Stone's Fall (38 page)

CHAPTER
13

Escorting a woman like Elizabeth to a dinner is something everyone really should do at least once in their lives. I had only once glimpsed her properly in her public role, in Biarritz; this was very different. I arrived with a carriage at eight, as required, having spent the afternoon preparing myself in a way which was quite unaccustomed. I was, I believe, perfectly elegant, or as elegant as I can be; dressing up formally has never been my favourite occupation and I am quite prepared to admit that I have no sense of style whatsoever. But I looked decent enough by the end, or so I thought. I seemed to have spent hours brushing my clothes and wrestling with collar studs and cravat. I even had to get the bar owner’s wife to come up and help me. Eventually I could take no more; if my cravat was squint, my coat still a little dusty, so be it.

However proud I was of my appearance, my sense of personal presence dimmed to nothing when Elizabeth descended the stairs as I waited to collect her. She was breathtaking, her hair up to reveal her long, white neck, wearing a dress of such beauty that I could not understand how it might have been imagined, let alone made.

I should explain here that she was something of a revolutionary in the matter of dress; fashion she studied as assiduously as a stockbroker studies share prices, or a gambler the form of horses. She was not simply at the height of fashion; dear me no. She defined it; and in so doing created for herself an evanescent power which propelled her to a central role in the workings of society. She was one of those few, and remarkable, people whose choices told other people what they should wear and, in a particular way, determined what beauty and elegance were. She was, in other words, entirely professional and serious about her business, and made it seem natural, easy and thoughtless.

She always went for grey when she really wanted to impress, and that evening wore silver-grey silk edged with pearls—hundreds of them—cut almost obscenely low, sleeveless with long gloves in a slightly darker shade. The dress itself clung close to her body—outrageously so, considering the fashion of a mere nine months earlier—and it was darted with extraordinarily intricate embroidery. The whole was completed with a tight necklace of alternating pearls and diamonds, five strands thick, a delicate matching tiara and a painted Louis XV fan.

“Madame, you are exquisite,” I said and meant every word.

“I do believe I am,” she said with a smile. “Shall we go?”

And so we did, to Lapérouse on the Left Bank, a restaurant which was fashionable enough, but not the sort of place that the great courtesans of Paris normally attended. Maxim’s was—and still is—the favourite haunt of such people; Lapérouse was for politicians, and literati, with a high seriousness quite at odds with the gaudy frivolity which characterised the demimonde.

“I didn’t realise you knew John Stone,” I said as the carriage trundled along the Champs Elysées; it was already long since dark and I could only dimly see her face, even though I was sitting only a foot away and opposite her.

“You must realise by now that I know a great many people,” she said. “I met Mr. Stone on a train journey. I had taken a trip to Vienna…”

“To your family, no doubt?”

“Just so. In fact I was taken there by a shareholder, who then went on to the Far East. So I was alone and Mr. Stone was coming back from somewhere in the Balkans. It is a long and dull voyage, unless you are enamoured of trains, so we entertained each other. I found him very civil and gentlemanly.”

I was desperate to ask, but restrained myself.

“No,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“The answer to the question you are trying not to ask.”

“Oh.”

“I like his company, as I do yours. Of my life he knows only what I have told him, which is little. I very much hope it will stay that way.”

“If it does not, it will not be my doing.”

“I know that. Have you made any…”

“I know where Simon is living, and plan to visit him shortly,” I said. “If he is reasonable—that is, if he is conventionally venal—the matter should be wrapped up soon enough.”

“Thank you.” She said it simply, almost proudly, but it meant much to me. Then the coach slowed and we arrived at the restaurant. Elizabeth’s whole bearing changed, she transformed herself—transfigured, I might say—before my eyes. She was about to step onto her stage.

