the town of Durango in the Basque region of Spain. They chose market day, mid-afternoon.
Verrian Haviland wished to God he had been there, and not lying on a bed in a dingy Paris hotel, fighting off the remains of a fever. The newspaper that the maid had brought up with his morning coffee confirmed what he’d suspected during his last days in Madrid – the theatre of war was turning north. The Fascists had failed to take Madrid and were targeting Spain’s industrial centres instead. But even so, striking little Durango made no sense.
Verrian had made that point in a dispatch from Madrid on 9th March. He’d typed up the copy in the aftermath of a raid and wired it, very late, for next morning’s edition of the News Monitor. At some point during the night his editor – who was also his brother Jack – had got hold of the article and added his own creative touch.
Three days later, all hell had broken loose.
Verrian stretched out a tanned arm to see if his scars had faded. Not entirely, but they weren’t painful any more. And he could clench a fist and count how many fingers he was wiggling. He knew from the fact that he was desperate for a cigarette that he must have thrown off the worst of his fever. He washed at the hotel sink and hunted for a clean shirt, remembering then that he only had the one he’d arrived in.
The thought brought back a slow-motion nightmare. He sank down on his bed, replaying the moment a Spanish Republican policeman had rammed a friend of his, Miguel Rojas Ibarra, against the wall of a room in a government office … taken Miguel’s hand, raised it like a target … the sound that followed was engrained in Verrian’s body as deeply as the shards of plaster blown from the wall. They’d dragged Miguel away and the police had come for Verrian. He’d fought his way out of the building, cut through back-streets and found refuge in a church crypt. Alone in the damp dark, he’d pieced events toge
ther. He’d filed his copy in all innocence, ensuring it would reach the News Monitor’s London office when his brother Jack was on night duty. Jack had run the piece having changed some vital wording to suit his own political prejudices. The Spanish authorities must have got wind of it around the 13th March, reacting with savage speed.
Verrian had stayed a week in the crypt, emerging into the bombed streets only to snatch the odd meal in a café, unable to risk returning to his hotel in case police patrols were looking for him. Being tall with blue eyes, he couldn’t merge with a Madrid crowd, and his blood-spattered shirt and jacket marked him out.
Eventually, fearing he’d die of exposure, and desperately anxious for Miguel, he’d thrown money at a taxi driver to take him to the nearest airport. He didn’t remember much of the drive or the checkpoint stops. He must have talked his way through them. Using the last of his strength, he’d pounded across the concrete at Albacete aerodrome, reaching the side of an Avro Anson just as it taxied for take-off. The flight out … He’d never felt so sick. His forearms and the backs of his hands, which had shielded his face from the gun blast, were burned raw and he couldn’t get one scene out of his head: Miguel bent double, shelves of white paper behind him drenched scarlet because they’d shot him in a stationery store room. Verrian remembered landing at Paris’s Le Bourget airport and getting a taxi to this hotel. At some point he’d rung London, begging Jack to move heaven and earth to help Miguel because it had all been Jack’s fault, that horror.
He’d tried to be calm. He’d begun well. ‘That piece of mine you ran—’
‘“Our man in the gutter: mice ’neath the raptor’s shadow.”’ Jack’s soft laugh had stripped the comment of any compliment. ‘Were you aiming for the Robbie Burns Prize?’
Verrian bit down on an angry reply. There was no time to indulge Jack in game-playing. ‘I wrote of the bombing raid I was caught in. My sign-off was; “If Madrid is getting it now, might not London, Oxford or Paris get it tomorrow?” You cut that out and substituted a lump of Fascist propaganda.’
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