Last Act (18 page)

“Thank God. Who was it?”

“You remember one of the hotel taxis crossed the frontier just before it was closed that night?”

“Yes?”

“It got the police thinking. They came down hard on old Brech, who runs those taxis, and he finally confessed. He'd had an anonymous letter offering him a vast bribe to sec that the opera was a failure. He's a stupid man, Brech. The hotel trade would have been a goldmine to him.”

Anne's sleepy brain moved slowly. “Anonymous? But who? Why?”

“There are plenty of people, here in Lissenberg, who would like to go back to our old, quiet ways. Frankly, I sympathise with
them—up to a point. We were happier before. Every man his own goat and his own vineyard—and none of them interested in tourism and high finance. I can think of a lot of people who would like to turn the clock back.”

“I see.” She remembered what Michael had said about tourism and plastic souvenirs. “But not murder. Brech would never have done that, just for pay, for an anonymous letter. Besides, the first time, it was his car.”

“That's right. No, the murders are another story, and one we'd best leave to Herr Winkler. He'll cope.” Josef's laugh came reassuringly down the line. “He's sent Brech straight home to Germany. Sensible man. No prosecution … no publicity.” Then, “Your breakfast is on its way.”

“Thanks.” She got out of bed and padded over to unchain the door and let Lisel in with the tray. The programme that lay on it was a simple one.
Ten o'clock: rehearsal. One to one thirty: break for sandwiches. Afternoon: rehearsal.

A long day. She took the second of Dr Hirsch's pills and got out of bed to move over to the window and admire the beginning of a fine day she would be too busy to see. A knock on the door reminded her that she had not put the chain back after Lisel. “Come in,” she called, deciding she was not prepared to live in a fortress all day.

Lisel reappeared with her usual brilliant smile. “These for you.” She held out a plastic-swathed coat-hanger. “Frau Riley says very cold today.”

“Oh, thank you. And you can take the tray, thanks, Lisel.”

Mrs Riley, the wardrobe mistress, had excelled herself. The elegantly tailored dark red trousers had a contrasting top and a long, warm, matching tunic. And, in a separate plastic bag, was a soft, mink-type fur jacket—the best imitation Anne had ever seen. It was no surprise to find that they all fitted perfectly. Anne smiled at herself in the glass and thought how surprised her friends at the plastics workshop would be if they could see her now. One wore trousers, of course, at the workshop, but they were not trousers like these. How long ago? It seemed an eternity. And she would never go back. Even if the opera should be a disaster, she was safe in her certainty of death.

But she remembered Dr Hirsch: that was no way to think. She picked up the newspaper Josef had sent up on her breakfast tray. It was yesterday's
International Herald Tribune,
and someone had marked a lead piece on the front page. “Hopes Rise for Peace Conference” read the headline of a long article describing the encouragingly positive attitudes of the powers that were sending delegates. Down at the bottom, Josef's pencil had been at work again. “Opera a Good Omen?” was the heading of a brief last paragraph describing the plans for
Regulus.

Clever Josef. She put down the paper, ashamed of herself. He was reminding her, as Dr Hirsch had done, of the wider implications of the opera, of the duty they all had to make it succeed, and give a rousing, positive start to the peace conference. But where did that lead her? So far she had thought of Frensham's death only in relation to Lissenberg and that sinister mineral under the opera house. But suppose Frensham and Bland and Marks had been behind the sabotage. Suppose they had wanted the opera to fail not only because that would make it easier to pull down the opera house, but also for the adverse effect its failure would have on the peace conference. Frensham, she knew, had been in the armaments business. He might well have had a stake in the failure of a peace conference. And here— sudden and horrible—was a convincing motive for Michael. Had she suspected him, instinctively, and with justice, but for the wrong reasons? Had Frensham been behind the sabotage and had Michael, discovering this, killed him? She did not believe it. She would not believe it. She must talk to him, must ask him … Could you ask a man if he was a murderer? But talking to him would help. Help her to prove herself wrong? With all her heart she hoped so.

