by M. M. Kaye
‘It’s time you got some sleep,’ said the unknown face.
‘That’s a very sensible suggestion,’ murmured Miranda. ‘Good-night, Guinness.’ She smiled drowsily at it, and was instantly asleep.
CHAPTER 5
Miranda awoke to find the train at a standstill and cold grey daylight filtering into the carriage around the edges of the window-blind.
For a moment, between sleeping and waking, she thought that she was in her own bedroom and wondered why her bed seemed so narrow? Then almost in the same instant she remembered. She was in Germany—probably by now in Berlin—and on the other side of a door in her compartment lay the body of a murdered man.
Miranda’s mind jerked away desperately from the memory of Brigadier Brindley as she had last seen him. She did not want to think of it. The thought of blood and that slack-mouthed dead face brought back too many things—forgotten and shadowy pictures of other dead faces; the sight and smell of death, and the horror and fear of that long-ago time when a small girl had been lost and alone in the terrible storm of war.
Pushing those memories resolutely back into a locked room of her mind from which they were threatening to escape, she sat up abruptly, knocked her head against the reading-light above her pillow, and pulling back the bedclothes was surprised to find that underneath them she was not only still wearing her dressing-gown, but was swathed in a cocoon of blankets.
That man—what was his name?—Simon Lang, must have pulled the bedclothes over her and subsequently tucked her in. Who was he? What was he? What had he been doing in the corridor so late last night and by what right had he questioned her? Why hadn’t she refused to answer those questions and ordered him out of her compartment? She should have rung for the attendant to fetch Robert. Instead of which she had sat meekly on her berth for hours on end waiting until a complete stranger should decide to come back and question her; and then, to make matters worse, she had made a gauche and personal remark about his appearance.
Miranda flushed hotly at the recollection and wriggled herself free of the enveloping blankets. He had probably thought that she was a gushing film-fan attempting to compliment him by comparing him to a popular actor, and had not realized that what had prompted her remark was less a matter of personal resemblance than the fact that it had suddenly occurred to her that he possessed an actor’s face. A face that was in itself unremarkable, yet capable of altering completely to each change of its owner’s mood; becoming a blank mask, or assuming a dozen different characteristics at will.
She bundled the blankets to one end of the berth and pulled aside the edge of the window-blind. It was daylight outside, and the train was standing at a station. There were several men who appeared to be policemen on the platform; one of whom stood with his back to the train, immediately outside her window.
Someone tapped on the door, and as it opened to admit Stella, Miranda saw that the blinds were no longer drawn over the corridor windows, and that beyond them a grey morning sky dripped a thin drizzle of rain onto railway tracks and gaunt buildings.
‘You’re awake,’ said Stella. ‘We were told to let you sleep for a bit. ’Randa, what a ghastly thing to happen! You found him, didn’t you? Hurry and get your clothes on. They want to see us. No, don’t pull up the blind. The platform is cordoned off and crawling with policemen. I’ll turn the light on. Here’s a cup of tea for you. It’s not very hot, I’m afraid.’
She turned on the light, and closing the door behind her, sat on the edge of the berth and continued to talk while Miranda swallowed the lukewarm tea, washed in cold water and dressed in a hurry.
Stella looked both excited and resentful, and her voice had an injured edge to it as she explained that their section of the train had been shunted into a side platform on arrival at Charlottenburg station, and that no one had as yet been allowed off it—although all the passengers from the other coaches had left. A police guard had been placed on it, and hot tea and sandwiches produced by a uniformed member of the W.V.S. But they had already been stuck there for over two hours while police and special service officers had, according to Stella, swarmed all over the train taking photographs and hunting for clues and fingerprints.
‘And they’ve taken all our luggage off,’ complained Stella indignantly. ‘They wouldn’t let us keep a thing. They just came and took everything, and said that we’d find it all ready for us when we left. A man called Lang seems to have arranged it all. He was on our train from the Hook and he seems to be something to do with police or intelligence or M.I.5. He told Robert what had happened and explained that since you’d been kept up pretty late over all this, you might as well be allowed to sleep. He says that we shall all have to answer a few questions and then they’ll let us go. It’s only a matter of routine, or something silly. He let Robert and Colonel Leslie talk to some people who had come down to meet us. Oh, and he said to tell you to leave all your things in the carriage. He’ll see that you get them back.’
