Last Act (11 page)

“I'm so sorry,” said Anne. “I can't be here.”

“Can't be here? What kind of talk is that?”

“I have to see the police,” said Anne, and got the silence they had been wanting all morning. “I'll be back as soon as I can. They are sending a car for me right after lunch.”

“I see. Then we will take Fräulein Stock's scene with her father Regulus first, and await you impatiently, Miss Paget. Perhaps you will explain as much to the police.”

“I'll try,” said Anne dubiously.

She ate lunch in her room, studying her part as she swallowed the hostel's highly seasoned food, and pushing the impending interview with the police to the back of her mind. At ten to two,
her telephone rang. “The car is here,” said Josef, “but don't hurry.”

“You're always saying that, bless you.” But she did hurry. The sooner she got there, the sooner it would be over. Besides, why should the police care how she looked? Her lipstick had hidden itself at the bottom of her bag. She muttered a curse, combed her hair and hurried out to the lift.

Emerging on the ground floor, she saw a familiar figure awaiting her. “Still no lipstick, I see.” Michael straightened up from where he had been chatting with Josef at the desk.

“I was in a hurry,” she said crossly. “If you're my police driver, you're early.” But she was surprised at how pleased she was to see him.

“I am, and I am.” He was no tidier than he had been when he rescued her from Schennen station, but today his teeshirt read
Votes for Women.
“I thought you'd like it.” He had seen her read the message. “And why I'm early is to buy you a drink. Uncle Josef has them all ready in his secret lair. We may as well both tell the same story.” He took her arm and guided her behind the desk to a surprisingly elegant little office where two glasses stood on an exquisite marquetry table. “Slivovitz.” He passed her a glass. “And if you don't like it, don't let on.”

“But I do! It's just what I need, bless you. How do you mean, the same story?”

“About what happened day before yesterday. You've maybe forgotten the order the cars left the castle last night?”

“I'm not sure I ever knew.”

“Well.” He lifted his glass and drank to her. “It's a funny thing, but once again yours was the car right behind the accident.”

“Dear God! But—it's not possible. We didn't see anything.”

“Nothing to see,” he said soberly. “Not from the road. It was a long way down. The car wasn't spotted till this morning, and the police climbers have still not managed to get down to it. Looks like it's taking all day. Don't worry”—he had seen her shiver—“not a chance but they're dead, poor bastards. Now, drink up, and come and tell all to the police.”

“Will it be Herr Weigel?”

“No, the boss. He's not as fierce as he looks—or as stupid.” Somewhere between reassurance and warning, it did little to make her feel better. But the slivovitz was cheering, and so was the fact that he had troubled to come early.

“Haven't women got them?” she asked, making conversation as they emerged from behind the desk and crossed the lobby, where as usual several members of the chorus were sitting over coffee.

“Got what?” And then, “Oh, votes! Good God, no. This is Lissenberg. Women know their place here.
Küche, Kirche
and all that.” He pushed open the heavy bronze door and led the way down the arcade steps to a smart green car.

“It's a police car!”

“Well, of course it's a police car.” He opened the door for her.

“But what about your job? The taxi firm?”

“Oh, I lost that,” he said cheerfully. “Driving for the police is much more interesting. How did the rehearsal go?”

“So so.” She was grateful for the question. “Herr Stern doesn't much like singing with me. He's making things … difficult.”

“Oh?” He was taking the police car at a good pace down the valley.

“Little things. The wrong cue … It's so easy, and then he's terribly sorry, and then he does it again.” She laughed angrily. “He'd rather sing with a princess and doesn't care who knows it.”

“Tough.” He swung the car round a hairpin bend. “I'd have a word with Meyer if I were you. He'll sort it out for you. It's his job.” He looked at his watch. “Time's getting on. Would you like the siren?”

“No, please!” She felt quite conspicuous enough as it was.

“And no need. I can do it in the time without. They're OK, these cars.”

“They certainly are. And you don't really need the siren, do you?” She had noticed that motorists and pedestrians alike kept to the side of the road at sight of the approaching green car.

