The Empty House (27 page)

“Then the house
is
watched?”

“Of course. But only in front. I do not think they will have seen you come in. If we are careful, they need not suspect that you are here.”

“It’ll only be for one night. I shall have to be away very early tomorrow. It will be a comfort to sleep in my own bed after some of the places I’ve slept in recently. Is that gun loaded?”

It was a small-bore sporting rifle.

“Certainly it is loaded. It is a twenty-bore shotgun which I bought from your Uncle Henry. I think he overcharged me. Also I have your father’s Army pistol. And certain other weapons.”

“Are you preparing for an attack on the house?”

A fortnight before, he would have asked the question wholly in fun. Now he was only half certain that it was a joke.

“I am prepared for anything. I have had an alarm system installed. It sounds a buzzer in here and in my bedroom if any of the house doors is opened. That was how I heard you come.”

“If I had been an intruder, would you have shot me?”

“Most certainly. In the legs, for a start.”

“For a start,” said Peter. “Yes, I see.” He got out his wallet and extracted the scrap of paper.

“Does this name mean anything to you?”

His mother put on her glasses and studied the paper.

“Certainly I know Valentin Lasspiniere. He is in fact, a relation, though a distant one. His mother was the niece of my Great-uncle Charles on his mother’s side. Thirty years ago his was the best-known name in Boulogne. You had but to speak it and the little boys in the streets would have known whom you meant.”

“I thought it meant something when I read it. He was in the Resistance, wasn’t he?”

“He was the leader of the Resistance in all the Pas-de-Calais. It was not only that he led it. He did it with such wit, such effrontery. You must have heard me tell the story of the young English Lieutenant. His name I forget. But he had been betrayed to the Germans. They knew he was in the old city, and they were combing through it. He went to Valentin, who is an expert at the make-up. He turned the Lieutenant into a girl, a ravishing girl. Another difficulty then arose. The head of the Gestapo was much attracted. The Lieutenant had great difficulty in resisting his attentions. Everyone on our side knew the truth and laughed about it. Laughter was precious in those days. Valentin Lasspiniere— yes, he was a fine man. I did not know that he was still alive.”

“I think he must be,” said Peter. “I discovered this in circumstances which certainly suggest that he is alive. If he is a relative of ours, do you think you could write me a letter introducing me to him?”

“I could do that. I will post it tomorrow.”

“Don’t post it, give it to me.”

“You are going to France?”

“To Boulogne.”

“Might one ask why?”

“To find Dr. Wolfe,” said Peter.

Peter set his alarm clock to wake him at five o’clock. He had selected his wardrobe and laid out the clothes before he went to bed. A pair of faded corduroy trousers, an open-necked shirt of bold green and white checks, a fawn-coloured pullover, a respectable jacket, and a pair of brogue shoes. He completed the outfit with a cloth cap of the type worn by navvies at work and Tory prime ministers when out shooting, and a camera which was carried by a strap around his neck and bounced about on the middle of his stomach.

He took his passport with him, although it was probable that he would not need it, some money borrowed from his mother, and a letter which she had written for him. It was a quarter to six when he slipped out of the house by the side door. He examined the main road carefully. There was no apparent sign of life. He did not see the policeman standing in the entrance to a house farther up the road. The policeman saw him, but took no action beyond making a note in his book.

By half past six Peter was breakfasting at an all-night cafe in Shaftesbury Avenue, and an hour later he was at Charing Cross Station, occupying a corner seat in an empty carriage in the morning train to Deal and Ramsgate.

It was going to be a fine day. The day trip from Deal to Boulogne, which he had seen advertised, should be running. “Six hours in La Belle France. Back the same evening. No passports, no formalities.” It had seemed to Peter to be exactly what he wanted.

The train sauntered through the orchards, hop gardens, and fields of Kent, green from the rain that had fallen on them and bright under the sun. It was not a fast train. It was ten o’clock before it pulled into Deal station. When Peter reached the Esplanade, a small crowd had already collected outside the hut from which tickets were being sold. Families with excited children. A hearty male quartet, three of whom, Peter noted, were also carrying cameras. Two middle-aged ladies who were assuring each other that the sea looked calm. A thin and serious-looking man with a guidebook. Peter joined the tail end of the queue.

