by Heron Carvic
The inspector sat back in thought, idly tapping the desk with a pencil to the destruction of its point. Before him lay various reports concerning Miss Seeton and her activities.
A copy of a report from the agents of the Sûreté who had been on the scene at the time of the affray:
In their opinion and from their observation it was certainly Miss Seeton who had been the target and not the blond young woman who had just arrived behind her. As a rider—again in their opinion, and from their observation—the speed with which MissEss had flung herself to the ground dragging the blonde with her for safety had not been the reaction of a woman of the age that she purported to be. In their opinion—and from their observation both that morning and, to an extent, on her arrival at the airport the previous afternoon—none of her movements quite tallied with her looks or with the way she dressed. The consensus of their opinion—and of their observation—was that she was likely to be a woman in her late thirties to early forties cleverly impersonating a woman of more than a certain age, her only error being—refer above—an undue youthfulness of carriage and of movement.
A report from his own men:
In their estimation and with regard to their measurements, the line of trajectory proved conclusively that the bullet—unless one could allow for a very indifferent marksman—was definitely aimed at someone sitting at the table and not at the person standing behind, an outrée blonde named Mlle Vanda Galam. The lady in question, Miss Emily D. Seeton, had refuted any suggestion that she could be the target, but again—in their estimation—she must have been. For the rest, neither from the hotel guests, from the staff, nor from the passersby had anything of assistance been established.
A notification, rather than a report, from Italy:
The Genoese and Milanese police wished to advise their comrades in Geneva that it would appear (so far as they could apprehend) that MissEss had probably been following (or possibly in touch with) a certain Elio Mantoni (Italian citizen) who had arrived (and left) on the same flights as MissEss. Questions through Interpol had established that Mantoni (though never condemned) was known to associate with criminals, was an artist employed (suspected only) in a criminal scope. MissEss had not spoken of him or (so far as was known) to him, but at the Milano airport (circled as she was at the time by their men, she could have done no other without showing her intent) signaled to him by smiling and then humming a song (possibly some prearranged code?) and the said Mantoni had immediately quit, eluding the officer who attempted to follow him, and Mantoni had only reappeared in time to catch the plane to Geneva.
“This song.” He glanced up quickly. “What was it?”
“Song?” Miss Seeton gazed at him. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”
“The song you”—he checked the Italian communication—“that you hummed at the airport in Milan.”
“Oh.” So difficult to explain. “That tune, you mean. It was, I fear, a little rude of me, but, you see, I had it on the brain. There was a gentleman—a Russian, I thought, though, of course, he may not have been; but he certainly wasn’t English—at the same table while I was waiting for my plane. In London, I mean. He kept humming it. Then sang it. Before he lost his pajamas. No,” she corrected herself quickly, “how silly of me. That was, of course, only my immediate impression at the time. I realized, afterward, that it would be far more likely to be papers, in a briefcase. Don’t you agree?”
It was the inspector’s turn to gaze; his turn not to follow. Ask a simple question—the name of a song—and she riposted with some fantastic history of a Russian in pajamas—or out of them—at Heathrow. So this was her trick: to say too little or too much; and either way to infuriate. Perhaps then this song had some importance, since to avoid a direct reply she was taking refuge in some man’s pajamas. Well, he would listen and it could be that she would give herself away. Grimly he nodded.
“Continue.”
“Well, really, that was all. Except that, naturally, knowing the tune, it stayed in one’s mind. And when I saw him again at the airport—the other one, I mean—”
“At Genoa?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t see him there. Though I do remember him being on the plane. He was sitting further up on the other side. But when we were having coffee I noticed him at another table, and it reminded me. And I suppose I must have, without realizing it, starting humming it.”
“The name of this song?”
“I don’t know.”
The inspector strove for patience. “You said you did.”
“No, indeed I didn’t.” Miss Seeton appreciated that perhaps she had not made things quite clear. “Or, rather, yes. I did. Say that I did, I mean. Because I do. And I have an idea, though I’m not sure, that it may be by Tchaikovsky. But when I said ‘I know it,’ I meant ‘know it’ only in that sense. Because I don’t. Know its name, I mean.”
He shrugged and made a note. If she was determined to evade he would ask Milan. It was a pity that their advice on the Italian, Mantoni, had arrived too late to be of service. They would have to go through the motions of trying to trace him but by now he would, without doubt, have disappeared with a new name and a false passport—if he was still in Switzerland. But as a lever to prize information out of this woman he was useless—for the moment. But wait . . . Mantoni was an artist. This woman taught—or had taught—art. M. Telmark was a director of the art museum. Could that be the connection? He would put the point to his superiors. There had been an alert only this morning through Interpol to all countries concerning the theft of some paintings from a private collection in England. He debated whether to question Miss Seeton on this but decided that it would be a waste of time and temper. Evidently she was one of those who piqued herself on working alone—the anathema of all normal police routine. In any case the Sûreté were keeping her under observation for reasons which they had not chosen to divulge—or not to him. Let them deal with her—and might they enjoy it. For himself, as far as he could, in spite of her pigheadedness, he would continue to investigate the shooting, would make his report, would suggest a surveillance of the Musée des Arts and would agreeably disembarrass himself of the affair—and of her.
