by Heron Carvic
“Just a little thing. I’ve got the tunnel stuff, with pictures, but this follow-up—the man you’ve just had pinched. Can I have the story, or is it another hush?”
Mme de Brillot’s blue eyes shone with mischief. “But no, Mr. Banner, it is not hush. It is all quite simple and you are welcome to it. We were sitting there”—she indicated—“he there”—she pointed—“and—this can happen in the Val d’Aosta—Miss Seeton seduced him—with a song.”
“One more shot—and back up against the glass, so that we get the odd plane or two in the background.” Thrudd leveled, took two angles, then snapped the disk over the lens and let the camera dangle from the strap around his neck. “Bet you’re glad to be going home; must be wanting a rest after your ‘holiday.’”
Miss Seeton flushed slightly. It had been particularly impressed on her that she was to insist that this visit to Geneva was purely a holiday, but one did so dislike having to prevaricate. It complicated things.
Thrudd, the only press representative who had gained access on this occasion to the V.I.P. lounge at the airport, took stock of those present: Mme de Brillot, looking svelte; Telmark, the banker, looking stuffed; a police inspector from headquarters, looking sour; two men in raincoats and felt hats, looking blank; some odd police bods in uniform, looking out of place; a hostess looking brisk while she handed round coffee and drinks; and MissEss, looking, as usual, a bit lost and rather pathetic. He brought her back, sat her down and fetched coffee.
“Your village must be agog to hear what you’ve been up to.”
Miss Seeton considered. “Why, no, Mr. Banner. They wouldn’t be interested. And, besides, no one knows I’m away.”
Thrudd tried to picture any community, large or small, which could remain unaware of MissEss’ presence—or absence—and failed. The village, he guessed—if not she—was probably enjoying a well-earned holiday. “No one?” he queried.
“Except the milkman,” she allowed, “who brings the papers. And, naturally, Stan and Martha, who help to look after the cottage. And Mr. Treeves, the vicar, and his sister. And Sir George and Lady Colveden and their son, Nigel. And, of course, Dr. Knight and his family.” She stopped and smiled. “One doesn’t realize how many, until one thinks. But none of them know where I am. Except Martha. For forwarding. Letters, I mean. And, of course, Ann Knight—that’s the daughter—because she’s engaged to Bob—that is to say, Sergeant Ranger—who works with Chief Superintendent Delphick. And . . . Oh, dear.”
“Dear what?”
“It’s next week. Their wedding. And I’d meant to get something while I was here. But somehow there seems to have been so little time.”
“Somehow” was good. He kept a straight face. The odd murder here and there did tend to take up time. “Never mind, you’ll still have a chance to look around when you get back.”
She was dubious. “Ye-es. But I had thought that something from abroad would make a change.”
For an instant Thrudd saw Miss Seeton as she saw herself: the ex-schoolmistress, the English gentlewoman, where anything from abroad held glamour against the minutiae of English village life. He could also visualize the popping eyes, could they see their schoolmarm being given the treatment at an international airport. Only Stemkos was missing to complete the galaxy.
“Mizeetong?” piped a treble voice. At the entrance appeared a vast bouquet of flowers. “Mizeetong?” The bouquet advanced on tiny feet below plum-colored trousers which clashed with the enormous pink and silver bow that held the cellophaned confection together. Receiving direction from Karl Telmark, the offering settled down beside Miss Seeton’s chair revealing a small boy in a bum-freezer jacket and a pillbox hat. The cherub beamed, chirped, “Mizeetong,” bowed and backed away. Miss Seeton fumbled in her bag, but he waved the gesture aside.
“Oh, mercy,” she said, “mercy beaucoop.”
“Plaisir, miz.” He departed.
Thrudd chuckled. Stemkos, he guessed, was represented after all. Miss Seeton took the envelope which nestled in the bow, opened it, read the contents; she frowned. Really, it was, of course, very kind of Mr. Stemkos. But . . . wishing you to finish your assignment, am taking over your employment from Telmark . . . have fixed your hotel accommodation . . . you will call at my Paris offices on the Boulevard Haussmann where you may draw on such funds as you require . . . Mme de Brillot will explain in detail . . . Paris? But—she didn’t understand. There was some mistake. She was leaving almost at once for London. She glanced in appeal at Mme de Brillot, who failed to catch her eye.
