Above Suspicion

by Helen Macinnes

  “That suits us,” the American said, and then added almost too casually, “and if you can’t be good you know what.”

  Frances and Richard left the Waldesruhe at three o’clock. Richard had calculated that the distance from Pertisau to the red-shuttered house was about two miles. Yesterday as they had climbed a hill with a view of the Pletzach, Thornley had pointed the house out to them—standing isolated in a high meadow above the little river. It was a good sort of place to have for the summer, he had observed. He was one of those who got a simple kind of pleasure in choosing sites for houses which he would never be able to own. There were already three places on the surrounding hillsides which he had selected as admirable for a summer chalet.

  As they passed the Hotel Post Thornley waved to them from the doorway, but he made no move to talk to them. As they entered the road which would lead them up the Pletzach Frances glanced involuntarily over her shoulder. He was still standing at the hotel door, his hands in his pockets, and she had the feeling that he was making a very good pretence of not watching them. So his appearance at the door had been no accident. That gave her a comforting feeling. At least someone who knew them could vouch that they had left Pertisau quite normally. The deceased when last seen appeared to be in good health and normal spirits.

  “He’s a good person to have around in a crisis.”

  “Who is?” asked Richard.

  “Bob Thornley. He tries to avoid discussing anything he feels very deeply about. It’s as if he were afraid to let himself get emotional. He covers up with a funny story or one of these jokes against himself. And yet he notices quite a lot that is going on around him.”

  “He’s no fool. Neither is Henry, but in another way. Did you know that Bob was an amateur golf champion of Belgium and Germany? Henry unearthed that. He would, of course. Now there’s another who is afraid of his emotions, but he takes refuge in being so damned critical that he becomes a sort of perpetual Doubting Thomas. Yet underneath he has plenty of the right reactions. His heart is in the right place even if he has trained his mind to respond with a firstly, secondly, thirdly. When he forgets about that then you feel he’s made of very real flesh and blood. I bet his life is a conflict between what he thinks is the clever thing to do and what he wants to do.”

  “And which wins?”

  “I said he had the right reactions.”

  “He certainly had them this morning. I liked him when he lost his temper. He summed up everything I feel very neatly. It’s strange how well Bob and Henry seem to hit it off; they have so many differences. I suppose it is a case of accepting them, and resisting the urge to reform them.”

  “They’ve both got sense,” said Richard, and, taking advantage of the fact that they had passed the houses at this side of the village, and that they were the only people on the quiet, narrow road, began to discuss their plans for the last time. He had chosen to approach the house quite openly and directly, so that if it were being watched their reason for the visit would be believed. If they were to approach it in any roundabout way it would be difficult to explain such caution. Frances could see the sense in that, although it seemed almost too simple to her just to walk up to the house and ask for Dr. Mespelbrunn. In spite of her determination to keep cool, there was already a feeling of excitement prickling her spine.

  It was just half-past three when the road, now scarcely broader or more definite than a cart track, curved round the foot of the hill which buttressed the mountain range on their right. Only then could anyone from the road see the house. It was planted neatly in the middle of a broad green meadow on the sheltered side of the hill, the side which had been hidden from them as they approached from Pertisau. It lay peacefully isolated. There was no sign of any, life in the wooded valley which it commanded, or on the mountains which walled in the valley.

  Behind them, the jutting arm of the hill had so completely cut off the road by which they had come that Pertisau seemed blotted from the map. The mists had risen from the mountains, but the wind had dropped; the branches of the trees were motionless, the leaves were still. There wasn’t even the sound of a woodman’s axe. Even the Pletzach had subdued its chatter; it slipped, smooth and shallow, over its gravel bed.

  “This is where we branch off,” said Richard, as they reached a low wooden bridge over the stream. Across it was a path leading up to the fringe of trees which grouped themselves round the meadow. Behind the house they thickened into a small forest which covered the slope of the hill like a neatly clipped beard, and spread on to the mountainside, which lay behind. When they reached the first of the trees, they saw that a track separated from the path to take them across to the front entrance of the house.

