After the Fine Weather (9 page)

“There’s something brewing,” said the Colonel. “I can smell it.” Unlike Joe Keller, he had a nose which had evidently been constructed for smelling out trouble, a great, long, angled beak, with tufts of white hair sprouting from each nostril like smoke from the barrel of a revolver. “Last winter, when we had less snow than this, we were cut off for six weeks. A madman can do a lot in six weeks.”

“You think he’s mad, Colonel?”

“Most foreigners are mad.”

It was not the least trying part of a stiff afternoon and evening’s work that each of the families he visited insisted on brewing him a cup of tea. It would have given offence to refuse it. By the time he reached home it was nearly seven o’clock. He was swilled and bloated with tea. He remembered reading in a medical journal that tea tasters often died, quite young, of kidney disease.

Outside the door of the block of flats a Fiat was parked which he recognized, through the gently swirling snow, as belonging to his Italian colleague, Dr Pisoni. The doctor was at the wheel himself and looked reproachful.

“I have been waiting for you,” he said.

“Was I meant to be meeting with you?”

“I spoke to a young man in your office.”

“That would be Evelyn Fiennes.”

“He sounded as if he was intoxicated.”

“I don’t think he’d be drunk quite as soon as that. And he couldn’t have got hold of me anyway. I was moving around. What’s up?”

“I sought permission to see the prisoner Boschetto. It has been granted.”

“That’s a step in the right direction.”

“I would be very happy if you would come with me.”

Charles sighed. What he desired at that moment, more than anything, was to take his sodden shoes off his aching feet, to put on his slippers, and to drink a glass of whisky. On the other hand, the half-dozen members of the Diplomatic Corps in Lienz had a tradition of acting together in moments of crisis.

“All right,” he said. “Where is he?”

“At police headquarters, in the Greitestrasse. Leave your car here, if you like. I will drive you.”

As the cell door was opened by the policeman, and Inspector Moll showed them in, Charles had in his mind various images of political prisoners – emaciated men, with straggling beards, chained to walls. What he was not prepared for was a normal-looking, apparently contented Italian, eating a dish of pasta, with a mug of wine beside his plate.

Boschetto raised his eyes when they came in, but he did not get up, nor did he discontinue his eating.

Dr Pisoni spoke to him in Italian. Charles had a serviceable knowledge of the language and could follow the opening exchanges. Yes, Boschetto had been well treated after he had been rescued from the crowd. He agreed that he had been carrying a gun – for his own protection. Many people in Austria did the same. Yes, he had heard about the death of his brother. (And seemed, Charles thought, singularly unmoved by the news.) No, he had no complaints. He had been informed that his trial would take place in a few days’ times. Yes, he had been given a lawyer to help him prepare his defence. He mentioned the name, Professor Ciresa, and Dr Pisoni nodded approvingly. The professor, himself a South Tyrolese, he explained to Charles, was a well-known jurist and would certainly do his best for the prisoner.

At the end Boschetto said something in rapid Italian. Dr Pisoni looked surprised, and said something back which Charles again missed.

“I didn’t get that.”

“He says that Professor Ciresa has advised him to speak with complete frankness. He says that it will be his best chance.”

“I suppose so.”

“Particularly, he should be frank about his accomplice.”

“Had he an accomplice?”

Dr Pisoni put the question. A long pause ensued. The prisoner’s embarrassment was evident. Then Charles caught Boschetto looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and realized that it was his presence that was troubling him.

Dr Pisoni said, “I think he does not want to answer that question.”

In her second to last report on Laura (not the final one; that was always conceived in terms of kindly optimism) Miss Sennett had written: “Sometimes she thinks before she acts. Sometimes she does not.” After a gap, which indicated a pause in her thoughts, she had added, in her neat handwriting: “I do not really know which is the more dangerous.”

