“Apparently,” he said to Alex, “you worked late last night with Le Comte. You should have explained that to me.”
“You hardly gave me much chance, Monsieur.”
“Well, if you’d bothered to tell me, there would’ve been no problem. It appears Mademoiselle and His Excellency think it best if I make an apology, so I hope you can accept it in the spirit in which it is given.”
The spirit in which it was given was less than gracious — but Alex knew it was pointless to say this, so he simply thanked him. The chief accountant just nodded then speared a glance of acute dislike that included Cecile as well as Alex, and went to his office without another word. When he had gone there was silence for a moment. Cecile shook her head and shrugged.
“Watch him, Alex,” she warned, “he’s a man who holds grudges, and he’s very jealous. Be careful.”
Prophetic words. But Alex didn’t realise it, not until some time later.
17
ODETTE
In Karuizawa the following weekend, there were more signs of Nazi emblems, more swastikas and noisy street encounters, with greetings expressed by out-flung arms and strident shouts of Heil Hitler. The Germans seemed on the verge of losing control. Alex sat with Odette and Claude in the cafe near the tennis courts.
“The bastards act like they’re winning the war.”
“What scares me is they still could,” Claude said.
“Impossible. They’re in retreat on all fronts.”
“And fighting like hell. As well they’re hurting England with their V1 and V2 rockets. There’s a nasty rumour Hitler’s got some new secret weapon that could blow up half London … so don’t say they’ve lost yet.”
“If you two chaps keep talking about the war,” Odette said to them, “I’m going home.”
“Instant change of subject,” Alex said promptly, and slid his hand into hers as they exchanged secret messages with their fingers. “What’s the local gossip since last week?”
“There’s a new German doctor arrived,” she said.
“Who needs him? We’ve already got two doctors.”
“Ours are both Jewish.”
“So? They’ve treated all our families for years.”
“The Nazis aren’t at all impressed by that. They say they won’t risk being contaminated by Jews.”
“Personally, I’d let the buggers die,” Alex said. “Plessner and Old Wittenberg always treated the German families who live here.”
“Different breed of German,” Claude said. “The embassy agreed, and Berlin has sent us a loyal party member.”
“The full Aryan,” said Odette. “Herr Doktor Wirtz from Berlin is tall and suitably blonde, and clicks his heels beautifully.”
“Sexy, is he?” asked Alex, feeling slightly jealous.
“Oh, definitely. About as sexy as fat old Hermann Goering doing a goose-step in lederhosen.”
They all laughed. “I’m meeting Octavia,” Claude said. “What are you two doing for the rest of the day?”
Neither of them replied for a moment. Then Odette shrugged but managed not to smile.
“Oh, we’ll think of something,” she said.
The sleeping bag had been Alex’s idea. They had debated the various options of where they could go. Odette was envious of the penthouse, and declared that he probably took bar girls up there most nights, an accusation which Alex managed to convincingly deny.
“It would be perfect,” she said.
“Marvellous,” he agreed.
“Exciting just to think about it,” she sighed, but they both knew it was geographically and parentally impossible.
If she went to Tokyo for the night, her parents would want to know where she was staying? Not only where, but with whom? They’d insist on all the details. So where could they make love? Not at his house in Karuizawa. Not hers, with the Head of Chancellery on the prowl. The obvious place was among the bushes or in a bunker of the golf course, but it was December and bitterly cold, with all the physical problems that outdoor, winter love-making entailed.
So when Alex said there was a double-sized sleeping bag in the junk room below their cottage, it seemed the ideal answer. It was now carefully packed and concealed in a muslin bag, tied to the carrier on the back of his bicycle. Odette’s bike was parked beside his. They strolled leisurely to them, as if they had an empty day with nothing planned. A casual glance around confirmed that nobody was paying them attention.
