A Matter of Honor

by Archer, Jeffrey

  “I also hope that you will enjoy a pleasant stay in our city,” said M. Neffe as the lift took its leisurely pace down.

  “It will have to be very quick,” said Adam. “We must be back at the airport in just over an hour.”

  The lift stopped at the ground floor and M. Neffe accompanied Adam and Heidi to the door. The door was held open for them, but they both stood aside to allow an old man to shuffle past. Although most people would have stared at his nose Adam was more struck by his penetrating blue eyes.

  When the old man eventually reached the woman at the reception desk, he announced, “I have come to see M. Roget.”

  “I’m afraid he’s in Chicago at the moment, sir, but I’ll see if his son is available. What name shall I tell him?”

  “Emmanuel Rosenbaum.” The woman picked up the phone and held another conversation in French. When she had replaced it she asked, “Would you go to the fourth floor, M. Rosenbaum?”

  Once again he had to take the fearsome lift, and once again he only just got out before its great teeth sprang back on him. Another middle-aged woman accompanied him to the waiting room. He politely declined her offer of coffee, thumping his heart with his right hand.

  “M. Roget will be with you shortly,” she assured the old man.

  He did not have to wait long before a smiling M. Roget appeared.

  “How nice to make your acquaintance, M. Rosenbaum, but I’m afraid you have just missed M. Scott.”

  “M. Scott?” the old man uttered in surprise.

  “Yes. He left only a few minutes ago, but we carried out the instructions as per your letter.”

  “My letter?” said M. Rosenbaum.

  “Yes,” said the banker, opening for the second time that morning a file that had remained untouched for over twenty years.

  He handed a letter to the old man.

  Emmanuel Rosenbaum removed a pair of glasses from his inside pocket, unfolded them slowly, and proceeded to read a hand that he recognized. It was a bold hand written in thick black ink.

  Forsthaus Haarhot

  Amsberg 14

  Vosswinnel

  Sachsen

  Germany

  12 September 1945

  Dear M. Roget,

  I have left in your safe keeping a small icon of Saint George and the dragon in my box 718. I am transferring the ownership of that painting to a British army officer, Colonel Gerald Scott, D.S.O., O.B.E., M.C. If Colonel Scott should come to claim the icon at any time please ensure that he receives my key without delay.

  My thanks to you for your help in this matter, and I am only sorry we have never met in person.

  Yours sincerely,

  Emmanuel Rosenbaum

  “And you say that Colonel Scott came to collect the contents of the box earlier today?”

  “No, no, M. Rosenbaum. The colonel died quite recently and left the contents of the box to his son, Adam Scott. M. Neffe and I checked all the documents including the death certificate and the will, and we were left in no doubt that they were both authentic and that everything was in order. He was also in possession of your receipt.” The young banker hesitated. “I do hope we did the right thing, M. Rosenbaum?”

  “You certainly did,” said the old man. “I came only to check that my wishes had been carried out.”

  M. Roget smiled in relief. “I feel I ought also to mention that your account had run into a small deficit.” “How much do I owe you?” asked the old man, fumbling in his breast pocket.

  “Nothing,” said M. Roget. “Nothing at all. M. Scott dealt with it.”

  “I am in debt to M. Scott. Are you able to tell me the amount?”

  “One hundred and twenty francs,” said M. Roget.

  “Then I must repay the sum immediately,” said the old man. “Do you by any chance have an address at which I can contact him?”

  “No, I’m sorry I am unable to help you there,” said M. Roget. “I have no idea where he is staying in Geneva.” A hand touched M. Roget’s elbow, and M. Neffe bent down and whispered in his ear.

  “It appears,” said M. Roget, “that M. Scott was planning to return to England shortly because he had to check in at Geneva airport by five.”

  The old man lifted himself up. “You have been most helpful, M. Roget, and I will not take up any more of your time.”

  “It’s flight BE 171, and your seats are 14A and B,” the man behind the BEA check-in counter told them. “The plane’s on time so you should be boarding at gate number nine in about twenty minutes.”