But the long, hard-working days ground past, and there was no sign of Michael. Workmen, thronging in the arcade and in and out of the opera house, were hard at it undoing the effects of Brech's sabotage, and Anne looked eagerly at each jean-clad figure, hoping it would be Michael's, but it never was. After haunting her, a friendly spirit, for her first days in Lissenberg, he had simply vanished, without word or message, and she missed him more than she liked to admit. One sight of him, she began to
think, would automatically clear the miasma of suspicion from her brain, but in the meantime she dreamed, and sweated, and suffered.

Herr Brech Had been all too efficient as a saboteur. Even after his confession, it took several days to get the lights in the opera house working again. The belated move there, on a Monday morning just a week before opening night, brought instant chaos. Hilde Bernz summed it up gloomily as they moved up to the artists' bar for their lunch break. “No one's going to need to sabotage this opera. I knew the stage would be difficult, but dear God …”

“And poor Carl,” said Anne. “If only we'd been able to work here sooner he would have seen what a problem the entrances and exits were going to be.”

“Pure hell,” agreed Hilde. “Much, much worse than Salzburg. I'm going to insist on a pair of flat-heeled shoes. If I've got to run several miles on and off in the dark every time, I'm not doing it in heels. You're lucky to be wearing those elegant Roman sandals.”

“It's the chorus I'm worried about,” said Anne. “I don't see how they are going to shove their way through those two side exits. It's crazy. I mean, in the dark … suppose one of them stumbled; it would be mayhem.” Just the kind of disaster, she thought, that might wreck a first night. “Excuse me?” She moved over, glass and sandwich in hand, to the corner of the bar where Carl was standing alone with a drink but no sandwich, staring gloomily into space. “Carl, dear.” She put a gentle hand on his arm, and then wished she had not done so. His behaviour had continued to puzzle her, varying from day to day, even from
one meeting to the next, between the professional and the romantic.

But for the moment, he was all professional. “Anne! Dear Anne, I am so sorry. It was to be your big chance. Instead— disaster. I should never have agreed to direct. But it seemed so simple, so straightforward.
Opera seria.
Nothing fancy. Just beautiful, pure singing. Just letting Beethoven speak. And now, look at it! A shambles! Adolf Stern singing Regulus as if he were Siegfried! You can almost see him looking round for his anvil. He doesn't like to have to stand still and let great music unfold itself. I've told him and told him, Annchen. He won't listen!”

“He knows best,” said Anne. “That type always does. Why don't you ask Princess Alix to speak to him, Carl? He might take it from her?”

“Anne! You're my good genius. I'll do it tonight—if I get the chance. What with him and young Frensham, there's no getting near the Princess these days.”

Anne laughed. “So I hear.” According to Hilde Bernz, Alix joined the opera group in the hotel bar most nights and was being assiduously courted by both Stern and Frensham. It explained Frensham's failure to repeat that one visit to her, but Anne had been both surprised and relieved to hear nothing further from Prince Rudolf. “Which one are you backing?” she asked now.

“Oh, Frensham of course,” said Carl. “Alix would never throw herself away on Stern.” He reached out, took a sandwich and bit into it. “These are good. I'm sure you're right: she'll make him see reason. Now tell me, wise Anne, what in the world I should do about the chorus? Falinieri's in despair about them. He says he can hear them shuffling off right through your first solo.”

“Well, of course he can,” said Anne. “That's really what I came to talk to you about. It's a devil of a stage, Carl.”

“Couldn't be helped,” he said gloomily. “Something about the rock formation.”

“I see. Well, there it is, and we have to make the best of it. Hilde's asking for flat heels, sensible woman, so she won't trip getting on and off stage in the dark. I'm sure we principals will
manage, but, Carl, what I was thinking—why not keep the chorus on stage all through? Just let them move aside when they're not singing? I don't see how else you're going to manage. Beethoven just didn't write for a stage this size—or a chorus so big, for that matter. I'm so afraid one of them might trip, and they'd go down like the cards in
Alice.
”

“Disaster.” He used the familiar word with complete conviction. “That's a good idea, Anne. I'll think about it.” He looked at her gloomily and lowered his voice. “Let's face it. It would only take one of them, bribed, like Brech, to stumble, and that's it.”

