Above Suspicion

by Helen Macinnes

  He picked up the book again. “Do you mind if I read in bed?”

  “Not if you talk first; I’m too sleepy to wait until you’ve finished reading. I’m almost bursting with curiosity.”

  Richard was looking at the book in a puzzled way. “Yes, I may take quite a time to get through this.” He held it out so that the title was towards her. Frances looked at it with a mixture of amazement and excitement. It was a guide to Southern Germany.

  Richard kicked off his slippers and slid in beside Frances. His voice dropped naturally. “You didn’t see him? He was there all right. Sorry to hurry you away, but if he didn’t mean to get in touch with us inside the room, the only other alternative was for us to follow him out. He left on the dot of two. Then I lost him, or I thought I did. I had been expecting something unusual to happen. This book was the only thing that did. It’s it—or nothing.”

  “And if you don’t find any information there?”

  “We are completely and beautifully stuck.”

  Frances adjusted herself comfortably for sleep. “Darling, you had better begin. It looks an all-night job.” She yawned heartlessly and closed her eyes.

  Richard settled the lamp beside the bed to suit him, and opened the book. It seemed a new edition. He began at the first blank pages and examined each successive page carefully for any markings. His care was rewarded.

  There was a small, lightly pencilled star opposite one of the sections in the contents list following the large map, title page, and two introductions. It was the section on Nürnberg. There were still two other pencil markings on the list of contents; one was a small horizontal stroke, the other a vertical one. Star first, obviously, thought Richard, and turned to the pages on Nürnberg.

  The description of Nürnberg followed the usual thorough pattern. It led off with stations and hotels and other helps to tourists. Richard examined the small print carefully. There were so many helpful hints to tired travellers after each entry, so many abbreviations of map references and prices enclosed in neat brackets. It made finicky reading. A careful glance at a page wasn’t enough. Richard groaned and stared at the beginning of the page again. His eye-straining concentration was rewarded by the time he got to the section on tramways. Route 2 seemed interesting: from Gustav-Adolf-Strasse via Plärrer, Lorenzkirche, Marientor, Marienstrasse to Dutzendteich. A small horizontal line was neatly pencilled before Marienstrasse. With so many brackets and hyphens and commas and colons mixed into the text, the line was scarcely noticeable. The marking connected with the pencil line in the list of contents. Nürnberg, Marienstrasse, horizontal line. He turned to the contents page. The horizontal mark there lay beside Augsburg.

  He studied Augsburg as he had done Nürnberg. Hotels, restaurants… He read on carefully, but it wasn’t until he came to the historical details about the city that he made any further advance. There, among the early benefactors, was the name of one Anton Fugger (1495-1560). He liked the name of Anton Fugger, especially with that neat vertical line just in front of the A. Nürnberg, Marienstrasse, Anton Fugger, vertical line. He turned quickly back to the contents list. It was difficult to keep his excitement down. He forced himself not to be too confident. The vertical line marked Heidelberg.

  This time, the information began with the air service and railway station. His eyes might have begun to tire with the strain, or perhaps he was too excited, or perhaps it was sleep. He knew he was jumping words. Frances slept comfortably beside him. He looked at the alarm, and checked it unbelievingly with his watch. It was nearly half-past five. There was no time to waste. He groaned again, and began to read, with his fist pressed hard against his chin. The discomfort checked that seductive idea of sleep.

  He read on. Suddenly he sat up. It fitted in! God, it fitted in! He looked again: “Archæological Institute, free on”—yes, that was the pencilled star all right—“free on Wednesday and Saturday, 11 A.M.—1 P.M.” So there it was, in its neat circle: Nürnberg, Marienstrasse, Anton Fugger, free on Wednesday and Saturday from eleven until one o’clock. A telephone book in Nürnberg would probably give the number of Fugger’s house in Marienstrasse. But how to identify themselves when they met Herr Fugger? There must be some other clue. There had been no writing on the title page. What about the last page? Failing anything there, he would have to examine the book right through perhaps in Nürnberg itself. But among the last blank pages he found two things. One was a red rose petal, neatly pressed and pasted on to the paper. On the back of the page there were some music-notes, roughly jotted down in pencil after a treble clef. He whistled the notes to himself. The simple tune was vaguely familiar. All the notes were of the same value; it was this which had made the song seem vague at first. But it now was clearly recognisable. He relaxed back on his pillow and smiled amiably at the ceiling. He had forgotten about sleep. In any case Frances would have to be wakened in less than fifteen minutes. What he needed now was a tub and a shave.

