A Matter of Honor

by Archer, Jeffrey

  “No, sir, a tiny rebellion.”

  Rosenbaum tried to laugh but only coughed.

  “I wonder if you have any further proof of identity other than your passport?” Herr Daumier asked politely.

  Emmanuel Rosenbaum raised his head and, giving Herr Daumier a tired look, turned his wrist so that it faced upward. The number 712910 was tattooed along the inside.

  “I apologize,” said Daumier, visibly embarrassed. “It will take me only a few minutes to bring your box up, if you will be kind enough to wait.”

  Mr. Rosenbaum’s eyes blinked as if he were too tired even to nod his agreement. The two men left him alone. They returned a few minutes later with a flat box about two feet square and placed it on the table in the center of the room. Herr Daumier unlocked the top lock while the other partner acted as a witness. He then handed over a key to Rosenbaum saying, “We will now leave you, sir. Just press the button underneath the table when you wish us to return.”

  “Thank you,” said Rosenbaum, and waited for the door to close behind them. He turned the key in the lock and pushed up the lid. Inside the box was a package in the shape of a picture, about eighteen by twelve inches, covered in muslin and tied securely. Rosenbaum placed the package carefully in his old suitcase. He then shut the box and locked it. He pressed the button under the table, and within seconds Hcrr Daumier and the junior partner returned.

  “I do hope everything was as you left it, Herr Rosenbaum,” said the chairman, “it has been some considerable time.”

  “Yes, thank you.” This time the old gentleman did manage a nod.

  “May I mention a matter of no great consequence?” asked Herr Daumier.

  “Pray do so,” said the old man.

  “Is it your intention to continue with the use of the box? Because the funds you left to cover the cost have recently run out.”

  “No, I have no need for it any longer.”

  “It’s just that there was a small charge outstanding. But in the circumstances, Herr Rosenbaum, we are happy to waive it.”

  “You are most kind.” Herr Daumier bowed, and the junior partner accompanied their client to the front door, helped him into a taxi, and instructed the driver to take Mr. Rosenbaum to Zurich airport.

  At the airport, the old man took his time reaching the check-in desk, because he appeared to be frightened of the escalator, and with the suitcase now quite heavy the flight of steps was difficult to negotiate.

  At the desk he produced his ticket for the girl to check and was pleased to find that the passenger lounge was almost empty. He shuffled over toward the corner and collapsed on to a comfortable sofa. He checked to be sure he was out of sight of the other passengers in the lounge.

  He flicked back the little knobs on the old suitcase, and the springs rose reluctantly. He pushed up the lid, pulled out the parcel, and held it to his chest. His fingers wrestled with the knots for some time before they became loose. He then removed the muslin to check his prize. Mr. Rosenbaum stared down at the masterpiece Man Gathering in Corn by Van Gogh—which he had no way of knowing had been missing from the Vienna National Gallery since 1938.

  Emmanuel Rosenbaum swore, which was out of character. He packed the picture safely up and returned it to his case. He then shuffled over to the girl at the Swissair sales desk and asked her to book him on the first available flight to Geneva. With luck he could still reach Roget et Cie before they closed.

  The BEA Viscount landed at Geneva airport at eleven twenty-five local time that morning, a few minutes later than scheduled. The stewardess advised passengers to put their watches forward one hour to Central European Time.

  “Perfect,” said Adam. “We shall be in Geneva well in time for lunch, a visit to the bank, and then back to the airport for the five-past-five flight home.”

  “You’re treating the whole thing like a military exercise,” said Heidi, laughing.

  “All except the last part,” said Adam.

  “The last part?” she queried.

  “Our celebration dinner.”

  “At the Chelsea Kitchen again, no doubt.”

  “Wrong,” said Adam. “I’ve booked a table for two at eight o‘clock at the Coq d’Or just off Piccadilly.”

  “Counting your chickens before they’re hatched, aren’t you?” said Heidi.

  “Oh, very droll,” said Adam.

  “Droll? I do not understand.”

