Stone's Fall (39 page)

“And which am I? A fool or weak?” Elizabeth asked haughtily.

“If you believe in such things? Both.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Don’t expect me to pander to your desire for fashionable amusements.”

“And what does it have to do with you?”

“You invited me, I believe.”

“Mr. Cort,” said the wife of the banker who had talked to me earlier, taking me by the arm and leading me away, “would you do me the great honour of accompanying me home? My husband has decided to abandon me and go back to his office. So I am quite alone and in need of an escort.”

“I would be honoured,” I said. Relieved was the more appropriate word, I think; I did not want to witness a fight between Stone and Elizabeth. Well, I did, of course; it was fascinating, but I realised it would be safer to be out of range. Neither, I suspected, would give way easily, and both could be unpleasant when their authority was questioned. They were behaving in a way which was unseemly, embarrassing, and Elizabeth was neither of these. Stone had penetrated to a part of her which was never, ever on public view and forced it into the open. He had exposed her, and therefore weakened her. He would not be easily forgiven. I left them as swiftly as possible—not that either was minded to notice—facing each other and, in the most polite way possible, preparing for a battle to the death.

“I thought I would extricate you,” Madame Kollwitz said after we had got into her carriage and lumbered off along the Seine. “I am in fact quite capable of finding my own way home. I have done so on many occasions. But you were staring in a way which was quite impolite, you know.”

“I suppose I was,” I said. “I think that will be the end of it, though.”

She sighed pityingly.

“What have I said now?”

“Do you think a woman like that would ever fight with someone she cared nothing for?”

“But he’s… well, he’s a lot older than she is. Besides, she’s not—well, not the type to…”

“We shall see. Who knows? She may have met her match this time. Mr. Stone does not behave like a lapdog when he is around her. Unlike M. Rouvier, for example. I almost think it is her duty to skin him alive, although I never thought he would be quite so foolish.”

“What do you mean? The Finance Minister?”

“Of course.”

“Isn’t he married?”

She laughed again. “Of course he’s married. What I mean is that he is not rich. And rumour has it he gives her fifty thousand a month.”

“What?”

“Are you really this naïve?”

“I think I must be,” I said—very convincingly, I believe, for the pitying, scornful look came back to her face. “I’m sure none of it can be true.”

“Well,” she said, patting me on the hand, “that’s very sweet of you.”

“But if it was, I mean, where does he get it from? Rouvier, that is.

” She shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Where
might
the Minister of Finance get money from? Difficult one to answer, isn’t it?”

“Is there anything you don’t know?”

“I know nothing about you, young man. But then, maybe you’re not very interesting. Perhaps there is nothing to know.”

“I don’t think there is.”

“Everyone in Paris has a secret, and thinks it is theirs alone. Even my husband thinks I believe him when he says he is going back to the office for an hour.” She said it lightly, but turned her head to look out of the window as she spoke.

“Stick to journalism, Mr. Cort, where you never have to understand anything. Or you will find that Paris is a cruel and pitiless place. And tell that to our mysterious Countess as well. Her novelty is wearing off, and many people will take too much pleasure in seeing her fall.”

I left her at the door to her apartment block, her words echoing in my ears. It was late and I had work to do the next morning. I wanted a good night’s sleep.

CHAPTER
14

I took a gun with me when I went to visit Simon in Belleville. I have mentioned that I did not like them; I still do not. But at that stage I could not call on anyone to assist me in such matters, and Simon was (I recalled) a very big man. I was much more nimble and, I thought, probably more skilled, but if I do have to fight, I prefer the outcome to be beyond all doubt. On such occasions there is little virtue in only just winning.

The meeting, in fact, was quite simple; Simon was totally unskilled in subterfuge. All he had done was rent the room under an assumed name: that was the extent of his precautions. It was a simple matter to wait until I was sure he was at home, then go up the stairs and walk in. It was a dingy boardinghouse, unlit and run-down, which let out rooms to day labourers and itinerants with few questions asked. A place of hopelessness and despair, cold and depressing. Because of the time of day, it was all but deserted; only the concierge was there on the ground floor, and Simon’s room was at the very top of the building, well out of earshot. I would not be disturbed.