They climbed on their bicycles and pedalled away. Fifteen minutes later with the bikes safely hidden, they were naked, passionately excited and warmly wrapped together in the sleeping bag, well concealed among the pines and shrubbery that provided a hazard near the eighth green of the local Hanare Yama golf club.
“Oh God,” Odette said, her body trembling as her arms wrapped tightly around him, her fingernails scratching into his naked back. “I think I’m coming.”
“Not yet, darling.”
“Please,” she said, “soon, soon,” she begged.
“Soon,” he promised.
“It’s lovely,” she gasped, “I can’t get enough of you fucking me like this.”
He hadn’t realise she knew such words, but they were bringing about the desired effect and a rush of urgency. Somewhere outside their sleeping bag was the winter chill, but they were oblivious to it. In the prelude to a wild and delirious climax he heard something untoward, a sudden thud followed by what seemed like a rustle of leaves.
“What the hell was that?”
They turned to look, fearing an animal. Instead a golf ball rolled towards them through the bushes, and came to a halt just inches away.
Everything in their lives stopped. Senses froze. Ardour evaporated in an instant, as Alex’s erection went missing. He extricated himself, and leapt from the sleeping bag. Stark naked and ignoring the cold, he peered through the bushes towards a distant pair of golfers along the fairway. The ball lay at rest on the edge of the sleeping bag like an admonishment.
“Who is it?” Odette asked.
“God knows,” he said. “I think it’s the ambassador?”
“Which ambassador?” She sounded distraught at the interruption. “There’s dozens of them here.”
“The French Ambassador,” he said, “but I don’t know who he’s playing with.”
“Never mind,” she said. “Quick, toss the ball out of the bushes. They’ll think it’s a lucky bounce. Come back here, and finish me off.”
“In a minute,” Alex said, “but I think — Jesus Christ I can see who he’s with now. It’s your father.”
In frantic haste and a tangle of underclothes they managed to gather the sleeping bag and dive for shelter among the fir trees, finding a flimsy screen of jasmine and sacred bamboo. From there, frozen more by panic than the chilled temperature, they watched as Odette’s father parted the bushes and stalked towards the golf ball. He glared at it, then checked to see where the French Ambassador was standing. Clearly his partner was still on the fairway, unable to observe what was taking place, as Armand Daubigny tapped the ball into a more advantageous position, and called to his opponent.
“Henri?”
“Bad luck, old chap,” came his opponent’s voice. “I suppose you’re surrounded by bush and trees. Do you have to take a penalty?”
“No. Piece of luck really. It hit one of the branches and is sitting up quite nicely.”
“Oh, really?” The Ambassador sounded disappointed.
“I might even be able to get this on the green, old boy,” Daubigny called, proceeding to nudge the ball and improve it to a better lie, as his naked daughter watched this from nearby, fascinated.
“Your daddy is a dirty cheat,” Alex whispered in her ear. Odette clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle, while her parent, oblivious to this, continued to furtively move his ball.
“What’s happening in there?” the ambassador shouted, as if hoping there was a great deal of trouble.
“Just taking my time, Henr
i. Rather a difficult shot, this one” By now the ball was nudged onto a mound, in as prime a position as possible. “Ready now. Keep your eye on the green, I’m going for it,” Daubigny called, and swung viciously. The golf ball went high into the air and sailed out of sight.
“Bugger,” said the ambassador’s annoyed voice, which seemed to suggest it had landed successfully.
Armand Daubigny picked up his clubs, and emerged tousled from the bushes. “How did I do? I say, how extraordinary! It’s actually near the flag. That really was a slice of luck!”
“Luck,” the Ambassador said furiously. “If your bloody ball landed in the duck pond, it would probably float across to the other side — and then improve its position.”
“Steady on, mon ami. Just one of those marvellous days, Henri. We all have our special moments of good fortune.”
Amid the bushes a relieved Alex and a giggling Odette scrambled into the rest of their clothes. They edged carefully forward to peer through a conifer towards the pair on the fairway, in time to see the French Ambassador shank his approach to the green. The ball tumbled into a sand trap, and the ambassador hurled his club angrily in the air. It lodged high in the bare branches of a nearby oak tree, and stayed up there.