“We respect our police in Lissenberg,” said Michael. “I wouldn't want to be the joker responsible for those two accidents.”

“Joker?”

“You're right. It's not the word. Has anyone told you just how important a man James Frensham was here in Lissenberg?”

“Princess Alix said something last night. He was—throwing his weight around rather.”

“He would. Well—he practically owns—owned the place. What I want to know is what young James is going to do. Someone may have miscalculated badly, if you ask me.” He slowed the car for a moment. “And, by God here he comes! Quick, you could call that.” A helicopter was hovering over them, its drone audible above the silent-running engine of the car. Michael pressed a button on the dashboard and a disembodied voice spoke from a grille. “Yes, Car 2?”

“Helicopter about to land, sir. Young James Frensham I'll bet. Anyone swept the pad for broken glass?”

The grille emitted a harsh laugh. “Who thinks he's the only brain in Lissenberg?” said the voice. “Come on in, Michael, and step on it. We're waiting for Miss Paget.”

“Right.” With obvious satisfaction, Michael switched on the siren and took the car through the town at a speed that made Anne close her eyes.

“OK. All over and no lives lost.” He drew the car to a decorous halt outside a handsome, flat-fronted house surrounded by flower gardens. “In with you.” He was around and opening her door before she could get out of her safety harness. “And remember, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“That's how we make our stories jibe?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then.” She summed it up. “Thanks for the drink.”

“A pleasure.” He was guiding her up steps to where a green-uniformed policeman saluted and then held open big doors.

“This way,” he said to Anne. And, to Michael, “The boss wants you to fetch Herr Meyer and Herr Stern.”

“They
will
be pleased,” said Michael. “Sorry to abandon you but duty calls.” His quick smile was heart-warming. “Into the lion's den with you.” He pushed shaggy hair back from a high forehead, sketched a half-mocking salute and turned to run
lightly back down the steps.

It left her feeling curiously forlorn, but in fact the interview was straightforward enough. Herr Winkler, the huge, calm chief of police took her briskly through the story of her arrival at Schennen and the accident on the road to Lissenberg, then switched to the events of the night before. Here, suddenly, she saw a pitfall she should have anticipated, and was less than grateful, for the first time, for Michael's distraction. Should she tell Herr Winkler about Princess Alix's odd request that she let Meyer drive her home? Every instinct was against it. And yet in the light of what had happened it could be sinister enough. Suppose she had accepted James Frensham's offer of a lift. She shivered.
I am not ready to die yet
…

“What is it?” He was quick, this slow-speaking policeman.

“I just remembered. Mr Frensham offered me a lift. So did Herr Stern,” she added.

“But you chose to drive with Herr Meyer? Mr Frensham is a powerful man—was a powerful man.”

“I know. But Carl Meyer is an old friend. And I'd had enough.”

“Enough?” He raised heavy eyebrows in question.

“Herr Winkler, you must know there's a lot going on behind the scenes at the opera house. Better than I do.”

“And at the castle.” His smile was friendly. “Yes. I don't think I need your version of all that. Lotte Moser talked to the local press last night. Something tells me they won't be running her story. Well, they'll be busy with the murder.”

“Murder?” But she had expected it.

“Or a very odd accident indeed. You were in the next car, Miss Paget. You were—lucky. Between the accident and the time you came by, someone sanded over the oil slick that caused it. Otherwise, we might not be enjoying this conversation.”

“Oh! But then—” It dawned on her. “The other time. It can't have been meant for me.”

“So it would seem. Or—someone has changed their opinion of your usefulness. And, of course, there is another possibility. Yes!” He lifted the telephone, which had given a sharp, single ring. “Ah, at once.” He turned back to Anne. “You will excuse me,
Miss Paget. Young James Frensham is here. I must see him at once. If you think of anything out of the way about last night, you will let me know? And I would suggest that you resist any temptation to go for long, lonely mountain walks. Or, for that matter, drives with anyone you don't know.”

“That means everyone,” she said.

“Much safest.” He rose and showed her out.