‘So I should hope!’ said Miranda crisply. ‘Switch off the light, will you, Stella.’ She pulled up the blind and let in the wet daylight. ‘Have I got to leave my bag as well? It’s got my passport and all my papers and things in it.’
‘No. We’re allowed to keep those. But I gather they’ll want to have a look at them too before they let us leave.’
‘Well, I think it’s a lot of nonsense,’ said Miranda unreasonably. ‘I suppose it’s just that officious Guinness creature throwing his weight about!’
‘Who?’ inquired Stella, puzzled.
Miranda flushed and bit her lip. ‘That man Lang. Why on earth can’t he just let us go off to our own houses and answer questions later on?’
‘But don’t you understand?’ said Stella impatiently. ‘They think one of us did it!’
‘Don’t be silly,’ begged Miranda, shivering. ‘Of course they can’t. It was obviously some thief who got into the carriage at one of those stations we stopped at during the night. It must have been.’
‘They say it couldn’t have been. I don’t know why, but they seem to be quite sure. They say it must have been someone in this coach.’
Stella gave a little shudder that was half disgust and half unwilling excitement, and Miranda, looking at her, realized suddenly that none of this was real to her. It was merely some fantastic story in which she did not believe and had no part. She might resent the temporary inconvenience that it caused her, but her resentment was to a certain extent offset by interest in what was, to say the least of it, an unusual situation.
But then Stella, thought Miranda, had not seen the dead face of Brigadier Brindley, or that hideous, sprawling stain across his breast and on the carriage floor.
Miranda shivered again and turned away to touch up her mouth with lipstick, annoyed to find in the process that her hand was not entirely steady, and that the face that looked back at her from the square of mirror was unnaturally pale in the cold light: the grey eyes with their lovely tilting lashes wide and frightened. She pulled the collar of her soft squirrel coat close about her throat and said: ‘I’m ready. What do we do now? Just wait here until someone comes to put the handcuffs on us?’
Stella said: ‘Darling, you are upset! I’m so sorry. What a pig I am: I forgot how utterly hellish it must be for you. I ought to have been distracting your attention instead of talking about this sordid mess. Leave all this clutter and come and sit in our carriage. I daresay the police are very neat packers.’
‘What about the children?’ asked Miranda, closing the door behind her. ‘Lottie and the Wilkin kids? It’s a bit tough on them being kept hanging about like this with no breakfast.’
‘Oh they’re all right. A charming W.V.S. girl turned up and took them all off to have a meal in some refreshment room or other. I don’t envy her the job; the Wilkin gang are a bit of a handful. Mademoiselle is madly upset because she wasn’t allowed to go with Lottie. She’s soaking herself with smelling salts and muttering in French. What a trial foreigners are! Robert darling,
here’s Miranda, and we’re both famished. When do you suppose they’re going to let us off this beastly train?’
Robert, who had been staring out of the window with his hands in his pockets, swung round and smiled at Miranda, and she thought fleetingly, and for perhaps the hundredth time, how astonishingly good-looking he was. It was what most people thought when they looked at Robert, and some of them added as a mental note ‘too good-looking’.
‘Hullo, ’Randa. I hear you had a pretty hectic night?’ He put his arm about her slim shoulders and gave her a friendly hug. ‘What exactly happened? Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I meant to,’ admitted Miranda, sitting down tiredly on the edge of the lower berth, ‘but I couldn’t remember which compartment you two were in. How much longer are we going to stay here, Robert?’ She did not wish to discuss the happenings of the past night and hoped that the question might sidetrack him.
‘Not much longer, I imagine,’ said Robert, turning back to the window again. ‘They appear to be taking the Brigadier away at last: can’t think why they didn’t do it earlier.’
