by Len Deighton
‘Frau Mettler is next, Herr Doctor; the hairline crack.’
‘How did you have this injury, Mr Samson?’ he asked.
‘I was mugged,’ I said.
‘I will not charge you,’ he told me, looking first at my face and the bruise that had now turned black and purple and spread across my cheek almost to my ear, and then at Werner’s money.
‘Doctor, I’m sure …’
‘You have been listening to too many stories about Swiss dentists, Mr Samson. I regret you have such a bad experience in my country. Have a good vacation.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But it happened in Germany.’
‘In that case one hundred francs,’ he said.
From the dentist’s reception I phoned the travel agent again, but my position on the waiting list had not changed. I was still confirmed on the last flight to London. I phoned Fiona and told her to expect me late.
With a day at my disposal I decided to go in search of my brother-in-law, and thus substantiate the explanation I’d given Frank Harrington for my visit to Switzerland.
It was not a long journey south along the lake, but the taxi-meter clicked and the fare grew to alarming totals as I had him drive down side roads that dead-ended at the lake so that I could see along the waterfront. Finally I spotted the place I was looking for: a neat modern house and, tied to a distinctive pier, the sleek cabin cruiser of which George was once so proud.
When I rang the buzzer my brother-in-law answered the door and registered surprise.
‘On your own?’ he said.
‘What were you expecting, George, an American Express tour group?’
He didn’t answer for a moment. He was looking over my shoulder watching the road, and didn’t speak again until the taxi that brought me had turned round and driven away. ‘No one with you?’
‘What’s wrong, George?’
‘What happened to your face?’
‘A misunderstanding,’ I said.
He nodded and decided not to pursue it. ‘How did you get this address? Did I give it to you?’ He seemed disturbed that I had found him, and his flat cockney accent emerged now and again from his posh English.
‘I don’t know the address. I remembered that framed photo of the house you had on the wall of your office. Are you going to invite me in?’
‘Come in, Bernard,’ he said mechanically. ‘Office?’
‘The office in Southwark.’
‘Oh, that dump. Did I have a photo of this house on the wall?’
‘A big framed colour photo.’
‘Of course.’ He snapped his fingers: he was much given to snapping his fingers. ‘I’ve often wondered where that picture went.’ He scratched his head with a fingertip as if to demonstrate the wondering. ‘That idiot of a manager must have left it behind when we moved.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
George was a short energetic Londoner of Polish extraction. He had heavy horn-framed glasses that he liked to prop on the end of his nose. His greying hair was wavy and always beautifully cut, as were his suits and shirts. For George was one of those enviable people for whom the secret of making money was no secret.
‘You found the house by remembering that photo?’ I could see he didn’t completely believe me.
‘It wasn’t too difficult, George,’ I said. ‘I’d seen it in your holiday snapshots as well as that framed aerial photo. Your green mansard roof, and your boat and pier, were easy to spot from the lakeside. And with your garage doors open, your Rolls, with its British registration plate, is visible from the street.’
‘I forgot you were a bloody detective,’ he said with a bitter smile. ‘Don’t just stand there. For heaven’s sake, take off your coat. Have a drink? You didn’t phone? Whisky? Gin? Vodka?’
‘A cup of coffee?’ I asked as he took my old coat from me and gave it to a young girl in a servant’s apron who appeared from nowhere.
‘Sure,’ said George. ‘Two cups of coffee, Ursi. Can you work that new machine, dear?’ She said she could. ‘I’ve just bought a big espresso machine,’ he turned to me to explain. ‘I thought; here I am every morning, climbing into that damned motor car and driving seven kilometres to get a decent cup of coffee. I’ll buy a proper machine, like the ones they have in hotels. Saves time; saves money.’
‘And it’s better for the environment,’ I said.
‘For what?’ He frowned, as if suspecting that this was a comment on the pretty blonde maid. ‘Oh yes, pollution, the car exhaust.’ He relaxed a little. ‘You’re right. Sit down, Bernard.’ He was thawing a little now, but he was still searching for a reason behind my unannounced appearance.
