A Grave Man

by David Roberts

  Verity decided it was better not to telephone Natalie as she might refuse to see her and might warn Simon that something was up. She went first to her apartment but, if there was anyone in, they were not answering the bell. She told the taxi driver to take her to the film studio where, using all her charm, she persuaded the guard at the gates to ring through to Miss Sarrault’s dressing-room. A woman answered and said Natalie was on set. Was she expected? No, but Miss Sarrault was a friend and had told her to stop by if she were passing. Could she wait until Natalie was free to see her?

  She waited for the best part of an hour in Natalie’s dressing-room. When, at last, she did appear she seemed tired and depressed. She greeted Verity with a kiss but was clearly suspicious. She asked if she had come alone and Verity mentiond Edward. Natalie became a little more cheerful and talked about ‘Milord Corinth’ and inquired if it were true – what Simon had told her – that his father was a duke. Verity – had she chanced to see her face in the mirror – might have seen the corners of her mouth go down and a scowl cross her face. The French are such snobs, she thought scornfully, but she supposed the English were just as bad.

  Disappointingly, Natalie had not heard of, or seen, anyone resembling Graham Harvey but she was expecting Simon who had been delayed in Paris.

  ‘He comes on the night train. He said he will come to the apartment to wash and rest and then collect me at the studio for lunch. But why do you want to know? Could you not have talked to him in England?’

  ‘He may be in some danger,’ Verity explained disingenuously.

  ‘From this man – what do you say his name is? – Graham Harvey? Why would he want to hurt Simon? He’s a good man.’

  ‘I don’t know for sure. Perhaps this is a false alarm but if you see or hear anything suspicious . . . someone hanging about the apartment or here at the studio for instance, telephone us. We are staying at the Carlton.’

  ‘I would like to meet Lord Edward Corinth properly. He seemed a charming man.’ Natalie’s smile was almost a smirk.

  ‘Yes, well’ – Verity tried to suppress her irritation – ‘perhaps we can all meet. He has gone to see a friend who is a patient at the Clinic. Mr Montillo has operated to remove a scar on her face.’

  ‘He is a very clever man.’ Natalie was suddenly suspicious again. ‘But I do not understand what you want to talk to Simon about. Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘No, I hope not.’ Verity hesitated. ‘I think Sir Simon has some bad friends – Nazis, criminals. The Castlewood Foundation – has he told you about that?’

  ‘Yes, a little. It’s a charity.’

  ‘Indeed, but it gives support to some unworthy causes – experiments to improve the race. You know what I mean?’

  Nathalie looked pale and bit her lip. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I think you should go now. I tell you, Simon is a good man.’

  ‘You will ask him to telephone us?’

  ‘I will tell him you have been looking for him.’ She gave a Gallic shrug of her shoulders. ‘He may not wish to talk to you. I cannot tell.’

  And with that Verity had to be satisfied.

  There was a message waiting for her back at the hotel. It was from Simon Castlewood. He was sorry to have missed her but he was having dinner that evening at the villa of friends of his, Audrey and Freddy Lewisohn. Would Lord Edward and she care to join them? About six and they should bring their swimming costumes.

  At first, Edward saw this as a distraction and was reluctant to go but Verity argued that they had nothing to lose and anyway, she rather liked the idea of gaining a glimpse of the Riviera’s much advertised sybaritism.

  ‘It’ll be fun to watch the rich doing what they do best: making fools of themselves. Oh God! I’m already beginning to hate the Riviera. The stink of capitalism bathed in honey! How are these people able to idle away their lives while most people are sweating away at dirty jobs and earning a pittance. And all these ex-kings – they ought to be starving in a gutter or dead. The doorman at the hotel told me that in the last three months he had been tipped by the ex-kings of Spain, Portugal, Yugoslavia and Egypt.’

  ‘Not to mention the ex-king of England,’ Edward added.

  ‘I wonder if they know there’s a war coming?’

