“The Sûreté,” suggested Nap.
“If the matter is criminal, certainly. Or of the Department of the Interior.”
“I see,” said Nap. “Well, thank you at all events for what you have given me.”
On his way out he noticed that the door of the reception room was open. He looked in, but the room was empty.
After Nap had left the room the directeur sat for a few moments in silence. Then he walked over to the door in the corner and threw it open. In a small anteroom the black-haired girl was sitting, a shorthand notebook on her knee. She did not get up when the directeur came in and it was noticeable that they spoke as equals.
“It would still appear to me,” said the directeur – he seemed to be taking up an argument where it had been left off, “to be a perfectly normal inquiry. I have read of the trial, of course. And these are the inquiries which Mademoiselle Lamartine’s friends might be expected to make. My only criticism is that they should have been made earlier.”
“I agree,” said the girl. “But there are facts which you do not know.” She shut her notebook. “This morning, for instance, that young man, Mr. Rimbault, met his friend, Major McCann. They had a very animated conversation. The subject matter of this conversation is only conjectural, but Major McCann was last night involved in an altercation – an exceedingly violent altercation – with two of the minor members of the English end of an organisation in which we happen to be interested.”
The directeur rasped the tip of his finger against the shaven side of his chin but said nothing.
“It seems fairly certain,” went on the girl, “that when Mr. Rimbault reaches France he will run into trouble. The people whom I have mentioned are remarkable for their good intelligence organisation. Nor do they conduct their affairs with gloved hands.”
“You think then,” said the directeur, “that when he leaves England, you should – it is, of course, entirely your decision.”
“I think so,” said the girl. “Yes, I most certainly think so.”
Chapter Nine
Nap wedged his deck chair into a convenient space between the end of a wooden seat and a steel bulkhead, buttoned up his overcoat collar and settled down to do some thinking.
A night breeze was scuffling the water as the steamer cleared Newhaven harbour, and, winking in and out against the blackness of the sea, Nap saw the whitecaps as the wind bit off the top of the little waves. There didn’t seem to be enough power behind it to move the sea, for which Nap was duly thankful for he was not the world’s best sailor.
He had plenty to think about.
First of all he was trying to work out a plan of campaign which might have a chance of unearthing in five or six days something which had lain hidden for as many years.
The only line of approach which he could see was to visit the two farms – the Père Chaise farm where Vicky had worked and Wells had hidden and on which the Gestapo had descended with such disastrous results in September, 1943, and the farm of the brothers Marquis which, he had ascertained, lay about five miles to the north of it. Was it a coincidence, he wondered, that the brothers Marquis, who had stood surety for Sainte, should have a farm such a short distance away. Probably only a coincidence. The second possible line would be to question the brothers Marquis and Monsieur Gimelet of Angers, and try to discover something to the discredit of Monsieur Sainte. This would not, perhaps, help to unravel the mystery, but it might provide more useful ammunition for Macrea.
Langeais, Avrillé-les-Ponceaux, Saumur, Angers. They all lay within quite a small circle. Somewhere within that circumference was a key to their riddle, if he had the wit to find it.
He looked out across the blackness of the sea and the gloss and shine of the waves suddenly put him in mind of a head of hair belonging to a girl he had seen that morning.
Upon which he raised his eyes, and saw her, leaning against the rail.
First, in silhouette, against the pale night sky, but he knew at once, from the tilt of the chin and the set of the neck. Then the companionway door, swinging open and shut as the ship rolled, loosed a shaft of light, only for a second, but it was enough.
Nap got up and moved over to the rail as quickly as he could for the deck chairs and the clutter of baggage. When he got there the girl had gone.
“She can’t get away unless she swims for it,” he said.
It wasn’t a big boat and in ten minutes he had been through the few public rooms. Then he went out and made a slow circuit of the two decks. The blue night lamps were lit and he did the job thoroughly, staring at recumbent forms and disturbing an indignant couple in a dark corner behind the deck-chair house.
He went back again into the lighted interior and had a word with the purser.
Yes, said the purser, there were private cabins – only six of them and all were taken. If Nap would tell him the name of the person he was looking for, he would examine the list.
Nap said it didn’t matter.
He would have to wait until they docked at Dieppe. If he stationed himself by the gangplank he could hardly miss her. Meanwhile, he thought he would kill time by having a drink. He made his way through the saloon into the bar.
The bar was empty except for a bearded Frenchman in one corner who was sacrificing his Channel crossing in libations of cognac, and the French girl, who was perched on one of the high stools.
As he came in she looked up with a smile of plainest welcome and it occurred to Nap that he had no idea at all what he wanted to say to her.
He was saved the trouble. The girl indicated the stool beside her and Nap sat down.
She inspected him slowly but not rudely, and then said, “So young.”
“You leave my youth alone,” said Nap, who was apt to be sensitive about his appearance. “I would remind you that I am a married man.”
“And a lieutenant-colonel,” said the girl.
“War Substantive,” said Nap. “We keep a Pekingese, too, and have a female child called Phylida.”
“Charming,” said the girl. “So gosse. One would scarcely credit that you were pubic.”