  “Thank you,” said Adam.

  “Do you have any luggage that needs checking in?”

  “No,” said Adam. “We only spent the day in Geneva.”

  “Then have a good flight, sir,” said the man, handing over their boarding passes. Adam and Heidi started walking toward the escalator that would take them to the departure lounge.

  “I have seven hundred and seventy Swiss francs left,” said Adam, thumbing through some notes, “and while we’re here I must get my mother a box of decent liqueur chocolates. When I was a boy I used to give her a minute box every Christmas. I swore when I grew up if I ever got to Switzerland I would find her the finest box available.” Heidi pointed to a counter that displayed row upon row of ornate boxes. Adam selected a large, gold-wrapped box of Lindt chocolates, which the girl behind the counter gift-wrapped and placed in a carrier bag.

  “Why are you frowning?” asked Adam after collecting his change.

  “She’s just reminded me that I have to be back behind a till tomorrow morning,” said Heidi.

  “Well, at least we’ve got the Coq d’Or to look forward to tonight,” said Adam. He checked his watch. “Not much else we can do now except perhaps pick up some wine at the duty-free.”

  “I’d like to find a copy of Der Spiegel before we go through customs.”

  “Fine,” said Adam. “Why don’t we try the paper shop over in the corner.”

  “A call for Mr. Adam Scott. Will Mr. Adam Scott please return to the BEA desk on the ground floor,” came booming out over the public-address system.

  Adam and Heidi stared at each other. “Must have given us the wrong seat allocation, I suppose,” said Adam, shrugging. “Let’s go back and find out.”

  They returned downstairs and walked over to the man who had handed them their boarding passes. “I think you put a call out for me,” said Adam. “My name is Scott.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the man. “There’s an urgent message for you,” he said, reading from a pad in front of him. “please call M. Roget at Roget et Cie on Geneva 271279.” He ripped off the piece of paper and handed it over. “The phones are over there in the far corner behind the KLM desk, and you’ll need twenty centimes.”

  “Thank you,” said Adam, studying the message, but it gave no clue as to why M. Roget should need to speak to him.

  “I wonder what he can want,” said Heidi. “It’s a bit late to ask for the icon back.”

  “Well, there’s only one way I’m going to find out,” said Adam, passing over the bag to her. “Hang on to that, and I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “I’ll try and pick up my magazine at the same time, if I can find a stand on this floor,” said Heidi as she gripped the brightly colored bag that contained the chocolates.

  “Right,” said Adam. “Meet you back here in a couple of minutes.”

  “Roget et Cie. Est-ce que je puis vous aider?”

  “I am returning Mr. Roget’s call,” said Adam, making no attempt to answer in French.

  “Yes, sir. Whom shall I say is calling?” asked the telephonist, immediately switching to English.

  “Adam Scott.”

  “I’ll find out if he’s available, sir.”

  Adam swung round to see if Heidi had returned to the BEA counter, but as there was no sign of her he assumed she must still be looking for a newspaper. Then he noticed an old man shuffling across the hall. He could have sworn he had seen him somewhere before.

  “
Mr. Scott?” Adam leaned back into the box.

  “Yes, M. Roget, I am returning your call.”

  “Returning my call?” said the banker, sounding puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “There was a message left at the BEA counter asking me to phone you. Urgent.”

  “There must be some mistake, I didn’t leave any message. But now that you have rung, it might interest you to know that just as you were leaving Mr. Emmanuel Rosenbaum visited us.”

  “Emmanuel Rosenbaum?” said Adam, “but I assumed he was …”

  “Could you assist me, please, young lady?” Heidi looked up at the old man who had addressed her in English, but with such a strong mid-European accent. She wondered why he had taken for granted that she spoke English but decided it must be the only language he felt confident conversing in.

  “I am trying to find a taxi and I am already late, but I fear my eyesight is not what it used to be.”

  Heidi replaced the copy of Der Spiegel back on the shelf and said, “They’re just through the double doors in the center. Let me show you.”

