Above Suspicion (19 page)

Richard and Thornley had gone ahead. Frances slowed her pace. Van Cortlandt was trying to disguise a limp.

“Let’s sit here until the others come back,” suggested Frances, as they passed some chairs tilted drunkenly against a table.

“Thanks…this foot is a nuisance.”

“I’ll give you some stuff to doctor it tonight. Everyone has
foot trouble on their first day in the hills.”

He looked at her, and hesitated. He said suddenly, “You know, you’re all right. I have to admit that I didn’t think so much of you when we first met. Apart from being easy on the eyes, of course. I thought you were a hidebound Tory.”

“You must have thought me rather suppurating.” She smiled, and added, “Perhaps I am. But I’m no Tory.”

“So I found out this afternoon. That was quite a talk we had coming down that hill. I’ve been thinking over it since, and although I still stick to my own opinion, I begin to see why my remarks in Nürnberg made you so mad. You must have thought me—” he paused for the word.

“Smug?” suggested Frances gently.

“Now, that’s pretty steep. Or did you?”

“Well, I must say I thought you inclined that way.”

Van Cortlandt looked glum. “Well, that’s a fine impression to hand out.”

“I didn’t do so well myself, did I?”

They both laughed, and then Frances was serious again. There was a sadness in her voice which she no longer tried to disguise.

“You see, if it comes to a showdown, it’s the much criticised British who’ll have to foot a good part of a pretty bloody bill. We’ll need words of encouragement from the sidelines, not jeers. And I wish you could believe me about appeasement. After all, you wouldn’t call America a prohibition country today, although you lived with it for years.”

“I see your viewpoint,” said van Cortlandt. “It’s another angle, certainly. But…” He shrugged his shoulders.

Frances was silent. The moon was on the water of the lake,
and she could see van Cortlandt’s face, white in the blue light. He looked even less convinced than his words. A thwarted idealist he had said, this afternoon. Cynic would have been the same thing. She shrugged her shoulders too and tried to smile. Van Cortlandt was watching her.

“Do you know you were being followed in Nürnberg?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

“In a jam?”

“Not so far.”

“Sorry if I seem inquisitive, but I just wondered when I saw that bird circling us tonight.”

“I don’t think that meant much. Sort of incidental music.”

The American looked embarrassed. “Look. I know you would have told me about it if you had wanted to. But all I’m trying to get at is this: if you are in a jam, you can always let me know.”

“I can’t tell you about it, Henry. Not because I don’t want you to know, but because there’s no use complicating things for you. I’ll tell you all about everything later—in England, if you’ll come and visit us there.”

“You needn’t worry about me. Mrs. van Cortlandt’s little boy can take care of himself.”

“But you are not so sure about us?”

“Oh, well, I mean you’re not the kind of people to handle trouble; you’re not tough enough. I wish I could put it better. I mean—”

Frances nodded and laid her hand on his arm.

“You’re all right, too,” she said.

There were footsteps on the road, and they could hear Thornley’s voice, and then Richard’s in a fluting falsetto.

“What the…” began van Cortlandt.

“Merchant of Venice.
Last act, I think, at the beginning.” She began to laugh. “We can manage the midday sun, but not moonlight. Meet it is that you note it down in your tablets, Henry. You know, that chapter on the peculiarities of the British.”

“Now when did I tell you I was doing that?”

“All books on European travel or politics have one. Why, no foreigner would believe he was looking at an Englishman unless he was funny-peculiar or funny-ha-ha.”

“And what does the Englishman think about that?”

“He doesn’t really care what people think about him as long as he knows himself.”

Richard and Thornley had timed their duet well. Richard managed to get the last line in just as they reached Frances and van Cortlandt.

He grasped Thornley’s arm in a fair imitation of maidenly flurry.

“‘But, hark, I hear the footing of a man,’” he ended, and looked wildly round.

“You’d be safe enough if you looked like that,” said Frances.

“Limping, anyway,” added van Cortlandt, “so you’re safe twice over.”

“That role doesn’t really do my powers justice,” said Richard. “You should see me as the second witch in
Macbeth.
Now that’s something.”

