Autumn Leaves

by Tessa Lunney

  “ ‘But to be young was very heaven.’ ” He spoke softly. “I would congratulate you on your powers of deduction, but I expected nothing less.”

  “Fry expected less. Why did you send over an agent with such a low regard for women?”

  “How is our esteemed colleague Bacon?”

  “His palm’s a little itchy and he likes to scratch that itch against another man’s face. Very vulgar. But he’s no Lady Macbeth, the blood will wash right off.”

  “You really have been wandering companionless.”

  “Oh no, he’s a fine companion, especially when he uses your money to pay for my drinks. Speaking of, I’ll be clinking glasses with a couple of German princes soon—hopefully a Prince Phillip von Hessen and a Charlie Coburg.”

  I’d thrown in Charlie Coburg as a guess, as these names fit the telegram from Bertie. I had no idea when I might meet Charlie, but Fox’s silence made me bold.

  “I assume they’ll know their relatives, English princes Tweedledum and Tweedledee, and we can follow the jolly gang down to Rome for a bit of a mad hatter’s tea party. Or a blackshirt tea party, if you will.”

  “Phillip and Carl Eduard,” he murmured. “You have been busy.”

  “And in need of funds for this jaunt. Will Fry dispense them or will they turn up like a little hand grenade in my letter box?”

  “So, you don’t like my missives.” There was a plaintive note in his voice. Was this a reaction to my barely concealed anger?

  “I never know which one’s a dud and which one will explode in my face.”

  “I would never send you a dud.”

  “So, the payments you send me are valid?”

  “Bacon will organize what you need.”

  “I mean my other payments.” A pause: good, I had stopped him from hanging up. “The handkerchief, the letter, the photos—are they duds or will they obliterate the charges against Tom?”

  “Don’t hunt quarry that’s too large, Vixen. Stick to the hens in the henhouse.” His voice had turned to steel again.

  “But then how can I teach you half the gladness that my brain must know?” If I was going to keep his attention I realized, suddenly and awfully, that I would need to show him my soft underbelly. “I work out this mission… is that all you’re asking of me? I guess not.”

  “You guess correctly.”

  “So… tell me.”

  “Such harmonious madness…” His voice had turned silver again, it was almost wistful, there was light and laughter in it as it trailed off.

  “I am listening now, Fox.”

  But he had gone.

  * * *

  “It was all I could do not to slam the phone down in frustration!”

  “What does he want from you?” Maisie poured me more wine.

  “I dread to know.”

  “But you can guess.”

  The combined effects of a hangover, an interrogation, and Fox were making me drink fast and smoke even faster. I’d only just bought a packet of Gitanes and I was already halfway through. I had turned up at the American Hospital just as Maisie was finishing her shift. We were sitting at a café near the metro station, where few visitors and even fewer staff ever drank, probably because it smelt strangely of crème de menthe and stale sweat. I sent up a funnel of smoke up to the stained ceiling.

  “It’s his voice. His voice and his handwriting are all I’ve had of him since the war. Everything is communicated in his quicksilver tones and spidery calligraphy.”

  “You make it sound almost sensual.”

  “It is… his voice runs down my back like a drop of water. His handwriting plunges me into the cold dark Atlantic.”

  “Jesus. You need more wine.”

  “It’s through his voice that I get most of my information. In the war he was always in control of himself, every aspect of his person, even his anger was used deliberately to manipulate others. But his voice on the phone is not always… under control. I heard him gasp on the phone today, such a little thing, but I was shocked that he was shocked. He keeps hinting that maybe he isn’t such a vampire, that maybe he has a heart after all, his handwriting on little quotes from Shelley or Keats that speak of love, his voice with little glitches and hitches that suggest he means something else.”

  Maisie frowned as she dipped a chip in tomato sauce and mayonnaise. “And you’re thinking of his marriage proposal from the end of the war.”

  “Yes. No.”

  She took my cigarette and replaced it with potato. “By the way, if you want to avoid getting scurvy, you have to eat more than just chips and pastries.”