  Richard looked at Frances. “Smile for the dicky bird,” he said, and forced one out of her. They left the shelter of the trees to climb up the gently sloping grass. Frances wished she felt as cool as Richard looked. His small talk on the beauties of nature was faultless. For once she could not think of a thing to say.

  It was a small house, sturdily built, with the usual overhanging eaves, a balcony encircling the upper story, and shutters with the conventional heart-shaped decorations. The large window-boxes at the edge of the balcony were filled with petunias. Perhaps there were more windows than a peasant would have thought necessary, but otherwise it was the kind of house which someone who had lived in, and loved, the Tyrol might build as a summer escape from his town life. Someone who had indulged his taste for an additional romantic touch in the red of the shutters. They made a convincing and yet inconspicuous landmark.

  The heavy front door was closed. Richard knocked, and as they waited they looked at the stretching valley below them. Thornley had been right; it was a perfect place to build a house. The rain clouds of the morning had disappeared, and the sun warmed the stillness all around them. They heard the door open behind them, and they turned to face a woman. She was past middle age, large-boned, with the impassive face of a peasant. Her greying hair was tightly knotted at the back of her head; her large-knuckled hands kept smoothing her apron.

  “Good day,” Richard said.

  The woman nodded, but did not speak..

  “Is Dr. Mespelbrunn at home?” At the name Mespelbrunn her eyes moved quickly from Richard to Frances, and then back again.

  Richard tried again. “I am interested in chess collections, and I have been advised by Anton in the village to visit Dr. Mespelbrunn, who has some very fine pieces, I believe. If Dr. Mespelbrunn were at home, perhaps he would have the great kindness to let me see his collection.”

  The woman was still silent. She was not altogether stupid, thought Richard, remembering the quickness of her glance. Could it be that she was afraid? Then the woman suddenly looked behind her, and drew quickly away from the door. Yes, it was fear, all right. A man came out of the shadows. He must have been listening quite quietly all this time.

  “Dr. Mespelbrunn?” he asked. His voice had a hoarseness which coarsened his accent. He had pushed the grey-haired woman to one side, and stood in the sunlight with a smile on his dark face. It was the man who had watched them in the Hotel Post three nights ago.

  He was as swaggering as ever as he held the door wide open and bowed them politely into the house. Frances felt her legs prepare to run back down the hill as she looked at that welcoming smile; but Richard was waiting for her to enter. They found themselves in the large room, a mixture of a sitting-room, a lounge, and a study.

  “She’s just a dumb peasant,” said the man with a still broader smile. Richard ignored the remark. He repeated the sentences he had addressed to the woman.

  “But of course.” The hoarse voice was being genial, but the effect was far from pleasant. “If you wait here, I’ll get Dr. Mespelbrunn. He is reading in the summer house.”

  The man left them abruptly, his heavy heels sounding on the hardwood floor with a precision which grated on Frances’ nerves. She exchanged looks with Richard, but neither of them spoke. She had hated this man at first sight
. Still, they must see Mespelbrunn before they passed any judgments. The man might be only a clever touch of realistic colour. She remembered the grim Kronsteiner and his hotel. There was no doubt that Peter’s friend had a peculiar sense of humour. This might only be another example.

  She drew her cardigan more closely round her shoulders, and lit a cigarette. She walked slowly round the room, feeling it like a cat. It was a pleasant room, a man’s room, smelling of pine wood and tobacco. She noted the walls of natural wood, the leather armchairs, more comfortable than elegant, the functional disorder of books on every table and music on the piano. A low table stood in front of the deep couch before the open fireplace. An open fireplace—perhaps an Englishman lived here after all. Yes, in the interior of the room there was a certain touch. An Englishman lived here. She turned to Richard. He was standing before the piano, his hands deep in his pockets, his lips pursed. He nodded silently to a piece of music displayed prominently on the stand. It was their old friend. He shook his head disapprovingly; rather obvious, was what he thought. He moved away from the piano towards the fireplace and lit another cigarette. They heard footsteps outside; a man’s voice spoke as if to a dog. It was only a short command, but the words were English. She sat down in the nearest chair and tried to look as calm as she didn’t feel. Richard’s calm grey eye held her own for a moment, and then she started to count the steps in the staircase at the end of the room. She had reached the ninth stair when the front door opened.

