House of the Hanged (14 page)

This was Leonard's first contribution for a while, and it drew a hearty chuckle from Walter.

‘It's an old Foreign Office expression,' Leonard explained.

‘Meaning?' Walter asked.

‘Tact and discretion at all times. Not two of Barnaby's strongest suits.'

‘How can you say that? I never breathed a word to anyone when I saw you rolling drunk at the St James's Club last month.'

Ilse clapped her hands together, delighted by the comeback. ‘Very good,' she said. ‘Very good.' When Barnaby beamed at her, Tom recognized the glint in his eye – that of a predator closing in on its supper.

After some senseless chatter about the King's Jubilee, the exact nature of Lady Ashley's role in the divorce suit brought against Douglas Fairbanks by Mary Pickford, and the recent infestation of rats at the Royal Opera House, the talk turned – as it was no doubt doing all over Europe – to the possibility of another war.

The table was divided between those who thought it inevitable, those who thought it highly unlikely, and Venetia, who opined drily that it wouldn't even be an issue if there were more women as heads of state.

‘You mean like Catherine the Great of Russia who went to war with the Ottoman Empire and annexed the Crimea by force?'

Venetia's eyes narrowed at this challenge from Lucy, but she decided against a public spat with her daughter, turning instead to Leonard and saying, ‘I told you we should never have let her study history at Oxford.'

Barnaby had gone with the views of his employer at the
Evening Standard
, Lord Beaverbrook, who felt that Chancellor Hitler was no longer a man to be trusted, now that he'd started rearming the country – ‘Although I'm thinking of popping over to Nuremberg in September to see for myself what all the fuss is about.'

‘Why on earth would you want to do that?' Tom asked.

‘Because Unity Mitford is such a pretty thing,' quipped Venetia.

‘That foolish girl, and her silly sister,' muttered Leonard.

‘Actually, it wasn't Unity's idea. Old Sigismundo, the press attaché at the German Embassy, invited me – all expenses paid, with a trip to Karlsbad thrown in.'

Ilse spat something incomprehensible to her brother in German before rounding on Barnaby. ‘If you go to the
Parteitag
I will never forgive you.'

It was good to see Barnaby rendered speechless for once, weighing the pleasing prospect of a roll in the hay against a free holiday.

‘Hitler has started to kill his political enemies,' Ilse went on. ‘Do you think he will stop with them? No. This is just the beginning.'

‘It is the same in Russia,' said Fanya. ‘Everyone knows Stalin was behind the murder of Sergei Kirov.'

‘And that monster has killed sixty more of the Central Committee this year,' added Yevgeny.

This was news to most of them, but Leonard confirmed that there did indeed appear to be some truth in the rumours leaking out of Soviet Russia about Stalin's ruthless purge of his opponents within the Party following Kirov's murder.

‘My God,' said Barnaby, ‘do you think the Webbs know?'

‘Sidney and Beatrice Webb, like most English intellectuals, are quite divorced from reality. One closely guided tour of the Soviet Union with lots of smiling workers on show and they're running around saying they've seen the future of Civilization.'

It was one of Leonard's bugbears: the myopic zealotry of some of the country's ablest minds. Yes, capitalism had been dealt a blow by the financial crisis of 1929, but to blindly lunge for answers in the tyrannies of left and right was little short of madness. Did democracy and freedom count for nothing when set against totalitarian regimes which were revealing themselves to be increasingly homicidal? We were infected with a morbid anxiety – how could we not be when newspapers like Barnaby's had spent the past five years telling us we were all going to hell in a handcart? – but it behoved us to look beyond this collective malaise to the bigger picture; we owed it to ourselves to keep things in perspective.

It was a subject on which Leonard could work himself into quite a lather, but he held himself in check on this occasion, curious to hear from Klaus and Ilse what was really going on in Germany. ‘Surely the German people don't want another war.'

‘Read Klaus's book,' replied Ilse. ‘The German people are sick and they are weak. They will go where they are told to go.'