“Oh, but I am, I assure you,” said Nap. “Hairs on the chest and everything. Will you join me in a drink? What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Pernod. Thank you.”
Nap looked with increased respect at the girl. He knew the cloudy devil that lived in the harmless, lemonade-coloured liquid. He considered that his safest course would be to stick to business.
“You appear to know a good deal more about me,” he said, “than I do about you. I regret that I do not even know your name.”
“That is easily remedied,” said the girl. She opened her bag, took out a tiny snake – skin case, and picked out an ivory-coloured card. Nap took it up and read: “Josephine Delboise.” The card was edged in black.
“My husband,” explained Madame Delboise.
“Killed in the war?”
“In the war, but not in action. He was tortured to death by the Germans.” She said this in the extremely matter-of-fact voice which the French reserve for announcements of this sort.
“I am sorry,” said Nap.
“Not so sorry as the Germans – of those concerned all were killed by us. Some sooner, some later.”
“I see,” said Nap. He felt himself being sidetracked again. He ordered himself another gin and, seeing that she had finished hers, another Pernod for Madame Delboise, and dragged the conversation ruthlessly back.
“What do you do in the Société de Lorraine?”
“We help Frenchmen,” said Madame Delboise. “Englishmen, too, sometimes,” she added, “when they are themselves engaged in helping Frenchmen.”
“I see,” said Nap. “Principally you find them jobs and homes.”
“Principally, but by no means solely. We are prepared to offer them any help in our power.”
“And is this all part of the service?”
Madame Delboise contrived to look puzzled.
“Escorting
me across the Channel.”
“Escorting – but he flatters himself. I go to Paris, on a visit to my child who is at school. I take this route because – since we are being frank – it costs the least. And you?”
“I’m on my way—” Nap changed his mind at the last moment, and cobbled the sentence awkwardly—“I’m on my way to Paris, too.”
“Not to Angers?”
“Not immediately. I have first to visit the Sûreté’, to make myself known to your police.”
“Indeed! You are acquainted with officials of the Sûreté?”
“I know one of them. A man called Bren. I met him two or three years ago – he was helping the English police in some trouble we were having. A friend of mine called McCann was in that, too.”
“What sort of trouble? Or may you not say?”
“I don’t think there’s anything very hush-hush about it,” said Nap. “It was a sort of two-way smuggling business, gold sovereigns one way and jewelry the other.”
“I see.” Madame Delboise sounded thoughtful. “And Major McCann was involved in that, too. Do you know Monsieur Bren well?”
“Well enough to call him a friend. I think he will help me if he can.”
“Friends are always helpful,” said Madame Delboise. “Would it be an irregularity if I were to offer to buy you a drink?”
“Thank you no. I think I’ll have a turn round the deck.”
“I trust that the motion—”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Nap indignantly. “The motion is of the calmest. I thought I would like a little fresh air.”
He took up on deck with him one more little problem. He was wondering why Madame Delboise should have known enough to refer to McCann as “Major McCann.” Some of his friends still called him that, but Angus himself had not used the title since the war.
The night was darker. The moon had gone. Behind the ship the wake was barely visible on the black sea. Ahead, the lights of Dieppe were already in sight.
Part Two
Chapter Ten
The Clerk: Victoria Lamartine, is that your name?
The Prisoner: Yes.
The Clerk: You stand charged upon this indictment with the murder of Eric Paulton Thoseby, a Major in His Majesty’s Army, upon the fourteenth of March of this year. Are you guilty or not guilty?
The Prisoner: Not guilty, sir.
The Clerk: The Prisoner at the Bar, Victoria Lamartine, stands charged upon this indictment with the murder of Eric Paulton Thoseby. To this indictment she has pleaded not guilty and puts herself upon her country, which country you are. It is your duty to hearken to the evidence and to determine whether she is guilty or not.
“Members of the Jury,” said Mr. Claudian Summers in his clear, uninflected, Oxford common-room voice, “I shall direct your attention first to the events which took place on the night of Wednesday the fourteenth of March of this year in a small residential hotel called the Family Hotel, comprising Numbers 41 and 43 Pearlyman Street, near Euston Station.
“Now, I do not mean to imply that this was the beginning of the story. It was not. A good deal must have happened in the past to bring about the events of that night. The roots of this tree are longer than its branches. Nevertheless, I think it is as well to emphasize at the outset of the case that, although we may often have to turn to the past to explain the motives of the actors and the reasons for their actions, yet it is with their actions on this one particular night, at this one particular place, that you and I are actually concerned, because on that night, at that place, Major Eric Thoseby was killed.
“He was killed, as you will hear, with a knife, by an upward left-handed blow above the top of the stomach, a blow which passed through the liver and the heart wall and caused almost instantaneous death. It will be your duty to say who struck that blow.
“There has never been any suggestion of accident or suicide and I will not, therefore, waste your time with fanciful speculations about such possibilities. This was a deliberate blow, delivered with intention and, I may add, with considerable skill. Who struck it?”
Mr. Claudian Summers paused. He did not look at the jury. Nor did he look at the prisoner. He scarcely seemed to be looking at anyone in the court. His eye was turned inward, down the long intricate perspective of his argument, a needle-etched landscape in black and white, comprehended in its entirety in his own capacious mind.
