by Paula Guran
“About Madame Kunst …” Saint-Germain prompted.
“Nothing more, my master. I have not been able to touch her valise, which is locked in any case. But I do know that it is heavy, heavier than it ought to be, considering her story.” Roger looked down at the chicken parts and smiled.
“Very good.” Saint-Germain motioned to the American. “Come, James. Let’s permit Roger to enjoy his breakfast in peace.” He indicated the passage toward the main hall and waited for James to accompany him.
Once they were out of the kitchen, James said, “I don’t mean to sound stupid, but I thought Roger was …”
“A vampire?” Saint-Germain finished for him. “No.”
Apparently needing to explain himself, James went on. “It’s only that you seem to be so … used to each other.”
Saint-Germain turned toward the front reception room where tall windows gave a view of the rising mountains behind the promontory where Montalia sat. “I did not say that he is … unchanged, simply that he is not a vampire. Do sit down, if you wish, and be at ease. No,” Saint-Germain said, resuming his topic, “Roger is not like us, but he has died and recovered from it. You were right; we are old friends. We met some time ago in Rome.”
“If he’s died and … what is he?” James knew that he ought to be bothered by these revelations, or to admit he was in the company of madmen, but after his night with Mirelle, he could not bring himself to accuse Saint-Germain of anything.
“He is a ghoul,” Saint-Germain responded matter-of-factly. He saw James blink. “Don’t imagine him back there tearing that poor fowl’s carcass to bits with his teeth. There is no reason for it. He eats neatly because it is easier and more pleasant. The only restriction his state imposes on him is that the meat—for he only eats meat—be fresh-killed and raw.”
James shuddered and looked away. “I see.”
“I’m not certain of that,” Saint-Germain said quietly.
Eager to change the subject, James asked, “Why was he trying to look at Madame Kunst’s valise?”
“Because she guards it so zealously,” he answered at once. “I am curious about a woman who says that she avoided arrest by being out shopping when the rest of her family were taken, and yet carries a large valise. Did she take it shopping with her? Then for what was she shopping? If she picked it up later, why that bag, rather than another? She says that she has three changes of clothes. Good. But where did they come from? Did she buy a dress while shopping, and take it with her when she fled? Did she buy it later? If Roger says that the valise is heavy, then you may believe him. In that case, what is in it?”
“Maybe she went back to her house and grabbed the only valise she could find, stuffed clothes into it, and something of value, say, silver candlesticks, so that she could pay for her passage. She wants to go to Scotland, and I don’t know if it would be safe to pay for her trip in marks.” James turned the questions over in his mind as he answered, enjoying the process. “What if she got as far as Zurich, had to buy some clothes, but could only afford to buy a cheap valise? If she’d gone to the train …”
“And where did she get her travel permit?” Saint-Germain inquired evenly. “Whether she is going to Scotland or Poland, she would have to have the proper papers, or she would not be able to get a ticket, let alone come this far.”
“But if she didn’t come by train? If she had a car …” He thought this over. “She would require proper documents to get over the border, that’s true, and if her family was arrested, her name would probably be on a detain list.”
“Yes. And where does that leave Madame Kunst?” With a shake of his head, Saint-Germain drew up a chair. “You are a journalist, James, and you are used to examining persons and facts. If the occasion should arise, and you are able to draw out Madame Kunst, I would appreciate your evaluation. Don’t force the issue, of course, because I don’t want her alarmed. If she is truly nothing more than a refugee determined, for reasons best known to herself, to get to Scotland, it would be a shame to cause her any more anguish. If she is not that, it would be foolish to put her on her guard.”
“Are you always such a suspicious bastard?” James asked with increased respect.
“I am not suspicious at all. If I were, I should not have allowed her to come here. But I have seen enough treachery in my … life to wish to avoid it.” He studied the tall American. “You would do well to develop a similar attitude, James. It spares us much inconvenience.”
James gave this a reserved acceptance, then inquired, “What if she is an agent? What will you do then?”
“Inform the Resistance leaders. Yes, there are ways I can do this, and I will if it is necessary. I hope that it is not; I do not want to live under constant surveillance, as I have told you before.” He got up. “I have a few tasks to attend to. If you will excuse me?”
As he started toward the door, James called after him. “What tasks?”
Saint-Germain paused. “I like to spend some time in my laboratory each day. It’s a bit makeshift, but better than nothing.”
“Laboratory? What do you do there?” James was somewhat intrigued, for although he had no great interest in scientific experimentation, he was curious about how Saint-Germain occupied his time.
“I make gold, of course.” With James’ indulgent laughter ringing in his ears, Saint-Germain left the reception room.
That afternoon James discovered Madame Kunst to be a fairly good, if impatient, card player. They had begun with cribbage and had graduated to whist. As Madame Kunst put down her cards, she said, “After I have my supper, let us play another rubber. You have some skill, it seems.”
James, who was used to thinking of himself as a very good card player, was piqued by her comment. “Perhaps, after you have your meal, I will have forgotten my good manners, Madame.”