  They both stared in amazement. The tall man who had entered was equally taken aback. He recovered himself before they did.

  “Well, really,” he said in perfect English, “this is a pleasure.”

  Richard smiled; his eyes were calm again. “How extraordinary to meet you here,” was all he said.

  The Freiherr Sigurd von Aschenhausen moved quickly over to Frances and bowed low over her hand. She smiled, but inside she was angry. An Englishman, indeed, with that acute Oxford accent so carefully cultivated in his years of free scholarship. Would Mr. Rhodes have enjoyed this joke as little as she did? Probably less…

  “We came to see a Dr. Mespelbrunn, or rather his chess collection. We were told in the village that it was the thing to do.” Richard looked at von Aschenhausen blandly.

  The German smiled. “Well, you’ve found him, you know.”

  “Are you—but why on earth—” began Frances, and hoped that the laugh she gave was sufficiently amused. “How really very funny! But why take such a wretched name as that and give up your own perfectly good one?” Help me to talk gaily, dear heaven, she prayed, to talk nonsense like a sweet little fool.

  “It’s perfectly simple,” said von Aschenhausen. “When I live here I have to be very careful; it would be impossible to use my own name.” He paused, but the Myleses only looked at him with polite surprise.

  “It would be too dangerous for me,” he added, lowering his voice. But they still looked at him politely, as if they expected him to go on.

  “Cigarette?” he asked Frances, and flicked open his gold cigarette case. As he lit her cigarette she noticed the bracelet-on his left wrist. The bracelet was of fine gold, too.

  She pretended she thought he had meant to change the subject. “You are looking very well,” she said. One up, she thought, as she noticed the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “You have a charming place here,” she rushed on, before he could reply. “I think all of Pertisau is delightful.”

  “Yes; it is beautiful,” von Aschenhausen said, emphasising the stronger adjective. Someone ought to tell him, thought Frances, that he ought to have said, “Do you think so? I’m so glad,” and left it to his guests to do the praising, if he really wanted to perfect his imitation.

  “You look very thoughtful,” he remarked.

  Frances came back to the room with a jolt. “Oh, I was thinking about forms of politeness.”

  “Now you have made me feel I must be very careful. I wasn’t very polite according to your standards, I am afraid, when we met at that Oxford party. Why didn’t you tell me then that you were coming here?”

  Richard entered the conversation. “Well, first of all, we thought you were in Berlin. And, secondly, it was pure chance that we did come here. We were at Mittenwald, you know, and then one evening someone or other started to talk about the beauties of the Tyrol. You know the sort of thing: you discuss some place, and then you feel you’d like to go there, and then you go.”

  “Charmingly quixotic,” said von Aschenhausen.

  “And the most quixotic thing of all is that you should be Dr. Mespelbrunn,” Frances said. She felt his interest quicken. “I had imagined someone quite different, you know.” The tension was growing. “You see, I once read a book about Pertisau. It was called The Constant Nymph. So when we were buying some things in Anton’s shop, and he said that the chess connoisseur of the district was a Dr. Mespelbrunn, who just adored visiting chessmen, as it were, I suddenly thought, another Pertisau eccentric; how amusing. He gave you a terrific build-up, you know, until I became quite intrigued. It was really I who am responsible for the visit, because Richard went all sort of diffident. Didn’t want to trouble you, and all that sort of thing. But I expected to find a house filled with a remarkable family of chess experts and unrecognised geniuses, and here you are, a very comfortable bachelor. You’ve really let me down rather. I shan’t be able to romanticise again without Richard…well, just look at him. He is enjoying his joke, isn’t he?” Richard was indeed looking amused.

