In Spite of Thunder (2 page)

Its massive oppressiveness lay unbroken. Dim lights from corners shone on arsenic-green furniture, on much gilding, and on naked goddesses carved and painted in plaster. Audrey, throwing handbag and wrap on a table, faced him with a mood in which curiosity struggled against defiance.

“Audrey, when and where did you meet this woman?”

“Oh, good heavens, does it
matter
?”

“Probably not, but we’d better have the record straight. When and where did you meet her?”

“I met her in London last winter. She was there with her husband, going to all the theatres. And her husband is Desmond Ferrier, if you know who
he
is?”

“Yes. I know who he is, and I know those two were married during the war.”

“Well, I can’t say
I
did at first. In the old days, it seems, Mr. Ferrier was as famous a star of the legitimate stage as Eve was on the screen. Though I’m afraid I’d never even heard of him except in a vague sort of way.”

“That’s not surprising. Desmond Ferrier was a great actor; there’s never been a better Othello or Macbeth. You’re too young to remember him.”

“Young! Young! Young!”

(And yet it’s true, my dear. You are twenty-seven and look much younger; I am forty-six and look older. It’s damnably and undeniably true.)

A car whushed past in the street outside, making dim lights vibrate. Audrey hurried to one window and glanced out; the car did not stop, and she returned to the table.

“I don’t think Eve and Mr. Ferrier get on very well. They’re both retired, and they don’t like it. Anyway,” Audrey lifted one shoulder, “I was telling you about meeting her. Eve took a tremendous fancy to me. She invited me to visit her at any time I liked. Later she began writing to me, and three weeks ago she set a definite date. That’s all there is to it.”

“She invited you to the villa, and yet you’re putting up here at this hotel?”

“Of course! Naturally!”

“I don’t quite follow you.”

“It’s a sort of party, with other guests too; it doesn’t begin until tomorrow. Well! Considering how my father spies on me, naturally I—I sneaked the chance to have twenty-four hours on my own. But Phil ’phoned and asked me to dinner, so of course I said yes.”

“Phil?”

“Philip Ferrier.” The soft voice rose up. “He’s Desmond Ferrier’s son by a previous marriage. I met him in London too, if you insist on knowing.
He’s
serious-minded, and
he
doesn’t laugh at me; and he’s nice and rather thrilling too.”

“Good for Phil.” (Another car whushed past outside; Audrey turned her head.) “You’re anxiously awaiting him, I take it?”

“Yes, I am! Really, Brian, what are all these questions in aid of?”

“Nothing at all. I was trying to find some connection, where admittedly none exists, between a villa in the hills towards Chambéry and something that happened above Berchtesgaden in July of ’39.”

“Berchtesgaden?” Audrey cried.

“Yes. At the famous
Kehlsteinhaus
, Hitler’s ‘Eagle’s Nest’ high up at the southeastern end of the Bavarian Alps. That’s where somebody’s brain turned. That’s where Hector Matthews died.”

Neither he nor Audrey had sat down. Though he pressed the bell to summon a waiter, it was not answered; only the naked goddesses yearned down from the ceiling as though regretting they were immured there.

And Brian made a baffled gesture.

“I can tell you very briefly what happened,” he said. “But it won’t mean much unless you understand the mood, the background, the atmosphere: as many microphones as there were flags and banners, and mobs roaring, ‘Sig heil!’ like the delirium of that whole summer.

“Even then it won’t help without some knowledge of the human motives behind this woman’s behaviour. What prompted her? What did she think she was doing? And that’s where I bog down.

“Your friend Eve couldn’t have been any older then than you are now. She was at the peak of a fairly successful Hollywood career. Early in June she visited Germany. Immediately she began praising the New Order right and left.

“The New Order loved it. In addition to being a well-built blonde, she spoke very good German for an Englishwoman. They’d never dreamed of such propaganda and they couldn’t do enough for her. She was all over the newspapers, the newsreels, the magazines. She seldom took a step without being photographed on the arm of a Nazi V.I.P.

“A publicity stunt? Possibly. But some people doubted it.

“First, it wasn’t doing her career any good outside Germany. Second, I understand that in private life she tries hard to be the sort of character she usually played on stage and screen: voluptuous, world-weary, all that. Except for some reason far stronger than a publicity stunt, she’d never have gone about saying that woman’s place is in the home and that man ought to grab all the limelight from her.”

