The Countess of Prague

by Stephen Weeks

  “So, time for supper,” I said reassuringly, as we made our way more confidently to the hall with the open window.

  “Oh, thank the Lord,” sighed Sabine with relief. “I was just so terrified.”

  But she had had the guts not to have complained before. She might well be made of sterner stuff than I, I thought.

  ***

  I observed Jenks boarding the train, having made a particular point in being early. I peered through the half-drawn blind of our compartment.

  “That’s him,” I said, pointing the fellow out to Sabine.

  He therefore did not have the advantage of seeing the two of us board the train, for obviously he would have been able to recognise me. The thought of what could have happened on the train to Karlsbad made me shudder. I told Sabine that we must keep watch on the door constantly and to scream out loud if anyone so much as touches the latch. At Eger — only a relatively short journey — we would transfer to the de Luxe, and I knew that in the sleeping cars one could lock the doors of the compartments from the inside. Then we would be safe.

  Fortune was with us. We kept watch while the de Luxe stopped at Nuremberg, Stuttgart, Kehl, and Strasbourg. Jenks did not step from the train. We kept together all the while, taking our meals at odd times in the Dining Car. Jenks, I had presumed correctly, liked his meat and potatoes at the more regular feeding times and was thus not seen there by us.

  Eventually, late in the evening, we steamed into Paris. It was to the Gare du Nord, for the train was destined for Calais, Dover, and London. Sabine was slightly sad at having to pass through her native city without touching French soil or, as she put it, eating proper bread. She was looking dreamily out of the window, even though all she could see was a railway platform not much different from most we had seen all day. But to her, those people out there, her people, they were all eaters of “proper bread” — as well as being lovers of horseflesh and garlic-eaters par excellence.

  I could see her eyes were moist with tears. Goodness knows how many years it had been since she was last home. She had been with me constantly for five years, taking her two-week annual holiday down in Moravia, where she helped some relatives of Karel’s former valet, Klopček, with the wine harvest. So that some of those garlic fumes and the sounds of thoroughbred members of the Gallic race could at least reach her, I let down the window halfway. I thought she seemed intoxicated by the view presented her.

  “Madame, Madame,” she was saying urgently, “it’s ’im. It’s ’im!”

  “Mon Dieu,” I cried…well, we were in France, and indeed it was Jenks — on the platform. Either he was taking a quick breath of fresh air, or he was leaving the train.

  “There’s no time to lose, Sabine. Pack these things at once.”

  I looked about the compartment. There were the dressing pins, neatly out of their box to facilitate easy use. The brushes, combs, and perfume spray correctly laid out. Underwear had been correctly unpacked for the morning. I could see the handiwork of a servant, not of the terminally untidy, helpless individual which was myself. But there was no time. I simply scooped up everything into our travelling bag.

  “There are two hats and two stoles here, Sabine. We will wear one each.”

  “But the portmanteau, Madame? What about ’eet?”

  “It will simply stay in the luggage van to Victoria. We will claim it there — but maybe he’s just taking some air.”

  I said that, but didn’t believe it. The London ticket may have been purchased to put anyone off the scent. In any event he was allowed to stop over in Paris, if he so chose. So were we. I had simply not gone through all the options. I’d had over fourteen hours to have done so, and I had been lazy. I should have made some slips of paper; they would have worked — cards, stronger and more durable than paper, marked Options 1, 2, 3, and so on.

  No time for this self-reproach now, I thought. Sabine had done a remarkable job of grabbing what remained after my lightning scavenge. In what seemed like no time we were on the platform.

  Jenks was still visible. He was showing his ticket to the Inspector at the barrier. Sabine had ours ready. I hoped we weren’t going to have to follow him all through the impossibly busy streets of Paris — but on this score we had luck.

  Once onto the station concourse, Jenks headed upstairs for the restaurant. I would certainly not be unhappy eating there, if we had to. As if in defiance of the worldwide law concerning the standard of food in the proximity of railways, the restaurants at the great termini of Paris were all first class. Of course, the French always revelled in being au contraire.

  I soon found myself seated at a table some distance from the man, with my back to him. A waiter brought us a basket of bread to be getting on with, before ordering. Sabine smiled at me. I thought it would be appropriate to smile back — I knew what she was thinking. “Even if it is only for this, it will have been worth it!” For my part I was also enjoying the splendour of the place. Only the French could dedicate such overpowering crustaceans of architecture to the service of food; in another country such a style would be reserved for an audience hall to impress foreign ambassadors, or the throne room of a megalomaniac despot.

  After swallowing her first mouthful, Sabine was able to give me a running commentary on events, small and large — reporting what was over my shoulder. Since she was of the Gallic race, then the first reports were naturally of a culinary nature.

  “Madame, he has finished the plate of oysters. Now there is a plate of chops.”

  “And? Come on, Sabine, is he alone?”

  “No, Madame. Another gentleman has just joined him.”

  “So tell me — what does he look like?”

  “Distingué, you might call him. High-domed forehead, swept-back greying hair — bushy black eyebrows that almost meet. Intense. Intelligent…”

  “And?” God, it was so awful to have to rely on another’s sight. I began to feel how a blind man must.