  “A lot has happened in the past four years, but I doubt Fox has become more sanguine about rejection. He refuses to lose. More than that”—I leaned forward to get my cigarette back and to lower my voice—“Tom remembered that it was Fox who sent him on the mission that ended in his charges of treason. I confronted Fox about it just now, but he didn’t scoff or deny it. He didn’t even really speak.”

  “That means that Fox has been trying to get rid of Tom since…”

  “1917.”

  “But… that means he’ll never give you the information you need to rescue Tom’s reputation!”

  “It’s why I dread to know what he really wants. In case the answer is: Everything.”

  I gulped more wine. It was having almost no effect. I thought voicing my fears would make them smaller but instead it just made them more real. Maisie finished the chips and ordered asparagus, artichokes, all the vegetables they had in the kitchen.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You have to eat, Katie. Seriously, you’re still much too thin.”

  “Too thin for what? I’m not entering any beauty competitions.”

  “Too thin for continued health, Sister Used-to-be-a-nurse, and you well know it.”

  I shrugged and let her swap my cigarette for an asparagus spear.

  “Anyway, Bertie’s coming tonight…”

  “He’ll feed you?”

  “I’m hoping he’ll have some information I can use against Fox. Maybe something about a possible traitorous German brother? But yes, he’ll likely feed me whatever the chef at the Ritz will send up to his room.”

  “Good. A possible German brother, eh? Are you indulging in a little light blackmail?”

  “I like to think of it as arsenal.”

  “And the mission? Anything against Hausmann?”

  I relayed what Lazarev had told us about the fascist meetings.

  “If we can send Hausmann back to London with his tail between his legs, I’ll be satisfied.” Maisie sighed. “Communism versus fascism, the workers versus the nobles. I can’t see this ending peacefully.”

  “Speaking of nobles, I saw Theo on the way here. He’s letting me interview his cousin tomorrow, Prince Phillip von Hessen, and another cousin, Duke Carl Eduard.” Theo had pulled up beside me, ignoring the complaints from his passengers, to ask my permission for Carl Eduard to join us. I’d been hard-pressed not to whoop at my good fortune.

  “Is this for the gossip column or for Fox?”

  “Both, I imagine.” I coughed and my hands smelt of grime.

  “You should smoke less too, Katie King, you’ll breathe more easily.”

  “And fidget more easily and bite my nails until they bleed.”

  “Oh yes! I forgot you used to do that. You’ve been a smoker for so long.” She smiled at me a little thoughtfully, as though she once again saw the scared teenager in the London hospital where we began our training, that cold first winter of the war. I wanted to hug her until it hurt, I wanted her to take me home and tuck me up in front of her new radio to fall asleep listening to the crackle and static of news from London.

  “Give me some good news, Maisie. Tell me that you’re going on holiday, that you’ve got a new puppy, that your maids did something hilarious, anything.”

  “Ray thinks I need a puppy, you know, to help with somber moods.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s Ray who needs the
puppy. But Gina did do something hilarious, though how she got the teapot in the car engine to begin with is anyone’s guess…”

  She soothed me, just as I needed her to. I laughed on cue, but I hoped she could see in my face, that she could feel in the squeeze of my fingers, that I adored her, that I couldn’t do without her. More people came into the café, they sat under the advertisements for Belgian beer and Dubonnet, the room filled with the heat of wool-clad bodies and garlic and cigarette smoke. The wine must have started to work, as my tongue thickened and my limbs felt heavy, although I was still as awake and jazzed up as ever. I think she understood, from the return squeeze of her strong hands, from the way she kept my glass topped up without me saying a word.

  Just as we were paying, Maisie said quietly, “When will you go and see André and Matisse? To ask about your mother.”

  “I don’t know. When I can. The mission can’t wait, and my mother won’t be any less dead tomorrow.”

  Maisie caught me in a huge hug and I closed my eyes against the noise, the chill draught from under the door, the exhaled smoke of others.