George and Tessa Kosinski had owned this house for several years, but until recently it had been a place for their holidays. Now George had left England for good and had announced his intention of spending all his time here. We were in a large room, one wall of glass giving a panoramic view of the lake and the pier where George’s motor launch was tied. The furnishings were modern, coarsely woven linen and brightly coloured rugs upon a beautifully maintained parquet floor. The only visible connections with his previous life were some items of antique furniture that I’d seen in the Mayfair flat he had vacated immediately after his wife’s death.
There was a fireplace where a shiny brown log, like a neglected cigar, had one end turning into grey ash perfuming the air with smoke as sweet as incense. Over the fireplace there was a large oil-painting: a modernist impression of the Alps in large hurried strokes that exactly matched the colours in the carpet and curtains. Two angular leather sofas, covered in imitation zebra skin, were placed each side of a large inlaid coffee table where magazines and books were arranged in fan patterns. I sat down and offered my hands to the fire. George was striding around the room, but I was used to his displays of surplus energy, which I suppose was what he channelled into action in business deals when he wanted to make money. At least that’s what Tessa had once said of him when complaining of being neglected.
‘You took a chance?’ he said. ‘Took a chance that I would be at home?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m booked on the evening plane. I went to the dentist this morning, and when he said I didn’t need treatment I thought I’d come and seek you out.’
‘I’m not officially resident,’ he said. ‘I’ve applied to the canton but it’s not so easy becoming a resident here these days. They want to be quite sure you’re not a drugs baron or a terrorist.’
‘Sounds reasonable,’ I said.
‘So they told you my phone is bugged did they?’
‘No. Is it? Who do you mean? Who would tell me that?’
‘The crowd you work for. That’s why you didn’t phone, eh?’
‘This visit’s nothing to do with the people I work for,’ I said. ‘They don’t know I’m here.’
‘You didn’t tell them?’
‘Well, I did mention it as a matter of fact.’
‘Why?’
‘Your name came up. I was looking for an excuse to come here and didn’t want to tell them the real reason.’
The maid arrived and put a tray on the table. George stopped his restless striding to inspect the milk frothed high upon the espresso coffee in his fine china. He cut the froth with a spoon to test its texture. Then he picked up one of the Brunsli, the little spicy chocolate biscuits the Swiss eat in the winter, and bit a piece from it. Satisfied, he dropped his weight into the leather sofa opposite me and stretched out his legs to put his hand-sewn Ferragamo moccasins upon the low table. ‘Thanks, Ursi,’ he said, without turning his head to her, and with such gruff indifference that I wondered if the exchange was for my benefit. ‘Since two weeks after I got here,’ he said accusingly with his hands clasped behind his head. ‘You can hear the clicks.’ He popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. ‘Help yourself, Bernard.’
‘Maybe that’s not the reason, George. Clicks on bugged phones were eliminated a decade or more ago. And the Swiss are not the sort of people who
use outdated technology. Did you notice the pistols they issue to the soldiers and the cops: SIGs? It’s the Rolls-Royce of hand-guns. The US Army went down on their hands and knees asking for them as replacements for their Colts, but Uncle Sam bought Berettas instead, at a quarter of the Swiss price. No, you won’t hear any clicks if the boys from Berne are tapping your phone.’
He wasn’t to be distracted by such ploys. ‘I know what’s happening, Bernard. If it’s not the Swiss then maybe it’s the Russians or the Germans or your lot. But someone is listening in.’
‘And I’m party to it?’ I said, betraying enough amusement to annoy him.
‘Well, are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Do you know how long I waited before anyone told me Tessa was dead?’
‘Believe me, George …’
‘A month. Over a month: thirty-two long miserable days. Even then they wouldn’t say where she died, how she died, or who did it.’