“Good morning, Simon. I trust you are well. The Countess has been worrying about you. You really shouldn’t have run off like that, you know. Not without giving her proper notice.”

He stared at me in shock, too dim-witted to understand how easy it had been to find him. My sudden appearance at his door in itself was almost enough to win the battle; he was unnerved from the start and, wisely or not, decided the best response was to say nothing at all. All he could manage, however, was a look of bovine incomprehension that made him appear so stupid it was hard not to burst out laughing.

“May I sit down?” I did not wait for an answer, but occupied the only chair in the room, a rickety thing which felt very insecure. To make a small point, I took out the gun and placed it on the table. Not touching it, but making sure it was pointing in his direction.

“The Countess is concerned you were not paid your last week’s wages,” I said. “So she asked me to pay a visit and make sure you are well.”

He briefly seemed to think that he might be off the hook, despite the gun; then even he realised that there was more to come.

“And she was concerned that you may have inadvertently taken some of her possessions. She wants them back.”

“I didn’t take anything.” He had a low, oddly well-spoken voice; it almost sounded as though it came from a different person entirely.

“Now, Simon, we both know that is not so. I have come to take these things back. In return, I will pay you the wages you are owed.”

He shrugged, his confidence returning. “I have nothing. What are you going to do? Call the police?”

I considered. “No, I think not. You know as well as I do that would be a bad idea.”

“You’re out of luck, then,”

“No. I will shoot you.” I picked up the gun and made a show of checking it was loaded.

“Knees first, elbows second. Where do you want to start?”

I editorialise. I was not calm as I said all this; I was sweating profusely and I only just kept my voice from shaking. That may have helped; it did much, I believe, to convince him that I was serious. A nervous man with a gun is much more dangerous than a calm, reasonable one.

Simon was not overly intelligent, but he was good at calculating his position. He had nothing to gain from resisting. Only stubborn pride might have stopped him from falling in with my wishes.

“Where are those diaries?” I said.

“I don’t have them.”

“But you stole them?”

“She’s no countess.”

“Of course she isn’t,” I replied evenly. “She’s just a whore. You don’t really think that anyone will pay for that, do you? Where are they?”

“Oh, there’s more. There’s much more than that,” he jeered at me. “There’s a lot about her you don’t know.”

“No doubt; but I can’t say it bothers me. Where are they?”

He grinned. “I told you; I don’t have them.”

“Who does?”

“A man. Friend of mine. A good friend. He’s looking after them for me.”

Oh, really! It was late; I was tired. I sighed with exasperation and picked up the gun.

“Who is he?” I repeated.

“Ten thousand,” he said defiantly.

“Just to tell me where they are? You must think I’m a fool.”

“It’s worth that to you, Mr. Cort,” he said. “I’ve been reading about you, as well.”

That was a mistake. I picked up the gun, thought for a moment, then shot him in the leg, the way I had been taught. Simon collapsed onto the floor, gripping his thigh, and screaming; I stuffed a piece of cloth into his mouth and held him down until he stopped, avoiding the spreading pool of blood flowing across the floor as much as possible. I was now entirely calm.

“Who is he?” I said once more.

It took a long time to get it out of him, but what he eventually said made my heart sink. Arnsley Drennan was back in my life. A man calling himself Lefevre, he said. Fifties, fair hair. Thin scar on his face. He had met him in a bar, they’d talked. He’d offered to help, he’d been very persuasive…

I sat down on the chair again, oblivious to his moaning. This was bad news. An opportunist thief turned blackmailer like Simon was a simple problem; Arnsley Drennan was another thing entirely. A much more formidable challenge.

“Where is he?”

Again, it took a long time to get a coherent answer. “I don’t know. I really don’t,” he moaned as I raised the gun in warning. “I told you, I met him in a bar.”

It was the bar where Drennan had taken me once. It was too much to hope he still occupied the same room, but it would be worth trying. I looked at Simon, doubt in my mind. He might tell Drennan of my visit. He knew a very great deal about Elizabeth. And about me.

