Last Act

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Thank you.” Another expressive grimace as he settled himself at the unused place. “Good night, ladies. Sleep well.”

  “A last drink?” suggested Hilde as they paused in the lobby.

  “I don’t believe so, thanks,” said Anne. “I really am a little tired.”

  “And no wonder. Good night, then.” She and Gertrud moved towards the bar as Anne crossed to the desk to pick up her key from the stranger who had taken Josef’s place. The man said something incomprehensible to her in Liss as he handed it over.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” It was her best German phrase, but it got her only an uncomprehending shrug. Oh well, whatever it was, Josef would doubtless tell her in the morning. She turned away and climbed the stairs slowly, aware of tiredness in every bone, and of the pain, quietly reminding her of its existence. Opening her bedroom door, she saw that someone had turned on welcoming lights, and blessed Josef before she noticed that the door to the sitting room stood open, revealing lights in there too, and, surely, a whiff of cigar smoke.

  The bedroom door had locked itself behind her. She crossed the room, still carrying her coat, and met Prince Rudolf in the doorway. His arms were full of flowers, his expression a compound of triumph and apology. “Since the mountain is not allowed to come to Mahomet”—he held out the flowers—“Mahomet has taken a great liberty, and come to pay a little call on the mountain. I am glad to find I was right in thinking that anyone so alive as you would not really condemn herself to a tray in her bedroom.” And having thus neatly underlined the lie she had told him, he held out the exotic sheaf of flowers. “Do please accept these as a token of your forgiveness and my immense admiration.”

  She curtsied. (Curtsey while you’re thinking, it saves time.) “Your Highness is too kind.” She closed the bedroom door firmly behind her and moved forward into the sitting room, dropping her coat on a convenient chair. A quick glance showed the door into the hall securely locked. She accepted the flowers and held them rather like a barrier between them. “But I must confess to surprise—”

  “At finding me here? You must see, Miss Paget, that the Hereditary Prince could hardly exhibit himself hanging round in the lobby downstairs. The man at the desk quite understood my problem. He did not explain to you? I must apologise once more.”

  “He did say something. In Liss, unfortunately.” Josef would not have allowed this to happen.

  “Or you would have avoided me? Heartless Miss Paget. You must have seen how I have longed for a chance to tell you what I feel for you. The flowers— do put them down, Miss Paget,—are a mere trifle, a token. Here!” He reached into a pocket and produced a jeweller’s box. “Here is something that might just begin to be worthy of our prima donna.” And then, impatiently—”Do, please get rid of those damned flowers and sit down.” An arm indicated a small table with canapés and a swathed bottle in a silver bucket. “Hostel food is not good enough for our diva. You and I will picnic together. But first—” He took the flowers with one hand, dumped them unceremoniously on a chair, and handed her the leather box.

  “A thousand thanks.” She handed it back, unopened. “Perhaps when the opera is over—if it is a success—”

  “If!” She had succeeded in enraging him and was glad. “Of course it will be a success. How can it not?” He twisted out the cork of the champagne bottle with a professional hand, filled a glass and passed it to her in lieu of the jewel box. “Very well, if you insist.” He put the box back in his pocket. “It is an unusual woman who will not even look.”

  “I hope I am an unusual woman.” She put all the meaning into it that she could, remembering and regretting, as she spoke, that the suite of rooms was sound-proofed. What an absurd, what a maddening, what an impossible situation. “Do, please, have one of these delicious canapés.” She did her best to turn the occasion into an ordinary social one by sitting down on an upright chair and handing him the dish. “And champagne. How thoughtful of you. I really am excessively tired.” She took a sip, felt the bubbles fizz comfortingly at the back of her nose and remembered Herr Schann. “We have been rehearsing all day. I hope Your Highness will be pleased with the results.”

  “I know I shall be pleased with whatever you do. Your singing last night, Miss Paget—I shall call you Anne—your singing was a revelation. And not only to me. I think the enemy are beginning to take my opera seriously at last.”

  “Enemy?” She put down her glass. This was no time to let champagne cloud her judgment.