He stood up, thanked her with heavy irony for her help and conducted her out to a police car, collecting Miss Galam on the way. The blonde had insisted upon accompanying Miss Seeton in case her evidence should be wanted. But, since she had no evidence to give beyond the statement she had already made at the hotel, the inspector had seen no object in wasting his time on her. He studied her now as she followed Miss Seeton into the car: good legs—yes; but, for the rest—no, not to his taste, too overdone.
For Miss Seeton the afternoon had been full of surprises. First that Miss Galam should have persisted in going with her to the police station in spite of the police driver’s objection. Then to discover what a very charming, quiet young person she had proved to be, with that low and restful voice and not in the least brash as, frankly, from her appearance, one would have expected. She had been struck upon their arrival at the wide modernity of the Boulevard Carl Vogt to find that the main police station was such a very up-to-date building. Like a block of offices. Which, if one considered, was, one supposed, only natural, over what appeared to be a row of uncompleted garages.
The inspector’s attitude, too, had surprised her. The taking of her statement on the shooting had been perfunctory, which, of course, was not surprising, since she knew nothing about it; but what had surprised her was his insistence upon matters which, surely, hardly came within his sphere. It had seemed so curious that he should question her engagement by Mr. Telmark, when, since he himself had employed the word “secrecy,” he must have been perfectly well aware that she could not answer. Or rather, should not. Though in actual fact, as she had not yet met Mr. Telmark and did not know what it was he wanted her to draw, she could not. It was true that she had been told in London that it concerned, in some way, the forgery of English banknotes, and that a Mr. Stemkos, a millionaire
whose name one had frequently seen referred to in the newspapers, was concerned in, or disturbed about, it. But beyond that she knew nothing and it was certainly not within her province to mention this to the inspector if Mr. Telmark, for some reason, had not seen fit to do so.
Slightly odd also had been the friendliness of Miss Galam. Maybe she was lonely. They had had tea upon their return to the hotel and Miss Galam—no, one must try to remember to call her Vee, since although her name was Vanda she was Vee to all her friends—had suggested they should dine together. Miss Seeton had refused in view of a note which she had received from Mr. Telmark inviting her to dinner. This note had proved to be the most unexpected phenomenon of the afternoon—and her greatest worry. She had been unprepared for such a contingency and the Promenade Saint Antoine sounded such an imposing address. Did one dress for dinner? Or did one not? There was no one that she could ask. Fortunately she had packed her black lace, the only dress approaching evening wear that she possessed, and so, she supposed, the black lace would have to do.
The black lace did. Mme Telmark was wearing an afternoon or cocktail dress so that Miss Seeton’s ensemble with its jacket, though out of date, was not out of place.
The Promenade Saint Antoine had proved to be even more imposing than one had feared. What she had not expected were the curious and sharp contrasts of its locality. Except for the drive down from the airport through a comparatively new part of the city, all that Miss Seeton had seen of Geneva on either side of the lake shore had been broad, flat streets, many lined with trees, all thronged with people; wide spaces interspersed with grass plots dotted with flower beds; yet more trees; more people.
Now, climbing high into the dimmer lighting of the Old Town, there were no people; only the occasional passing car whose occupants were invisible. Houses dropped below them and Miss Seeton watched with fascination through the windows as the taxi ground in second gear round the hairpin bend of the Rue Théodore de Bèze. The rough stone walls between which they were traveling began to shorten, to become on her right a railing above which showed the tops of trees and an old—surely a very old—building at the back of which she noticed, when they drew level, the railings turned at a right angle to form, between them and a high wall, the dark mouth of a narrow passage.
Brighter lighting made her turn her head. The wall on her left had ended at a more modern road. No. Rather, a short bridge over another road beneath them. The wall leading to the bridge bounded a rising slope of grass on which was, she had just time to glimpse, some statuary. Then, passing the end of the bridge:
“En voilà,” remarked the driver. “Promenade Saint Antoine.”
Wide, very wide, with mansions to her right and on her left rows of trees with cars parked in double ranks beneath them. And then an ornamental iron railing to save one from falling to the parallel road below.
The Promenade Saint Antoine: highest and greatest bastion of the old fortified city. It is difficult for the tourist, for the foreign resident, indeed for many of the Genevese themselves, to appreciate the incongruous intricacies of the Old Town without some knowledge of its history. The original settlement on stilts on the marshland between the rivers Rhone and Arve had proved to be indefensible against attack. The inhabitants therefore had climbed the hill behind them to build themselves a fortress. Years later the Romans drained the marsh and erected sumptuous villas, extending their occupation to the lake shore. This colonization in its turn had fallen before barbarians. Once again the natives retreated up the hill to strengthen and expand the town.