  “I’ll explain it to you when we have that dinner tonight.”

  “I was hoping we wouldn’t make it,” said Heidi.

  “Why?” asked Adam.

  “All I have to look forward to tomorrow is the checkout counter at the German Food Centre.”

  “That’s not as bad as a workout with the sergeant major at ten,” groaned Adam. “And by ten past I shall be flat on my back regretting I ever left Geneva.”

  “That will teach you to knock him out,” said Heidi, “so perhaps we ought to stay put after all,” she added, taking him by the arm. Adam leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek as they stood in the gangway waiting to be let off the plane. A light drizzle was falling out on the aircraft steps. Adam unbuttoned his raincoat and attempted to shelter Heidi beneath it as they ran across the tarmac to the Immigration Hall.

  “Good thing I remembered this,” he said.

  “Not so much a raincoat, more a tent,” said Heidi.

  “It’s my old army trench coat,” he assured her, opening it up again. “It can hold maps, compasses, even an overnight kit.”

  “Adam, we’re just going to stroll around Geneva in the middle of the summer, not get lost in the Black Forest in the middle of winter.”

  He laughed. “I’ll remember your sarcasm whenever it pours.”

  The airport bus that traveled to and from the city took only twenty minutes to reach the center of Geneva.

  The short journey took them through the outskirts of the city until they reached the magnificent still lake nestled in the hills. The bus continued alongside the lake until it came to a halt opposite the massive single-spouting fountain that shot over four hundred feet into the air.

  “I’m beginning to feel like a day tripper,” said Heidi, as they stepped out of the bus, pleased to find the light rain had stopped.

  Both of them were immediately struck by how clean the city was as they walked along the wide litter-free pavement that ran alongside the lake. On the other side of the road neat hotels, shops, and banks seemed in equal preponderance.

  “First we must find out where our bank is so that we can have lunch nearby before going to pick up the booty.”

  “How does a military man go about such a demanding exercise?” asked Heidi.

  “Simple. We drop in at the first bank we see and ask them to direct us to Roget et Cie.”

  “I’ll bet your little arm must have been covered in initiative badges when you were a Boy Scout.”

  Adam burst out laughing. “Am I that bad?”

  “Worse,” said Heidi. “But you personify every German’s image of the perfect English gentleman.” Adam turned, touched her hair gently and leaning down, kissed her on the lips.

  Heidi was suddenly conscious of the stares from passing strangers. “I don’t think the Swiss approve of that sort of thing in public,” she said. “In fact, I’m told some of them don’t approve of it in private.”

  “Shall I go and kiss that old prune over there who is still glaring at us?” said Adam.

  “Don’t do that, Adam, you might turn into a frog. No, let’s put your plan of campaign into action,” she said, pointing to the Banque Populaire on the far side of the avenue.

  When they had crossed the road Heidi inquired of the doorman the way to Roget et Cie They followed his directions, once again admiring the great single-spouted fountain as they continued on toward the center of the city.

  Roget et Cie was not that easy to pinpoint, and they walked past it twice before Heidi spotted the discreet sign chiseled in stone by the side of a high wrought-iron
-and-plate-glass door.

  “Looks impressive,” said Adam, “even when it’s closed for lunch.”

  “What were you expecting—a small branch in the country? I know you English don’t like to admit it, but this is the center of the banking world.”

  “Let’s find that restaurant before our entente cordiale breaks down,” said Adam. They retraced their steps toward the fountain, and as the sun was trying to find gaps between the clouds, they chose a pavement café overlooking the lake. Both selected a cheese salad and shared a half bottle of white wine. Adam was enjoying Heidi’s company so much that he began to tell her stories of his army days. She had to stop him and point out that it was nearly two. He reluctantly called for the bill. “The time has now come to discover if the Czar’s icon really exists,” he said.

  When they had returned to the entrance of the bank Adam pushed open the heavy door, took a step inside, and stared around the gloomy hall.

  “Over there,” said Heidi, pointing to a woman who was seated behind a desk.