“Not tonight,” said Frances hastily. “Let’s all limp home to bed.”

The four of them linked arms, and limped in unison
towards the hotel. As Frances and Richard said good night, van Cortlandt looked as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He seemed worried again.

They crossed the road to the Villa Waldesruhe. Frances was silent as they went upstairs, and silent as she removed her earrings and brushed her hair. And then she remembered about van Cortlandt’s limp. She searched quickly for the methylated spirits and boracic and lint. Richard made a good-humoured grimace and started putting on his shoes again. She heard his footsteps echo on the empty road outside, and began to undress. When he returned she was already in bed.

“That fellow was back again, talking to the manager.”

She blinked sleepily. That fellow—“Oh, Beetlebrows?”

“Yes. He must think we are lunatics, chasing about at this hour with first-aid.”

“All the better,” said Frances, “or isn’t it?”

“Does no harm. Only next time, my sweet wife, do remember such things before I get my shoes off.”

“Yes, darling.” She yawned prodigiously. “…doing tomorrow?”

Richard folded his trousers before replying. When he did Frances gave no answer; she was, like the rest of Pertisau, asleep.

Friday came quickly for Thornley and van Cortlandt, slowly for Frances and Richard. They had enjoyed the bathing and climbing, the strange conversations which had a habit of cropping up, as much as the other two, but, as Frances said, Friday was like taking medicine: she wanted to get it over as quickly as possible.

On Friday the mists were on the mountains, and the waters of the lake looked grey and uninviting. It takes salt water to make a bathe, when the sun isn’t shining. Van Cortlandt was disappointed, for this was his last day. On Saturday he had to meet a radio man in Innsbruck who wanted some impressions from him for a broadcast to America next week. Thornley thought it would be better if he motored into Innsbruck with van Cortlandt. He had begun to worry again about Tony and his Czechoslovakian girl. He wanted to make sure that his Innsbruck hotel hadn’t mixed up his Pertisau address.

Over their eleven o’clock beer the arrangements were made. And then came the suggestion from Thornley that once the Innsbruck business was finished, he and van Cortlandt should return to Pertisau for a couple of days. At this, Richard looked slightly taken aback. By Sunday God knows what would have happened. The two men noticed his slight hesitation, the vagueness of his reply. There was a pregnant pause. Frances felt miserable, trying to explain to them with her eyes and her smile that it was no lack of enthusiasm for them which had caused Richard’s embarrassment. Van Cortlandt suddenly saw daylight.

“Of course, your movements are indefinite, we know,” he said and looked hard at Thornley. Frances had the feeling that Richard had told Thornley about their being followed in Nürnberg. The feeling was confirmed when she heard Thornley make a good follow-up.

“We can ’phone from Innsbruck, and find if you are still here. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“That would be fine,” said Richard, obviously sincere, and the difficult moment had passed.

“It’s a pity you must leave today,” said Frances. “There’s a dance this evening.” The men looked bored at the idea.

“No, not in one of the hotels,” she went on, reading their thoughts. “It’s the real thing, held in one of the inns back near the woods. They build a platform outside the inn, and everyone comes from miles around to dance in their best clothes. Some of the costumes are really perfect, and it’s fun to see people really enjoying themselves.”

“When does it begin?” asked van Cortlandt.

“Nineish.”

He shook his head. “Too late for me; we’ll have to leave about six. But, say, if you go, tell me about it, will you?”

“How on earth did you find out about the dance? There’s no notice up anywhere that I could see,” Thornley said in amazement.

“Oh, I have my agents,” said Frances, and then blushed as Richard looked amused. “Actually it was Frau Schichtl. She told me about it this morning, and said very pointedly that we would be welcomed.”

“That’s rather strange, don’t you think, considering their German cousins are all over the place? You would think that they would be the ones who were welcome and that we outsiders would be avoided like the plague.”

“Lower voice,” suggested Richard quietly.

Frances followed the suggestion. “No, it was quite the opposite. Frau Schichtl was eager for us to go and meet the real Austrians. She offered me the Sunday dirndl dress her daughter used to wear. Very lovely it was, too.”