The building was quiet as I walked down the stairs and into the street a few minutes later. No one paid any attention to the second shot either.

I spent the rest of the day looking for Drennan, but without success. He had long since quitted the rooms where I had first met him. This was the only other thing I learned, but I was not by then at my most effective. I was in a state of shock. I think I have made it clear that I am not a man of action. I do not like violence; it offends me. What I had done terrified me, once it all sank in, even though I tried hard not to think of the scene in that dingy room, the last look on Simon’s face. My lack of emotion was the most frightening of all. I had not hesitated, had not tried to find a way around the problem, had not considered other possibilities. Simon had been in the way. A problem. A threat. He was no longer. I felt no remorse, and I should have; I was not the person I had thought myself to be. I slept that night as well as if I had spent the evening dining in company, with not a care in the world.

CHAPTER
15

The next morning, as I went downstairs to the bar for a coffee and some bread, the barkeeper, who was also my landlord, handed me an envelope. I ignored it for a while, until enough coffee had been absorbed into my system to make me human once again, and only opened it when I felt sure that I would be able to read it through without my attention wandering. It was from Jules.

Dear Mr. Cort,

As you will see, I am writing this to you from Lyon, and I apologise for taking so long about the task you have given me and for spending so much of your money. I wished to see the job properly to an end. I hope you do not mind.

As you instructed, I went to Lausanne, which took a very long time, but then had difficulty finding out about Dr. Stauffer; he was in none of the directories to be found in the town library, even though these were completely up to date. I did eventually come across the name in a listing that was some four years old. I send it enclosed, and hope you do not mind that I tore it out of the library book. I know I am not meant to do that sort of thing. I then went to the house, which is occupied by someone completely different. Dr. Stauffer died some three years ago, it seems.

It took some time before I could find out what he died of, and it appears that he hanged himself and was buried in the municipal cemetery outside the town. A woman in a flower shop told me the story. Dr. Stauffer had never recovered from the murder of his wife, she said, and eventually found life too much. The newspapers told me a little more, when I read them in the library. He died in 1887, and Madame Stauffer was murdered in 1885. According to the newspapers, she was killed by a servant called Elizabeth Lemercier. She had been taken in by the family and had been showered with every kindness. But, it seems, she had a naturally criminal temper and turned on her mistress, stabbing her to death with a knife from the kitchen. She then fled and was never seen again, but I came across a report that she had been sighted in Lyon, which is why I am now here, trying to discover the truth. I hope you do not consider I am going beyond your instructions.

I found a woman who had worked in the Stauffer family. It took some time and a lot of your money, but eventually she talked to me. I had to tell her that I was an assistant reporter on
The Times;
I added that I would be dismissed from my job if I did not produce the information you needed, as you were a horrid man and this made her more helpful. I apologise for this.

She told me the newspapers had left out quite a lot of the story to spare what little remained of Dr. Stauffer’s reputation. She said the servant Lemercier had seduced the doctor, that he had given her expensive presents and that the wife had eventually found out. When Madame Stauffer confronted them, and threatened to report the girl—apparently you can be sent to gaol, or an asylum, for such behaviour here—she lashed out with the knife, and fled. The town collectively concluded that Dr. Stauffer was in the wrong to conduct such an affair in the family home (although I think what they meant was that he was wrong to have it discovered) and so concluded that he could not be invited for dinner anymore. It was this neglect which caused him, eventually, to hang himself.

The report that Lemercier had fled to Lyon was not, as far as I can tell, based on anything solid. The idea came from the fact that a citizen of Lausanne was found dead in an inexpensive hotel in the city, and because he had been a friend of the Stauffer family. I believe that the journalist who wrote the story may have exaggerated in order to make his report more interesting. However, now I am here, I can tell you that the hotel in which the man—a Mr. Franz Wichmann, who died aged forty-six—was found does seem to be a house of ill-repute. This was not part of the newspaper report.

