by Jon Cleary
Raclot raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? A beautiful woman, Madame Onza. Beautiful but dangerous, I believe. Did you know her politically?’
‘I didn’t know her at all.’ Prue wondered for the first time if Guy had been at Rudi von Schnatz’s to buy arms. Perhaps he had bought the very guns that had been aimed at General de Gaulle this evening. ‘My sister knew her in Rome when she was an actress. Before she married M. Onza. She was killed, you know.’
‘So I heard. I was in another part of Katanga at the time. That was another failure,’ he said to the room at large and took another sip of cognac.
Prue knew that Sally had flown out to the Congo with Michele and that Michele had died when their plane had crashed; but that was all she knew. She guessed there was more to the venture than Sally’s claim that it had been no more than a whim, just a spur-of-the-moment decision to accompany Michele. Sally had told her more than she had told Margaret or Nina or their father; but she had obviously been hiding something and Prue had not attempted to prise any more out of her. More than Sally’s leg had been crippled: something else, shock, grief, something – had changed her. At the wedding in June she had almost succeeded in keeping herself in the background, isolating herself but for the attentive Charlie Luman. Prue wondered if Sally might have met this French colonel out in the Congo. She changed the subject, not wanting to open that can of beans, not tonight.
‘I don’t want to be involved in any of this,’ she said. ‘I’m still an American citizen and I want no part of it.’
‘You are Guy’s wife,’ said Stephane, meaning You are my daughter-in-law. ‘But if that is your wish – ’
‘Can you be trusted?’ said Raclot.
‘Of course!’ This time Guy was not late in his defence. ‘You must apologize for that remark, Henri.’
Raclot lifted his glass, said drily, ‘Of course. My apologies, madame.’
Prue stood up. ‘I am going up to bed. Coming, Guy?’
Guy looked at his mother and Raclot before he looked at his wife. Then he stood up and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll stay a while longer with Henri. We have a lot to talk about.’
Stephane turned her cheek for Prue’s kiss. ‘Nothing more will be said about this after tonight. But for now you must allow us our disappointment.’
Raclot got unsteadily to his feet, breathed cognac fumes on to the back of Prue’s hand. ‘Long live America!’
‘Thank you,’ said Prue. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage to do that.’
Upstairs in her and Guy’s bedroom she turned over the page on her calendar: 22 August 1962. She had never kept a diary and she wondered if she should now start one. An hour ago a new chapter had started in her life: perhaps it should be documented. But to what end? One purpose of a diary was to sort out one’s thoughts: another way of getting perspective. But she had never been one to solve her problems on paper; she acted by instinct and so far her instinct had always proved right. Except, of course, her instinctive judgement of Guy: it looked as if she had been wrong there. It was not a problem she could solve by starting a diary.
She had been in bed an hour, had tried to read and been unable to, was becoming increasingly angry with Guy for not coming up to bed, when she heard the car coming up the long drive. It was not speeding, as she had expected; it came up the drive slowly, cautiously, as if the driver was not quite sure that he was approaching the right house. She got up, put on a robe and, turning out her light, went to the open window.
The car had pulled in below the front terrace, its lights already switched off. Three men got out as Guy went hesitantly down the steps to greet them. Then behind her the bedroom door opened and Stephane and Raclot were silhouetted against the light in the hall outside.
‘Prue?’ Then Stephane saw her at the window. ‘Come away from there! No, don’t put on the light!’
Prue moved back into the room. ‘What’s the matter? Who are those men?’
‘Police.’ Stephane looked around the dark room. ‘We must hide Henri. Here – under the bed!’
‘Pardon, madame,’ Raclot said to Prue and dropped flat on the floor and rolled under the bed.
‘Isn’t that rather an obvious place?’ Prue had the sudden feeling that she was in the middle of a French farce.