  The villa was everything a Riviera villa ought to be and the scale and luxury of it put Verity into a worse temper than ever al-though, perversely, she enjoyed having her prejudices reinforced. Edward had his fingers crossed that she would not say something rude and get them thrown out. The villa – white with red shutters – rambled across the sun-scorched hill. Inside it was cool – stone and marble but with huge fireplaces, at this time of year ablaze with flowers rather than burning logs. The biggest and bluest swimming pool either of them had ever seen lay in front of the house, designed so that, from the vantage point of a long chair beside it, the water seemed to merge with the Mediterranean in reality several miles away and far below them. The sun was already low in the sky – orange and pink like some exotic flower, preparing for its nightly dip into blue velvet water.

  They were warmly welcomed by the Lewisohns and their guests, who seemed delighted to see new faces and hear gossip from London. They were offered cocktails on a silver tray by two young men dressed like ship’s stewards in white jackets, black trousers and white gloves. It was quite unreal. The Lewisohns wanted to hear that England was cold and dowdy but neither they nor their guests wanted to know about the political crisis that was brewing. As Mrs Gabriel – a glamorous widow in beach pyjamas with a pale consumptive daughter – said, ‘There’s always time for a little drinkie before the storm breaks.’ However, she did admit to Verity, after several cocktails, that she had been shocked when someone had shouted ‘sale Juif’ at her on La Croisette the previous day. Edward found one friend, or at least acquaintance – the beautiful and sophisticated Daisy Fellowes. She had what Vogue called La Présence. She was a friend of the Windsors and remarked darkly that the Duke was spending far too much time in the casinos that proliferated along the coast. She showed Edward a local newspaper, published in English for the tourists, whose front page was headlined ‘International Friendliness Established Through Tourism.’ He laughed hollowly.

  There was a slide into the pool and, since no one seemed interested in dressing for dinner, Verity and Edward were persuaded to don their swimming costumes and slip into the milky warm water. He thought her exquisite in her tight-fitting bathing suit and rubber helmet – her figure boyish but essentially feminine.

  Verity caught his glance and snapped, ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘Nothing. You have to admit,’ he said as he swam lazily over to the far side, ‘this is heaven.’

  She lay on her back in the water, gazing up at a sky so blue it was almost black.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

  ‘Just that, when the sun has ceased to shine and the bombs are laying waste to London, I shall always remember this moment.’

  ‘Come on! Don’t be so gloomy. It may not happen,’ Edward ventured.

  ‘You know it will,’ she replied and, turning on her stomach, she swam back to the steps.

  She signalled to Natalie for a cigarette and the two of them sat on the edge of the pool, their feet in the water. ‘Is it my imagination,’ she asked in a whisper, ‘or is Simon avoiding us?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Natalie replied thoughtfully. ‘He’s just waiting for the right moment to hear what you have to say.’

  ‘What will you do when war comes?’ Verity asked.

  ‘You think it must?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Natalie sighed. ‘Simon has promised to take me to England.’

  ‘Will you go?’

  ‘I think not. I shall take what comes here. This is where I belong. And, you know, for an actress there will always be . . .’

  ‘Protectors? Men?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Nazis even?’

  ‘I don
’t expect you to approve, but yes. I know some Germans. They are not all . . .’

  Verity stubbed out her cigarette in an onyx ashtray shaped like a dolphin. ‘I’m afraid they are, Natalie . . . or almost all of them,’ she corrected herself, remembering Adam.

  She got up and went over to Edward who was towelling himself. ‘Natalie says Simon is waiting for the right moment to talk to us.’

  ‘I’m not looking forward to it, V. I have a weak hand. I must bluff and I never was that good at poker.’

  In the end, the moment came when Edward least expected it. It was slightly embarrassing because it wasn’t clear whether they were invited to stay for dinner. The other guests started to drift away to dress and the Lewishohns went too, saying nothing one way or the other.

  Verity was talking to Daisy Fellowes and Edward found himself standing next to Sir Simon. ‘I think we had better go,’ he said. ‘You will want to go and dress and we must not hold you up.’

  ‘Must you?’ he replied lazily.