  “Good morning. My name is Adam Scott. I have come to collect something that has been left to me in a will.”

  The woman smiled. “Have you made an appointment with anyone in particular?” she asked, with only the slightest trace of accent.

  “No,” said Adam. “I didn’t realize that I had to.”

  “I’m sure it will be all right,” said the lady. She picked up a phone, dialed a single number, and held a short conversation in French. Replacing the phone, she asked them both to go to the fourth floor.

  As Adam walked out of the lift, he was surprised to be met by someone of his own age.

  “Good afternoon, my name is Pierre Neffe, and I am a partner of the bank,” said the young man in perfect English.

  “I did warn you that I would be redundant,” whispered Heidi.

  “Don’t speak too soon,” replied Adam. “We haven’t even begun to explain our problem yet.”

  M. Neffe led them to a small, exquisitely furnished room.

  “I could settle down here,” said Adam, taking off his coat, “without any trouble.”

  “We do like to make our customers feel at home,” said M. Neffe condescendingly.

  “You obviously haven’t seen my home,” said Adam. M. Neffe did not laugh.

  “How can I help you?” was all the young partner offered by way of reply.

  “My father,” began Adam, “died last month and left me in his will a receipt for something I think you have had in your safekeeping since 1938. It was a gift given to him by one of your customers.” Adam hesitated. “A Mr. Emmanuel Rosen baum.”

  “Do you have any documentation relating to this gift?” inquired M. Neffe.

  “Oh, yes,” said Adam, digging into the map pocket of his trench coat. He passed over the Roget et Cie receipt to the young banker. M. Neffe studied it and nodded. “May I be permitted to see your passport, M. Scott?”

  “Certainly,” said Adam, delving back into his trench coat and passing it to M. Neffe.

  “If you will excuse me for one moment.” M. Neffe rose and left them on their own.

  “What do you imagine they are up to now?” said Heidi.

  “Checking first if they still have the icon, and second if my receipt is authentic. Nineteen thirty-eight was rather a long time ago.”

  As the minutes ticked by, Adam started to feel disappointed, then depressed, and finally began to believe it was all going to turn out to be a complete waste of time.

  “You could always take one of the pictures off the wall and put it in your trench coat,” teased Heidi. “I’m sure it would fetch a good price in London. Perhaps even more than your beloved icon.”

  “Too late,” said Adam as M. Neffe reappeared with another banker, whom he introduced as M. Roget.

  “Good morning,” said M. Roget. “I am sorry that my father is not here to meet you, M. Scott, but he has been held up in Chicago on business.” He shook hands with both Adam and Heidi. “We have on file a letter from M. Rosenbaum giving clear instructions to the bank that the box is not to be opened by anyone other than”—he looked at the piece of paper he had brought with him—”Colonel Herald Scott, D.S.O., O.B.E., M.C.”

  “My father,” said Adam. “But as I explained to M. Neffe, he died last month and left me the gift in his will.”

  “I would be happy to accept what you say,” said M. Roget, “if I might be allowed sight of a copy of the death certificate and of the will itself.”

  Adam smiled at his own foresight and once more searched in his trench coat before removing a large brown envelope with the words “Holbrooke, Holbrooke and Gascoigne” printed in heavy black letters across the top. He took out copies of his father’s death certificate, the will and a letter marked “To Whom It May Concern” and passed them to M. Roget, who read all three documents slowly, then handed them to his senior partner, who after he had read them whispered in his chairman’s ear.

  “Would you object to us phoning M. Holbrooke in your presence?” asked M. Roget.

  “No,” said Adam simply. “But I must warn you that he is rather curmudgeonly.”

  “Curmudgeonly?” said the banker. “A word I am not familiar with, but I think I can sense its meaning.” He turned and spoke to M. Neffe, who swiftly left the room, only to return a minute later with a copy of the English Society Register, 1966.

  Adam was impressed by the bank’s thoroughness as M. Roget checked that the number and address on the letterhead corresponded with the number and address in the yearbook. “I don’t think it will be necessary to call M. Holbrooke,” said M. Roget, “but we have encountered one small problem, M. Scott.”