Here I must apologise for the way in which I was forced to spend some of your money, sir. I do hope you will forgive me. But I went to this hotel all unknowing and it was not until I was inside that I began to realise what sort of place it was. By then the woman who runs it had demanded money of me, and I had paid her, thinking that I was renting a room. It was only when I was asked to choose a girl that I realised my mistake.

I looked up and grinned. Truly Jules was a very poor liar; but I had a sneaking admiration for his cheek.

Naturally, I was horrified, but I decided to disguise my shock, in order to be able to ask questions. So I told the old woman that I wished to wait, and asked to talk a bit. She took this to be a sign of nervousness—and I was really not very comfortable—and got one of the girls to join me.

I will not go into the details, if you do not mind, but we talked for some time. She was really very nice. And she remembered the death of Mr. Wichmann very well. Not surprisingly, perhaps, as the house was closed down by the police for a while, and all the people who worked there had to find their work on the streets, which they do not like very much.

The girl involved was called Virginie—none of them have second names—but she knew little else about her. They do not talk very much about their lives, it seems. Mr. Wichmann was not a regular visitor, he came once and went with one of the girls, and apparently glimpsed Virginie as he left. He was found the next morning in his room dead, with a knife wound through his heart. Virginie had vanished.

At least, this is what that girl said. The girl Virginie was never seen again, and I do not think the police looked very hard for her. She was, by all accounts, quiet and very well behaved. She associated little with her colleagues, but preferred to sit and read while waiting for a client. She was not very popular with them, as they gained the impression she considered herself better than they were.

I hope, Mr. Cort, that you do not consider that I have wasted my time and your money in finding all this out, and that you approve of my efforts. I will take the train back tomorrow morning.

I burned the letter, once I had read it carefully; I do not keep stray pieces of paper around if they are not needed. Then I sat and thought. The connection, from Elizabeth Lemercier to Virginie to Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala was easy for me to see. And if all of this, or enough of this, was in the diary, Elizabeth was correct to be worried. If Jules had got the story right, then she could face the guillotine.

But there was no time to do anything today, nor anything to do. I had to wait for Drennan to resurface; I was dependent on him. Still, I thought about the problem carefully as I made my way to Longchamp after lunch. I was not looking forward to it. I hate horse racing; I have never seen the point of it. Horses I like—I used to go riding quite often when I stayed with the Campbells in Scotland in my youth—and there are few finer experiences than getting up on a good horse at dawn, and riding off over the moors. The beasts have their own personalities; they really can become your friend, if you know how to deal with them. But racing around a course, with thousands of overdressed, pampered spectators shouting them on? The animals are so much more worthy than the people, who generally have little interest in the horses at all. They are there to be there, to be seen and to waste money. My day at Longchamp was not for pleasure.

I had a frantic morning gathering more information on François Hubert than M. Steinberg had been able to give me. And I was still in a state of shock over my encounter with Simon. It had deeply disturbed me; I did not see what else I could have done, but the ease with which I came to that conclusion, and acted on it, I found unsettling in the extreme. So, with François Hubert I was sloppy; I allowed myself to pay far too much for trivial information, gave away too much, because I was in a hurry and overtired.

My efforts at least produced enough to make me confident of success. M. Hubert was the head of the bonds department at Credit International; it was he who oversaw the bank’s participation in loan issues, who determined what stake they would take. All very well; most large banks now have such people and they are growing in importance. That in itself was not a great deal of use. More important was the information that M. Hubert liked gambling far too much for a man in his position, and that he liked a whole succession of women more than a married man should. Put those together and you had a picture of someone deeply in debt and, naturally, you begin to wonder where the money was coming from. Such a person can be persuaded to answer questions with no great difficulty.

There was, of course, the problem of finding him. I had read my Zola and remembered well the scene in
Nana,
the description of the vast crowds, the innumerable carriages from fiacres to hay wagons, the masses, the bourgeoisie, the
gratin,
all in their different costumes with their different manners, milling about and brought together by the desire to gamble. I anticipated difficulties, saw myself pushing through the throngs, and never even glimpsing my quarry. I had considered asking Elizabeth to come with me so I could tell her about Simon at the same time as I looked, not that she would have accepted.