“First of all,” he said, “I will try to give you an idea of the sort of place where these things happened. The Family Hotel is in Pearlyman Street, near Euston. You must not suppose from its position that it is what is often referred to as a Station Hotel – you will know the sort of hotel I mean – where passengers stay for one night or perhaps two when they arrive by train in London or are waiting to catch a train on their way home from London. On the contrary, the Family Hotel, as run by Monsieur Sainte, who came here from France in 1946, appears to have been a quiet, well-conducted residential hotel. All of the people who were there on the night of the fourteenth – except Major Thoseby himself – had been there for some weeks, and two of them were living there on what you might almost call a ‘residential’ basis – a Colonel Trevor Alwright and a Mrs. Roper. Both of them were present on that night and both will be giving evidence before you, here, in these proceedings. Apart from the guests there was the permanent staff of the hotel. This was not large. Monsieur Sainte himself ran the business and acted as manager. The prisoner, Mademoiselle Lamartine, was employed as receptionist and hotel assistant – that is to say she worked in and about the residential and sleeping part of the hotel, but was not called upon to do any waiting at table – that was done by a waitress who, like the cook, came daily and slept out. Neither the cook nor the waitress was in the hotel at the time of the murder, and we shall not be troubling you with their testimony. Finally, there was the night – waiter, porter and general factotum, Ercolo Camino, whom you will hear, since his evidence, though indirect, is of great corroborative importance at a number of points.
“That was the stage on which this drama was enacted. This was the cast. I will now run briefly through the course of events, reminding you first that the facts which I shall set out are not simply my version or my opinion of what happened. They will be supported in every material particular by the evidence of witnesses who will be called before you at a later stage in the proceedings. If I make any statement which is not so supported I feel confident that eminent counsel for the defence will be the first to draw your attention to my oversight.”
Mr. Summers inclined his head graciously toward Mr. Macrea, who remained, however, unmoved.
‘The events of the evening, so far as they are material, start with the arrival at the hotel of Major Thoseby at about half-past eight. He had reserved a room by telephone. He had explained that he was busy at the War Office, attending a conference, and that he did not know when he would reach the hotel. He might be in time for dinner, or he might not be there until ten, or even eleven o’clock. He did not know. In fact, he arrived in time for a late dinner. After dinner, he had, as you will hear, a few words with Monsieur Sainte, in his office, and then retired to his room saying that he had a lot of writing work to get through, notes on the conference he had been attending, and so on.
“His reason for coming to the hotel is known. It is not, in fact, in dispute. He had come to see the prisoner.”
Mr. Summers, for the first time, allowed his eyes to rest for a second on the figure in the dock.
“He had come at the prisoner’s own earnest solicitation. The prisoner – and again this is not disputed – had for more than three years been trying to arrange an occasion to meet Major Thoseby. Her long search had been successful a few weeks prior to these happenings. She had got into touch with him through the good offices of a French organisation known as the Society of Lorraine. She had renewed her pressure on Major Thoseby to come and see her. He had at last consented to do so. It was his suggestion that he should stay for that one night at the hotel. He
explained, in conversation with Monsieur Sainte, that his time was limited. He was in London on a visit of five or six days from Germany and much of his time was necessarily taken up with official business. He suggested, therefore, that he should book a room for that one night and could then, conveniently, have his discussion with Mademoiselle Lamartine either that evening, when he arrived, or, if he should arrive too late, then on the following morning. That was the arrangement, duly explained by Monsieur Sainte to the prisoner.
“This brings us to the first question on which there is a conflict of evidence.
“Why was the prisoner not there to meet Major Thoseby when he arrived? She was eagerly anxious for the meeting. She had made long, persistent and, at last, successful attempts to bring it about. Yet, when Major Thoseby did arrive she was out.
“I draw your attention to the point because you may think it significant. On the other hand, you may just think that it is one of those occasions on which real life is not quite so tidy as fiction. Anyway, the prisoner says that Monsieur Sainte did not make it clear that Major Thoseby could be arriving before ‘between ten and eleven.’ Wednesday was, by custom, her weekly night out. She was in the habit of having a meal at one of the restaurants in the Soho area where cooking in the French style is a speciality, and then of going to one or other of the cinemas near Oxford Circus which show French or other foreign films. This was her program and, in her account of the matter, she says that since she was not expecting Major Thoseby until ten-thirty, she saw no reason to depart from it. In any event, it is not disputed that she did arrive back at the hotel at almost exactly half-past ten.
“However, I have allowed myself to go ahead of the strict chronology of this account. Major Thoseby, as I said, arrived at the hotel at half-past eight. He had his evening meal, spoke to Monsieur Sainte for a few minutes, and then retired upstairs to his room. His room was on the first floor, and was one of four rooms, two on either side of a short passage, which made up the annex at the back of the hotel. Perhaps I might be allowed to put in one exhibit at this unusually early stage – I will have the draftsman sworn in due course – I have had a large-scale plan prepared and it might assist us all if it was in front of us.”
Death Has Deep Roots Page 6