  “Come, Anne. Beautiful Anne.” He moved his chair nearer to hers. “Do not pretend to be stupid. It’s not possible. You know perfectly well that there is a faction, here in Lissenberg, that would like to see my Regulus fail. I think they are feeling quite stupid this morning.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, grateful for the neutral subject. “It’s not roses all the way at rehearsal. There’s quite a row going on between Signor Ricci and Mr Fare.”

  “Oh—rows!” He dismissed it. “Always there is trouble in the production of any work of art. But this is going to be a triumph— world shaking. I have sent out new notices, this morning, to all the major newspapers. Warning them of a surprise debut. They will all be here, Anne, to applaud you. I am making your name, my dear.”

  “And I am grateful.” Strange that it should seem so unimportant. If this was the way he intended to bribe himself into her bed, he was out of luck. But, just the same, she did wish the rooms were not sound-proofed. He was refilling their glasses, and moving his chair a little closer. She tried a diversion. “Have they found Mr Marks yet?”

  “Marks! Who cares for him? Dear Anne, do not ask me to play the hypocrite with you. You met my unlamented cousin-in-law. Have you any idea what he meant to do to me—to my country? He was talking …” He paused. “He was threatening …” Another pause. “I will not pretend to care about his …” He hesitated. “His death.”

  “His murder,” said Anne, and breathed a sigh of relief at a low insistent knocking on the door to the hall. “Excuse me, Your Highness?” She moved over to unlock the door and confront young James Frensham.

  “Damnation,” said the Hereditary Prince, looking with something very like hatred at the new caller.

  “Miss Paget.” Frensham, too, carried flowers, but his was a small, carefully chosen bouquet of spring blooms. ‘They told me at the desk that you were entertaining, so I made bold to come up.”

  “I am delighted to see you,” she said with truth. “Do sit down and have a glass of champagne. Oh—” She looked at the two glasses on the tray.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I never touch it. But I’ll have a few of your snacks. Dinner at that hotel of yours gets worse and worse, Cousin Rudolf. As if last night’s near disaster wasn’t bad enough, they upset the flavour bottles into the food tonight.”

  “We do season highly in Lissenberg,” said the Prince stiffly.

  “You certainly do. I just hope you can restrain your chef before the international set start dropping in, or they’ll drop out again pretty damn quick.”

  “Which, of course, is precisely what you want.” The Prince was bristling with anger, and Anne felt increasingly alarmed. Both men, she thought, had drunk well with their dinner; their natural antipathy was increased to danger point by this unlucky meeting. They were glowering at each other now, the elderly, red-faced, furious Prince, and the elegant young Englishman, who looked in his controlled rage more like an aristocratic Italian brigand than ever.

  “You must let me order you something to drink.” She rose, hoping to break the tension, and moved over to the telephone, only to pause at yet another knock at the door. Before she could call a relieved “Come in,” a pass-key turned in the lock and Michael appeared, a tray expertly balanced on his right hand as he closed the door behind him.

  “Martini for Mr Frensham.” He moved a small table to Frensham’s elbow and put down the tray. “And an urgent telephone call from the palace, Your Highness.”

  “Impossible. T
hey don’t know I’m here.”

  “They had tried everywhere else.” Michael put a plate of canapés on Frensham’s table. “They want you quite badly, sir. They’ve got Mr Marks.”

  Anne, who had expected the Prince to vent his accumulated wrath on Michael, was amazed and relieved to see him make a visible effort at control. “That’s good news. We don’t tolerate murder here in Lissenberg.” He turned with an attempt at courtesy to young Frensham. “You will be glad to know that your father is on the way to being avenged.”

  “I’ll be glad to have a word with Marks,” growled Frensham. “A very odd business altogether, and you need not think that Marks’ arrest is the end of the matter.”

  “Well, of course not,” said the Prince. “There will be the trial. I am afraid we abolished capital punishment a few years ago, so I cannot promise you an execution, but I should think a life sentence …” He turned back to Michael. “Where is he?”

  “At police headquarters. I took the liberty of sending for your car from the garage. It should be waiting.”