  The sound of the running water drew Frances gradually out of sleep. Slowly and then suddenly she realised she was alone. She awoke fully with a panic of fear.

  “Richard,” she began, “Richard…” and then connected the sound of running water with a bath. She was calm again as Richard came out of the bathroom, the towel draped round him with one end slung over his shoulder. He had a crisp, curling beard of shaving soap.

  “The elder Cato,” he announced, “come to reprimand a slothful wife.”

  Frances looked at him sadly.

  “No response? Is it as bad as that?”

  “Go away, darling. I love you, but not at this hour.” She settled drowsily on her pillow.

  “Not on this morning you don’t, my love.” He heartlessly pulled the sheet off the bed. Frances looked resigned. She lowered her voice.

  “Where are we going?”

  Richard sat down beside her. “Nürnberg.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Yes. Wake up, Frances.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “No.”

  Frances roused herself. “What else did you find out?”

  “You are like a red, red rose.”

  “Oh… I’m what?”

  “My love. So the notes say.”

  “Richard, there is something peculiarly horrible about you this morning. God, how I hate men when they are secretly elated.” She looked sadly at her husband and then she began to laugh.

  “Good. So you like Cato at last?”

  “It’s your beard, my sweet.” She giggled weakly. “It pops.”

  “What?”

  “The soap bubbles,” she began, “listen…” She smothered her laughter.

  “Anything to cheer a girl up. Are you really awake now? Well, listen, Frances. Get dressed. Get everything collected. Then we pay the bill and depart at once for the station. I got the train information yesterday, so everything is simple.”

  Frances sobered up. Richard was in earnest now. “All right. What actually did you find out last night?”

  Richard was non-committal. “A name and address in a town and the time we might visit it. Also that your hat will still be worn, and the first seven notes of a song.”

  “O My Love’s Like a Red, Red Rose?”

  Richard nodded. “Come on; rise and shine.”

  He obviously did not want to tell her any more than that, decided Frances as she bathed and dressed quickly, and packed away the final odds and ends. Richard was ready before she had put on her hat. He had finished writing the labels on the suitcases. Frances saw their name followed by the words “Passenger to Nice.” The room, stripped of their belongings, looked colourless in spite of the wallpaper. It was just another hotel bedroom.

  The dark-haired, sallow chamber-maid came in at half-past twelve. They were generally out by that time. The room looked empty. She had a sudden suspicion. Yes, she was right, they were not only out but gone. The boy who brought up the breakfast trays was whistling in the corridor. She ran to the door.

  “Well, I see they
have left. It is a bit sudden, isn’t it? They must have been early.”

  “Yes. They didn’t have breakfast. Pierre was downstairs on duty when they left.”

  “They are lucky, wandering about like that with no work to do. Did they go back to England?”

  “Pierre said the labels were for Nice, and Michel drove them to the station.’

  “Nice? Well, some people have all the luck.”

  She waited for the boy to leave the corridor, and then she went downstairs. She searched for Michel before she slipped into the ’phone box. It was risky if Madame saw her—but she couldn’t wait until she was off duty. Fortunately this corner of the hall was dark, and she kept her voice low.

  “Gone this morning. Gare de Lyon. For Nice. Nothing out of the usual last night.” Well, that was that nice little fee earned.