  “How kind,” he said. “But I do hope I am not putting you to too much trouble.”

  “Not at all,” said Heidi, taking the old man by the arm and guiding him back toward the door marked “Taxi et Autòbus.”

  “Are you sure it was Rosenbaum?” said Adam anxiously.

  “I’m certain,” replied the banker.

  “And he seemed happy about me keeping the icon?”

  “Oh, yes. That was not the problem. His only concern was to return your 120 francs. I think he may try and get in touch with you.”

  “BEA announce the departure of their flight BE 171 to London Heathrow from gate number nine.”

  “I must leave,” said Adam. “My plane takes off in a few minutes.”

  “Have a good flight,” said the banker.

  “Thank you, M. Roget,” said Adam and replaced the receiver. He turned toward the BEA counter and was surprised to find that Heidi had not yet returned. His eyes began to search the ground floor for a newspaper shop as he feared she might well not have heard the departure announcement. Then he spotted her walking out through the double door, helping the old man he had noticed earlier.

  Adam called out and quickened his pace. Something didn’t feel quite right. When he reached the automatic door he had to check his stride to allow it to slide back. He could now see Heidi standing on the pavement in front of him, opening a taxi door for the old man.

  “Heidi,” he shouted. The old gentleman suddenly turned and once again Adam found himself staring at the man he could have sworn he had seen at the bank. “Mr. Rosenbaum?” he questioned. Then with a movement of his arm that was so fast and powerful it took Adam by surprise, the old man threw Heidi into the back of the taxi, jumped in beside her and, pulling the taxi door closed, hollered at the top of his voice, “Allez, vite.”

  For a moment Adam was stunned, but then he dashed to the side of the taxi and only just managed to touch the handle as it accelerated away from the curb. The car’s sudden momentum knocked Adam backward on to the pavement, but not before he saw the petrified look on Heidi’s face. He stared at the license plate of the departing car: B712—was all he could catch, but at least he recognized it was a blue Mercedes. Desperately he looked around for another taxi, but the only one in sight was already being filled up with luggage.

  A Volkswagen beetle drew up on the far side of the concourse. A woman stepped out of the driver’s seat and walked to the front to open the trunk. A man joined her from the passenger’s side and lifted out a suitcase before she slammed the trunk back into place.

  On the curb, the two of them embraced. As they did so, Adam sprinted across the road and, opening the passenger door of the Volkswagen, leaped inside and slid into the driver’s seat. The key was still in the ignition. He turned it on, threw the car into gear, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and shot backward. The embracing couple stared at him in bafflement. Adam jerked the gear lever out of reverse into what he hoped was first. The engine turned over slowly, but just fast enough for him to escape the pursuing man. It must be third, he thought, and changed down as he began to follow the signs to the center of Geneva.

  By the time he reached the first traffic circle he had mastered the gears but had to concentrate hard on remaining on the right-hand side of the road. “B712 … B712,” he repeated to himself again and again, to be sure it was fixed in his memory. He checked the license plate and the passengers of every blue taxi he passed. After a dozen or so, he began to wonder if Heidi’s taxi might have left the highway for a minor road. He pressed the accelerator even harder—90, 100, 110, 120 kilometers an hour. He passed three more taxis, but there was still no sign of Heidi.

  Then he saw a Mercedes in the outside lane some considerable distance ahead of him, its lights full on and traveling well above the speed limit. He felt confident that the Volkswagen was powerful enough to catch the Mercedes, especially if it had a diesel engine. Meter by meter he began to narrow the gap as he tried to fathom why the old man would want to kidnap Heidi in the first place. Could it be Rosenbaum? But he had wanted him to keep the icon, or so the banker had assured him. None of it made sense, and he drove on wondering if at any moment he was going to wake up.