‘She died in East Germany, George. On the Berlin Autobahn. The communists do everything at a snail’s pace. The inquiries are probably still continuing. That’s not in itself sinister.’
‘They hinted that Tessa had run off with you. Did you know that?’
‘I do now,’ I said.
‘Someone else said she went to Berlin with that fellow Cruyer. I’ll get to the bottom of it if I have to spend all my life and every last penny doing it.’
‘George,’ I said. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘I will say it. I vow it. I’ll run them down, whoever is responsible, I’ll find them. If you’ve come here to dissuade me you are wasting your time.’
‘I didn’t say don’t do it, George. I warned you not to go around saying you’re doing it.’ I let that sink in. George picked up his cup and, holding his other hand to protect his sea-island cotton shirt from drips, sipped his coffee reflectively. I drank my coffee too.
‘Have you eaten lunch?’ said George. There was no missing the significance of this question. It was an armistice. I had got through to him.
‘I weigh nearly one hundred and ninety pounds,’ I said. ‘I’m cutting down.’
‘Ursi will make us something non-fattening: home-made muesli with grated apples and oat flakes – Ursi’s mother’s recipe … Or a sandwich made from some of the lousy tinned ham my local shop sells. You won’t eat too much of that, believe me.’
‘That’s very considerate, George. Ham. Thank you, yes.’
‘Ursi!’ he called loudly. When her voice came in reply, he told her to fix us some sandwiches, and after that she could take the Honda and have a couple of hours off duty.
‘Better we eat here,’ said George. ‘Can’t talk in my local restaurant, nor in any eating place round here. People eavesdrop all the time. In these little communities everybody wants to know a newcomer’s business.’
We drank our coffee and talked about how good the froth was, how long it took him to get to the airport, what the weather had been like and how well we were both looking. We listened to the sounds of the electric can-opener and the electric bread-slicer and the toaster and the microwave where the butter was softened. When the food came, we continued to exchange small-talk while we chewed our toasted ham sandwiches. I wanted to look at him. I wanted to know how he was taking the death of Tessa.
‘Goodbye,’ shouted the maid.
‘It’s not what you think,’ he said, after we’d watched the Honda narrowly avoid hitting the gate, turn on to the road and drive away with the brake lights shining. ‘Me and Ursula. It’s not what you think.’
‘I haven’t come to spy on you, George.’
‘Then why did you come?’
‘Fiona is back in London. We both want to thank you for letting us have the place in Mayfair.’
‘No thanks to me. That was Tessa’s bequest to her sister.’
‘You bought the lease,’ I reminded him.
‘I gave it to Tessa as a birthday present. It was hers to dispose of as she wished. I took the pieces of furniture that were my own possessions.’ Then suddenly he added: ‘Anyway I like you having it, Bernard. I hope you and Fiona will be very happy living there.’
‘That’s generous, George. Fiona is planning to keep one of the rooms solely for your use when you come to London.’
‘Don’t do that, Bernard.’ He was so alarmed that he leaned forward as if about to stand up, but then relaxed to lean back into the sofa again. ‘No. My accountant would have a fit. I’ve left England for good. I’m not allowed back there – tax-wise I mean.’
‘Fiona’s father wants to call a family meeting to discuss Tessa’s trust fund. You, me, everyone.’
‘I know. I spoke on the phone with him. But I can’t go to England.’ He leaned forward and said: ‘The day after the official notification finally arrived he sent a lawyer to me at Mount Street, demanding that I tell him where Tessa was buried. I said: What do you think I’ve been asking the bloody Foreign Office every day, with a dozen follow-up letters, and more phone calls than I can count? Go round and do your demanding to those Foreign Office bastards, I said. He gets my goat. But it’s no good shouting at a lawyer.’
‘I suppose the old man was beside himself,’ I said in mitigation, although my own feelings about our mutual father-in-law were as vehement as George’s.