  When they arrived at the Gare de Lyon in plenty of time Richard paid the taxi-driver, Michel, as he directed the porter to the train for Nice. They were very early, the porter said. In that case, they would leave their bags at the left-luggage office while they had breakfast. Richard had the satisfaction of seeing the naively inquisitive Michel—it was part of his friendly interest— drive away. The porter was glad enough to have such a short trip. He departed with his tip, well pleased. In ten minutes, Frances and Richard returned for their luggage with another porter. This time they drove to the Gare due Nord. Frances looked at Richard in the taxi, as he changed the labels on the suitcases. He was smiling broadly.

  “I do believe you enjoy this,” she said in amazement.

  He laughed. “What about you?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Well, we can have breakfast on the train. We’ll travel luxuriously and get some sleep before Strassburg.”

  As Richard had predicted, they breakfasted well. Frances watched him in the dining car with amusement.

  “Every moment you look more and more like a cat before a dish of cream.” Richard gave a laugh which degenerated into a yawn.

  He said, “Well, I feel something is making sense. I’ll tell you all about it as soon as we have finished our visit. Let’s go back to the compartment.”

  “And sleep.”

  “I’ll have a pipe first.”

  Frances thought this strange. Richard didn’t usually smoke a pipe until after lunch. However, back in the empty compartment she understood. Out of certain pages in the guide-book which he had studied last night he made very efficient lighters. When all that remained of them was curled fragments of charred paper he threw the expurgated book out of the window. It landed satisfactorily in a broad irrigation ditch. Richard watched it disappear, and then relaxed in his corner, stretching his legs. He gave Frances a satisfied smile.

  “Everything all right with you?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good. Everything’s all right with me.” His eyes closed. “Sorry,” he added, his voice fading.

  Frances looked at the trees and the fields and the sky. The express devoured the miles. Someone, she thought, ought to stay awake. But the journey was completely uneventful and, apart from an inner excitement at crossing the frontier, it was as dull as the scenery in the last stages of their travels. Once the minor thrills at Strassburg had passed—when the engine had been changed for a (no doubt) superior German model, when the carriages had the last French dust swept from them efficiently and contemptuously by a squad of German cleaners, when their bags and money and passport had been thoroughly examined—there only remained the sagging feeling of relief. By the time they reached Nürnberg, Frances was cross and tired. She was resigned to a holiday in which the main excitement would be merely a succession of tensions. Richard was resigned to the fact that so far their luck had been almost too good to last.

  7

  THE WALLED TOWN

  It was very late when they did arrive at Nürnberg. Frances waited at the entrance to the Hauptbahnhof and stared across the warm darkness of the enormous square. Richard had told her that the old town lay beyond. Its lights were few. It seemed already asleep within its walls.

  The porter had found them a taxi, at last. Richard gave the driver the name of the hotel. The driver looked at them. His face was large and round and expressionless.

  “It isn’t here, any more,” he said.

  The porter was listening. “The Königshof is near the same place. It is highly esteemed,” he volunteered.

  “All right, then,” said Richard, “the Königshof.”

  They sat in silence during the short journey to the hotel.

  “You could have walked,” said the driver as they got out of the taxi. He seemed as if he disapproved of their extravagance.

  Richard made no reply.

  “Did you know the Goldner Hahn well?” the driver asked suddenly.

  “I stayed there in ’32. What happened to it?”

  The man was silent.

  “What happened to it?” Richard asked again.

  The man hesitated. “Oh, they went away.” His voice was as expressionless as his face. Richard noted Frances’ speculative interest. He knew what she was thinking.

  She was still silent when they reached their room. It was warm inside; the massive furniture made it feel still warmer. She opened a window and looked out into the Königstrasse. The houses had high steep roofs, some of them pitted with attic windows, while others turned their gable-ends to the street. This was better, this was more like what she had imagined. She remained standing at the window watching the moonlight on the roofs. When she moved at last she found that Richard had unpacked some things for her. She smiled her thanks.

  “Cheer up, old girl. You’ll feel better in the morning,” he said.

  I hope, she added to herself.