On this occasion Miss Sennett could not have accused Laura of lack of thought. She thought hard, weighing the displeasure of her brother against the delights of a night out with so accomplished a host as Helmut. She thought long; from half past four, when Frau Rosa brought in tea in a flowered china teapot and savoury toast in a plated dish, until half past seven, when there was still no sign of Charles.

If he isn’t back by a quarter to eight – she thought. And then, If he isn’t back by eight o’clock –

At ten past eight she scribbled on a piece of paper: “I am having dinner with Helmut, at the Elisabeth in Rudolf-Strasse. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be home in good time.”

Then she collected her coat and hat and started to explain things to Frau Rosa.

The old lady grasped the essentials.

“You are going out to dinner.”

“That’s right. You remember the gentleman who was here the first night–”

“With a young man.”

“He isn’t really very young.”

“You will eat good food at the Elisabeth. The cook is French.”

“Lovely,” said Laura. “See, I’ve left a note for my brother. What I wanted to know was if you could show me the back way out. You remember what you said this morning. The dentist–”

This took a little more putting across, but Frau Rosa got there in the end. Not for nothing had she served as housekeeper to four successive bachelor vice-consuls.

“You are dining with a young man, and you do not wish the police to know. I will get my key.”

It was not at all plain to Laura why Frau Rosa should have a key to the dentist’s office on the ground floor, but she undoubtedly had one. And a few minutes later they were crossing the room. The chair was swathed in a white sheet, the dread instruments locked away in a steel-and-glass cabinet. The kitchen door was only bolted. It opened onto a tiny, empty courtyard containing a fig tree and walled on three sides.

A farther door was unlocked. Beyond it lay a similar courtyard, but this one was crammed with crates, boxes, cartons, and bottles. From beyond a lighted entrance came a clatter of voices.

“We go through here,” said Frau Rosa, and before Laura could protest she found herself in a crowded kitchen. Frau Rosa waved to one of the women and walked straight through. Laura thought that the occupants of the room looked at her curiously, but no one spoke to her. The next minute she was in the foyer of a restaurant.

“Very simple,” said Frau Rosa. “For the police I have contempt.”

Helmut was waiting for her inside the door of the Elisabeth. He removed her coat, handed it to a waiter, and led the way to a table. She saw at once that Helmut was a good person to go out dining with. If he had owned the Elisabeth, its staff could not have jumped more smoothly to his bidding.

“I hope you are going to like this,” he said. “With some girls I should not have dared. They would have turned up their noses at anything but gin.”

“What is it?”

“It is Chambéry. A French vermouth. It comes from the foothills of the Alps.”

It was pale, pale yellow, the colour of a young girl’s hair; and as cold as a young girl’s heart. It did not taste alcoholic.

“I am glad that you were able to get away tonight,” said Helmut. “I feared very much that your brother might forbid it.”

“I haven’t seen him since breakfast time,” said Laura. “I don’t see why he should object, do you?”

“It is true that the situation has become much calmer. As long as the people feel that their leaders are taking decisive action on their behalf, they will not be restive.”

“And do they feel that?”

“Certainly. I do not think that his worst enemy could accuse Hofrat Humbold of lack of drive.”

“He’s got drive all right. The thing is, where is he driving to?”

“I don’t imagine that anyone could answer that, except the Hofrat himself. And, possibly, Colonel Schatzmann.”

There was an undercurrent in Helmut’s voice. An enthusiasm which he tried carefully to keep under control. Laura said, “Is it true that you are a member of the Berg Isel Bund?”

For a moment she thought she had gone too far. Then Helmut smiled slowly.

“Yes,” he said. “It is true. I have long been a member. How did you know?”

“Joe told me.”

“Joe?”

“His name’s Joe Keller; he’s American.”

“The newspaperman. Yes.” Helmut waved his hand, and the waiter refilled their glasses. “He is one of those Americans with baby faces. Big, blue eyes, and a little-boy nose. I must warn you. They are very dangerous. Where did you meet him?”

“In Rome, actually.”