  Edward wondered if he was being insolent and the thought prompted him to say, ‘Before we go, can I give you a word of warning?’

  ‘A word of warning?’ Sir Simon raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes. You see the Foreign Office has evidence that the Castlewood Foundation has close links with the Nazi Party and that Himmler himself is taking an interest in your activities.’

  ‘Such nonsense!’ he responded with studied indifference.

  ‘It’s not nonsense. For one thing, you must give up this mad expedition you are planning to Tibet. It is just a front for the Nazis to pursue their perverted and ridiculous idea of – what do you call it? – racial hygiene. You explained it to me at Swifts Hill. I thought then that it was obscene but I put you down for an innocent dupe of clever villains. The more I have learnt about the Foundation the less I believe that.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it, Lord Edward. I am no one’s dupe.’

  ‘I believe you are funding operations at the Clinic carried out by Dominic Montillo which are similar to those being done by German doctors in their asylums and prison camps.’

  Sir Simon seemed genuinely shocked. ‘That’s outrageous! Have you any proof? No, I thought not. I ought to sue you for slander and I will not hesitate to do so if you repeat these baseless allegations. The Castlewood Foundation is a reputable medical charity whose work is applauded on both sides of the Atlantic. I would be angry if your accusations were not so absurd.’

  ‘So you deny that any operations of this kind are being carried out at the Clinic which, I understand, you own?’

  ‘As it happens I do have an investment in Dominic’s Beauty Institute – though I don’t know what that has to do with you – but I do not own it. If I did, I would be proud to admit it. What operations are you accusing Dominic of carrying out? May I remind you that he is a much-admired surgeon and the work he does repairing ruined faces and physical deformities is out-standing. His patients worship him. He has just operated on Maggie Cardew and the repairs to her will transform her life for the better.’ Edward could think of nothing to say. ‘And further-more, though he would not like me to say it, Dominic is doing it for nothing – as a favour to me and to her brother and because he is a good man.’

  Edward braced himself for one last attack. ‘So you categorically deny that any operations are carried out at the Clinic which would be illegal in England?’

  ‘Such as . . .?’ Sir Simon responded coldly.

  ‘Abortions, castrations, experiments on mentally or physically handicapped patients without their permission?’

  ‘These are wild allegations, Lord Edward. I can’t understand what has got into you. Now, I think you had better go.’

  ‘The Foreign Office is concerned about your activities. If it hears that you have involved the Duke of Windsor . . .’ Edward knew he was making himself ridiculous but decided he might as well finish what he had planned to say.

  ‘The Foreign Office! I don’t believe it, Lord Edward. I invited you to Swifts Hill as a gentleman and a friend of my friends. If you ever repeat any of these slurs against me and the Foundation, I repeat, I will not hesitate to sue.’

  ‘Very well. I have tried to warn you but I see it is pointless. One last question, Sir Simon. Have you seen anything of Graham Harvey here in Cannes?’

  ‘Of Graham?’ His surprise was genuine. ‘What on earth would Graham be doing in Cannes?’

  ‘Trying to kill you, I believe. You should keep a lookout for him. He has been collecting evidence against the Foundation and I am very much afraid that he may take the law into his own hands.’

  ‘Graham . . . attack me? After all I have done for him? Now, I really think you are mad, Lord Edward. Please go before I call the police.’

  ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ Edward said as they drove back to the hotel. ‘I have been an utter fool. I have shown all my cards and my opponent has laughed at them. I spoke before I had the evidence. That was fatal.’

  ‘No,’ said Verity kindly. ‘You gave him a warning for which he should be grateful. If he takes no heed of it, he only has himself to blame.’

  ‘Look here,’ Edward said after a minute or two. ‘I have just had a thought. What if Harvey is after Edmund Cardew and not Sir Simon?’

  ‘Why should he be after Cardew?’

  ‘Because I think Cardew killed Maud.’

  Verity opened her mouth to protest but he cut in. ‘No, wait a minute – listen to this.’