She smiled widely and insincerely. “I do not believe that you have been deliberately allowing me to win—you aren’t that shrewd in your bidding, for one thing.” She looked around the room. “It is getting dark. How unfortunate that there are no electric lights here.”
“But there are,” James said impulsively, remembering Madelaine’s pride at having them. “There is not enough gas to run the generator to power them. If the cars are going to be driven, it must be kerosene and candles here.”
“But there is a generator? Curious.” She smiled at James. “Have you seen this chateau when it is alight?”
“Yes,” James said, not entirely sure now that he should have told her about the generator. But where was the harm, he asked himself, when a quick inspection of the old stables would reveal the generator, and the allotted fuel for Montalia?
“It must be quite impressive,” Madame Kunst said quietly. She was wearing one of her two dresses, an elegantly knitted creation of salmon pink with a scalloped hem and long full sleeves. There were travel stains on the skirt and it would have been the better for cleaning and blocking. Madame Kunst fidgeted with the belt, putting her fingers through the two loops at either side of the waist. It was much more a nervous than a provocative gesture, but James could comprehend that in a lanky, high-strung way she might be attractive.
“It is,” he said, taking the deck and shuffling it methodically. “After your meal, we can try again.”
“Are you not going to join me?” she asked him.
“No, thank you.” Then he recalled what Madelaine had said to him the first time he had dined at Montalia, and he paraphrased her words. “I have a condition which severely restricts my diet. It’s simpler for me to make private arrangements for my meals.”
“This is the oddest household. Roger tells me that le Comte dines privately in his rooms; you have a … condition. If it were fitting, I would suggest to Roger that we both eat in the kitchen, but he won’t hear of it.” She gave a tittery laugh, then left the room.
James shuffled the cards two more times, taking time and care, then put them back in their ivory box. That done, he rose and sauntered out into the h
allway, pleased to see that no one was about. Five careful minutes later, he was in Madame Kunst’s room, tugging the valise from under her bed. He knelt on the floor, holding the leather case between his knees while he inspected the lock that held it closed. The valise was not unlike a large briefcase, with accordion sides and a metal reinforced opening. The lock most certainly required a special key, but James thought he might be able to make some progress against it with a bent hairpin, if he could find one. He was so preoccupied that he did not hear the door open.
“You arrant fool,” Saint-Germain said quietly but with intense feeling.
James started up, and the valise fell heavily onto its side. “You said …”
“I said that you might try to draw her out when talking with her: I did not recommend you do this.” He shook his head. “I might as well scribble all over the walls that we have our doubts about her. Good God, if I had wanted the lock picked, I could do that myself. Use a little sense, James.”
James’ indignation was all the greater for the disquieting suspicion that Saint-Germain was right. “I thought I was taking your hint.”
“After all I told you about prudence? Truly?” He bent down and very carefully put the valise back under the bed. “If it reassures you. James, I have examined the lock already, but under less questionable circumstances. It is not as simple as it looks. Not only is there the lock you see, there is a second lock under it, and it is a good deal more complex.”
“How complex?” James inquired acidly.
“It takes two keys. I am not sure why, but it does give me pause.” He was already crossing the room. “We should leave. Madame Kunst sat down to her supper not long ago, but there is no reason for her to linger over the food. She may come back here shortly, and I doubt either of us could adequately explain what we are doing here.”
Grudgingly, James permitted Saint-Germain to take him from the room, but as they started down the long stairs, he made one protest. “Why don’t you just break into the valise and tell her that you were required to do it?”
“James, for an intelligent man, you suffer from curious lapses. Why would I do that? What excuse would she believe? And where would be the benefit?” His brows arched and he let James take whatever time he needed to answer the questions.
“Well,” James said lamely as they reached the main floor again, “you would know what is in the valise.”
“True enough. But do you know, I would rather find out some less compromising way.” He frowned, then the frown faded. “I don’t fault you for wanting the question resolved: so do I.”
James accepted this with ill grace. “You aren’t willing to do the obvious, so …”
“Do the obvious? It is not quite my style,” he said sardonically. “James, play cards with the woman, listen to her, and make note of what she asks you. Tomorrow morning, I will tell her I have arranged for her transportation down the mountain so that she can reach Nice and the boat she says she wishes to take to Scotland. That should precipitate matters.”
“And what if that is what she wants, and all she wants?” James asked.
“Then Roger will do it. He has arranged with the authorities in Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete to have a travel pass when it is necessary. In these matters the local officials are strangely flexible.” He put one hand on James’ arm. “Try to restrain your impulses until then, if you will. Should it turn out that we come through this with nothing more than a touch of war-time paranoia, we may count ourselves fortunate.”
James had nothing to say in response, and knew he was not very much looking forward to another round of losing at whist, but he offered no protest as he went back into the room to wait for Madame Kunst.
“Oh, thank you, Herr Comte,” Madame Kunst said listlessly over a cup of weak tea the following morning.
“It was nothing, Madame. You told me that this was your wish. I only regret that it took so long to arrange the details. But surely you understand.”