Klaus was keen to point out that he couldn't speak for all Germans, but he knew Bavaria well. He and Ilse had been brought up in the mountains south of Munich, near Oberammergau, and he talked with engaging frankness about the hardworking, generous and happy folk of that region, of their fondness for apple wine, their kindness to strangers, and their love of children and animals. He offered a touching little tale by way of illustration. Two winters back, when the harsh mountain weather had come early, catching out the late migrating birds, the local people had collected together thousands upon thousands of shivering, weary swallows doomed to die, transporting them in wooden crates to Munich and paying for them to be flown by airplane across the Tirol to Venice, from where they could continue their journey south to Africa.

His point was this: they were good people, and like good people everywhere, they had fought bravely in wars with almost no understanding of why they were required to slay their fellow man. Their greatest strength was their
Pfilchtgefühl
– which Ilse translated for their benefit as ‘sense of duty' – but it was also their greatest weakness, if hijacked by another.

‘Were you in Munich last June,' Leonard enquired, ‘when Hitler had Ernst Röhm and the others rounded up and killed?'

Klaus nodded grimly.

‘I would very much like to discuss it with you at more length . . . although now is possibly not the time.'

‘Now is
definitely
not the time,' put in Venetia. ‘All this talk of dictators and impending war and murder is not only deeply depressing, it's playing havoc with my appetite.'

‘It is the world we live in,' pronounced Yevgeny.

‘Is that so? Then what, may I ask, is this?' replied Venetia tersely, spreading her arms to embrace their surroundings. ‘Is this not life, too? A perfect Mediterranean night, a sky sown with stars, delicious cheese and excellent wine laid on by a charming host whom we all love. Does none of this count for anything?'

She was maybe a glass or two off slurring her words, which meant anything could happen. As it was, she raised her wine glass.

‘To poor Monsieur Montalivet – victim of the modern age – thank you for the claret you laid down, the terrace you built, the view you cherished. Something tells me that others will one day be sitting here enjoying just the same things long after we are gone and the likes of Chancellor Hitler and his thugs are mouldering in their miserable graves.'

‘Bravo,' called Chantal from the far end of the table. ‘I'd vote for you,' seconded Barnaby. ‘In fact, I think you should consider standing in the next General Election. Baldwin's sure to call one soon.'

‘And what shall we name our new Party?'

‘I propose the Ostrich Party,' suggested Leonard drily.

Venetia turned to him. ‘My dear, we may have our heads buried in the sand . . .'

‘. . . but at least our arses are in the air,' chipped in Barnaby.

Walter gave a loud laugh. ‘Now that's what I call a political slogan!'

Venetia had her way, the conversation taking a more light-hearted and anecdotal turn as the cheese course gave way to dessert, then coffee and liqueurs.

The evening began to break up around midnight, Benoît and Chantal the first to depart, faced with a long and twisting drive back to Le Lavandou. They were soon followed by Yevgeny, Fanya, Walter, Klaus and Ilse – the contingent from Le Canadel. Leonard, Venetia and Lucy insisted on helping clear the table, carrying everything through to the kitchen, before they too disappeared into the darkness.

True to form, Barnaby had wanted to stretch the night out as long as possible over a bottle of whisky, but Tom had pleaded exhaustion after one glass of single malt, going through the motions of taking himself off to bed, only to creep back downstairs again once the deep rattle of Barnaby's snoring had begun to reverberate through the house.

Three hours later, safely barricaded in his study, Tom was beyond exhaustion, his pinching eyes heavy for sleep but his feverish thoughts twisting themselves into dark and demonic shapes.

Dinner had now taken on the guise of the Last Supper, and seated somewhere at the table was his own private Judas. He was more convinced than ever that the Italian had been briefed as to the layout of the villa, which meant that he had been betrayed by someone close to him. Which one of them, though? The distorting glass of suspicion made it possible to construct a case, however improbable, for everyone who'd been present that evening – all except Lucy. He didn't even attempt to pull her into the pattern.

There was definitely something coming off Leonard, though; there had been all day. Tom had worked with him long enough to know that he was holding something back. What though? And why wasn't he willing to share it?

He struggled with Klaus and Ilse, but even they could be made to fit the mould. It wasn't the first time they had visited the villa; he had invited them for dinner with Yevgeny and Fanya two weeks ago, and on that occasion they'd shown themselves very eager to be given a thorough tour of the house. Too eager? What did he know of them? What did anyone really know of them? They had materialized from nowhere with a convincing tale of hardship and woe, but with no one to vouch for them. Were they even brother and sister? There was no obvious physical resemblance. Ilse was almost as tall as Klaus, and as blonde as he was dark.