“She really is awfully decent, you know,” Thornley said. “She waylaid us yesterday when we came round to beat you up.”

Van Cortlandt stared. “Bob, what the—”

“To beat you up or to hound you out or to collect you,” Thornley explained as an aside. “Anyway, while we waited in that downstairs room, Frau Schichtl was baking in the kitchen. It was a damned good smell, too. So we looked in and made some jokes in terrible German, and we had to taste the cake just out of the oven. Haven’t done that for years.”

“I seem rather left out of all this,” said Richard.

Frances laughed. “No, you aren’t. Frau Schichtl said you
were very well brought up and
so
polite. And she loves your imitations of the Bavarian accent.”

Richard reddened. “Oh, come!” he said, and the others laughed.

But van Cortlandt had sensed a story. -

“Where’s the daughter?” he asked Frances. She studied her hands and said nothing.

“I won’t use it for copy, if that is what you are thinking,” he added with a wry smile.

Frances hesitated, but the others’ curiosity had been wakened.

“She is dead. Some years ago she went to Vienna to study singing. Frau Schichtl had saved a little money, and the girl was eager. She must have had some talent to get her way like that. But instead of becoming a great singer, she fell in love and got married. He was an active Social Democrat. They were planning to come here to visit Frau Schichtl; they hadn’t much money, so they had to plan it carefully. And then the Nazis arrived. The husband’s name must have been on their black-list. They said he committed suicide. Nothing more has been heard of the girl.” She paused. “Frau Schichtl says that I look very much like her when she left for Vienna.”

Van Cortlandt said, “She may not be dead.”

“Frau Schichtl hopes she is.”

There was a silence.

Then van Cortlandt said again, “Just another. That’s what gets me down. It isn’t just an isolated case. Wherever you go beneath the surface in this damned Nazi set-up there’s tragedy, or something twisted. Nothing but complications, and fears, and threats. Even those, who think they’ve jumped on the bandwagon
are still standing on one leg. Only the dumbest of them can forget they are on the edge of a volcano. A nice crop of neurotics they’ll be after whatever is going to happen has happened.”

“Or corpses,” said Thornley unexpectedly. “They’d make a nice row of corpses.” He looked speculatively at the froth rims in his beer glass. The story of Frau Schichtl’s daughter had started him thinking again about Czechoslovakia, thought, Frances. She watched them finish their beer, each man with his own thoughts. The truth was that there was no peace of mind left for anyone—for anyone with a heart.

Richard had risen, and he now changed the subject. “Now about this afternoon. Frances and I thought we’d take a walk, and let you pack and make your arrangements. We’ll be back to give you a send-off about six. That’s the time you thought of, isn’t it?” It was more of an intimation than a suggestion. Thornley caught van Cortlandt’s eye, and the two men exchanged smiles.

“That suits us,” the American said, and then added almost too casually, “and if you can’t be good you know what.”

Frances and Richard left the Waldesruhe at three o’clock. Richard had calculated that the distance from Pertisau to the red-shuttered house was about two miles. Yesterday as they had climbed a hill with a view of the Pletzach, Thornley had pointed the house out to them—standing isolated in a high meadow above the little river. It was a good sort of place to have for the summer, he had observed. He was one of those who got a simple kind of pleasure in choosing sites for houses which he would never be able to own. There were already three
places on the surrounding hillsides which he had selected as admirable for a summer chalet.

As they passed the Hotel Post Thornley waved to them from the doorway, but he made no move to talk to them. As they entered the road which would lead them up the Pletzach Frances glanced involuntarily over her shoulder. He was still standing at the hotel door, his hands in his pockets, and she had the feeling that he was making a very good pretence of not watching them. So his appearance at the door had been no accident. That gave her a comforting feeling. At least someone who knew them could vouch that they had left Pertisau quite normally. The deceased when last seen appeared to be in good health and normal spirits.

“He’s a good person to have around in a crisis.”

“Who is?” asked Richard.

“Bob Thornley. He tries to avoid discussing anything he feels very deeply about. It’s as if he were afraid to let himself get emotional. He covers up with a funny story or one of these jokes against himself. And yet he notices quite a lot that is going on around him.”