‘Sometimes the most obvious place is the best. Get back into bed, pretend to be asleep.’ Stephane was at the door, one ear cocked; men’s voices, muted but authoritative, floated up from the entrance hall. ‘They may go away without searching – ’
‘I told you, I don’t want to be involved – ’
‘Please.’ The abrupt change in Stephane startled Prue. She had never expected to see her mother-in-law plead with anyone, least of all herself. And in English. ‘It may mean Henri’s life. Perhaps – ’
Prue did not allow her to finish. She slipped off her robe and slid into bed, pulling the sheet up. She heard Stephane say Merci, reverting to French, but she had already turned away, angry and bitter and, yes, afraid.
Then, though he was silent and not moving, she became aware of Raclot lying beneath her. Only in France, she thought; and wondered if Georges Feydeau had ever written tragedies. Because, though this was a bedroom farce, it could only end in tragedy.
She lay, ears strained, waiting for the sound of the car driving away. But that sound did not come: instead, after ten minutes, there was a gentle tap on her door. She wondered what she was supposed to do: wake at once or pretend to be deeply asleep? The dilemma was solved for her. The door was pushed open and the light was switched on. Two men stood there, one in a sports jacket, the other in a nylon windbreaker. Both of them had guns.
Prue sat up, blinking in the light. ‘Pardon, madame,’ said the shorter and older of the two men, the one in the sports jacket, ‘are you the Countess? The young one?’
‘Yes.’ She reached for her robe. She was still not accustomed to being called the Countess, especially with Stephane in the house. To the servants Guy’s mother was still the Countess and when they addressed Prue their use of the title was as awkward as her reception of it. ‘Who are you?’
‘Police, madame. Will you come downstairs, please?’
Her night-gown was skimpy and revealing; for the first time that she could remember, she felt naked and embarrassed. Which, perhaps, was a measure of her fear. But the two men politely turned away as she got out of bed and pulled on her robe. Then they put away their guns, gestured for her to go ahead of them out of the room. She led the way, all at once feeling a faint lift of hope: they were not going to search her room.
Stephane, Guy and the four house servants were all in the drawing-room. A tall lean man with prematurely grey hair, dressed in a dark blue suit, button-down shirt and black-knitted tie, sat at Stephane’s escritoire, writing in a notebook. He looked up as Prue was ushered in by the other two policemen.
‘Ah, the American countess. Do you speak French, madame? Good. Then we should get through our questioning very quickly. Take the others out, Jacques.’
‘I should like to stay with my wife,’ said Guy.
‘A gallant thought, m’sieu. But I’m afraid we can’t allow it. I’ve interrogated all of you independently. I can’t make an exception for your wife, even though she is an American.’
Guy had taken Prue’s hand as she had come into the room and stood beside him. Now he squeezed it, kissed her on the cheek, then followed his mother and the others out of the room. He had tried to tell her something with his eyes and the pressure of his hand, but she had not got the message. The doors were closed and she was alone with the grey-haired man who introduced himself as Inspector Perret.
‘Have there been any visitors to the chateau this evening?’
Prue knew that Guy and his mother had been asked the same question; and the servants, too. That was what Guy had been trying to tell her: the answer that he and the others had given. But if they had all been interrogated independently, what answer had they given that had satisfied this police officer? Had they said no, th
ere had been no visitors? Or yes, there had been a visitor, Colonel Raclot?
‘Madame? I asked you a question.’
‘I heard you, inspector. But I’d like to know what this is all about. Your men wake me, tell me nothing but just order me to come down here – What is going on?’
Perret sighed, ran a finger up and down the side of his long nose. He had dark bags under his eyes and he looked like a man whose bad health did not encourage him to be patient. ‘Madame, our President, General de Gaulle, had a narrow escape from assassination earlier this evening. You heard about that, I presume?’
‘Yes. Naturally, like everyone else, I was horrified that such a thing could happen – ’
‘Not everyone, madame. Your husband’s mother, the Countess, would not have been horrified. She is an OAS supporter – we have known that for some time. Your husband – ’ He shrugged. ‘Possibly. Perhaps you would know that better than we do.’
‘I am not interested in politics. French or even American.’