  “I’d still like to see the collection, if I may,” he said.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t here at the moment. It’s being exhibited at Innsbruck.” Von Aschenhausen looked as if he really were disappointed too. Or perhaps it was genuine; at the beginning of Frances’ little speech, he had hoped for something, something more than he had got by the end of it. He tried again.

  “I think you have been mistaken about me. I’ve already apologised for our Oxford conversation. Can’t you see there’s no other course for me? Some types of work”—he paused reflectively on that word—“need strong aliases.”

  His meaning, accompanied by that shrug of the shoulder, that pained eyebrow, that so straight, so direct, look into Frances’ eyes, couldn’t have been plainer. In another minute, thought Frances, he will start telling us anti-Nazi jokes, just to show us how mistaken we have been about him. She looked as if she believed him; Richard nodded sympathetically; but neither of them spoke.

  Von Aschenhausen waited. And then he began to ask about Oxford. His visit this summer had lasted only for a day; he had had little time to find out all. about his old friends. Frances could see where this line would lead him. So he was interested in Peter Galt, was he? She left it to Richard to handle the conversation this time. She suddenly wanted to leave, but they couldn’t do that until von Aschenhausen was satisfied. She looked out of the window. Her thoughts turned to Mespelbrunn. Where was he? Probably dead. Perhaps dead and buried on the mountainside opposite her. She watched the sunlight strike on the dark rich green of the fir trees, and the shadows lengthening on the hill. The afternoon was ending. She turned impatiently to the two men.

  Richard, by some feat, had switched the conversation over to the women’s colleges in Oxford, and there it had stuck, embedded in the higher education of women. He refused to abandon his advantage; he had got the conversation to a nice impersonal subject, and he was going to keep it there. He was politely defending the new freedom of women. Women had learned to compromise successfully between developing their mental powers and retaining their charm. The aggressive unfemininity of the original blue-stocking was already disappearing. It was only a matter of time and adjustment to a freer aspect of life.

  Von Aschenhausen smiled his disbelief. “They are too emotional. They are limited in reasoning power. They are weaker, both physically and mentally. They can never be equal to men. Compromise, adjustment, matter of time… You couldn’t be more English, Richard.” The use of Richard’s first name carrie
d all three of them back, back to a time when suspicion and hatred had only brooded in the hearts of a few vengeful men. In the silence that followed, they looked at each other. There was no need to translate their thoughts into words; they were clear in their eyes.

  The German spoke first. “You need not reproach me. What Mrs. Myles said at that sherry party was true. Our countries have gone different ways. And I have my work to do. But I think as I said already that you have been mistaken about me. It is a compliment, I suppose, to my powers of acting. I never knew they were so good as that.” He shrugged his shoulders again and gave a rueful smile. You are not making a bad job of it, right now, thought Richard. Von Aschenhausen had been well cast for the part he had to play. To anyone who did not know that he was German he would appear to be the authentic Mespelbrunn. Now, he was making the best of a very bad piece of luck: here were two people who could know that he was no Englishman. His hints at anti-Nazi feeling were just enough to win their sympathy, disarm their suspicions. He didn’t protest too much, either; he had to pretend that their visit was innocent—in case it really was. He couldn’t make any declarations; he had to give them confidence, and perhaps they would show their hand once that was established. His difficulty was that they might very well be only interested in chessmen. Considering everything that was at stake, he was not making a bad job of it at all, thought Richard.

  Von Aschenhausen suddenly rose and walked over to the small table which was used as a bar. His voice was charmingly ingenuous.

  “You used to play well. Why don’t you now, while I mix some drinks?” As he measured out the whisky, Frances was aware that he was watching Richard move to the piano with more than friendly interest.

  “Hello,” Richard said casually, “what’s this you’ve got? Do you sing?”

  “Only for myself. You go ahead.”