The Account

by Roderick Mann

  ‘Tim Perrin’s at the Raleigh?’ Julia asked.

  ‘He is,’ Brand said. ‘And doing a fine job. You know him?’

  ‘He was assistant manager here.’

  ‘We’re very pleased with him. You must come and see us when you’re next in New York.’ Brand glanced around the room. ‘You put all this together?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  ‘You got a great turnout.’

  ‘Free drink,’ Koenig said drily. ‘Never fails. Anyway, Julia has magic powers.’

  ‘I believe it,’ Brand said. He had hardly taken his eyes from her. How old was he, she wondered. Early sixties? It was hard to tell, he exuded such energy. ‘I suppose everyone tells you you could be Grace Kelly’s kid sister?’

  Julia, never comfortable with compliments, flushed slightly. ‘Not everyone,’ she said.

  ‘I knew her years ago,’ Brand said. ‘Wonderful woman. Before Rainier came along, of course. I couldn’t compete with a prince.’ He looked at Julia intently. ‘Any princes in your life, Miss Lang?’

  ‘Mine’s on the way, according to my horoscope,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘You know what the French say?’ Brand chuckled. ‘Every woman waits for the right man to come along. In the meantime she gets married.’

  ‘You’re sure that’s what the French say?’ Julia said.

  ‘Positive.’

  Was he flirting with her? She hoped so.

  She needed a morale boost after her encounter with Moscato. And Robert Brand was one of the most charismatic men she had ever met. She felt a surge of attraction towards him and was disconcerted. This was a cocktail party for the hotel. He was a guest; she an employee. She must not forget it.

  ‘If the peasants could see us now,’ Koenig said, surveying the room, ‘they’d be lining up the tumbrels outside.’

  ‘We don’t do this very often,’ Julia said.

  ‘Well you should,’ Koenig replied. ‘Give me the excuse to come here more often. I love this town.’

  ‘Can’t think why,’ Brand laughed. ‘It’s freezing cold and it rains all the time.’

  ‘What a masterly summing up of one of the world’s great cities,’ Koenig said, deadpan.

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ Brand insisted.

  ‘It’s the last truly civilized city on earth,’ Koenig said. ‘A cornucopia of pleasures. New York is violent and vicious … Paris is too desperately chic … Rome is bedlam-’

  ‘So is London,’ Brand said. ‘I don’t understand what you see in the place.’

  ‘I told you. It’s civilized.’ Julia watched Koenig, amused, as he got into his stride. ‘Remember Sam Danovich, the producer? The great Sam? He brought me here thirty years ago to do a rewrite on a script. He loved it here. He said, “There’s no other city in the world for the cultivated man.” By the time I’d finished the film I agreed with him.’

  ‘On the basis of what?’

  ‘The conversation, for one thing. People here talk about ideas.’

  ‘Give me an example,’ Brand said.

  ‘Well, just last night at dinner the woman next to me asked if I thought it was mere coincidence that none of the great philosophers – Spinoza, Kant, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche – was married –’

  ‘You are too easily impressed, my friend,’ Brand said. ‘A little Reader’s Digest trivia can hardly be categorized as good conversation.’

  ‘Sneer all you like,’ Koenig said. ‘All I know is that back home in Los Angeles we’d have been asking people which dermatologist they used and how much the new addition to their house cost.’

  ‘Both subjects of considerable interest,’ Brand chuckled. ‘Particularly if you live in a tiny house and have spots all over your face.’

  ‘I’m being serious,’ Koenig protested.

  ‘So am I,’ Brand replied. ‘I promise you there are plenty of idiots here too.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Koenig said. ‘But there’s one other great thing about London: you don’t need an Uzi by your bedside to feel secure.’

  Brand turned to Julia. ‘Our friend tends to exaggerate, as you’ve noticed. But then he’s a writer.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Brand. I agree with Bobby. I love London too.’

  ‘New York is much more exciting.’

  ‘A morally bankrupt city,’ Koenig said. ‘With a social world made up of fools who consider it desirable to associate with people simply because they are rich.’