“I see. We must finish our drinks, or it is possible we will lose our table.”

“Aren’t we eating here?”

“Certainly not. The chef here has only one idea. To smother everything with French sauce. We are going to a place where you can taste the food. It is not very far from here. It is called Mousie’s.”

Mousie’s was delightful. It was a single room, at the back of the first floor of what looked like a delicatessen store. The room held six tables. They stood around the wall, so that each one had a broad, cushioned sofa at one side, and chairs on the sides. Laura wondered if they were going to share the sofa, but Helmut conducted her to it, and seated himself at the other side of the table.

She found that he had no intention of consulting her as to food or drink. Everything had been arranged in advance. Except that it looked plain, and tasted delightful, Laura had no very clear recollection of what she ate, but she did remember the wine. This was brought up in a padded leather carrier by a tiny, old, humpbacked man. (Mousie himself?) It was a larger bottle than she had ever seen at close quarters before.

“I may have said harsh things about French food,” said Helmut, as the gnome uncorked the bottle, “but it would be affectation to despise their wines. Taste it before you talk about it.”

It tasted perfect. Softer than the Chambéry, but not sweet; indeed, it had a resinous tang which touched the back of her throat as a man’s hand will touch, for a fraction of a second, the hand of a woman he desires.

She knew that she had never drunk wine like it before, and she was sensible enough to realize that it was a waste of words for her to praise it.

“Lovely,” she said. “What is it?”

“You are drinking a Clos-Blanc de Vougeot. The red Vougeot is a good, reliable wine. The white is exceptional. This is only twelve years old, but twelve is a great age for a white burgundy. Finish what was put in your glass, and Carl will fill it for you.”

Later the talk shifted from wine to women.

“It seems to me,” said Helmut, “that English girls suffer from one great disadvantage.”

“What is that, Helmut?”

“I refer to their mothers. Cast your mind back. What were the lessons your mother instilled in you?”

Laura considered the matter, her head cocked a fraction to one side. The wine was circulating inside her, loosening strings, undoing knots which had been tied before.

“She was very strong on good manners. She hated anyone’s being late for meals. She liked me to brush my teeth three times a day.”

“Nothing more?”

“She wasn’t terribly keen on education, but she saw that I went to the right sort of boarding school – the sort where one did riding and classical dancing.”

“And the mistresses at that school, they continued your mother’s teaching – manners, punctuality, and clean teeth?”

“I suppose they did, really, yes.”

“And neither your mother nor any of these wise teachers taught you the only thing that matters. That a girl should be made ready for love.”

In ordinary circumstances a remark like this would have knocked Laura off balance. Now, she simply tilted her head the other way, focused her eyes on the soft brown ones opposite her, and said, “Helmut, you’re exaggerating.”

“I assure you I am not. No French, no Italian or Spanish mother would think otherwise. And since many Europeans go to America, I fancy that American mothers are beginning to think the same. It is only the Anglo-Saxons who still bring girls up as if they were boys.”

“What do you mean exactly – made ready for love?”

“I mean that a girl should be taught that she has been given a body for two purposes – for making love and bearing children. That is the biological position. Civilization has added complications. Marriage, for example, is an extra.”

“Like ballet dancing, and milk after supper.”

“Like? – I see. Your mind is still at school. There are, of course, women who have never made love. They are to be pitied. Like children born with one arm.”

At that moment the table seemed to Laura to be a barrier. It was too wide. It was getting in the way of the most exciting talk she could ever remember.

“Couldn’t you come and sit beside me?” she said.

“I could do so,” said Helmut. The wine seemed to have had no effect on him at all. His face was unflushed, his speech was precise. “But I fear that it is too narrow to accommodate both of us. And it would cause a comment. Instead we will go dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Only if you would like to.”

“I’d love it.”

The bill got itself paid, or waved away. Laura got up cautiously. Her coat was found. And they were outside.