The lobby was crowded now. Carl Meyer and Adolf Stern were sitting on a bench, deep in agitated and impatient conversation, while a strikingly handsome young man was looming angrily over the policeman on duty. “Arrangements to make,” he was saying, his rich English accent carrying loud in the small lobby. “Standing around here …”

“Now, Mr Frensham,” said the policeman soothingly, his eyes lighting up at sight of Anne. “Herr Winkler will see you at once.”

“And not before time!” Deep-set dark eyes under a medieval cap of hair dismissed Anne as of no account, but as he turned to make for the office door Adolf Stern intercepted him.

“We were first!” he protested. “We've been waiting I don't know how long! We've work to do.” It was an extraordinary confrontation Anne thought, between the blond Viking and the young Englishman who might have stepped straight out of the portrait of one of the more dangerous Medicis. An Italian mother, she remembered. A Sicilian estate …

“I am James Frensham.” It was obvious enough. He pushed past Stern and stalked into Winkler's office.

Carl left Stern angrily muttering and joined Anne. “How did it go?”

“OK.” She found herself smiling. “I liked him.”

“Wait for us,” he said. “We'll drive you back.”

Lifts from friends? Lifts from strangers? “Thanks just the same,” she said. “I think I'll walk.”

“It's too far. You're forgetting …”

“I am driving Miss Paget back.” Michael had emerged from an inconspicuous door in a corner, bringing with him a strong, mixed smell of coffee and beer. “Falinieri will be angry enough already.”

“He won't get far without Regulus.” But Anne was grateful for the intervention. There was something very comfortable about Michael, even if he did smell strongly of beer and look untidier than ever, black hair tousled as if he had been running his hands through it.

“How did it go?” He opened the door of the green car for her.

“OK,” she said. “That's what I told Herr Meyer.”

“Quite right. But what are you going to tell Uncle Michael?”

“You're no uncle. Cousin perhaps.” And she was not going to tell him about Alix's odd request any more than she had told Herr Winkler. “Tell me.” She turned towards him as he started the car. “Who do you think sanded over the oil slick?”

“Winkler told you that? Keep it under your hat, like a wise child. As for who did it? Maybe someone who likes your big brown eyes? Or who wants the opera to succeed? Or just naturally suffers from tidy habits. Three murders might be enough for anyone. If I were you, my songbird, I wouldn't think about it much, and I wouldn't talk about it at all. Except to me, of course.”

“I certainly won't,” she agreed, noticing with relief that he was taking the car through the town at a reasonable pace.

“What did you think of wonder boy?” He slowed to let a nun cross the road.

“Wonder boy?”

“The heir apparent. Young James Frensham. Whoever killed his father did Lissenberg no service. Old Frensham was a fire-eater, but he knew what opera was. He meant to give
Regulus
a chance. Young James is something else again. I'd be ready for trouble if I were you.”

“He'd never cancel it? He couldn't!”

“Probably not. Certainly not if someone can convince him there's money in it. No one's managed to yet.” He turned to look at her. “You feeling public-spirited?”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“Got another date with the wardrobe mistress, right?”

“Yes, but how did you know?”

“Oh, I hang about,” said Michael vaguely. “Look; she's been told from the top to turn you out, no holds barred, no expense
spared. Let her, there's an angel. Don't turn up that nice nose of yours. Don't ask questions, just let her dress you up and make the most of it.” He laughed. “What was it someone said about the right thing for the wrong reasons? You sell young James on opera and you're doing us all a good turn.”

“But he's just lost his father.” It was only one of the many possible protests.

“You think he's weeping anything but crocodile tears? He's the great man, now, right? Who ever minded that? Not James Frensham the second, that's for sure. The question is, what will he do with it?” He pulled the car off the road into a lay-by set into the forest, with tables and benches for picknickers. “Would you like to walk the rest of the way? It doesn't take more than twenty minutes on foot, cutting through the woods, and I reckon it would do you good. You've been at it non-stop since you got here. Falinieri can do without you for an extra few minutes. He's got to wait for Stern anyway.”