‘Pull yourself together, man,' he said suddenly.

He stopped his pacing, lit yet another cigarette and dropped on to the divan.

He had to keep a grip. The night-time could have this effect on him, inflating his bleakest thoughts until they pressed against his skull. Things would take on their true proportion come daybreak; they always did.

All he had to do was stay awake for another hour or two.

The bell was attached to a large metal buoy streaked with rust that dipped and curtseyed on a choppy sea.

Tom was alone in a rowing boat, naked from the waist down, wrestling with the oars. Seawater lapped around his ankles, and high overhead gulls wheeled on stirless wings against a windy sky of cerulean blue flecked with cotton-wool clouds. The birds seemed to be circling directly above him, tracking his slow progress towards the buoy.

The bell fell strangely silent, although a quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the buoy was still rocking wildly.

How was that possible?

Aware that he was shipping water and sinking fast, he pulled harder on the oars, but he might just as well have been rowing through treacle for all the good it seemed to do him.

Desperate, he looked towards the distant coastline with its familiar landmarks, calculating his chances of swimming for shore, dismissing it as an option almost immediately. The buoy was his only hope. And only now did he realize what it was doing there. It marked the exact spot where he had put the Italian over the side of the dinghy.

He could hear the bell again, no longer tolling to guide him in, but to warn him off . . .

Tom snapped awake, sitting bolt upright, wild-eyed.

The door bell.

And another noise: the Beretta clattering to the floor. He stared at it, getting his bearings.

He had fallen asleep on the divan, the gun on his lap, and judging by the sunlight leaking through the cracks in the shutters, he'd been under for quite a while. Almost six hours, according to the clock on the mantelpiece. That couldn't be right!

He stood up, recovering the pistol from the floor. He wasn't expecting anyone, but neither did assassins tend to present themselves in daylight at one's front door. He slipped the weapon out of sight behind a cushion.

A pair of buttocks, white and hairless, confronted him in the entrance hall.

Barnaby, quite naked except for a hand towel clutched modestly to his privates, was reaching for the handle of the front door.

‘Barnaby, don't –' Tom called, too late.

Barnaby pulled open the door. ‘
Bonjour
,' he growled. ‘
Bonjour, monsieur
,' came back a male voice. ‘
Est-ce que Monsieur Nash est là?
'

‘He most certainly is. In fact he's right
là
,' replied Barnaby, turning and pointing. ‘I'm going back to bed,' he mumbled to Tom as he shuffled off towards the staircase. ‘Don't wake me.'

Standing on the threshold against the glare of the sun was a small cock-robin of a man, barrel-chested and besuited. What remained of his hair was artistically heaped over his florid cranium.

‘May I help you?' Tom asked in French.

‘Commissaire Roche, from Le Lavandou.'

Not just any old policeman, the Commissaire, the top dog – strange enough in itself, but even stranger that he was alone.

‘I wonder if I might beg a few minutes of your time.'

The words had a ring of bogus cordiality about them. ‘What's it concerning?' asked Tom. ‘It shouldn't take long.'

Tom stepped aside. ‘Of course. Please . . . come in.'

‘Thank you.'

Closing the door, Tom saw his general dishevelment reflected back at him in the Commissaire's quick, appraising glance: the sleep-tousled hair, the creased clothes, and probably a creased face to go with it.

‘Forgive me, I was working late and fell asleep at my desk.'

‘I hear you're an author.'

‘That's right.'

‘Do you mind if we stick with French? My English is lamentable.'

‘As you wish,' said Tom.

He led Commissaire Roche through to the drawing room, pulling open a couple of the French windows that gave on to the terrace. Sunlight slanted into the room, splashing the yellow Samarkand rug.

‘You have a beautiful home,' said Roche. ‘I'm obviously in the wrong job.'

‘May I offer you a coffee?'

He needed time to think, to gather his wits about him. He also needed his morning dose of caffeine if he was going to get through this.

‘Thank you. I had an early start this morning.'