The hostess appeared at her side, collected the flowers—“Eet ees time we starrt”—and led the way.
Miss Seeton shook hands with Thrudd, thanked him, said good-bye and followed, accompanied by Mélie de Brillot, trailed by the two raincoats and felt hats, with the odd bods in uniform bringing up the rear.
It wasn’t raining, though the usual gale which afflicts all passengers walking to their aircraft had sprung from nowhere.
Thrudd, sheltered behind the glass wall of the lounge, watched with amusement as the hostess who led the party with a white scarf tied over her uniform cap tacked and went about when the wind caught the polythene round that overdone bunch of vegetation; MissEss had one hand for protection on that godawful hat; the Sûreté men’s raincoats huffed and puffed until they looked like Tweedledum and Tweedledee; and the police bods merely looked unhappy. Only Mme de Brillot, immaculate as always, might have been lacquered against the elements. His eyes widened. What the . . .? The lying jade. The little twister. Going home? “Oh, yes, Mr. Banner, believe me, Mr. Banner, straight back to my itsy-bitsy village.” Like hell. Believe her? She’d had him fooled again. Anybody who believed a word that bent umbrella said should be certified. The party had veered left from the London plane which they had been approaching and the hostess, the bouquet, Mme de Brillot and Miss Seeton climbed the steps of the direct flight to Paris while their retinue stood on guard below.
Thrudd swung about, to be met by the outstretched arm and acid expression of the police inspector. The newspaperman dived a hand into a pocket and waved his press card.
“Out of the way. I’ve got to phone and make arrangements.”
The inspector was unmoved. “No, M. Banner, you will not telephone, but if you will conduct yourself with discretion I might then assist with your ‘arrangments.’ It is my responsibility to see that no word of this Miss Seeton’s actual destination escapes in advance; but once she is arrived”—he shrugged—“it is no longer our affair and”—remembering with displeasure his vain attempt to obtain information from Miss Seeton at their abortive interview—“once she is there the French are most welcome to make what they can of her. There is a flight on KLM to Paris within an hour.”
Thrudd turned to the banker. “Do you know where she’ll be?”
Karl Telmark raised his shoulders, shook his head. “Then how the devil,” snapped the reporter, “am I supposed to find her once she’s disappeared in Paris?”
“Disappeared? That one?” The inspector almost smiled. “It will be necessary only to listen for the loudest noise, to discover the greatest trouble, and there, at the center, she will be.”
The assistant commissioner looked down the table of the board room next to his office.
The trickiest yet of the Seeton Sessions and it was to be hoped the last. The Treasury had turned out in force and, in their parlance, they were disturbed and distressed, which, in anybody else’s vocabulary, would read “fighting mad.” Of the four, Ian Pledder as senior official they could have expected to suffer, but why inflict on them a makeweight—except that he made none—like Horace Bence, who was simply a yes-man, more accurately a yes-indeed-man, a phrase which Bence repeated with monotonous regularity whenever one of his colleagues spoke. He could appreciate, Sir Hubert allowed, that the two investigators—again, why two when one was ample?—held themselves to be slighted, or perhaps more correctly felt that their competence had been called in question, but he had r
eckoned on more sense, or at all events more realism, from Pledder. But no. Ian Pledder had complained—it would be truer to say he had dilated—on behalf of himself and his department. Why had they not been allowed to deal with the question of the counterfeit notes themselves in accordance with normal procedure? Why had not the Bank of England approached them in the first place? Why had one of his staff been hounded to his death by the police when a quiet word in season could have led to a resignation “for personal reasons”?
“Hounded?” Sir Hubert looked interrogatively at Conway. “Did you hound Estevel, Commander?”
“Hound? Why, no, Assistant Commissioner. Considering he’d turned commie for gain and was due to be arrested for treason, I think we drew it pretty mild. You never hounded him, did you, Borden?”