If there were any lingering insecurities still within her, she did not show them in the slightest. Nor did she let slip even a hint of the immense strain she was under because of her diaries. She was magnificent, carefree, delightful. Every single man in the room—Stone had rented one of the private dining suites—fell under her power within seconds without her having to do anything at all except breathe. She was charming, intelligent, witty, serious as required. Never coquettish—that would have been inappropriate—but always warm and thoughtful in manner. She even managed to restrain her distaste for the other women there; to them she was polite, and it only came through once that she regarded their presence as a waste of space. Why would anyone need more than one woman in the room, when she was that woman? She made the dinner party, which was vibrant, glittering as a result, instead of the rather dull dinner of businessmen it would otherwise have been. Stone was not a natural host and I could not see what the point of the occasion was as far as he was concerned. He provided a setting in which Elizabeth could shine, and she took the opportunity to do so, performing the role without a fault or false step.

I found myself sitting at the end of the table, between the wife of a banker and a senior stockbroker from Petiet, Kramstein, then one of the better-bottomed undertakings at the Bourse. The one was amusing, the other useful. Madame Kollwitz was immunised from any possibility of jealousy or envy by the fact that she was stout, about fifty-five years old and had never been beautiful. This allowed her abundant good humour and perception to come to the fore.

“And you have to talk to me, when you would rather be in orbit around the sun,” she said with a twinkle in her eye once we had disposed of the usual preliminaries.

“Certainly not…” I began robustly.

“Oh, of course you do, who would not? She is very lovely and by all accounts quite sweet. Is that not the case?”

“I believe she is very pleasant.”

“A woman whom all men love. A terrible fate for any young girl, I think. Still, I’m sure she can look after herself. Tell me, how truly besotted is Mr. Stone with her, do you know?”

“I didn’t realise…”

“You are most unobservant for a journalist,” she commented. “She has been with him to the opera twice in the past fortnight, and it is reliably reported that both of them detest the opera. Each goes to please the other. Do you think someone should tell them that they are inflicting mutual torture for no good reason?”

“I do not intend to.”

“No. Still, it would be a prize, would it not? Another insult to France from our enemy, to have our most glittering jewel carried off?”

“I don’t think…”

“Oh, look at him!” she said scornfully, brushing my doubts aside. “If you make allowances for the fact that he has not the slightest idea how to woo or seduce a woman, look at the way he is talking to her. Admittedly, he may be telling her all about profit ratios on machine-gun manufacture, but look at the way his head turns towards her, look at his eyes! And look how easily she deals with it as well; not rejecting, but not encouraging, either. Poor man. It could cost him a pretty penny before all is over.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Have you never wondered where all these diamonds come from, dear boy?”

“No,” I said, with, I hope, a credible tone of surprise in my voice. “I assumed she was rich.”

She looked at me pityingly.

“Well, um…”

Fortunately, my attention was taken over by the stockbroker on my right, whose conversation was less fascinating but more useful. We established our mutual credentials, with me stressing my current labours writing on developments in French banking, the evolution of the capital markets, the poor state of the French Bourse in comparison to vibrancy of the London stock market. He was surprised that a journalist should be so interested in such things.

“For example,” I said, “French banks have never taken up the opportunities of empire. I would have thought the possibility of loans to your colonies would have stimulated immense activity in the capital markets, yet I see very little.”

Monsieur Steinberg nodded. “We are risk-averse here,” he said. “There have been too many disasters for people to trust the credit markets. And it is all a question of trust. Not, at the moment, something our colleagues in London have to worry about. The banks in London succeed in the most outrageous operations because people think they will succeed. They have a century’s worth of trust to call on. But they do abuse that trust sometimes; it will rebound on them, and maybe sooner than they think.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“Well,” he said, leaning forward just a little, “there are strange stories going around, you know. About Barings.”

“Dear me. What are they up to now?”

“A good question. I hear Barings may be having surprising difficulty getting takers for an Argentinian loan it is floating.”