  “Isn’t it always the way, Katie King? Absence is eternal.”

  37

  “my word you do look queer”

  I waited in the lobby of the Ritz. Bertie hadn’t given me a time and I didn’t know where I was supposed to collect him. He usually arrived on the afternoon Blue Train from London, but he could have come via Liverpool or Amsterdam or even Jersey in order to shake off Fox’s watcher. He could have even flown, like some message from the future. I didn’t know how to contact him either, so I bought a bundle of magazines from a news kiosk and settled in to wait. I was still wearing the clothes I wore to the warehouse and they smelt, I smelt, of cigarettes and mold and wet concrete. I wanted a proper wash in Bertie’s room, I wanted a proper cuddle and a soft warm bed. When all this was over, I thought, I might actually need to spend some of Fox’s money on making my studio a little cozier or I wouldn’t survive the winter.

  French gossip magazines were much too polite; I missed the breathless rumor of Fleet Street. I had to settle for looking at the pictures and wishing I had a detective novel to pass the time. The concierge looked over at me frequently and I had to check that my stockings weren’t laddered or my makeup smudged, or anything else that might make it look like I was in the lobby fishing for business. Eventually he came over.

  “Mademoiselle.”

  “It could be madame.”

  “Not without a ring, not in this lobby.”

  I smiled at his perfect poker face.

  “Please, can I fetch you some refreshment?”

  “My friend hasn’t called, has he? They told me Mr. Browne hasn’t yet arrived.”

  He shook his head. “You are English. I will fetch you my grandmother’s favorite, English tea with brandy.”

  “Sounds like a waste of brandy.”

  He bowed slightly. “Please trust me, mademoiselle.”

  Maybe Bertie wasn’t coming today, maybe I had misunderstood him. The lobby was hushed and plush, unsmiling staff in pristine red uniforms, all standing to attention for people who expected their staff to appear and disappear as though they could read minds. It made me fidgety. The concierge reappeared almost silently, holding a tray with one enormous cup on it.

  “I took the liberty of pouring, mademoiselle. My grandmother insisted on a very particular recipe.”

  “For tea? Intriguing.” I took a sip. He was right; the warm tea, the soothing milk, the reviving sugar, and the pep of brandy were just what I needed.

  “You’re a marvel. What’s your name?”

  “Jean-Marie.” He nodded a bow and allowed a smile to brighten his face before he went back to the desk. He could watch me openly now and I smiled back at him in his dark suit and neat hair, calmed by the tea, calmed by being taken care of without a single comment on my weight, my smoking habit, or my broken fingernails.

  I had just taken the final sip when Bertie almost fell into the lobby. I ran to him and he almost collapsed. He was shaking and grubby, with scratches on his cheeks and hands.

  “Bertie darling, what on earth happened?”

  “Oh, Kiki…”

  “Monsieur.” Jean-Marie appeared at our side. “Please come this way.” He ushered us immediately to the lift, then down a carpeted hall to a room in the corner, next to the staff stairs. I suspected that he had quickly changed Bertie’s room when he saw him, as the room was not only very private but huge.

  “Merci, merci…” Bertie muttered.

  “Your first aid kit please, Jean-Marie.”

  “Shall I fetch a doctor?”

  “No need, I was a nurse in the war. A bottle of Scottish whisky is the only doctor we require. And his assistant, Gauloises Bleu.”

  “Of course, mademoiselle.”

  “Call me Kiki.” I smiled. “I have a feeling we might be talking to each other quite a bit in the next twenty-four hours.”

  Jean-Marie gave me the number of his private telephone before he disappeared back downstairs for the necessaries. Bertie stripped to his underwear and I tended to his scratches and bruises, poured him whisky, and lit his cigarette. I tucked him up in bed and sat by his feet, the ashtray between us, as I waited for the whisky to take effect. The room was warm and the reflected light from the creamy walls had already given Bertie a better color, even if it hadn’t improved his wild, bewildered stare.