  “They are talking. Jenks — how you say it? — Jenks is not eating for the moment…well, just picking. He is smiling. Then he is not smiling. And now…”

  “Yes, yes…?”

  “The gentleman rises, and he leaves. This Monsieur Jenks is now eating another plate of oysters.”

  My astute detective’s mind had come to the conclusion that since Jenks was eating like a madman, he hadn’t ventured into the Dining Car at all since Eger. That showed he did have some element of caution — or fear.

  Now it was Sabine’s turn, and just as our terrine had arrived on the table:

  “Madame, Madame —”

  “Once is enough Sabine. Now quickly, what do you see?”

  “Another gentleman to see the Monsieur.” But she seemed rather agitated by the fact.

  “And?”

  “But, Madame, ’ee looks exactly like the first gentleman.”

  “Now, Sabine, that’s because it probably is the first gentleman. I don’t know as this proper bread and this paté are doing you any good. No wonder the French are so —”

  “No, Madame. The first gentleman was wearing grey with a black striped waistcoat. This gentleman is wearing black with a dark red waistcoat.”

  “And what now?”

  “Another plate of chops for the Monsieur. And he offers the gentleman a glass of wine. They talk.”

  The second caller looked like the first and they appeared to have the same conversation, except that — second time round — our Monsieur did not seem to smile. The second caller left.

  “Another comes,” announced Sabine after an interval of a few minutes. I was by this time tucking into some duck, a favourite dish of my native Bohemia — but exquisitely prepared the French way. There’s no denying they know how to do things in the kitchen, though hardly on the field of battle these days. But perhaps in the bedroom.

  “And I suppose you will say he looks exactly t
he same as gentlemen numbers one and two,” I asked in a sarcastic way, annoyed that I was the secondhand recipient of the news — but circumstances could have made it no different.

  “Exactly, Madame. How did you know?”

  A piece of duck seemed to stick in my throat. Did they have wings, the damned things? I thought they just paddled in the water with webbed feet. “And?”

  “This time he has chops with potatoes à l’Anglais.”

  “You mean fried?”

  “Oui, Madame.”

  “How disgusting!”

  However, I was thinking about how to find out what any of this could mean. The interviews were lasting only a few minutes each; I didn’t have much time. I had an idea.

  “Now, Sabine, here’s what I want you to do.”

  ***

  Sabine was coming back to the table. Just as she was sitting down, she leaned forward, whispering in an urgent tone:

  “The Monsieur, he is going.”

  “You have the photograph?”

  Sabine nodded.

  “Then it is safe to let him go,” I said. “We could never follow him discreetly now — or leave here in such a hurry. We’ll just have to presume that he will go on into London, and then simply disappear into the world’s biggest metropolis. Anyway, tell me what happened?”

  “Well, as Madame asked me, I stopped him on the staircase and asked him if he was indeed the great Erich Munar, who so often graced the stage in Paris. He looked a little indignant at first. So I said your next line: ‘But I do recognise you from the stage, don’t I?’ And, Madame, as you said — he smiled. And in another moment or two I had got from him his signed photograph — which I have ’ere for you.”

  There, as Sabine had described, was a man naturally blessed with the same features as the other two. His name, printed below, was Jules Lefèvre.

  “What does it all mean, Madame?”

  “It means, dear Sabine, that we shall proceed to London on the first train which leaves at a reasonable hour tomorrow morning. I shall stay here at the station hotel, and you have what is called, in His Imperial Majesty’s Army, furlough for seven hours. Would that be of use to you?”

  I could see a certain glint in her eye. Certainly she wasn’t going to knock-up aged grandparents at this time of night.

  “But before you go, I have a question for you. There were three actors interviewed by this Mr. Jenks. Which one got the part, do you think?”

  “It is strange Madame, because of the three, it seems that only one left disappointed — and didn’t shake this man Jenks’ hand. The other two seemed pleased, and shook the hand vigorously.”

  Again, this only deepened the mystery — but it was such an odd clue, it had to be significant. Then I thought to ask:

  “I know they all looked roughly the same, these three. But what about the two who — shall we say — got the part?”

  “Madame, you always know what is in my mind. Those two, they looked so alike — like twins.”

  Sabine left faster than the speed of sound, before I could have the faintest possibility of calling her back and asking her any more questions, and I was left turning over the carte de visite photograph in my hand. Distingué was what she had said. She was right — far too distinguished in appearance to be a mere actor, but then I supposed that this whole mystery was all about appearances. To look like somebody is to be somebody — that thought I was turning over in my mind. “Jules Lefèvre” was this gentleman and actor — and there was another, identical. But why?

  Chapter Six

  Flower of Cities All

  When Sabine caught up with me — and nine-thirty, as I had been at pains to point out, was quite early enough for any woman with pretensions to beauty to set out — I was at the hotel receptionist’s desk busy firing off telegrams to all points of the globe.