Stella went to stand beside him and their bodies shut out the view of the grey platform so that Miranda did not see the stretcher-bearers carry a blanket-covered burden past the window.
A few minutes later a military policeman walked along the corridor and told them they were to leave the train, and Stella slipped into a silver-grey musquash coat and picked up her handbag: ‘Ready, Miranda?’
They left the compartment and were ushered, with the other passengers of the coach, along endless yards of wet platform under the curious gaze of the police guard and a sprinkling of unidentified bystanders, down a flight of steps, along a chill, vaulted passageway and, eventually, into a hastily cleared waiting-room where several officials and three British officers in uniform were grouped about a table. Suitcases, hatboxes, and other pieces of hand luggage that had accompanied the passengers on the sleeping coach, were neatly arranged against the wall.
‘Isn’t it thrilling?’ whispered Sally Page, catching at Miranda’s arm. Her blue eyes were wide and excited and she looked impossibly fresh and dewy—in marked contrast to the majority of her fellow-passengers, who appeared jaded and travel-worn: the men unshaven and the women weary.
Mrs Leslie, huddled inside a shapeless coat of purple tweed and wearing a muffler and fur gloves, was looking cold and cross and managing to convey without words that in her opinion the wife of a commanding officer of a regiment should be entitled to more consideration. She said acidly, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening: ‘I can see no reason why we should be kept here. It’s not as if I had even seen the man before.’
Colonel Leslie was looking bored and resigned, Major Marson amused and Andy Page sulky, while Elsa Marson and Mrs Wilkin were talking earnestly together in undertones; discussing, incongruously enough, the respective merits of gas and electric cooking stoves. Mademoiselle, wearing an expression of the deepest suspicion, had ostentatiously taken up a position by her own and Charlotte’s luggage as though she feared that at any moment it might once again be reft from her.
There was no sign of Lottie or the young Wilkins, but Simon Lang was there, standing with his back to the window; his slight figure dark against the grey daylight and his bland, actor’s face entirely expressionless. His eyes seemed to be focused on nothing in particular and he appeared to be relaxed and almost lethargic. He did not look at Miranda, or indeed appear in the least interested in the proceedings, but she had an uncomfortable conviction that he missed no word or gesture or fleeting expression from anyone in that room, and that he was in fact about as relaxed as a steel spring.
The proceedings were mercifully brief. Each passenger in turn produced a passport or identity card, gave the address to which they were going, and, in the case of the women, handed over their handbags for a cursory inspection. Sally Page’s, Mrs Leslie’s and Stella’s each contained a cigarette lighter, and these were taken away and put into envelopes marked with the owner’s name. Robert, Andy Page and Colonel Leslie also handed over lighters, which were treated in the same manner and added to a row of six torches that lay on the table and had evidently been removed from the passengers’ luggage.
A small snapshot had fallen unnoticed from among the jumbled contents of Sally Page’s bag, and Miranda, seeing it, stooped and picked it up: ‘Here, Sally, you’ve dropped this.’ She held it out, and Sally turned, and glancing at it, snatched it from her hand and crumpled it swiftly in her own.
‘Oh … thank you.’ Her cheeks were scarlet, and Miranda was seized with a sudden and uncomfortable suspicion as to who had been the subject of the snapshot. She looked thoughtfully across the room to where Robert stood talking in an undertone to one of the British officers, and as though he felt her gaze, Robert looked up at that moment, and catching her eye grinned at her. Miranda flushed guiltily, ashamed of her suspicions, and Simon Lang saw the flush and misinterpreted it.
The last handbag was returned to its owner and the passengers were informed that they could now remove their luggage, with the exception of the torches and the lighters which would be returned as soon as possible. There were cars outside to take them to their several destinations.
A middle-aged man wearing a dark blue uniform with the crown and star of a lieutenant-colonel apologized charmingly for any inconvenience they might have suffered and thanked them for their patience and co-operation. Mrs Wilkin was led away to collect her offspring, and Mademoiselle hurried off in search of Charlotte, clutching a piece of luggage in each black-gloved hand and refusing all offers of assistance. Only Miranda was still luggageless.