The street was cold and empty. The snow had stopped falling and the sky, for the first time in two days, was clear. A thousand diamonds, a million specks of diamond dust, glittered on black velvet. Her heart rose to greet them. How right she had been to come!

There was ice on the pavement, and Helmut put his hand on her arm to guide her to the car. It was an awkward car to get into but, once in, it fitted you like a second skin.

There was ice on the roads too: ice and patches of packed, frozen snow. Helmut drove with delicate precision. The first time they struck a patch of ice she drew her breath in sharply as, instead of slowing, he increased his speed, turning into the front wheel skid and correcting it at the last moment.

He heard her gasp and said, “I apologize. I am showing off. But it is quite safe, as long as the roads are empty. There is not likely to be much traffic on a night like this.”

“Where are we going?”

“It is called the Winterhaus. It is about five kilometres outside Lienz, on the lake. It is a private club for people with the same enthusiasms. Sailing in summer and skiing in winter.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“It is a very big house, and extremely ugly. It was built by an Austrian millionaire, fifty years ago, as a residence for his Hungarian mistress. She took one look at the house, and returned to Hungary. Then it stood empty for many years. Here is the driveway.”

“I see what you mean,” said Laura. “It doesn’t look too bad.”

“You should see it by daylight.”

The door was opened for them by a massive figure. Under the shaded lights Laura could not make out, for a moment, whether it was a man or a woman; then she saw that it was, in fact, a middle-aged woman, with iron-grey hair, and the solid, square-standing, chest-forward, backside-out figure of a regimental sergeant major in the Brigade of Guards.

“Guten Abend, Tante Margarete,” said Helmut.

The woman said something in Austrian too rapid for Laura. She gathered that Aunt Margaret was reporting on the evening’s proceedings. Helmut nodded and said, “Good, good.”

As the lady advanced and took her wrap, Laura was aware of a close and analytical scrutiny. It brought an elusive memory back to her. It was, she thought, the look which a doctor gives his patient as he removes his coat.

She said to Helmut, “What an extraordinary woman.”

“Without her there would be no club,” said Helmut. He was guiding her between the dozen tables that fringed that side of a small dance floor. “And that would be a pity, for I know of few better clubs than this.”

It was a big room, the drawing-room and dining-room of the original owner, leading out at the far end onto a broad terrace, now sealed by double glass windows. The walls from the squared roof beams to the polished wood of the floor were tapestry covered.

“This is our table. You will find the service here good. We have the best waiters in Europe.”

For the first time that evening a note of real warmth had crept into his tone. It was for a second only. Then his guard was up again.

“I should think,” she said, “that they must all be scared stiff of Aunt Marge.”

The waiter who was now standing beside them looked no more than eighteen. He had a smooth, brown face and light-brown hair, and moved like a dancer.

“I am at a loss,” said Helmut, “to know what to suggest. We have liqueurs of a sort, I believe. Truly, after such a wine, we should drink brandy. But it may be a drink you do not care for at all.”

“I think brandy would be lovely.”

“Then, Albin, we will have two glasses of brandy. That one, I think. Two large glasses.”

As the boy bent his head over the wine list the light glinted on the soft down on the edge of his chin. Eighteen? He could hardly be more than sixteen.

A voice at the next table claimed her attention. A man was speaking in the hard German of the North. This was one straight out of the book, thought Laura. He had small, shrewd eyes, deep set in a huge, almost hairless head, large enough to overbalance his body, had not nature thoughtfully provided him with a neck thick enough to support it without danger; a neck, indeed, so thick that it was difficult to see where neck ended and head began.

“Like a clothes-peg man,” said Laura.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I can’t explain.”

“Shall we dance while we are waiting for the drinks?”

“Yes,” said Laura. “Let’s do that.”

When he touches me, she thought, I shall find out. Helmut took her right hand in his left, put his other hand in the small of her back, and steered her expertly across the floor. There was as much passion in it as a professional dancing master with his twelfth pupil since lunch.