  To my husband:

  NOT A MURDERESS EXCLAMATION STOP IN LONDON LATER TODAY AND SEEING MAX STOP IT’S QUITE A TALE STOP SORRY ABOUT LOSS OF REVOLVER

  No. I dropped the remark about the revolver. I must be cautious. Then, as an afterthought, I’m afraid, I added:

  STOP YOUR LOVING WIFE BEATRICE

  “No,” I said to the clerk behind the desk, “change that to Trixie.”

  Then to The Archivist, The Times, Printing House Square, London EC:

  URGENTLY REQUIRE CUTTINGS OF STORIES CONCERNING THOSE WHO RESEMBLE HM KING EDWARD STOP CALLING BY OFFICE 4PM STOP COUNTESS VON FALKLENBURG

  Then to my younger brother, Max (he hates being called Maximilian, but then my parents had been thinking of calling him Hyacinth, the traditional family forename of the impoverished von Morštejns):

  IN LONDON TONIGHT STOP HOPE ALL RIGHT TO STAY FEW DAYS LOVE TRIXIE

  I should have pointed already out that my brother left to seek his fortune in London, blessed by having an English mother with the correct pretensions at least, if not the capital. All he would tell us is that he worked “In the City,” meaning in that den of thieves, robbers, and hapless gamblers known as The Financial Institutions of the City of London. He stood a chance, so I was told, of making enough wealth to set himself up properly. Or a chance of gaining nothing. The Tontine was a safe bet compared to his chosen direction in life. I hadn’t seen him in four years, but I felt quite in order imposing myself on him as he had recently moved. When I said he was my younger brother — that was so, but only by a matter of eighteen months.

  Lastly, to Uncle Berty:

  THE MYSTERY DEEPENS STOP HOWEVER AM IN GOOD FORM STOP YOU HAVE SET ME FREE STOP YOUR LOVING NIECE TRIXIE

  ***

  Sabine looked somehow different when we were re-united. It took me a while to realise what it was that had caused this change.

  “I am sorry it was such a short break in your native city,” I began. “I’ll make sure you have a longer break on our way back — would that be all right?”

  “Yes, thank you, Madame. In fact I’ve already promised him —” She broke off suddenly, having said just a little more than she intended.

  Sex can be such a great restorative, yet doctors seem never to prescribe it. Perhaps it would put them out of business if its powers were more widely perceived.

  Sabine kept taking furtive glances over her shoulder. I wondered if her mysterious midnight lover was lurking somewhere in the shadows. She could recognise what I was thinking, probably by the little frown on my brow.

  “Madame, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this — but I felt sure this morning that in the crowd by the ticket office I noticed the police inspector who came to visit us.”

  “You mean that Inspector Schneider? My dear Sabine, that’s impossible. You haven’t seen him again?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “Then it was someone with a passing similarity — I feel sure.”

  But this little incident did serve to remind me that sooner or later I would be suspect Number One in the murder of Gerard Duvalier.

  In a few hours we were destined to see the White Cliffs that were England’s frontier with the sea, and in the relaxed atmosphere of our compartment — no longer worried by any Mr. Jenks — the concerns of home finally became irresistible, and so I had to ask. It was not Sabine’s place to suggest them first.

  “Well,” she said after a little thought, “Müller was very concerned for you — and not a little jealous that I should be called upon to travel, and not him.”

  “That’s rather flattering of him, don’t you think, that he actually wanted to be by my side?”

  “After what happened to you at The Servants’ Union, he felt he could not return there. Besides, he could hardly ask his Lordship for the use of his cravat and tie-pin, could he? Perhaps when you are back —”

  “I did warn my husband.”

  “But that’s not the point, Madame. It would not be his place to do such a thing
. As a butler you can steal half a bottle of whisky now and again — but you may never ask for it. Oh no, that would never do.”

  “The lads? I feel I have rather left them in the lurch.”

  “Not at all, Madame. Here Müller has come into his own. He has them properly organised. They are following the movements of the gentleman residing sometimes at The Invalides, and it is they who are watching every event connected with the Fenix Theatre. There were some old clothes in a trunk in the attic we found — probably from the Harrachs — and when they need to be, they can now look like proper little Lord Fauntleroys.”

  There was but one thing left on my mental list. “And my husband? How is the Count taking it all?”

  “You can only have my opinion, Madame. I think perhaps he feels it is Divine Retribution — he leaves you too much to your own devices, and you find some amusement elsewhere. He does not believe you are a murderer, of course — any more than you would be capable of climbing onto the roof of a railway carriage, so he knows there has to be some reasonable explanation. And once he knew you were asking for me, then all seemed right with the world again. A Countess with a Lady’s Maid can hardly get into trouble — or so he thinks.”

  Sabine waited a moment for me to say something, but I was a little lost in my own thoughts. Then she offered, softly:

  “You see, I think he still loves you.”

  I looked up, perhaps seeming a little surprised.

  She went on, choosing her words with some caution: “None of us think His Lordship has…has a mistress. That must mean something.”

  Yes, I had forgotten how the servants must speak of us. News of semen on the sheets, for example, must spread like the tidings of the Battle of Austerlitz. Fortunately, such discoveries could only have been in line with what was normal in the marital bed. That we had not had children was due to other factors, which concern neither servants nor readers of detective narratives. That my husband had no mistress was indeed a rarity.