“Yes, of course I do.” She paused to cough delicately. “I am surprised that you were able to accomplish this so quickly. After what I have been through, I expected I would have to intrude on your hospitality”—again a quiet, emphatic cough—“for a much longer time.”
“It is best to act quickly in cases such as yours,” Saint-Germain said ambiguously.
“How kind,” she murmured, and achieved another cough.
“Is something the matter, Madame Kunst?” le Comte inquired politely, giving in.
“A slight indisposition, nothing more, I am sure.” She smiled apologetically.
“Good. I would not like to think that you were ill.” He rose from the chair he had taken across from her.
“Oh, I don’t believe I’m that. My throat, you know. And it has been chilly.” She said this last in a tone a bit more hoarse than when she had begun.
“It is often the case in the mountains,” Saint-Germain said by way of courteous commiseration. “I believe there is aspirin in the chateau, but little else. If you like, I will ask Roger to bring you some.”
Her hand fluttered up to her throat, lingered there artistically, then dropped once more. “I don’t think it will be necessary. If I am troubled by it still this afternoon, then I might ask for one or two tablets.”
“Very good. You may want to rest an hour or so. The drive to the coast is long and fatiguing.” He left the room to the dry sound of her cough.
“She claims to be feeling poorly,” Roger explained to Saint-Germain later that morning. “I brought her the tea she asked for and said that I was looking forward to taking her down to Nice. She claimed to be enthusiastic, but said she did not think she was entirely well, and did not know how easily she would travel.”
“She coughed for me,” Saint-Germain said. “Apparently she is not as eager as she claimed to be.”
“Give her a break,” James protested, watching the other two. “Maybe she’s got a cold. She’s been through enough.”
“No matter what she has done, it’s possible, of course, that she has caught a cold,” Saint-Germain allowed. “But if you were as anxious as she has professed to be out of this country and on your way to Scotland, would you permit a cold to keep you from completing your journey?”
“She might be worn out,” James said, determined to discount anything Saint-Germain suggested. “If she’s tired enough, she might not be able to fight off a cold or any other bug that happens to be around.”
Saint-Germain’s dark eyes were wryly amused. “Is that what you thought when you tried to search her valise? Never mind, James. We’ll find out shortly what the case truly is.”
“How’re you planning to do that?” He was a little belligerent and huffy.
“Why, I want to find out if she is really ill. I will offer her a remedy. If she takes it, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. If she doesn’t, then I will be extremely careful with her. As you should be.” He turned away toward the old wing where he had set up his laboratory. “And James, if you would not mind, I would like to begin this myself. You may talk to her later, if you choose, but just at first, let me.”
“You sound like you think I’d warn her …” James shot back. “I didn’t get to be good at my job by shooting off my mouth.”
“I am aware of that,” Saint-Germain said. “But you have gallantry, my American friend, and there are those who have a way of turning that virtue to their advantage. All I ask is that you remember that.”
Roger intervened before James could say anything more. “Should I get the Bugatti ready?”
“Yes. Whether Madame Kunst uses it, or one of us, it doesn’t matter: the car should be fueled, and ready.”
“You’re anticipating some difficulty other than this?” James asked, looking about him involuntarily.
“Nothing specific, but in as unsettled a situation as we are in, it might be best.” Saint-Germain gave James a penetrating, amused glance. “Do you wish to visit our patient in half an hour or so, to wish her godspeed?”
“Let us see how she responds to Roger.” He motioned toward his manservant. “And to me.”
James accepted this with a shrug, and went off to the old library to pass the better part of the morning in trying to decipher the medieval French of the oldest volumes there. He found it intriguing and it kept him from pacing the halls like a stalking tiger.
“How are you doing, Madame Kunst?” Saint-Germain inquired of his guest as he went into her room twenty minutes after his conversation with Roger and James.
“Very well,” she said listlessly.
“I trust so; the travel permit I have been able to secure for you is dated only for the next twenty-four hours. It would not be easy to get another one.” He came to stand at the foot of her bed. “I can arrange for you to stop at the physician’s, perhaps, but you might not wish to be subjected to the questions he is required to ask.”
Madame Kunst turned blush rather than pale. “I want to keep away from officials.”
“And so you shall. It is better for me, as well, to come as little to their attention as possible. Then, if it is satisfactory to you, I will make sure you have aspirin and brandy and plenty of lap rugs in the Bugatti. It will not make you entirely comfortable, but you probably will not be so until you are in Scotland.” He gave her a sympathetic half-smile, and watched her face.
“Yes,” Madame Kunst said, her brows twitching into an expression of impatience and dissatisfaction.
Saint-Germain assumed an expression of diffidence. “My manservant has reminded me that there is another medication in the chateau. It is … an herbal remedy, and very efficacious, or so I have been told. I would be pleased to bring some to you.” He had made that particular elixir for more than three thousand years: it was a clear distillate that began with a solution prepared from moldy bread. The recent discovery of penicillin had amused him.