‘I’m prepared to believe that, madame. When we learned you were to marry the Count, we had you investigated. Our one thought was, did your husband marry you as a possible source of funds for the OAS? You are heiress to a great deal of money.’
Prue somehow kept her temper; but the suggestion shocked her. What if it were true? ‘Are French policemen always as rude as you, inspector?’
‘Not normally, madame. But this is not a normal occasion. Someone tried to kill our President and we think your husband and his mother know who those men are. Or if they don’t, then Colonel Raclot does. Was the Colonel here tonight?’
She could feel herself trembling inside. But she had to take the plunge: ‘I have no idea who Colonel Raclot is. I have never met him.’
Perret stared at her and she knew with a sinking feeling that she had given the wrong answer. Then slowly he got to his feet, put away his notebook. ‘I’m glad you are not involved, madame. It would have been embarrassing having to arrest an American citizen as an OAS sympathizer. Especially one with your name.’
Prue wanted desperately to sit down, but she dared not move; her legs were hollow, she could feel the sweat behind her knees. Perret walked past her out into the hall. She heard him say something and Stephane replied; but her hearing was as weak as her legs. When Guy came into the drawing-room and took her arm she almost collapsed against him.
‘What’s happening?’ she whispered.
She could feel the tension still in him: he was all bones. ‘They are going. What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing.’ They were both whispering. Then over Guy’s shoulder she saw Perret back in the doorway. She raised her voice: ‘I’m not used to anything like this – ’
‘We don’t make a habit of it, madame,’ said Perret. ‘Thank you for your co-operation. Yours too, M. le Comte. We shall be in touch again, probably.’
Then he and his two partners were gone, the servants were dismissed and Stephane came back into the drawing-room. The police visit had had its effect on her: she poured herself a cognac. But she sipped the drink, did not gulp it down: she still had some control left.
‘What did they ask you, my dear?’
‘If Colonel Raclot had been here. I told them I didn’t know him and had never met him.’ She was recovering some of her own strength and composure. She went across and poured herself some of the cognac. ‘That’s the last lie I’ll tell for you. And for you too, Guy. I have no sympathy at all for your feelings.’
She was prepared for the hostility in Stephane’s face but not for that in Guy’s. ‘I didn’t ask you for sympathy. All I wanted was a wife’s loyalty.’
She was still sufficiently wrought-up to be on the verge of hysteria; she wanted to giggle at his pomposity. They were speaking French, but she did not think French: she still tended to translate the words in her mind. Then she saw that he would never forgive her if she derided him at this moment. With the arrival of the police he had committed himself fully to his mother’s side.
‘You have it, Guy,’ she said with an effort. ‘In everything but this.’
Stephane, first things always first with her, putting a potential marital quarrel in its proper place, said, ‘At this moment we have to think of Henri. Where is he?’
‘Still in my room, I suppose.’ Prue was glad of the interruption: she was in no fit state to begin a fight with her husband.
‘Get him, Guy. At once.’ Stephane gave orders like a true colonel’s wife and Guy went out of the room almost at the double.
He was back in less than a minute. ‘He’s not there!’
‘Damn! Surely he hasn’t left the house – they could be waiting for him out there. We must find him.’
Ignored by her husband and mother-in-law, Prue abruptly left the room and went upstairs. She wanted to run up the wide staircase, but she knew instinctively that from now on she had to match her own dignity against that of Stephane. For she also knew that Guy would be comparing her with his mother.
She went into her bedroom, took off her robe and sat down on the side of the bed. She was wide awake and she felt that sleep would not come easily; but she did not want any further involvement with Guy and Stephane tonight. She did not want to be there if and when they found Henri Raclot.
Then, looking down as she slipped off her mules, she saw the man’s shoe sticking out from under the bed. She started up, then, laughing softly, she got down on her knees and looked under the bed. Colonel Raclot, drugged by too much wine and cognac, was sound asleep snoring gently as he lay flat on his back.