“You feel that way, too? But isn't it odd? After all, Brech's been safe out of the country since last week. And there's been no trouble since he left.”

“No,” said Carl. “But they haven't arrested anyone for those three murders either. I'd feel a hell of a lot safer if they had. After all, what Brech was doing was schoolboy stuff really—nuisance value, that's all. It wouldn't have thrown us so if it hadn't been for the murders.”

“That's true. And we are in a twitch aren't we? All of us. It's beginning to show. Fare and Ricci are at each other's throats again, have you noticed? And Gertrud's in an odd state. She seems angry with me for some reason; I wish I knew why. Oh, Carl, I do hope this afternoon's rehearsal goes well, for a change. We could do with a bit of encouragement, the whole lot of us.”

“You, too, Annchen?” He put a friendly arm round her shoulders. “My tower of strength.”

“Thanks!” She moved away a little, casually, to put her glass down on the bar and escape his grasp. “As for the chorus, why don't you leave things as they are till the dress rehearsal on Saturday. Let them struggle on and off. If Brech has left someone behind to go on with the sabotage, that's the obvious way. Fuss at them, lecture them, but don't suggest keeping them onstage until the very last minute. The lighting's no problem, because the sides of the stage are blacked out anyway. That's what makes it so damned difficult to get on and off. All you have to do is tell them at the last moment, and the saboteur, if there is one, will have to do some quick rethinking.”

“You're a genius, Anne. I'll do it. But—sooner, don't you think? They must have time to get used to the new positions. Friday, maybe? The day before the dress rehearsal?”

“Only four days off. Carl, are we going to make it?”

“We must,” he said. “Let's just hope the rehearsal goes better this afternoon.”

It went disastrously worse. At four o'clock Falinieri stopped them and shouted. “Enough! Stop! Too much! I can bear no more. You,” to Gertrud, “go and sulk somewhere else. As for you,” to John Fare, “if I could replace you, I would.”

“But you can't,” said Fare. “This opera's jinxed. Everyone knows that. It's into the gossip columns now. Maybe Beethoven knew what he was doing when he suppressed it in the first place.”

“Nonsense,” said Falinieri. “It was not suppressed, it was lost—as you well know, Mr Fare. And if there
is
anything in the gossip columns, I wonder who gave them their lead. Ah.” He had spotted the flicker of apprehension on Fare's face. “Now I have you, Mr Fare. Any more trouble from you, and I will accuse you publicly of trying to damage the opera you are appearing in. You know what that would do to your career. Now, go away, all of you—and, Holy Mary, come back more cheerful in the morning.”

Anne looked about for Carl, but he had already vanished, and she could hardly blame him. Hilde Bernz was talking to Gertrud, and Anne did not much feel like joining them. Gertrud's inexplicable hostility was something she could do without, right now. The endless evening stretched before her. Usually they worked much later than this, but even so the solitary evenings in her elegant, empty suite had begun to seem interminable. The chains on her doors were ridiculous—no one came near her. The rest of the cast went up to the hotel every night, and sometimes the principals even dined there now that the restaurant was in full working order and a dance band functioning. It would be good to dance, Anne thought, to get some exercise after all the day's endless standing and sitting. But it was entirely taken for granted now that no one suggest she go too.

Had she hoped that Michael would come and cheer the solitude he had helped to impose on her? If so, she had been
deluding herself. There had been no word from him since the night he had rescued her from the Prince and young James Frensham. Rescued? Absurd. She had probably imagined the whole thing—turned a couple of courtesy calls into some kind of threat, made, in fact, a public fool of herself. No wonder Michael kept away. He had doubtless got some absorbing new job by now and, indeed, Gertrud had once or twice mentioned seeing him at the hotel, and would, probably have said more if Anne had not been too proud to question her.

Proud. What was there to be proud about? She looked at her watch. Time at last for a drink before dinner. She found Gertrud and Hilde in the bar, both in evening dress, and felt suddenly shabby in her short skirt. She bought a glass of sherry and joined them. “You're going out?”