  When they reached the outskirts of the city Adam hadn’t woken up as he followed carefully the taxi’s chosen route. By the next traffic circle only three cars divided them. “A red light, I need a red light,” Adam shouted, but the first three traffic lights into the city remained stubbornly green. And when one finally turned red, a van suddenly pulled in front of him, lengthening the gap between them. Adam cursed as he leaped out of the car and started running toward the taxi, but the light changed back to green just before he could reach it, and the Mercedes sped away. Adam sprinted back to the Volkswagen and only just managed to drive the car across the junction as the light turned red. His decision to get out of the car had lost him several crucial seconds, and when he looked anxiously ahead he could only just spot the taxi in the distance.

  When they reached the Avenue de France, running parallel with the west side of the lake, both cars weaved in and out of the traffic, until the Mercedes suddenly turned left and climbed up a slight hill. Adam threw his steering wheel over to follow it, and for several yards careened up the wrong side of the road, narrowly missing a mail truck meandering down toward him. He watched carefully as the taxi turned left again, and in order to keep in contact, veered in front of a bus so sharply that it was forced to jam on its brakes. Several passengers, thrown from their seats, waved their fists at him as the bus’s horn blared.

  The taxi was now only a couple of hundred yards ahead. Once again Adam began to pick up some ground, when suddenly it swerved to the curbside and screeched to a halt. Nothing seemed to happen for the next few seconds as Adam weaved his way toward the stationary taxi, skidding directly behind it. He then leaped out of the car and ran toward the parked vehicle. But without warning, the old man jumped out of the taxi on the far side of the car and sprinted off up a side street carrying with him Heidi’s airport shopping bag and a small suitcase.

  Adam pulled the back door open and stared at the beautiful girl, who sat motionless. “Are you all right, are you all right?” he shouted, suddenly realizing how much she meant to him. Heidi did not move a muscle and made no reply. Adam put his arms on her shoulders and looked into her eyes, but they showed no response. He began to stroke her hair, and her head fell limply on to his shoulder like a rag doll’s, and a small trickle of blood started to run from the corner of her mouth. Adam felt cold and sick and began to tremble uncontrollably. He looked up at the taxi driver. His arms were loose by his sides, and his body slumped over the wheel. There was no sign of life in the middle-aged face.

  He refused to accept they were dead.

  Adam kept holding on to Heidi as he stared beyond her: the old man had reached the top of the hill.

  Why did he still think of him as an
old man? He was obviously not old at all, but young and very fit. Suddenly Adam’s fear turned to anger. He had a split second to make a decision. He let go of Heidi, jumped out of the car, and started to sprint up the hill and after her killer. Two or three onlookers had already gathered on the curbside and were now staring at Adam and the two cars. He had to catch the man, who was still running. Adam moved as fast as he could, but the trench coat he was wearing slowed him down, and by the time he too had reached the top of the hill the killer was a clear hundred yards ahead of him, weaving his way through the main thoroughfare. Adam tried to lengthen his stride as he watched the man leap on to a passing streetcar, but he was too far behind to make any gain on him and could only watch the streetcar moving inexorably into the distance.

  The man stood on the streetcar steps and stared back at Adam. He held up the shopping bag defiantly with one hand. The back was no longer hunched, the figure no longer frail, and even at that distance, Adam could sense the triumph in the man’s stance. Adam stood for several seconds in the middle of the road, helplessly watching the streetcar as it disappeared from sight.

  He tried to gather his thoughts. He realized that there was little hope of picking up a taxi during the rush hour. Behind him he could hear sirens of what he presumed were ambulances trying to rush to the scene of the accident. “Accident,” said Adam. “They will soon discover it was murder.” He tried to start sorting out in his mind the madness of the last half hour. None of it made sense. He would surely find it was all a mistake … . Then, he touched the side of his coat pocket and felt the package that held the Czar’s icon. The killer hadn’t gone to all that trouble for twenty thousand pounds—murdering two innocent people who happened to have got in his way—why, why, why, was the icon that important? What had the Sotheby’s expert said? “A Russian gentleman had inquired after the piece.” Adam’s mind began to whirl. If it was Emmanuel Rosenbaum, and that was what he had killed for, all he had ended up with was a large box of Swiss liqueur chocolates.