‘All he was concerned with was formal certification of death. I suspect he’s put Tessa on the boards of some of his fake companies and all kinds of other capers: you know what a crook he is. I hate him, but he came round to seeing things my way in the end.’ As George was saying this I noticed that his hand was trembling. He put down his coffee, but not without spilling some in the saucer.
‘Take it easy, George,’ I said.
‘Don’t tell me to take it easy.’ His eyes were fixed on me, glinting and half-closed in anger. ‘You haven’t lost anything or anybody. For all I know you’ve been promoted. What did I do to deserve having her taken from me? I spent my whole life working hard, and all I ever got was trouble.’ He wiped his lips with his linen napkin. ‘She jumped into bed with everyone she met,’ he said, and I realized that I was still not eliminated from his list of suspects.
‘I thought we’d settled all that, George,’ I protested. ‘There was never anything between me and Tessa. Never.’
‘And when I finally brought myself to believing that her betrayals were at an end, she was taken from me.’
I had never seen my brother-in-law so distressed. ‘You must look to the future,’ I said, hoping that a few platitudes might help him recover his equilibrium. ‘You can’t spend the rest of your life grieving for her.’
‘I can and I will,’ he said. ‘And so will the others.’
‘Others?’
‘Fiona and the old man.’
‘Fiona?’
‘That’s not why you’re here?’ said George, and for a moment we floundered in mutual confusion.
‘Fiona?’ I said.
‘You didn’t see the letters?’
‘What letters?’
‘Fiona has agreed to help me track down the murderer. We’ve exchanged long letters about it and we are keeping in touch by phone. I spoke with her this morning, and she will be keeping her father informed now that she’s back living in London.’
‘Wait a minute, George. You spoke to Fiona this morning? Do you mean that Fiona is encouraging you in this crusade to avenge Tessa’s death?’
‘Crusade?’ For a moment he seemed as if he was going to take offence, but then he said: ‘Very well. Crusade. Yes, let’s call it a crusade. She’s Tessa’s sister, isn’t she? When you said you weren’t here officially, I thought Fiona had sent you with a message. That’s why I got rid of Ursi.’
‘No one sent me. I told you that.’
‘The old man is putting one hundred grand into the hat.’
Persuading my father-in-law to contribute such a vast sum to a project without prospect of financial return was an amazing feat. Now I was even more confused. ‘As a rew
ard?’
‘Reward; bribe; lobbying; other types of political pressure. Money will be needed. We must try everything. Her death was no accident. The authorities will not come clean unless they are pressed. You know that, Bernard.’
‘Who are you approaching?’
He didn’t hear me. ‘Yes, Fiona is as keen as I am.’ He paused to reflect upon that extravagant claim. ‘At least she’s not putting up a lot of objections.’
‘But how are you tackling it?’
He suddenly became wary. ‘I can’t tell you any names or other details, Bernard. You’ll understand that, I’m sure. But we have a reliable lawyer working for us in Berlin. Fiona gave me the contacts and I eventually found an experienced man and started the ball rolling. I’ve promised him a fifty grand bonus if there is a witness, named culprit and convincing evidence.’
‘You’re playing with dynamite, George. How do you know you won’t be swindled?’
‘Fiona knows what’s what. She worked in the East, didn’t she? We’re using a man she’s worked with.’
‘A man she worked with? I hope not, George. I’ve spent my whole life dealing with these people – the KGB and Stasi and all those other hoodlums. They play rough, George. It’s no game for an amateur to get into.’
He smiled. ‘I know, Bernard. I’ve seen it on the movies.’
‘Yes, but these guys don’t use stunt men with tomato ketchup.’
‘I was brought up in the East End of London, Bernard. I know how to look after myself.’
He brushed a hand along his head as if smoothing his hair, which was not out of place. He was calmer now, but I knew it was no good trying to make him see sense. ‘I should be pushing along,’ I said. ‘Can you call a taxi for me?’
‘No problem.’ He dialled for a cab. ‘Five minutes,’ he told me. ‘Do you want a plaster on that bad cut?’