“Shit,” he shouted, “shit, shit, shit!”
It was just as well his fury drowned a laugh that Odette could no longer suppress. Alex grabbed her, hushing her, although wanting to laugh himself as they saw the club stuck beyond either man’s reach.
“Come on, quick,” he whispered urgently, bundling up the sleeping bag, “any minute he’ll really lose his temper, and leave it up there in the tree. He’ll walk off this way, to avoid the clubhouse or any spectators.”
“I’ll never be able to see dear old Henri or my dad hold a golf club again without laughing,” Odette said.
They ran through the thicket and across the adjacent fairway. It was empty, just as the rest of the entire course was empty. They reached the bikes that were hidden in a clump of bamboo. Minutes later they were pedalling hard in the direction of town, relieved, completely frustrated but unable to stop laughing.
ALEX’S DIARY: DECEMBER 12th, 1944
All the way home in the train yesterday, I kept trying to think where we can go. I’ll never be able to persuade Odette to risk the golf course again. Apart from anything else, we couldn’t forget the sight of her father cheating, or the French Ambassador shouting at his club in the tree. You need to be serious to make love, not laughing like idiots.
Meanwhile, Suzuki turned up again. He keeps dropping in. Doesn’t he have anything else to do? Why is he concentrating on me? He did suddenly say that he thinks Japan has lost the war. What do I think? I think anything I say could be taken down and used in evidence against me, so there’s no way I’ll tell Constable Suzuki what I think. I truthfully think Japan is getting the shit beaten out of it, and anyone who imagines this country can still win the war is a bloody idiot — but I’d be a bigger idiot if I told him that.
He seems such a mild man, but I can’t help feeling he might be dangerous.
There was a strange atmosphere in the bank prior to the start of business the next morning. Alex came downstairs and he could feel immediately that there was something different. There was no sign of the Count or Laroche. The ritual morning greetings had been dispensed with since the departure of Ribot and the Sardine, but people still welcomed each other on arrival, although in a less formal manner. Today, hardly anything was said. The Japanese staff knew something was amiss, Alex felt certain, but they merely bowed to him and then to each other, and began their work. When he went to his desk one of the clerks hurried to him and murmured that Monsieur Le Comte was waiting in his office, and wished to see him at once.
Not only was the Count there behind his desk that was covered with documents, the chief accountant was also present. Neither replied when Alex wished them good morning.
“I’m afraid we have some bad news,” the Count said. “I’ll let Monsieur Laroche inform you of what’s happened.” He abruptly rose and walked to the window, turning his back on them both as he stood looking out at the grey winter morning. It was a strange thing for him to do, Alex thought, and felt a foreboding of disaster.
“What bad news?” The premonition was stronger as he gazed from the count’s silent figure, to what seemed like a triumphant Laroche.
“You may be surprised, or perhaps not,” the accountant said, “to hear that we have a thief in the bank.”
“Who?”
“Mademoiselle Patou. She’s been stealing money, regular amounts of it over a considerable time.”
“No!” Alex said forcefully in a state of shock. “That’s impossible.”
“I assure you it is not only possible, but I’ve gathered the evidence. Which is on His Excellency’s desk.” Laroche could not conceal his satisfaction. “But before we call the police we must establish if she acted alone, or did she have help?”
“Help? Whose help?” Bewilderment blunted Alex’s wits for a moment.
“It could only be yours,” the chief accountant replied.
In the silence that followed, Alex was aware the figure by the window had turned to watch him. He delayed his reply, trying to control his emotions. The pause lengthened, became uncomfortable.
“Do you think Cecile is a thief?” He directed his question to the Count, completely excluding Laroche.
“I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t so, but the proof is there. Monsieur Laroche has been his usual thorough self.” The venom in his voice, the dislike for the man was unmistakable. “Extremely meticulous.”