“That’s not so unusual. It’s part of the negotiating process, is it not? Besides, with Argentina in the state it’s in…”

“This is a bit more serious, I think. Credit International, so I heard, is about to refuse outright to take any of the issue at all. Which is ill-mannered of them.”

“What loan is this?”

“Buenos Aires Water Supply 5 per cent.”

“And the reasoning?”

“Argentine Government is falling to bits, Finance Minister out on his ear, too much debt, fiscal policy in ruins. The usual sort of thing. But that has been known for some time and it has never deterred anyone before. The question is whether anyone will follow Credit International, or whether the magic of Barings will sweep all doubts away once more. But I have never heard of anyone even hesitating before.”

Nor had I. Nor had I heard of a bank making public—even if discreetly—its doubts about taking part in a Barings’ operation. As M. Steinberg said, it was ill-mannered. And generally, when dealing with Barings, a refusal was generally taken to indicate a weakness of the bank which refused.

“I find this fascinating,” I said. “Just the sort of thing that would interest
Times
readers very much. Do you think the Chairman of Credit International would talk to me?”

M. Steinberg looked shocked at the very idea.

“There must be some way of finding out more,” I said. “Will you help me? I would be greatly in your debt.”

I had realised that, as a practitioner of espionage, asking for assistance is often the most effective way of going about your job. Again, tales of adventure tend to give a false picture, of deceit and subterfuge, of clever stratagems and cunning manipulations. I hope it is clear from my account so far that, in contrast, the most effective weapons in the arsenal of intelligence are money and goodwill. If you cannot buy what you want, ask for it. If you ask the right person, it produces the right response in nearly all cases of importance.

M. Steinberg, for example, was delighted to help. Why should he not be? He wanted to know what was going on as much as I did, and as long as I promised to share with him any discoveries I might make, he was more than willing to guide me in the right direction. Within a few minutes I had the name of a senior figure at Credit International, the information that he had a great weakness for horse racing and so could be found at Longchamp whenever there was a race on, as well as names in other banks which, in the past, had taken part in Barings’ issues.

I had a day at the races to look forward to, and a feeling that I was at last beginning to make headway. I relaxed, and began to enjoy the dinner for its own sake, rather than for professional reasons. It was, in fact, an excellent occasion, largely because of the way Elizabeth conducted the proceedings; there was no doubt whatsoever that, although Stone was paying, it was no longer his dinner party. He was her guest, as much as I was. Not that he seemed to mind this; he was a perfectly agreeable conversationalist, if a little serious, when alone. But he shrank in company, giving short and gruff replies, incapable of addressing the whole table, but rather fixing his attention on one person at a time. I could see the effort involved in not giving his entire attention to the woman next to him; every time the conversation flagged a little, he naturally tended to look back towards her, waiting for her lead. Madame Kollwitz was right; he was more than a little taken. I did not know whether she had any vacancies, but if there was one Stone looked as though he would pay a great deal to get on the list. But did she like him enough? She was gay, amusing, friendly, warm, but she could be so even to people she detested, when required.

When the dinner finally came to its end and the party prepared to disperse, one of the guests, a doctor I had not talked to, mentioned he had been invited to an entertainment, and asked if anyone wished to come along.

“A séance,” he said with a laugh. “Table-turning. Spirits. Madame Boninska. She is said to be very good.”

“I will come,” said Elizabeth. “Why not? Would you like to take me, Mr. Stone,” she asked playfully, “so we can find out all your secrets?”

The reaction from Stone was remarkable. “No,” he snapped. “And you will not go either.”

Elizabeth just managed to control a look of fury that passed over her face like a storm cloud before it burst. “I beg your pardon?” There was ice in her voice; I had known her for long enough to want to signal to Stone that he would be well advised to drop the matter, and quickly. He, however, was entirely impervious to tonal subtleties and equally incapable of reading the expression on her face. Maybe he just didn’t know her well enough.

“It is charlatanry, rubbish, for fools only. Any sensible person… I have seen what these people do to those of a weak or susceptible nature.”