  ‘Are you suggesting they don’t do that in Los Angeles?’

  ‘Only morons,’ Koenig said easily. ‘Morons and movie stars.’

  Brand glanced round the room. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Look who’s over there. Jack Blacklock. Black Jack himself. We must go and say hello.’ He turned to Julia. ‘I enjoyed talking with you, Miss Lang. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Julia said.

  Koenig smiled and squeezed her arm. Watching them leave, Julia felt curiously deflated. Brand had such a powerful presence it was as if she had been left in a vacuum.

  Looking round she saw Moscato approaching. She felt a sense of dread.

  ‘I saw you talking with Mr Brand,’ he said. ‘Does he seem happy with the hotel?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ She turned abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to the reporters outside. They’ll need some details of the party.’

  She wove her way through the crowded room towards the door, taking a last glance at Brand and Koenig, who were deep in conversation with a tall, flamboyant-looking man wearing an eye-patch. They did not look her way.

  The rain had eased as Julia left the hotel. Only a few reporters still stood around, hunched in their raincoats. Two of them nodded to her.

  As she walked down the steps, she called goodnight to Henry Wilson, the uniformed night doorman.

  ‘Good night, Miss Lang.’

  Henry liked Julia. She always had a cheery word for him – unlike some of the other hotel executives. After six years he knew quite a lot about Julia Lang. He knew she was thirty-three and unmarried. He knew how conscientious she was; how late she often worked. He liked the way she held herself, the way she dressed. She was, in his book, a very stylish lady. He had even met her boyfriend, Michael Chadwick. Nice enough, but not good enough for her.

  Tonight she seemed preoccupied. Working too hard, he decided, stepping forward to open the taxi door for a late arrival.

  At 11 p.m. on Friday in Geneva, Paul Eberhardt picked up the telephone in his study and dialled the number of Georges di Marco.

  ‘Georges, I’m sorry to worry you so late but there are a couple of papers here that require your signature.’

  ‘My signature?’ The old man’s voice was vague. He sounded as if he’d been dozing. ‘Surely it can wait until Monday?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I must express them to New York tomorrow. Don’t distress yourself. I’ll send someone round with them.’

  ‘It’s very late, Paul. I was about to retire …’

  ‘I realize that, but this is really urgent. I wouldn’t dream of bothering you otherwise. I’d bring them round myself but I am still at the office.’

  ‘What papers are they, Paul? I don’t recall –’

  ‘The de Boissy estate.’

  ‘I thought that was all settled.’

  ‘There are a couple of loose ends.’

  ‘Very well. Send them round.’

  ‘The messenger will wait and bring them back.’ Eberhardt paused. ‘You haven’t had second thoughts, I suppose?’

  ‘Second thoughts?’

  ‘Our discussion the other morning.’

  ‘No, Paul. No second thoughts.’

  ‘Then you must do what you think is right, Georges. We must all do what we think is right.’

  When the buzzer sounded di Marco pressed the button to open the street entrance and unlocked the door of his apartment. He went into the bedroom to remove his comfortable slippers and put on more formal black shoes.

  When he returned to the living room he was
surprised to find the messenger standing by the open door with a large envelope in his hand.

  ‘I did knock,’ the man said.

  ‘That’s all right. Come in, come in. I just have to sign a couple of papers.’

  He took the envelope from the messenger, a burly young man, and went over to the desk by the window. Inside the envelope were two blank sheets of paper. He turned, bewildered.

  ‘There’s nothing –’

  Before he could finish his arms were pinioned behind him and tape was wrapped around his wrists. He let out a whimper of fear.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Before he could say more another tape was pasted over his mouth.

  Eyes wide with fright, the old man was hustled out of his apartment. The door slammed behind him.

  The morning following the cocktail party Julia had arranged to have breakfast with an American travel writer and take him on a tour of the hotel. When she finally got to her office Emma was waiting for her.

  ‘I hear it was a great success,’ she said. ‘Everyone was there.’

  ‘Not everyone,’ Julia said. ‘The Foreign Secretary didn’t make it.’