‘Make yourself at home. I won't be long.'

Commissaire Roche took him at his word. When Tom returned from the kitchen with the tray, he found the door to his study open and Roche making a lazy tour of the room. Tom cursed himself. The back of the chair was still jammed under the handle of the door leading to the dining room. It was unlikely that this detail had escaped the scrutiny of the Commissaire's alert little eyes, with their curious bird-like blink.

‘You have a lot of books. Have you read them all?'

‘Most. Some of them are for show.'

Roche laughed. ‘I like that. Honesty's a good quality in a man,' he added with a slight barb.

‘Shall we . . .?' suggested Tom.

Tom was pouring the coffee in the drawing room when the Commissaire revealed the purpose of his visit. ‘I'm investigating a missing persons case.'

For a terrible moment, it occurred to Tom that Roche was speaking of Hélène, that she had somehow become caught up in the affair. He fought to keep the panic from his face, and also the relief when the Commissaire continued: ‘An Italian gentleman who's staying at the Hôtel de la Réserve. That's to say, he was, until the night before last, when he disappeared suddenly.'

This is what Tom had been expecting, and he was prepared. ‘I was at La Réserve only yesterday.'

‘Yes, I know – for breakfast.'

‘That's right.'

‘And how often do you take your breakfast there, Mr Nash?'

It was clear from the casual nature of the question that he already knew the answer.

‘Rarely,' Tom replied.

Roche made a show of pulling a black pocketbook from the leather folder he was carrying, along with a gold drop-pencil. ‘Rarely,' he repeated slowly, writing it down. Then looking up: ‘How rarely?'

‘I'm not sure. Three or four times a year.'

‘Three or four?' Roche threw in an apologetic smile. ‘Forgive me, I'm a very meticulous man – infuriatingly so, my wife would say.'

‘Three.'

Roche wrote it down. ‘And why did you choose yesterday of all days to have breakfast there?'

Tom repeated the story he had fabricated for Olivier, the manager at La Réserve: that for the next few weeks he was going to be run off his feet looking after house guests, and he needed a quiet moment alone.

‘The gentleman who just answered the door seemed quite capable of looking after himself.'

‘I'm sorry, I don't understand your meaning.'

‘No meaning intended. A simple observation. When did he arrive, the naked man?'

You're right
, thought Tom,
you are in the wrong job. There are interrogators at the SIS who could learn a trick or two from you.

‘Yesterday evening.'

Commissaire Roche wrote it down. Commissaire Roche wrote everything down as he continued to niggle and probe, demanding to know Tom's every move from the moment he had arrived at the hotel.

It didn't make sense. Roche was handling him with a conviction and surety of purpose far beyond any knowledge he could possibly possess. He was either a genius, or he was holding back a trump. As the conversation wore on, Tom began to fear that both were true.

The answer came a short while later, with the trilling of the telephone.

‘Do you mind?' Tom asked.

‘Please . . .'

Tom made for the console table beside the baby grand and picked up the receiver. ‘Villa Martel.'

‘Tom, it's me.' It was Olivier, and he sounded agitated. ‘Is Commissaire Roche with you?'

‘Good morning, Leonard,' Tom replied in English.

‘I thought so. He was here at the hotel asking all kinds of questions about you and the Italian guest who's gone missing. His colleague's still here. I managed to slip away.'

‘Yes, it was a most enjoyable evening,' said Tom.

‘Look, I don't know what's going on, but they have a photo of you.'

A photo? What photo?

‘No, I've only just got up,' said Tom.

‘I just wanted to warn you.'

‘Can I call you back? I have the police here right now . . . That's right . . . I don't know, I think they suspect I killed one of the guests down at La Réserve.' He gave a little chuckle for effect. ‘I know, I should have covered my tracks more carefully.'

‘I'd better go,' said Olivier, confused by the charade being played out in English at the other end of the line.

‘Okay, I'll see you down at the beach later – assuming, of course, that I'm not in jail.'

He hung up and turned to Commissaire Roche. ‘I'm sorry. Where were we?'

As Tom suspected, Roche had not only been listening in on the conversation, he had understood every word of it.

‘I'm not accusing you of murder, Mr Nash.'