The inspector was shocked. “Certainly not, sir. We had to interview him, of course, several times in his office and at home and the last time, when we had the warrant for his arrest, we thought it best to go to his flat. But we didn’t even see him. He—er—fell out of the window while we were still talking to his wife at the door.”
Pledder was not satisfied and continued to demand “Why this . . .?” and “Why not that . . .?” and a plethora of other “Whys” until Lord Gatwood, on Sir Hubert’s right, who had become increasingly restive, cleared his throat and leaned forward.
“Mr.—um—Pledder, I—ah—approached the police because I couldn’t be sure at—the—time”—he spaced the words as he stared deliberately at each of the Treasury men in turn—“who in your setup was pinching the damn paper.”
And if, Sir Hubert put in smoothly, it was the comparatively unobtrusive suicide of their colleague which was their main objection, he could easily arrange to leak the truth behind Estevel’s death and the scandal, including the necessity for more efficient screening at the Treasury, would then be aired in full in the press, provided, he finished caustically, that was genuinely what they preferred. Whether or not this appeased Pledder, it silenced him. Sir Hubert addressed the governor of the Bank of England.
“Can I take it, Lord Gatwood, that you are satisfied now from the Bank’s point of view?”
His lordship smiled at Jonathan Feldman before replying. “Satisfied? Um—yes indeed. Odd dribble’ll still come in. Nothin’ to worry about. Been expensive, but cheaper than devaluation by a few hundred million or so. Came here meself to say woman’s done a damn good job. So’ve you. Damn good job all round.”
Oblon from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office was restless, clearly pregnant with speech. What, wondered the assistant commissioner, had they sent him along for this time? Not more advice? What was the man’s name? He couldn’t remember. If he tried to check it now from the lists in front of him it would show, so he injected rather more warmth than usual into his smile.
“I trust his excellency enjoyed his dinner.”
“The dinner?” Oblon pursed his lips. “Oh, yes, there was nothing wrong with the dinner—in itself—but this woman’s not the sort who should be allowed to attend functions which include two ambassadors and many of the best continental society. Her behavior reflects on us; it’s—it’s bad for relations.” Sir Hubert rested his elbows on the table. It would seem that the F.O. was upset—it was going to be a long accouchement. “She may be very good at her work”—Oblon bowed stiffly to Lord Gatwood—“and we’re not presuming to criticize her on that score, but in every other respect she appears to be totally irresponsible.”
“Irresponsible? Miss Seeton?” echoed Chief Superintendent Delphick.
“We’ve just learned she was a passenger in the car which crashed, killing Mme Stemkos, yet, within an hour of the tragedy, Miss Seeton was seen at some trattoria in Italy drinking brandy and actually singing. We’re not happy about the situation at the F.O.—not happy.” Beside Delphick, Sergeant Ranger gave an indignant snort. Oblon looked accusingly up and down the table. “It was understood she was to be discrete, instead of which she has courted publicity throughout, and it’s only a spot of luck that she hasn’t so far been involved in an Incident. After all, the minister personally intervened at your request”—he glanced at Jonathan Feldman—“to get this woman sent out there, so it’s only natural the minister should feel a parental responsibility.”
“I can see—” The trouble for Sir Hubert was that he could. The words “parental responsibility” evoked a mind picture which flickered and jerked like a silent film in which the minister, harsh-faced as a Victorian father, pointed an adamant finger while Miss Seeton, her hat bowed in shame over the shawl-wrapped bundle in her arms, stumbled forth into the snow. He bit his lip. “I can see,” he repeated, “the minister’s dilemma; can see it the more clearly when I recollect that the police were utterly opposed—I myself protested strongly—to Miss Seeton becoming involved in this affair, and that it was your minister who overruled us by making an issue of the matter.”
“If that’s your attitude, Assistant Commissioner”—the Foreign Office representative rose—“I’ll report back. But since”—he smiled thinly—“I gather the woman’s work is now finished, and I presume you are recalling her, I will inform the minister that at least we needn’t anticipate any further spots of trouble.” He stalked to the door and closed it sharply behind him.
There was a general easement down the table after Oblon’s departure.
“It’s nice to know,” remarked Delphick, “that the F.O. can now sleep o’ nights.”