  ‘Oh pooh,’ Emma sniffed. ‘Who cares about him? Robert Brand was there, wasn’t he? Imagine him turning up.’

  ‘Life is full of surprises.’

  There was a pile of messages on Julia’s desk, together with that morning’s mail.

  ‘Anything important?’ She flicked through the notes.

  Emma held up a letter. ‘There’s an invitation to speak on public relations at the annual conference of the International Travel and Tourism Research Association in Acapulco. Expenses paid.’

  ‘Acapulco,’ Julia signed. ‘Wouldn’t I just love to do that. But how can I get away now?’

  ‘Tell Moscato to get stuffed and go.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me.’

  Emma chuckled. ‘So what shall I tell them?’

  ‘When is the conference?’

  Emma consulted the letter. ‘A couple of months’ time.’

  ‘Don’t reply just yet. Who knows what’s going to happen?’

  Emma turned to go. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a bottle of champagne in your bottom drawer. Came an hour ago.’

  After Emma returned to her own office Julia opened the drawer. Wrapped in Cellophane was a bottle of Krug ’81. Thank you for inviting me, the card read. It was signed: Robert Brand.

  Chapter 5

  Julia Lang stood by the bedroom window of her flat, sipping a glass of white wine, looking out over the darkened town. It was a cold, wet night, the sky a seemingly endless panoply of grey. The lights of the pub on the corner were hazy in the light mist. Across the street she could see directly into another flat. In one brightly lit room a man and a woman were sitting in armchairs, reading. They looked comfortable, settled, at ease. She felt a momentary pang of envy. She was, she knew, ambivalent about marriage. Did she really want it? Would she trade her independence for a shared life with a man? When she had first come to London from Birmingham her one aim had been to have a career of her own. To abandon that plan now, to marry and have children – was she ready for that?

  She knew she really liked Michael Chadwick, the man with whom she had been involved for a year. He was a design artist of great flair, who had already won most of the prestigious prizes available for his work. He was bright and cheerful and witty. She liked him a lot. She just didn’t know if she wanted to marry him. He had already asked her twice.

  She had many friends and was much in demand socially, but she did need a man in her life. Someone to wake up with, to touch during the dark hours, to watch shaving in the morning, to share breakfast with. Someone to talk to. Particularly at a time like this.

  The re-emergence of Guido Moscato into her life had shocked her. She had known for only a month that he was coming. The Sultan of Malacca, who owned the hotel, had kept the news quiet until negotiations were complete. During those four weeks she had been plagued by indecision. Should she stay or should she go? And, if she walked out on her contract, should she give the Sultan, whom she liked, her reasons?

  Sixteen years earlier, when she had staggered up from the Italian lakeside, bruised and battered, almost unable to see, she had vowed that one day she would settle the score with Moscato. Picked up by two English tourists, she had been taken to the small hospital at Bellagio where a doctor operated to save her right eye. Ten days later she had flown to London. Over the years the hatred she had developed for the man who had raped her had gradually abated. The idea that she might one day see him again had never occurred to her.

  Now here he was, the new Managing Director of the Burlington. All her loathing for the man had come back. And, to her surprise, her resolve to somehow get even.

  At the hotel only Emma Carswell knew what Moscato had done to her. Emma had become a friend and confidante as well as an efficient colleague. When Julia had arrived at the Burlington six years earlier she had been utterly dismayed at the sight of the secretary she had inherited from the previous Publicity Director. A large, raw-boned woman in her mid-fifties with grey hair and a rock-like jaw, Emma Carswell looked formidable indeed. But within a month she had proved invaluable. She did everything – kept Julia’s appointment book, dealt with the mail, told white lies on the telephone when necessary, remembered birthdays, made endless cups of tea and quietly handled all the innumerable office tasks that bored Julia to distraction. Over the years they had developed a deep affection for each other and it was to Emma that Julia had confided her fears when she learned of Moscato’s appointment.

  Emma had been outraged. ‘You poor dear,’ she said, hugging Julia. ‘What a contemptible bastard. Why didn’t you report it?’