At half past ten a young man with long blond hair and a book under one arm hurried up, gathered the party together, and directed them into a bus, which took them to Dover. Peter guessed he was a student. He had a squeaky voice which made the children laugh. The advertisement had been correct – there were no formalities of any sort.

On the boat Peter found a chair and placed it on the after deck next to the chair occupied by the serious man. He said, “I see you have the Michelin guidebook. I expect you travel a good deal in France.”

“I think I might claim,” said the man, “to be moderately well acquainted with the country. I make a point of visiting it each summer, and have been doing so for the last thirty years. No, I lie – thirty-one years. If you have never been before yourself, I think you will be greatly surprised.”

He continued to surprise Peter, with scarcely a pause, for the ninety minutes which the boat took to reach Boulogne. As they approached the quay, the blond young man popped out from some private hiding place and said, “Do please remember that we start back at six o’clock. That means six o’clock by
our
time. If you haven’t brought your passports, this is most important. Last week a young lady missed the return journey. I believe she’s still in a French prison.”

The audience assumed this to be a joke and laughed, but Peter noticed the middle-aged ladies checking their watches.

“Although this is only a day trip, you’re allowed to bring back duty-free goods. Anything you do buy you’ll have to declare. Enjoy yourselves.”

The guide returned to his lair. Peter noticed that the book he was carrying was
Cheshire on Real Property.

“Perhaps I could show you some of the sights,” said the thin man. “I am tolerably well acquainted with the history of the town.” They walked off onto the quay and past a pair of impassive gendarmes, chatting as though they were old friends. “The ecclesiastical architecture is not without interest.”

“It’s very good of you,” said Peter. “I may have time for some sightseeing later. I really come over on business. I’m afraid I shall have to attend to it first.”

He walked up the Rue des Pipots and made his way into the old town of Boulogne, the Ville Haute, which he knew and loved. It lies tightly enclosed, keeping itself to itself, caring nothing for the world which bustles and scurries outside. The narrowness of its gates and the steepness of its streets daunt the passing motorist. They hurry past on their way to Calais in the north or Abbeville in the south, knowing nothing of the tall buildings, shadowed streets, and quiet squares inside those medieval walls.

The Rue Belcourt was a turning off the Rue de Lille, on the far side of the Basilisque de Notre Dame. Number fourteen was at the far end. It was a withdrawn house fenced with high iron railings in front and separated from the street by a paved court; a house of solid quality and dignity. Peter crossed the courtyard and climbed the six steps which led up to front door. He did so with a feeling of almost breathless anticipation. Such a long, such a complicated path. So many twists, so many hazards and blind corners, to lead at last to this quiet house in the city of his birth.

He jerked the wrought-iron bellpull and waited. He could hear the jingling of the bell deep inside the house. Silence returned. He was on the point of pulling it again when he heard slow footsteps. A small door cut into the massive front door opened and a woman looked out. She was dressed in black and had a face like a good-natured monkey.

She said, “Monsieur?”

“I am looking,” said Peter, “for Monsieur Valentin Lasspiniere.”

“This is his house.”

“I have a letter for him.”

“Yes?”

“He is at home?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps I might be permitted—”

“You wish to hand the letter to him yourself?”

“I should prefer to do so.”

“Then enter.”

Feeling as nervous as any prince invited into an enchanted castle, Peter stepped up to the door. He had to duck his head to get through.

“You are very tall,” said the lady. “You speak excellent French, but I surmise that you are English.” She led the way down a shadowy hallway and pushed open a heavy door. “If you would have the kindness to wait here, I will inform Monsieur of your arrival.”

Valentin Lasspiniere was of middle height, his most noticeable feature a shock of snowy-white hair. He had the round and mobile face of a Gascon, a man who suspected life to be a joke and had spent a lifetime proving it so.