  Now the Prince’s frown was formidable. “You did, did you? You seem to have taken quite a few liberties. As usual. But no time for that now.” He rose ponderously, his movements for once betraying his age. “Forgive me, Miss Paget. You see there is no peace for the head that wears the crown.” He kissed her hand gallantly and, straightening up, flashed her a look to suggest that the occasion was only postponed.

  Frensham stood up too. “I’ll come with you. If I may,” he added belatedly. “After all, the man Marks was in my father’s employment. He may have some explanation.”

  “Oh, very well.” The Prince accepted it without enthusiasm and led the way to the door, which Michael was holding open.

  “Until a happier hour.” Frensham, too, kissed her hand, his message conveyed by warm lips.

  “So much for that.” Michael closed the door behind them and began to collect up glasses. “Which is yours?” he asked. “You look all in.”

  “Here.” The pain was gnawing at her, and she took a steadying sip of chamagne. “You’re not seeing them out?”

  “No need. Fritz can do that. The man at the desk,” he explained. “Rudolf’s man.” He did not elaborate on it. She was afraid he did not need to. “Relax, girl. It’s all over. It won’t happen again, I promise. Uncle Josef won’t let himself be conned away another time.”

  “Conned?”

  “A hoax message.” His laugh was forced. “From me. Or rather, for me. I was dying, he was told, up at Uncle Hans’ pub.”

  “Dying?” Her lips trembled against the champagne glass.

  “Beaten up.” He shrugged if off. “Only, he got thinking. No fool, Uncle Josef. Stopped in town, rang Hans, found it was all nonsense. Got hold of me, and here I am. In time, thank goodness.” Again his laugh did not ring true. “And thank the lord for young Frensham. Old Rudolf’s a fast worker. I was …” He paused. “Worried.” And then, “Why did you let him in?”

  “I didn’t!” Indignantly. “He was here when I came up from dinner.”

  “Of course. Fritz and the master key. Are you OK now? Because I really ought to be on my way. There’s going to be hell to pay at police headquarters.”

  “Oh?” It was surprising how much she disliked the idea of his going. “But why?” And then, belatedly: “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You came on purpose? I hadn’t realised … I just thought …”

  He laughed. “I was on the staff here now? I wish I was.” He picked up the telephone. “Josef? You’re back. Good. Did you get them?” He listened for a moment. “Fine. I’ll tell Anne to expect you.” Another pause. “Yes, she’s OK. Bit shaken. Shall I tell her you’ll be right up?” He listened again. “Right—five minutes. I’ll wait, I think. What did you do with Fritz?” The answer seemed to amuse him. He replaced the receiver and turned to Anne. “Uncle Josef has got a couple of chains for your doors. He’ll be up with them in a minute. I thought perhaps I’d wait and let him in? If you don’t mind?”

  “Mind! I’d be grateful. I don’t much like these sound-proofed rooms. But, Michael, chains? Isn’t that over-reacting a bit?”

  “Maybe. But better safe than sorry. Someone really doesn’t mean Regulus to be a success. Or the peace conference. Or both. That was a strong dose of ipecac last night. There wouldn’t have been much rehearsing today if it hadn’t been spotted. And you’re such an obvious target.”

  “But surely, tonight was just…” She paused, embarrassed.

  “Just wicked old Rudolf? Well, yes and no. Someone went to a lot of trouble to get Uncle Josef off the scene. That doesn’t sound like our Rudolf to me. He’s an opportunist, not a plotter. I think someone must have told him you were alone here, with your guard down, as it were. Someone who wanted you”—he paused—“upset.”

  “To put it mildly.” She was beginning to feel better. “I do thank you, Michael. I hope you’re not going to get into trouble.”

  “Nothing I’m not used to, or can’t handle.”

  “Thank goodness for that. But—” Calmer now, she had been thinking about what he had done. “I don’t understand. Why the martini and the message?”

  “Not stupid, are you? The message was a brilliant afterthought. Well, once Fritz told me they were both up here, I knew things weren’t as bad as I had feared.” He looked at her soberly. “And, by God I had feared. I suppose that made me slow, or I’d have thought of the message in the first place.”