‘When do I get my things?’ she inquired of the affable gentleman in the blue uniform. ‘I was told to leave everything in my carriage and I’ve left two suitcases and a hatbox in there.’
‘Well—er____It’s Miss Brand isn’t it? I am sure your luggage will be along soon. If you would not mind waiting____’ The affable gentleman looked suddenly less affable, and Simon Lang abandoned the contemplation of his shoes and spoke for the first time.
‘I’ll send them along to the hostel. There’s no need to wait for them. I expect you could all do with some breakfast.’
He looked directly at Miranda, but voice and look were as blankly impersonal as though he were addressing someone he had never seen before.
‘I’ll wait,’ said Miranda flatly. She was both annoyed and frightened. Why had they kept all her hand luggage? Why was Simon Lang behaving as though she were some complete stranger?
‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ said Simon Lang softly. ‘We are a little busy just now and it might mean waiting an hour or so. You shall have them as soon as possible.’
Miranda wanted to cry out to him: ‘You mean when you have looked for bloodstains! But you know there are bloodstains—you saw them last night! I showed them to you myself. Why do you have to look again?’ She choked back the words with an effort that made her hands tremble, and turning blindly away, caught at Robert’s arm, and clinging to it, walked quickly out of the room.
Stella, following, said: ‘Darling, don’t look so upset! I’m sure they’ll let you have your stuff soon, and if there’s anything you need in the meantime I can probably lend it to you.’
‘He’s a suspicious, soft-spoken, officious little man!’ said Miranda furiously; unaccountably near to tears.
Robert said: ‘Who? Lang? I think he’s rather a decent type. He went quite a bit out of his way to be helpful this morning. Why have you got your knife into him, Miranda?’
‘I haven’t. I mean … is this the car?’
‘Yes. Get in. This is a Volkswagen. The Families’ Hostel, please, Corporal.’
Stella said: ‘What about Lottie and Mademoiselle? We can’t all fit into that.’
‘I’ve sent ’em on ahead with the Leslies. Colonel Leslie very decently offered to drop them at the hostel. The Pages are going there too, so Andy will keep an eye on them.’
Robert bundle
d them into a small khaki-green beetle of a car driven by a corporal in battledress, and they drove away from Charlottenburg station in the thin, drizzling rain.
* * *
Looking back on it, Miranda could never remember much of her first sight of Berlin. She had stared out with unseeing eyes at grey buildings and grey rain. At blocks of shops and houses, interspersed with open spaces where only a rubble of bricks and stone and blackened, twisted steel remained to show where other houses had once stood. At unfamiliar notices that said Fleischerei, Friseur, Bäckerei, Eisengeschäft …
Robert, who had been in Berlin for several months before he had returned to fetch Stella and Charlotte, pointed out various places of interest as they passed.
‘That’s the Rundfunk, Stella; the Soviet-controlled wireless station, the one the Russians still keep in our zone. It’s a bit of a mystery still. Looks as dead as a morgue, doesn’t it? You never seem to see anyone going in or coming out of it, and I’ve never met anyone who has even seen a face at one of the windows. But I suppose there must be a collection of comrades circulating around somewhere inside it. That?… That’s a circus that’s doing a season here. Very good one. I went with a party one night. We must take Lottie, she’d love it. That’s the Funkturm. Sort of Eiffel Tower effect. You can go up it in a lift and have a look at Berlin from the top, or eat in the restaurant in that bulgy bit halfway up—if you can afford it. It’s supposed to be the highest building with the highest prices in Berlin; one of those places where they soak you ten bob for a cup of tea and fifteen-and-six for a biscuit to go with it. That’s the Naafi building, where you’ll do a good bit of your shopping; this used to be called Adolf Hitler Platz, but it’s now called the Reichskanzler Platz. Here we are; out you get. Down that paved path and the door’s straight ahead of you. Run, or you’ll get wet.’
Robert had decided that it was better for them to spend the first night at the Families’ Hostel, so that Stella need not bother with meals and housekeeping while taking over the new house, which they would move into on the following day.