Brian hesitated, glancing sideways.

“You’ve met her, Audrey. Does that strike you as being a fair estimate?”

“No, it’s not fair! It’s making her sound like a bundle of affectations.”

“And isn’t she a bundle of affectations?”

“Well … maybe. Why ever is it so important?”

Here Audrey’s gaze slid away from him.

“The clue, if it is a clue, must lie with Hector Matthews. In the middle of all this turmoil and heiling, while Eve made a tour of the Fatherland, Matthews went with her.

“I can’t give you much information about him except what’s in the official record. A self-made man, a Yorkshireman, a hard-headed man. Bachelor, aged fifty-eight: a food-faddist who never ate breakfast and wanted to tell you all about it.

“His hosts laughed at him and slapped him on the back and welcomed him. You’ll see his bowler hat at the edge of every photograph. When they presented her with a bouquet of flowers or a consecrated flag, he carried it for her. When a brown-shirt or a black-shirt got too attentive towards her, his jaw was there too.

“He was the most devoted of her worshippers. He was also the richest. It was known he had followed her to Germany because she begged him to. However, few people knew that before leaving England he had made a will in her favour.”

Audrey took a step back beside the table.

“A will? Are you insinuating …?”

“No. I’m telling you what happened. At Munich, where she ended her tour, Miss Eden said that she and Mr. Matthews were engaged to be married.

“Though the hosts may not have been too pleased, they slapped
her
on the back and shouted congratulations. Were they to announce this? Not yet, she said: she and Mr. Matthews were being reticent for the moment. Well, then! She had done great service for the New Order: couldn’t they give her an engagement-present or show their gratitude in some way?

“Oh, yes, please! She said there was the very best of presents. Could she and Mr. Matthews pay their respects to the Führer himself? They were at Munich, no great distance away. Might they visit Hitler himself in his mountain-eyrie at Berchtesgaden?

“That did it. The Führer, much flattered, invited them to lunch.

“Fourteen guests, escorted by Scharführer Hans Johst, made up a party for that visit. With the exception of the engaged couple and of two additional guests (both reluctant guests, both British too), the names of the other ten visitors don’t matter. All were Nazi security-police who later died by violence. You need picture them only as gaudy uniforms and would-be jovial smiles.

“But we can follow every detail of what happened.

“A fleet of cars carried them to the
Gasthof züm Türken
, Hitler’s guest-house partway up the mountain. They spent one night there. Next morning they drove on up a winding road to the Wendeplatte. When they got up inside the Eagle’s Nest, taking the famous lift built smack through a mountain, they found it wasn’t cold at that season. Clear sunlight, exhilarating air, rolling ridges of trees spread out below: you picture it, don’t you?

“Everybody was in excellent spirits except Hector Matthews, who seemed to be distressed by the thinner air at that altitude. The camera (eternally the camera!) shows a very tall man with scanty hair blowing, and an unhappy look on his face.

“No matter! It was all in fun.

“While the guests waited for Inimitable Adolf in a big room overlooking a part of the terrace, Miss Eden seized her fiancé by the hand and dragged him out on the terrace to admire the view. They were all alone there, some say out of sight and some say not, beside a rather low parapet above a sheer drop.

“Then somebody screamed. It may have been the woman, or it may have been Matthews himself when he went over.

“Anyway, he pitched over head-first and was smashed to death in a pine-tree some hundred-odd feet below. They could see what remained of him when they ran out on the terrace and looked down.

“Scharführer Hans Johst supported Miss Eden, who was leaning against the parapet in a state of near-collapse. One witness, not a Nazi sympathizer and not precisely a strong admirer of the lady herself, is inclined to think her shock and horror were quite genuine. At that moment she hadn’t any affectations, or seemed to have none.

“‘I did not know,’ she kept saying. ‘Dear God, I did not know. It was the altitude. He turned white and dizzy. I could not help him. Dear God, it was the altitude!’

“Scharführer Johst, portentously solemn and tender, spoke out and said of course it was the altitude. He said this was a most regrettable accident; he said he had seen it happen. Two other voices chorused out and said
they
had seen it happen. Eve Eden fainted in Scharführer Johst’s arms. Then nothing moved on the terrace except a big flag, a black swastika on a red-and-white ground, curling out above them and throwing shadows.