  “How do you mean, thought?” And then, understanding. “You mean, you made up the message?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “But, Michael, you’ll be in the most frightful trouble. Oh, I am sorry…”

  His smile was warming. “Thanks. But no need to worry. I may have made up the message, but it was true enough. The police were looking for our Rudolf.”

  “You mean they have caught Mr Marks?”

  “Well, not exactly caught. Got was the word I used. Something must have delayed poor Marks. He turned up this afternoon on the riverbank where they found Bland yesterday.” Now his smile was mischievous. “Aren’t those two going to be angry when they find they’ve left you to go and interview a dead man.”

  “Dead!” She put down her glass, spilling champagne. “But, Michael, all three of them? Frensham senior … Bland … And Marks … Then …” She paused, working it out.

  “There has to be someone else,” he said soberly. “That’s right. That’s dead right. We’re not out of the wood yet. But try not to worry about it. Your job is to sing for all you’re worth and try and put some heart into the rest of the cast, who sound as if they need it. This opera has just got to be a success. For the world’s sake, for Lissenberg’s … Did you know our Rudolf has sent out a new lot of publicity, promising a miracle debut?”

  “Yes, he told me.” The pain was back, making it hard to think clearly. Frensham and his two assistants all dead. All murdered. They had threatened the opera, and Michael wanted it to succeed. They had threatened Lissenberg, Michael’s home. What had Hilde Bernz said about him? Always there when there’s trouble. It was true—but what did it mean? She looked up at a sound from the door. “Here’s Josef,” she said with relief.

  Josef was full of apologies. “I’ll never be such a fool again,” he said.

  “Only half a fool,” Michael comforted him. “After all, you got on to it quick enough.”

  “Thank God.” He moved through to fix the chain on the bedroom door.

  “I’d better be off,” said Michael. “Or they’ll have the thumbscrews out down at police headquarters. Take care of yourself, for all our sakes.”

  “You’re going back to headquarters now?” She looked at her watch and saw that in fact it was only ten o’clock.

  “I certainly am. Be good, dear Anne, and let the rest of us be clever.”

  “I’ll try. And, thank you, Michael.” His first use of her given name was curiously heart-warming.

  “My pleasure. For a smile like that
… Take care of her, Josef.”

  “Trust me. You can.” Alone with her, Josef produced a small package. “Dr Hirsch left this for you, Anne. In person. He’s an old friend of mine,” he explained. “Told me to keep an eye on you, see you rest. I don’t seem to be doing too well so far, but at least I can leave you alone now, to get some sleep. Don’t forget the chains; and your pill. And rest well, child: feel safe.”

  “Thank you.” Putting up the chains behind him, she was close to tears at his kindness—and Michael’s. But … Michael. Now she was alone, the nightmare suspicion was back. Michael knew everything, he must have known about that rare mineral under the opera house, but had never mentioned it to her. Ever since Dr Hirsch had told her about it, this doubt had been gnawing at her. Had Michael kept quiet about it because it was his motive for murder? For some curious reason, it seemed easier to imagine Michael killing all three men—Frensham senior, Bland and Marks—than hiring Marks to do it.

  How could she believe such a thing? And yet, she had been wrong before, as her anxious dreams had reminded her. She had thought Robin her faithful husband. She thought Michael an engaging young dropout. Or—did she? What did he conceal behind that mask of cheerful fecklessness? She was more and more convinced that he was older than his shaggy hair and untidy clothes made him seem. Dr Hirsch had parried her question, referring her back to Michael himself. But did she dare ask him? Carl had warned her … Hilde had warned her … She would not believe them. She would ask him next time they met. And, at last—restlessly—she slept, and dreamed once again her nightmare dream where Michael had Robin’s face. Or was it the other way round?

  “Anne?” The telephone woke her. “Your breakfast is just coming,” Josef went on. “And I’ve good news. They’ve found out who tried to sabotage the dinner the other night—and the electricity.”

  “Thank God. Who was it?”

  “You remember one of the hotel taxis crossed the frontier just before it was closed that night?”

  “Yes?”