“I merely did my duty,” Laroche said.
Once again Alex disregarded him.
“Do you believe I helped her?” he asked the Count.
“It seems unlikely. I would certainly like to hear you deny it.”
“If the police are to be called, then why don’t I wait and tell them?”
“Tell them what?”
“That this is utter nonsense. I find it hard to believe she did it, let alone put up with the absurd accusation that I might have helped her.”
“There are reasonable grounds to ask the question,” Laroche said heatedly. “You and the woman are friends. I’ve seen how often she appears to enjoy your company.”
“The question’s been asked, and I believe has just been answered,” the Count replied, then he turned to Alex. “And I didn’t say I was going to call the police. Monsieur Laroche took that upon himself. Rather impulsively, since there’s been no decision on what action the bank will choose to take.”
“The woman’s a thief,” Laroche said determinedly.
“And I’ll decide what’s to be done. You may go,” he told the chief accountant, then gestured to Alex. “You stay.”
Pierre Laroche turned a brick red colour as if he might refuse to be dismissed in such a peremptory manner. “I’ll take the documents,” he said.
“Leave them,” the Count instructed.
“But they’re my evidence, Monsieur.”
“The bank’s evidence, Laroche. Now go back to work, and if one word of this spreads to the staff, you’ll be out of a job tomorrow.”
They watched as he went slowly to the door, turned to stare at them both, then went out slamming it behind him.
“Dear God,” the Count sat at his desk. “He’s been doing nothing else for days. Like a bloodhound. He enjoyed telling me how she took a little from here, a little from there. Over the past 12 months, she’s stolen a total of 50,000 yen.”
Alex stood there, wondering what to say. In terms of the money they had sent to Swiss accounts, this was small change.
“Sit down, for heaven’s sake,” the Count said irritably.
“Where is she?” Alex asked, sitting as directed.
“She’s at home. I told her not to come in today.”
“At home? I don’t even know where that is.”
“An apartment near Hibiya Park. Very select, an elegant and expensive
apartment. The only kind Jacques Clermont would tolerate living in. I’m sure you know Clermont?”
“Distantly.”
“It’s the best way to know him. The man’s a complete cad.” The very English expression, in the count’s Gallic accent made Alex smile, and the other noticed. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know exactly what you mean, sir. But I heard that while he never did a day’s work in his life, he had an allowance. And Cecile — Mademoiselle — supplemented it with her wages, and spending her free time doing translations.”
“It’s true,” the Count said, “she did. That’s how they managed for a long time. But a year ago his allowance stopped. If it was the war, or his family got fed up, I don’t know. Cecile doesn’t know. But it stopped. So she had a choice that proved too difficult for her. Let him walk out, and find himself a woman with money to support him, or else keep paying his bills. Letting him continue to live his charade.”
Poor Mademoiselle, Alex thought. Poor bloody Cecile.
“She told him not to worry,” the Count continued, “that she’d manage. And that was when she started to steal.”
“He must’ve guessed she was doing it,” Alex said.
“People like Clermont don’t care where it comes from. As long as it’s there when they want it.”
Alex thought of the blonde applauding him at the tennis final in Karuizawa, and had a longing to hit Jacques Clermont on his handsome face. Somewhere vulnerable, like his nose … then he realised the Count was still speaking.
“The bloody man has led her a wretched life. And now I’ve got to report this, and send her to gaol.”
Alex hesitated. Then he said, “Do you have to, sir?”
“Of course I have to. What the devil do you mean?”
“Fifty thousand yen. That’s modest, when I suppose she could have stolen a million or more.”
The Count sat up in his chair and stared at him.
“Equivalent to 12,500 dollars,” Alex said.
“Of the bank’s money …”
“Yes sir, absolutely. I’m only trying to point out how little she took, when she could have taken a lot. I suppose I’m trying to say that unfortunately the penalty is going to be the same …”
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