  “And what is that?” asked Adam, nervously.

  “M. Rosenbaum’s position is somewhat overdrawn, and the bank’s rule is that an account must be cleared before any box can be opened.”

  Adam’s pulse raced, as he assumed that he hadn’t brought enough money to cover this eventuality.

  “The account is only 120 francs in debit,” continued M. Roget, “which is the charge for housing the box over the past two years since M. Rosenbaum’s deposit ran out.”

  Adam breathed a sigh of relief. He took out his wallet and signed a traveler’s check and handed it over.

  “And finally,” said M. Roget, “we will need you to sign a form of indemnity for the bank.”

  M. Roget passed over a long form containing clause after clause in tightly printed French, at which Adam only glanced before passing it over to Heidi. She studied each clause carefully. M. Roget used the time to explain to Adam that it was a standard disclaimer clearing the bank of any liability concerning what might be in the box and Adam’s legal claim to it.

  Heidi looked up and nodded her agreement.

  Adam signed on the dotted line with a flourish.

  “Excellent,” said the banker. “All we have to do now is go and retrieve your box.”

  “I suppose it could be empty,” said Adam once the two of them were left alone again.

  “And it could be jam-packed with gold doubloons, you old pessimist,” said Heidi.

  When both men returned a few minutes later, M. Neffe was carrying a flat metal box about one foot by nine inches, and some three inches deep.

  Adam was disappointed by its modest size but didn’t show his feelings. M. Roget proceeded to undo the top lock with the bank’s key and then handed Adam a small faded envelope with signatures scrawled across the waxed seal. “Whatever is in the box belongs to you, M. Scott. When you have finished, perhaps you would be kind enough to let us know. Until then we shall remain outside in the corridor.”

  Both men left the room.

  “Come on,” said Heidi, “I can’t wait.” Adam opened the envelope and a key fell out. He fumbled with the lock, which clicked, and then at last he pushed up the lid. Inside the box was a small flat package wrapped in muslin and tied tightly with string. The knots took some untying, and then finally an impatient Adam tore off the string before slowly rem
oving the muslin. They both stared at the masterpiece in disbelief.

  The simple beauty of the golds, reds, and blues left them both speechless. Neither of them had expected the icon to be so breathtaking. Saint George towered over the dragon, a massive sword in hand on the point of plunging it into the heart of the beast. The fire that belched from the dragon’s jaw was a deep red and made a startling contrast to the gold cloak that seemed to envelop the saint.

  “It’s magnificent,” said Heidi, eventually finding her voice.

  Adam continued to hold the tiny painting in his hand.

  “Say something,” said Heidi.

  “I wish my father had seen it; perhaps it would have changed his whole life.”

  “Don’t forget he wanted it to change yours,” said Heidi.

  Adam finally turned the icon over to find on the back a small silver crown inlaid in the wood. He stared at it, trying to recall what Mr. Sedgwick of Sotheby’s had said that proved.

  “I wish my father had opened the letter,” said Adam, turning the icon brick over and once again admiring Saint George’s triumph. “Because it was his by right.”

  Heidi checked there was nothing else left inside the box. She then flicked down the lid, and Adam locked it again with his key. He then tucked the muslin round the masterpiece, tied it up firmly, and zippered the little painting into the map pocket of his trench coat.

  Heidi smiled. “I knew you’d prove you needed that coat even if it didn’t rain.”

  Adam walked over to the door and opened it. The two bankers immediately returned.

  “I hope you found what you had been promised,” said M. Roget.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Adam. “But I shall have no further need of the box,” he added, returning the key.

  “As you wish,” said M. Roget, bowing, “and here is the change from your traveler’s check, sir,” he said, passing over some Swiss notes to Adam. “If you will excuse me, I will now take my leave of you. M. Neffe will show you out.” He shook hands with Adam, bowed slightly to Heidi, and added with a faint smile, “I do hope you didn’t find us too cur—mud—geonly.” They both laughed.