  14

  Verity had never been to a casino before. It was capitalism at its worst in her view and her face displayed her disapproval as she and Edward stood, rather self-consciously, in the bar talking to George Forrester – the English bartender who knew everything that went on. The casino on La Croisette was one of the most famous in France. Built to impress, it was decorated in the Empire style with heavy curtains, mirrors, massive chandeliers and gilt chairs scattered about. There were private rooms for the very rich and privileged but from eleven in the morning tables of roulette and chemin de fer were always available for play in the magnificent main room. It did not really become crowded until after dinner – the casino boasted a first-class restaurant – and by eleven there was hardly room to breathe.

  There was a preponderance of men. The women, although by no means disreputable, were not, Edward thought, what his sister-in-law, the Duchess, would consider ladies. Some of them, Verity was fascinated to see, wore special rings on their fingers in which they could lodge their cigarettes when they played a card or laid a chip on the green baize. Everyone smoked. The sweet scent of Turkish and Egyptian cigarettes and the heavier masculine aroma of Havana cigars lay over the gaming tables like a miasma. There were very few Americans but many Belgians – enriched by their ruthless exploitation of the mineral wealth of the Congo – and some English industrialists who had made fortunes during the war.

  ‘No, my lord, I have not seen Mr Cardew though he comes in most nights when he’s in Cannes. He was here yesterday and the evening before.’ Forrester looked at the clock above the bar. ‘It’s probably a bit early for him but I saw the Duke of Windsor come in. Why not try your luck at the tables while you are waiting? The young lady may bring you good fortune.’

  Edward decided he would try to avoid bumping into the Duke. He had no business with him and there might be embarrassment. However, he thought he might as well risk a few francs. ‘After all,’ he said to Verity, ‘we don’t want to look like private detectives. If you come to a casino, it’s expected that you gamble.’

  They were directed to the discreet caisse, where Edward exchanged fifty pounds for a pile of coloured gambling chips.

  Reluctantly, Verity followed him to the chemin de fer table. There was an empty chair and she sat down, unaware that she was signalling that she wanted to play. The croupier slipped two cards out of the wooden ‘shoe’ and she turned to Edward to ask what she should do with them. ‘Look at them,’ he told her. Gingerly, she picked them up. ‘You need nine,’ he whispered,
‘and you‘ve got it!’

  Twenty minutes later, having said banco whenever Edward told her to, she rose from the table three hundred pounds richer than when she sat down.

  ‘You have it. I don’t want them,’ she said, pushing the chips at Edward.

  ‘I’ll keep them for you. Now, the roulette table . . .?’

  The green baize, the soft glow of the lights, the intent eyes watching the silver ball as it circled and circled before settling in a tiny slot on the wheel mesmerized her. There was something fascinating about the whole experience but she insisted she did not want to play.

  ‘Look at that old woman with the talons,’ she whispered.

  Edward looked and saw a bejewelled harridan who could have been eighty staring vacantly at the roulette wheel.

  ‘I hate this,’ Verity said suddenly. ‘It’s . . . it’s wicked.’

  ‘Let’s slip away,’ Edward agreed. ‘I can’t see Cardew but I can see . . . damn!’

  It was the Duke of Windsor and, to Edward’s surprise, when he saw him, the Duke came straight over with a group of friends, some of whom Edward had met before.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, addressing Verity, ‘you look ravishing. May I ask, that pendant – did Lord Edward give it you? Wallis would love it.’

  Verity blushed and nodded. It crossed her mind that the Duke might be hinting that she should take it off there and then and give it to him to give her.

  ‘I think I am going to be lucky tonight, Fruity.’ He turned to his close friend Fruity Metcalfe. ‘May I ask a favour, Miss Browne . . . ?’ Verity was surprised he remembered her name. ‘Will you stand by me at the table and put your hand on my shoulder? I know it is asking a lot but . . .’

  She was hardly able to nod her head. Here she was, a paid-up member of the Communist Party, helping the Duke of Windsor win at cards. It was absurd and grotesque but she did not want to make a scene.