By 1814 Geneva was beginning to feel isolated, requested permission to join the Confédération Helvétique and, early the following year, the Congress of Vienna found time between dances to ratify the merger. With this security the city grew and in the Old Town moats became roads and bridges crossed them, resulting in a maze of anachronistic inconsistencies. On one side of a road a broad flight of terraced steps may lead with dignity to a modern thoroughfare while opposite, a precipitous cobbled slope serves as a reminder that this same thoroughfare in olden days was water.
Miss Seeton’s taxi drew up before a small house set back in an angle between the imposing dwellings which bounded it. How, she wondered, did one pay the taxi—so unlike a taxi; more in the nature of a private car, with a chauffeur, except for the lighted word TAXI on its roof—and how did one tip? She solved her problem by offering her purse.
“Voulez-vous prendre ce qui est usual. Je ne comprend pas le money.” The driver laughed and assured her in English that all was arranged and paid for.
Miss Seeton passed under an iron trellis arch with a hanging lantern and mounted the steps to ring the bell. She found it strange in such surroundings that her hostess should answer the door and stranger still that it was Mme Telmark who cooked and served the delightful meal. Miss Seeton had yet to learn that in Geneva domestic help was almost unobtainable and that in consequence, unless the hostess was particularly adroit, in general dinner parties were planned through an agency or given at a hotel or a restaurant, which relied for the most part on Italians for its staff.
After dinner her hostess excused herself and M. Telmark tried to get down to business. He tried to elicit the reason for the attack on her that morning. She didn’t know. And, in any case, she did not consider that it was. Or, if it was, it hadn’t been. An attack. On her, she meant. He tried to discover what it was she had found out that made her dangerous. She hadn’t found out anything. And, as for being dangerous, the mere idea was ridiculous. He tried to ascertain why she had gone to Italy. She was full of apologies. Such a silly mistake to make. He asked why she had chosen full publicity and given a press conference on her arrival here. Oh, it hadn’t been a conference, she assured him. They’d just asked her questions and she’d answered them. Wryly he recalled the heading and the final line of Thrudd Banner’s article when the foreign papers had arrived that afternoon.
. . . MissEss insists that everything that happened has been a mistake. One must not doubt a lady’s word, but on the other hand to take Miss Seeton at her own face value might well prove a MISSTAKE.
Now, remembering Jonathan Feldman’s warning not to be fooled by her, Karl Telmark did not believe one single word she said. He shrugged. If she was determined to be a soloist there was nothing he could do, but he considered it foolish as well as dangerous. Resigned, he gave her the facts with regard to the paying in of the forged five-pound notes into the Stemkos joint account. He also gave her papers: a copy of the account as it currently stood; a list of the deposits, with the dates and names of the depositors; the dates when the notes had been sent from the Banque du Lac to the clearing banks; when the forgeries had been discovered in England; and a summary of his subsequent discussions with Jonathan Feldman and the governor of the Bank of England. All these papers, he emphasized, were extraordinarily private and in the normal fashion should not be allowed to quit the bank. But the circumstances in this case were abnormal, and it was essential that she should be in full possession of the facts if she was to appreciate the position. He was entrusting them to her and he would be grateful if she would return them to him as soon as she had assimilated the contents.
Miss Seeton looked at him blankly. “But, surely, Mr. Telmark, it would, in that case, be very much better if I didn’t take them. And I fear that it is very unlikely that I should ever understand them. I am not,” she apologized, “very good at figures. And, again, to look at someone’s private bank account would be so embarrassing.”
“You needn’t feel”—the banker produced his new word with pride—“sticky about that. Heracles Stemkos has many accounts all over the world. The only one among those he has with us to which we have traced these forgeries is a joint one with his wife.”
“I see.” Miss Seeton tried to. “It isn’t possible, I suppose, if you don’t yet want to mention the matter to him, to ask Mrs. Stemkos privately about it? Oh, no,” she realized, “I do see that wouldn’t do. Mrs. Stemkos would be bound to mention it t
o her husband.”
“I doubt it,” Telmark’s mouth twisted. “The Stemkos ménage is also sticky. She’s his fifth wife and very much younger—like all of them except the first. And unless appearances and gossip are false, her current affair is her husband’s secretary, Anatole Librecksin.”
Miss Seeton attempted to visualize such a life. Five wives. It seemed a lot. Perhaps Mr. Stemkos was looking for something he had never found. And then the young wife. Her reason would, presumably, be money. And one could understand that she would become bored with an elderly husband who was probably tied to his business. On the other hand, if one made a bargain one should keep it. Or, if one failed to, surely one should be, at the least, discreet. With a feeling of depression Miss Seeton put the papers in her handbag and rose. Mr. Telmark still hadn’t told her what, or whom, it was she was to draw. Evidently he was determined that she should grasp the background first. It was natural, she supposed, for bankers to have an absorption in figures. And difficult for them to recognize that ordinary people, like oneself, had not. Indeed found them rather muddling. Still—she would do her best.