  ‘It was different then,’ Julia said. ‘Attitudes have changed a lot, thank God. Anyway, I doubt the Italian police would have taken the word of an English visitor against that of a respected hotelier. I just wanted to get out of there; to forget about it.’

  ‘You think he knows you’re here?’

  Julia was sure. From the day he signed the contract Moscato would have had a complete list of Burlington Hotel employees before him. Discovering that Julia Lang was there apparently had not worried him. Perhaps he had reasoned he could get rid of her easily enough. A publicity director, however good, did not rate highly in the scheme of things. He would not know that she had a contract guaranteed by the Sultan himself with whom she had a warm and friendly relationship.

  She loved the hotel and had made it her life. But her work would bring her into contact with Moscato on an almost daily basis. Could she stomach that? Should she?

  Finishing her wine she got into bed. The sheets were cold through the satin of her nightdress. Rosie, her cleaning lady, had changed them that day. Shivering a little she curled up, trying to keep warm. Just before she fell asleep she thought about Robert Brand.

  Chapter 6

  Every Wednesday for almost twenty years Paul Eberhardt had lunched with his lawyer, Maître Claude Bertrand, at the Club des Terrasses, the private Geneva club belonging to the Groupement.

  Over their favourite dish, friture de perchettes – fried fillets of small lake perch – and with a bottle of wine between them, they would bring each other up to date with events. Eberhardt considered Bertrand his best friend as well as his trusted lawyer. On this occasion, he decided, it would be prudent to bring up the subject of di Marco.

  ‘I am concerned about him,’ he said. ‘He’s disappeared. He has not been at the bank this week.’

  ‘He may be ill. You’ve called his home?’

  ‘Of course. He’s gone.’

  Bertrand frowned. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know. He called me last Friday night, late. Something about a family emergency …’

  ‘I didn’t know he had a family.’

  ‘A sister. In Zurich. I’ve called there. She hasn’t seen him in months.’

  ‘How very odd.’

  ‘Do you think I should r
eport it to the police?’

  Bertrand reached for another roll. ‘I should wait until the end of the week. You don’t want to look foolish, Paul. He’s probably just taken a few days off.’

  ‘Without telling me?’

  ‘Old men do strange things.’ Bertrand chuckled. ‘Perhaps he’s gone off with some woman?’

  ‘Be serious, Claude. He’s seventy-nine years old.’

  ‘What of it? You’re seventy-seven and still quite vigorous.’ Bertrand smiled slyly. ‘How are things at Madame Valdoni’s, by the way?’

  Eberhardt glanced around the club. ‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake.’

  Bertrand poured them both another glass of wine. ‘Take my advice. Wait until Friday.’

  ‘If you think so,’ Eberhardt said.

  Around 8 a.m. on a chill Monday morning, a small boy throwing stones at what he took to be a log floating in Lake Geneva was horrified to discover that it was a man’s body. When the police arrived from nearby Montreux they found sodden cards on the corpse identifying him as Georges di Marco, Vice President of the Banque Eberhardt in Geneva.

  Contacted by the police, Paul Eberhardt drove immediately to the morgue at Montreux to identify the banker whose body lay on a gurney between two other cadavers. Eberhardt appeared stricken at the sight and for a moment it was thought he might break down. After a brandy in the police lieutenant’s office he recovered. Could he think of any reason why di Marco should have drowned himself, he was asked. He could not. Di Marco had been due to retire shortly and was looking forward to it. When last seen at the bank he had been in good spirits.

  ‘We were great friends,’ Eberhardt added. ‘He was with me almost from the beginning. I cannot imagine what drove him to do this terrible thing.’

  The lieutenant nodded understandingly. You could never know, he reassured Eberhardt, what went on in people’s minds.

  At the funeral in Geneva two days later, attended by both Eberhardt and Claude Bertrand, there was only one relative of di Marco’s present among the mourners – his distraught elderly sister. Eberhardt, his arm around her frail shoulders, told her he had arranged for her to stay on for a few days at the Richemond Hotel. All the bills were to go to him.