Sir Hubert spoke through the laugh that followed. “Sergeant Ranger is to meet Miss Seeton at the airport, thus obviating, or so we trust, any danger of her finishing up in Cornwall or the Outer Hebrides. But before she goes back to Plummergen I thought it best to make sure that none of you wish to see her, though I doubt there is any way in which she could help you further and I doubt even more that there are any points that she could clear up.” No one appeared anxious to avail themselves of the offer. “You know her best, Chief Superintendent; what’s your view?”
“Frankly, sir,” replied Delphick, “I too doubt—one, if she fully realizes why she was ever sent to Switzerland; and two, if anyone questioned her on what she’s been up to, by the time she’d finished explaining and then backstitching over the explanation to make quite sure she’d been completely accurate, I’d doubt they’d know either. But I should think”—he grinned at the head of the Special Branch—“that in this case Mr. Fenn could give you a better answer than I could. After all, it’s he who’s had a man keeping an eye on her.”
All turned to Fenn, who was doodling on a piece of paper. He looked up. “Actually, A.C., I’ve been waiting for the chance to tell you, but I didn’t want Oblon climbing further up the wall. She’s not coming back—yet.”
“Not . . .” Sir Hubert let it hang, and Bob Ranger, who was already on his feet preparatory to setting out for Heathrow, sat down again, hard. He might’ve known. She never did what she was expected to do—supposed to do. Never had—never would. But—his imagination boggled—what the devil could she be up to now?
“Stemkos,” continued Fenn, “has decided to take her over from Telmark and is footing the bill. It’s riding a bit roughshod perhaps, but difficult to argue with, and I gather she’s convinced him—or he’s convinced himself—that she can pull any sized rabbit out of her hat. Granted there are a few loose ends still lying around, but they’re not strictly our concern. Librecksin’s gone missing—so’s a parcel of diamonds. At a guess I’d say Librecksin probably hid in the back of a lorry in the tunnel in the general confusion and returned to Switzerland. It’s rumored he’s reached Paris and Stemkos is out to get him and get the diamonds back. Incidentally the picture game’s been hotting up the last few weeks: three canvases from Brussels; couple from Florence; and now the French are leaping over two Bouchers, a Watteau and a Fragonard pinched in Fontainebleu, and as Elio Mantoni’s turned up in Paris—he’s been seen—there may be a connection. Don’t see myself how your MissEss can help, but my man out there swears by her and thinks with a lit
tle guidance she might blow the whole thing wide apart.”
“How could she?” demanded Delphick. “She knows nobody in Paris, no contact, and her French is of the Voulezvous un cup de tea? order. Or have you”—he regarded Fenn quizzically—“or Stemkos, some bright idea—somebody in mind you think she’ll scare into the open?”
“Well, yes,” admitted Fenn. “Librecksin’s had a bit of fluff on the side for the last year or two—one of the nudes at the Casino de Paris—and we thought if Miss Seeton was put alongside her it might liven things up a bit.”
For those who knew Miss Seeton, even for those who only knew of her, it was a moment of awe: Miss Seeton alongside a nude at the Casino de Paris. Delphick had a vision of MissEss, scantily attired in ostrich plumes but with her inevitable hat, her handbag and umbrella, tripping down a flight of diamanté stairs.
“Don’t worry,” Fenn reassured them. “Your lady’ll be well looked after and morally we haven’t got a leg to stand on. They’ve been pretty cooperative one way and another, particularly Switzerland and Italy, over the counterfeiting, over the Belton Abbey pictures, over MissEss herself, and over hushing up the odd incident or three like Tolla’s death. Stemkos is sold on her in a big way, and if the general feeling is that she could be helpful, I don’t see how we can whisk her back just because we don’t agree. And if it should wind up with Stemkos getting his baubles back, and the French are saved a few paintings, it’d be what Oblon’d call good for relations. If not, no harm done.” He laughed. “It boils down to Hobson’s choice—unless we’re prepared to fight it out with Stemkos.”
“Quite.” Sir Hubert placed the tips of his fingers together and communed with the ceiling. “But can we,” he asked of it, “for the sake of peace with Stemkos, afford a war with France?”
Paris