He read the letter carefully and said, “Tante Marie. I hope she is well. It is many years since I have seen her, but I remember her, of course. I even remember you. She brought you once to see me. You were then so high.” M. Lasspiniere bent forward and placed his hand six inches from the floor.

“Taller now.”

“A little. This letter mentions my old friend Alexander Wolfe. I was sad to read of his death. The reports in our newspapers gave few details, but I gathered the impression—perhaps I was wrong?—that there was some mystery about it.”

“You were not wrong,” said Peter. “And you were aware, I think, that he went in some danger of his life.”

“That I knew.”

“And you helped him, as you have helped many men before, to evade his enemies.”

“I gave him what help I could.”

“If you could tell me about that,” said Peter, “it might help us, in turn, to obtain the satisfaction of discomfiting his enemies.”

M. Lasspiniere looked at Peter thoughtfully. He said, “From your interest in the matter, do I deduce that you are of the police?”

“I am investigating the circumstances of his death.”

“I see.”

The silence which followed was broken by the arrival of the woman in black carrying a tray. There were two glasses and a bottle on it. M. Lasspiniere filled the glasses and handed one to Peter. He said, “It is a local wine, but drinkable.” They drank in silence.

Finally, M. Lasspiniere said, “Dr. Wolfe is dead. What I am going to tell you cannot, therefore, harm him. But I will tell it to you on condition. It is for your ears alone. If it helps
you,
by enlightening you on certain points, so much the better. But it is for information, not for action. You will not repeat it. If I am asked about it, publicly or privately, I shall deny it totally. Do you accept those conditions?”

“Certainly,” said Peter. “You understand that I had surmised certain points, but they were guesses only. What I required was the confirmation which I realised that you alone could give me.”

M. Lasspiniere refilled both glasses and said, “I had known Dr. Wolfe for many years. I am myself interested in the science of genetics – as an amateur, you understand. Dr. Wolfe, out of his great learning, and even greater kindness, assisted me. He stayed in this house more than once. With his help I was able to follow, at a respectful distance, the path he was mapping out for himself, into the unknown. It soon became apparent to me that it was a path which must lead him into personal danger. I am now, Mr. Manciple, as you see me, a most respectable and peace-loving old personage. But in my youth I was not unacquainted with violence and danger. You might say that I lived hand in glove with them for four years. I am not boasting of it. Many Frenchmen did the same. I simply state it as a fact. Five years ago, in this room, Dr. Wolfe and I examined his problem. We examined it dispassionately, as scientists should. And we came to certain conclusions.”

“Which were?”

“Which I will now explain to you,” said M. Lasspiniere. “Bearing always in mind the conditions I have laid down.”

Detective Sergeant Fred Dawlish, Peter’s snooker-playing friend from the local police station, was selected as the man to follow up the report which had been made earlier that morning by Police Constable Roberts. The matter had first to be referred back through Division and Central to Special Branch, who had asked for the watch on the house. Special Branch had been cautious. Their own interest in the matter stemmed from a request from the Home Office. It hardly amounted, they pointed out, to an authorisation for positive action.

“Everyone’s passing the buck,” said Inspector Lowcock. “What that means is, if anything goes wrong,
we
carry the can.”

“What I can’t make out,” said Dawlish, “is exactly what I’m meant to do.”

“Exactly what you’re meant to do is make an inquiry. We’ve had this report about young Manciple being drowned. Right? Now we’ve had another report saying he may be alive. Right?
You
know the family. It’s natural you should be the one to go along.”

“I know Peter,” agreed Dawlish, “but I’ve never met his mother, not to talk to. From what he told me, she’s nutty as a fruitcake.”

“If
she’s
a fruitcake,” said Inspector Lowcock, who was given to making remarks of this sort,
“you’d
better use your loaf, hadn’t you? But don’t stir things up.
“

Armed with these helpful instructions, Dawlish approached the house and rang the bell. In the silence that followed, he heard a sound as of a chair or a table being shifted, and one of the curtains in the front window stirred.

“She’s there, all right,” he said. “What’s the old coot playing at?”