  But when Tuesday morning came and the constant hum of traffic outside their window awoke Frances, she did feel better. Richard was already dressed, and reading his Baedeker. They had breakfast in their room, and discussed their plans as they ate. Richard advocated the minimum of unpacking. No one noticed what you wore here, anyway.

  While Frances had slept, he had decided to work in an opposite direction from their Paris experience. Instead of waiting the few days until Saturday came, they would call on Fugger tomorrow, and then they could spend three or four days playing the tourist in Nürnberg. But to Frances, he only remarked that today they could explore the old town, and leave the Castle and the Museum and the churches for the rest of the week.

  “Unless I fry to death,” Frances said. She looked out at the bright sunlight in the street, promising heat even at this early hour. Resignedly she chose the thinnest town dress she had. Richard approved of the effect when she was at last ready, but he also looked at his wristwatch just slightly more pointedly than was necessary.

  “Brute,” said Frances with her sweetest smile, and led the way out of the room.

  There was that feeling of continual coming and going in the entrance hall which characterises a busy town hotel. Just as well for us, thought Richard. Frances and he were only two more in the constant stream. The other guests were mostly German. They were serious-looking men and women who walked quickly as if they had important business to attend to. Perhaps they had. He noted the number of uniforms of one kind or another, and even—astounding thing—the quick, precise salutes and the violent two-worded greeting. It was astounding because it was so theatrical, so incongruous in a peaceful hotel lobby. He caught Frances’ eye, and they both smiled gently. He imagined himself coming into a lecture hall at Oxford, surveying the rows of young faces before him, making a rigid salute and barking out “God save the King” in a parade-ground voice, before turning to his lecture on the metaphysical poets. He knew what his undergraduates would do. They would telephone anxiously for a doctor, two male nurses and a straitjacket—and they would be right.

  As they reached the front door, Frances paused to look at the roughly paved street and then at her shoes.

  “I thought the heels were a mistake,” said Richard.

/>   Frances looked stubborn. “Well, if I change into my hiking shoes, I’ll have to change my whole outfit. I’ll manage.”

  A young man had come out of the hotel door; he halted as he heard Frances’ voice, and looked at her, giving what Hollywood has perfected as the “double take.” Then the pavement was crowded with the stamp of heavy boots. Frances was separated from Richard by a wall of brown shirts. She stepped backwards to the safety of the doorway, lost her balance and felt her heel sink cruelly into something soft. The young man winced, but stood his ground.

  “I’m so sorry,” Frances said and removed her heel. “Verzeihung…” That must have been a sore one, she thought.

  “Pardon me,” the young man said, lifting his hat and trying to walk away without limping.

  Frances’ handbag seemed to be infected with her embarrassment: it slipped from under her arm, and opened as it reached the pavement. The last uniform had passed, and in the temporary lull Richard bent down for the bag and jammed the odds and ends back into place. The powder case rolled towards the man, who had turned as Frances had said, “Damn.” He picked it up, and handed it silently with a twist of a smile to Richard.

  “Thank you,” said Richard, and he meant it.

  “You’re welcome.” He raised his hat again and walked quickly away, as if afraid of what Frances would do next. Richard looked down at her and shook his head.

  “You surpassed yourself there, my sweet Dora. Now if you would really like to go some place, we can start on the old town. This way.” He caught her arm as she moved off in the wrong direction.

  “He was rather nice-looking. American, wasn’t he? I liked his voice.”

  “Yes; yes; and rich baritone,” Richard answered absent-mindedly. He was looking for a place to cross the street.

  The exploration of the old town filled in the time till lunch. Two o’clock found them exhausted in a beer restaurant, Richard having decided that the heat of the day called for a liquid lunch. Frances atoning for the slow progress caused by her shoes—she had managed, but at a price—sat in sweet martyrdom as she talked and laughed. It was strange how the smell of beer clung to the room. The coffee did not taste very much like coffee, but she sipped it and kept her eyes off the beer mugs. She had never liked the stuff; from now on she would hate it. Even the table smelled of beer. Richard was asking her a question. How would she like a tram ride? Heavens, there was nothing she wanted less.