  “You look like you’ve been chased through a hedge by a pack of dogs. What did you do, run here from London?”

  “If by running you mean sailing and railing, and from London you mean via Rotterdam and Loos with a final sprint from Gare du Nord, then yes, I did run here.”

  “You actually ran!”

  “I haven’t moved so fast since the war. I’d forgotten what it was like to run with a pack, or in this case, an ostrich-skin suitcase. It’s rather thrilling.”

  “I didn’t realize ostrich skin had such a revitalizing effect.”

  He gave a shaky laugh.

  “Were you chased by your watcher?”

  “He smoked Sobranies, but other than that I couldn’t tell. Which was disconcerting, as I’m usually excellent at remembering elegant young men.”

  “But he chased you?”

  Bertie nodded and exhaled.

  “Come on, Bertie, give it up. The whole kit and kaboodle.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” he said in a bad American accent with a mock salute. “So, as you know, I stopped sleeping on my boat—I didn’t fancy meeting any strangers on the dark water—and took up temporary residence above Monty’s bar. I forget its real name… but Monty has had a soft spot for me since I gave the bar a good review in print and… in person, shall we say.”

  “I’m familiar with your reviewing technique.”

  “You’ve had so many reviews, I’m arguably your biggest fan.”

  “Arguable.” That raised a smile from him; the whisky was working.

  “Anyway, my watcher—is that what you called him?—he must have been following me, as he found me at Monty’s straight away.”

  “It wasn’t your lover, was it?”

  “Roger? No, too short. But ‘not Roger’ is my only conclusion as to his identity, and I’ve had a lot of time to conclude that over the past two days in transit.” He gazed out the window at the black night sky. I caressed his cheek and brought him back from his reflections.

  “After I chatted to you from the bar, I convinced Himself to send me to Paris for a few days, to be your photographer and, frankly, to have a bit of a holiday. I did my best to shake my Savile Row shadow—jumping aboard the train at the last minute, changing my destination at Dover for Rotterdam, hopping off the train suddenly at Loos—which I thought was all rather ingenious until I saw him behind me again and again. I couldn’t figure it out until I realized there were two of them. They were so similar I think they must have been twins.”

  “But why are they chasing you? Watching, I understand. Chasing across borde
rs, I do not.”

  “Fetch my bag.” He pointed to his neat little suitcase at the door. It was so light that it seemed to have nothing in it.

  “Look at this.” He passed me an envelope, a bit tattered at the edges. I gasped.

  “Yes indeed.” He looked smug as he smoked his cigarette. He deserved to. I held in my hands a photo of Fox and his doppelgänger, both young men, both in German military uniform. They stood on some kind of parade ground, judging by the number of braids, belts, buckles, and shiny buttons they had on their persons. Bertie leant forward and pointed to the man who wasn’t Fox.

  “Do you think that might be Cassius, Fox’s brother?”

  “Where did you get this, Bertie?”

  “I followed Roger to his office—ah yes, I told you that. The Hello Girl I took out was unbelievably friendly. She told me an awful sob story about her fiancé who’d survived the war only to take his own life… of course I sympathized, how could I not? I led her around to talking about her work, her boss, I said it was for a story, and she showed me some of his personal effects.”

  “How?”

  “We went back to the office. It didn’t seem to occur to her that it was unusual to research ‘unsung heroes of the war’ at nine o’clock on a Wednesday night. I had to take notes about her service too, and her fiancé… but it was worth it, as she said I could take the photo with me.”

  “How did she come by it?”

  “She said a man who looked just like Dr. Fox had been in only the week before and had left some things behind, including this photo. The man didn’t say who he was.”

  “To have gone to military academy, even if only for a while, as well as medical school… that’d make Fox older than I thought. It’d make him almost the same age as my mother.”

  “He can’t have known your mother, Kiki.”

  “No…” But I was never sure of anything with Fox. “So, Fox knows this photo is missing?”

  “Why else am I being chased across borders, as you say, unless my Hello Girl said more than hello to her boss and he knows I have this photo?”