“I think that’s all.”

“A
LL?” ECHOED AUDREY,
in a whispery kind of voice. “
All?
”

“Officially, yes.”

“But that’s what happened, isn’t it? I mean, that’s what really happened?”

“Please explain your definition of the event that really happened.”

“Brian Innes, stop being cynical and tormenting me. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Those three officials did see the poor man fall?”

“No. They lied. Not one of them was even looking in that direction.”

“But—!”

In his mind, as he shook his head to clear it, the vivid picture faded.

He was back in a thick-carpeted lounge, airless despite full-length windows open behind curtains of lace and dusty green velvet He was back in the present of 1956, troubled by the fleshly presence of Audrey Page as once Hector Matthews had been troubled by the presence of a younger Eve.

Audrey stood behind the table, her fingers touching a china ashtray. Even now she had that look of innocence, of too-great innocence, which in some fashion suggested wantonness instead. She saw him look straight at her, and dropped her gaze.

“Listen!” Brian insisted. “I don’t say it wasn’t an accident. I only say they didn’t see it happen. Nobody saw it.”

“Then why should
they
say …?”

“I can’t tell you. Medically speaking, it’s not very likely a man blacked out so as to tumble over a waist-high parapet. Not likely, and yet it’s possible. On the other hand, if he did feel faint and she gave him only a sharp push …”

The china ashtray rattled across the table.

“In any case,” he continued, “you’d better hear the end of it.”

“They didn’t arrest her, or anything?”

“No; how could they? The press published an official story: Mr. Hector Matthews, an English tourist, had met with an accident while rock-climbing in Bavaria. No mention of Eve Eden; or, naturally, of the Eagle’s Nest either. However, since he was well known as a ‘friend’ of hers and he didn’t have any living relatives, she was permitted to ship his body home. It’s the least she could do. After all, she was his heir.”

Audrey opened her mouth, and shut it again. Her companion began to pace up and down the lounge.

“Afterwards,” he said, “the war caught everybody. All interest in Hector Matthews was washed out, which may have been just as well. She never returned to Hollywood; her contract with Radiant Pictures wasn’t renewed, as she must have known before she went to Germany. Financially it didn’t matter. When Matthews’s will was admitted to probate, she inherited everything except some bequests to charity.”

Audrey spoke in a sudden forlorn voice.

“You know, this is rather awful. I wouldn’t admit it before, but it
is
rather awful.”

“A striking coincidence, at any rate.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, of course—!”

“No. Still, young lady, I can understand why your father doesn’t want you to visit her.”

“Wouldn’t
you
visit her?”

“Certainly. With pleasure. But then virtuous people never interest me, and the other kind always do.”

Audrey turned her head to watch him. A strange look flashed through her strangely shaped eyes and was gone in an instant; it may only have been a trick of the light above one bare shoulder.

“Brian, how much does De Forrest know? And, if it comes to that, how can you repeat every word that was said? Were you there? Did you see it happen?”

“Hardly. In ’39 I was a struggling young painter, of even less importance to the world than I am now. In a sense I’m betraying a confidence in telling you this, but I felt I had to tell you. I wasn’t there, no; but a great friend of mine was. Gerald Hathaway.”

Audrey uttered an exclamation.

“What’s the matter?”

“Sir Gerald Hathaway? The Director of the Something-or-Other Gallery?”

“He’s that, yes. He’s also a remarkably fine painter. I’ve known him for a good many years, though I haven’t seen him in quite some time.”

“Well, you may see him sooner than you think. He’s here.”

“
Here?
”

“Oh, not here at the hotel or even in Geneva! But he’ll be here tomorrow. Eve’s invited him too.”

Brian, with something of a shock at his heart, paused beside one long window and swung round towards her.

“Audrey, that can’t be.—No; wait; listen to me!” It was a tone of desperate reasonableness. “Hathaway’s curiosity got the better of him when he was asked to have lunch with Hitler at Berchtesgaden. He’s ashamed of having gone there; he’s concealed it ever since. He only talked about it to me because we talk so much about crime and detective stories. Even if your friend Eve had the nerve to invite him here, he’d never have agreed to come. You must have made some mistake.”