The idea had a certain charm; she was the Nana of her age, but very much more sophisticated and self-assured. Not for her the fate of Zola’s whore, who was created solely so that her fall could be charted, to prove the cruelty of human life. Elizabeth had dedicated herself to proving the opposite, that the individual could triumph, that fate is not determined. I wished her well. And I worried about the warning given to me by Madame Kollwitz. And about those diaries. And about Drennan.

But Elizabeth hated horses, she had told me once, and disliked gambling. She did not take chances; that was her main characteristic. She was no Nana, consuming men for the sake of it, reducing them to poverty or suicide because she could. She belonged to a different generation, the age of business. She bought and sold, and built up her capital. Clear-eyed and certainly more intelligent than Zola’s creation, and certainly less likely to die alone in a hotel room. Elizabeth did not intend to burn brightly and die young.

In fact, the problem of finding M. Hubert was very much smaller than I had anticipated. Zola (who can never resist the gaudy and vulgar) described one of the great events of the racing year, which attracted the multitudes. For the most part, though, Longchamp was very much more homespun; the daily events attracted only the truly dedicated, or the truly possessed. Some of the horses looked as though they would rather be living out their old age in a pleasant meadow somewhere, and at least three of the jockeys might have done better by their employers had they eaten a good deal less. All in all, the atmosphere was more like a village fête than a great racecourse; the crowd numbered a few hundred, and the bookies had turned up out of duty, rather than because of any prospect of making serious money. The great refreshment areas were all closed; the stands were empty; there was no buzz of anticipation. Indeed, the air was rather a melancholy one, the spectators knowing they were not going to be greatly excited, and realising all too well that they were there simply because they could not stay away. Nor was it even an agreeable day, with a warm sun to provide some compensation for the lack of other pleasures. Instead, the sky was low and grey, and threatened rain at any moment; the wind had a chill in it, which made me regret not having brought my thicker winter coat.

For the most part, the crowd was of the shopkeeper class, with an air of desperation to their neatness, faces which were never quite right—too pinched, too ruddy, their voices too loud or too quiet. I observed them all swiftly, and dismissed them just as fast. Only one man could possibly have been a senior employee of Credit International, and he stood alone, studying his racing card with the calm of the professional, showing no emotion or interest in what he was doing. He was utterly unremarkable; had there been a greater crowd I would have stood no chance whatsoever of finding him. I watched as he approached a bookie, paid over some money, heaved a great sigh and then retreated, though not to watch the race. His interest was abstract; it seemed as though he could spend the entire afternoon there without bothering to look at a single horse. He was obsessed with numbers, not with the sport.

I followed him as he walked away from the track, hands behind his back, with a slow purposeless gait, then walked up behind him and coughed. “Monsieur Hubert?”

He turned round to look at me, but did not smile or give any reaction. He didn’t even seem curious.

“Forgive me for interrupting you,” I said. “My name is Cort, from
The Times
in London. I would like to ask you some questions, if I may.”

Hubert looked puzzled. “I am sure you may not,” he replied. “Although I cannot think what you might want to ask.”

“It is about Argentinian water.”

Hubert looked very cautious at my question. “I have nothing to tell you whatsoever. It would be utterly inappropriate.”

“I assure you that your name will never be mentioned—”

“That is of no significance. Please leave me in peace.”

“—however, if I am unable to write this story, I might have to write another one. About Amelie Feltmann. Your debts. Things like that.”

He stared at me in total shock. This, I thought, was simply too easy; the man was pathetic. He could at least put up more of a struggle. I wasn’t even going to have to pay him.

“Oh, dear God,” he said, with a tremble in his voice. “Who are you?”

“As I say, I work for
The Times.
I am writing an article on French banking. And I want to know everything—I mean everything—about the Argentinian bond issue. You are going to tell me.”

I had expected a few moments of bargaining, at least, but instead he just crumpled up, hands shaking.

“I knew something like this would happen, sooner or later,” he said. “I just knew it…”

“Well, you were right,” I replied brutally. “It has. So just count yourself lucky that all I want is harmless information, nothing else.”