Tom deposited himself back in the armchair. ‘I'm pleased to hear it.'

‘How could I possibly accuse you of murder when there is no body, no weapon, and no sign of any struggle?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘I'm just doing my job, gathering together as many facts as possible about Signore Minguzzi, if that indeed is his real name.'

‘I understand, but I'm still not sure where I fit in.'

‘I believe Signore Minguzzi's name came up in conversation between you and Monsieur Perret, the hotel manager, while you were having your breakfast on the terrace.'

‘Did it?'

‘That, at least, is what Monsieur Perret told me.' Roche flicked back through is pocketbook, searching for the scribbled entry. ‘Yes, here it is.'

‘Now I think of it, Olivier did mention an Italian who had taken an interest in one of the female guests. She was Swiss, I think.'

‘She still is,' joked Roche awkwardly. ‘Frau Wissmann is her name.'

‘If you say so.'

‘She passed by your table when you were talking to Monsieur Perret.'

‘I remember seeing her – an attractive woman.'

‘And do you also remember saying to Monsieur Perret that you thought you might have seen Signore Minguzzi driving about the place in his car?'

Christ, Roche had drained every drop from poor Olivier.

‘It turned out I was wrong. It must have been another Italian-looking gentleman. Olivier said this . . . Minguzzi arrived by train.'

‘So, as far as you know, you have never set eyes on Signore Minguzzi.'

‘No. Never.'

Roche sat back in his armchair, scrutinizing Tom. ‘You intrigue me, Mr Nash. You're either very patient for putting up with my tedious questions, or you're hiding something from me. I can't decide which it is.'

He was right; Tom had mishandled the situation. An innocent man would have shown more indignation at this unwarranted intrusion into his life.

‘I'm not hiding anything from you, Commissaire Roche.'

‘So how then do you explain this?'

Roche reached into the leather folder and removed a black-and-white photograph, which he then laid on the low table between them.

It was a photograph of Tom, in profile, seated somewhere outdoors on a sunny day. He was smiling and there was a cigarette smouldering between his lips.

‘It's me,' he said pointlessly, while desperately trying to place the image.

‘It was hidden in the lining of Signore Minguzzi's suitcase.'

Tom was furious with himself for having missed it when he searched the Italian's room, but even more angry with Minguzzi for his sheer bloody amateurishness.

‘His suitcase? How is that possible?'

‘How indeed?'

‘It doesn't make sense.'

‘Nevertheless, there is an explanation, there has to be. It's simply a question of wheedling it out.' Roche paused. ‘Maybe you have an idea of when and where the photograph was taken, and even by whom.'

Tom shook his head, but it was coming to him now, coming on a chill, chill wind.

‘I would say it's fairly recent, wouldn't you?' prompted Roche.

‘Yes, but not this year.'

‘Oh . . .?'

‘The shirt I'm wearing, I tore it last September and threw it out,' Tom lied.

‘Last summer, then?' suggested Roche.

‘It's possible. But I couldn't tell you where it was taken, or who took it.'

‘It's a pity the background's out of focus.'

If the background was out of focus it was only because the photographer had known exactly what he was doing, narrowing the depth of field to blur out everything other than his intended subject. It was the work of a gifted photographer, a professional, and this was enough to confirm Tom's building suspicion.

He wanted to be mistaken, but he knew he wasn't. He remembered the day vividly – a glorious Saturday back in May.

‘I'm sorry I can't be of more help,' said Tom, handing over the photograph.

Roche hesitated, skewering him with a look before taking it off him and slipping it into the folder. ‘Well, thank you for your time,' he said, getting to his feet.

Tom accompanied the Commissaire to his car.

‘I'm sure it'll all become clear once Signore Minguzzi reappears.'

Roche stopped and turned. ‘Something tells me he's not going to. You see, he left everything behind, including a considerable sum of cash.'

‘Strange.'

‘Indeed, but I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of it. There's nothing I like better than a good conundrum.'

I can believe it
, thought Tom, extending his hand. Roche's grip was firm and he seemed reluctant to let go at first, almost as if the physical contact offered him some pathway to Tom's most private thoughts.

‘I'll keep you abreast of any developments.'

‘Thank you, I'd appreciate it.'