2
As she had expected, she did not sleep well. At her call Guy had come up to the bedroom and woken Raclot; the colonel, grinning foolishly, had been apologetic. Still half-drunk, he had been led away by Guy, who had not come back. Prue had waited for him; the bed had seemed empty without him. But he had not come upstairs again and at last, worn out by a battery of emotion, she had fallen asleep. When she woke she reached out of habit for Guy, but his side of the bed was still empty.
She lay a while, afraid of the day. She tried to will Guy to come into the room, to give her his usual morning kiss. But if there had ever been any telepathy between her and Guy, there was none that morning: the bedroom door remained firmly closed. At last she got up, had a bath; she longed for the bracing sting of a shower, but there were no showers in the chateau. She dressed, put her make-up on carefully: oh, she thought, the helpful masks that Ricci, Arden, Rubinstein can provide. She went downstairs, riddled with apprehension but outwardly calm and confident.
Guy and Stephane were at breakfast, fiddling with croissants and coffee. Colonel Raclot sat between them eating a soldier’s breakfast; or that of a hungry man on the run. His plate was piled with sausage, bacon, eggs and potato: it looked as if it would sustain him all the way back to Algiers or wherever he wanted to go.
Guy got up, pulled back Prue’s chair for her, kissed her (formally? she wondered) and went back to his place at the bottom of the table. Stephane, as usual, was at the head of the table.
‘Croissants, my dear?’ Stephane pushed the basket towards Prue.
‘Not this morning.’ She suddenly felt perverse. ‘I think I’d like a little of what Colonel Raclot is having.’
Stephane said nothing for the moment. She rang a bell, a servant came in and was given the order. ‘It will take a little while,’ she said as the servant went out. ‘Has last night’s little adventure made you hungry?’
No, just bloody-minded. But how did you say that in French? Prue looked across at Raclot. ‘I thought you’d be gone by now, Colonel.’
Raclot had a mouthful of food, so Guy answered for him. ‘The police are out on the road and also down on the river. They are trying to be inconspicuous, but we know they are there. They must know Henri is still here.’
Raclot seemed unconcerned. He swallowed his food, shrugged. ‘We have nothing to worry about, unless they come to search the house again.’
‘It will be better if y
ou can join the others in Marseilles.’ Stephane was drinking her third cup of coffee, although she had eaten only half a croissant. But even after what must have been at least a disturbed night, she looked as elegant as ever. But there was no light in her eyes: she had laid too much hope on last night’s attempted assassination. A true soldier’s wife, she said, ‘We must re-group our forces as soon as possible.’
Raclot shook his head. ‘No, madame. I must re-join the others, yes. But another attempt to kill the General – no. Not for another six months, a year perhaps. They’ll be too alert. We’d only lose more good men.’
‘He has survived far too long as it is. We have to do something soon – ’
She is the fanatic, Prue thought. And with dismay saw her marriage starting to collapse: Guy was nodding emphatically at his mother’s every word. Suddenly he said, ‘Darling, let’s go out on the terrace.’
‘I haven’t had breakfast – ’
‘The servants will call you when it’s ready. Come – please.’
She thought of ignoring his request, but common sense told her she would gain nothing by trying for small victories here at the breakfast table. Stephane and Raclot, the latter suddenly stopped eating, were watching her carefully. God, she thought, they were discussing me before I came down! She pushed her chair back angrily and stalked ahead of Guy out on to the terrace.
‘Well? Is my loyalty being questioned again?’
He looked surprised, put out a placating hand. ‘Darling, after last night how can I say you aren’t loyal?’
‘Please, Guy – ’ All at once she felt dispirited, drained of argument. ‘What do you want?’
He gazed at her, long enough for her to search for some love or understanding in his face; but there was none. Then he walked across to the balustrade of the terrace, stood staring down at the long rows of poplars lining the drive that led down to the distant road. The harvesters were at work among the vines and occasionally there was a dull yellow flash as an upturned basket caught the sun. But neither Prue nor Guy saw the workers: all they could see were the invisible police somewhere beyond the trees.