The Numbered Account (34 page)

‘Blue-prints', a word so casually used in the press for any project for the future, when they are scientific and technical really are blue—blue, with the design for the machine or plan showing up on them in white lines. Such sheets, just as June had described them, Julia, sitting on the lavatory seat in the Hotel zum Fluss, now unfolded—and then most carefully folded up again along their original creases. With things like these she was quite unfamiliar; she had no idea whether she was looking at the plans for a nuclear-powered submarine tanker or for the pumps on an underground pipe-line from Kirkuk to Iskenderun, emerging into the Mediterranean on Turkish soil. The drawings of one or two large bulbous-looking objects reminded her, vaguely, of Colin's account of the huge under-water containers in which food for man and beast was even now stored in the green depths of the lakes of Thun and Brienz—but this could hardly interest the Swiss. She was faintly intrigued, too, by another set of papers, drawn in ink on bluish paper with a linen pattern; but these seemed merely to be duplicates of the blue-prints. What she did realise was that she had got, here, under her hand, the documents that both John and Colin were so desperately anxious to secure; and she must, absolutely must, somehow contrive to hand them over to one or the other without letting the Swiss police, or anyone else, see them first.

It struck her at once that this might not be so easy. Whether or not the grey Volkswagen was a police-car it had been on her tail, and knew the number of the Porsche; if it was not a police-car, but belonged to some nefarious associates of Borovali or the two Germans, so much the worse. But in any case Chambertin and the man with him knew that she was staying at the Silberhorn, and nothing could stop the Swiss police from—perfectly properly—searching her room for missing property.

Julia considered. The blue-prints were much too big to be stuffed down her bosom, in the good romantic manner, and her own handbag was too small to accommodate them. She did some more thinking. Some people say they think best in their bath; Julia thought to quite good effect, perched on the seat in a ladies' lavatory. What Chambertin—and hence the Swiss police—really wanted was Mr. Thalassides' fortune, entrusted to the Banque Républicaine and, by fraud, stolen. Good—they should have it; sooner or later they would have to hand it over to Aglaia Armitage anyhow. She picked up the certificates representing that fortune from the tesselated floor, where she had left them while she looked at the blue-prints, placed them in the black brief-case, and snapped it to; then she replaced the stiff envelope containing the blue-prints in the inner compartment of the tartan bag.

‘One for John, one for the Swiss,' she murmured, gurgling—for an idea had come to her about the disposal of the tartan bag which made her laugh. She looked at her watch—twenty to six. There ought to be time, if Colin got back fairly soon. Carrying her three bags, she went out to the Porsche.

Julia had guessed—rightly, as it happened—that if the grey Volkswagen was a police-car it would go straight on up to Beatenberg, and look for her at the Hotel Silberhorn; its occupants could have no means of knowing that she had doubled back to the Fluss. There was no sign of it on the parking-place by the quay when she left the hotel, nor on the Bahnhof-Platz by the West Station—she looked carefully there as she passed, and then drove on, as fast as the
low-hung Porsche could take the hairpin bends, up through the scented woods to Beatenberg.

But she didn't go to the hotel. Instead she drove into the big lay-by at the foot of the Sessel-Bahn, left the car, and went up the zigzag path to the little station. She took a ticket to the Niederhorn itself, and was soon swinging up between the tree-tops, through evening air sweet with scents drawn out from grass and flower and tree during the long warm day—and as she sat swaying she took out the local bus time-table, which had on the back the hours during which the Sessel-Bahn was open. Yes, passenger traffic went on up to 20.30 hours, i.e. till 8.30 p.m.—how tiresome the continental habit was of having no a.m. and p.m.; one always had to do these complicated sums! It was now nearly a quarter to seven—that was cutting it pretty fine; please God Colin did somehow come to the hotel at once. If he didn't, she would just have to come up again alone.

At the mid-way station, where the twin seats are pulled round by hand from the lower steel cable to the upper one Julia, with her three bags, asked to be let out.

‘The Fräulein does not go on to the
Gipfel?'
the man in dungarees, who was conducting this manoeuvre, asked in surprise.

‘No, not tonight.' While he was slinging two more seats round the curved rails she walked over to the group of milk-churns which stood in a far corner, ready, as she had learned, to carry water up to the hotel on the summit when the passenger traffic was over for the day. Lifting the lid of the remotest churn of all she slightly bent the tartan bag and stuffed it into this odd receptacle; then she replaced the lid, and walked back to the man in dungarees.

‘Do you use all the churns now, to carry up the water at night?' she asked casually, when a pause occurred in the traffic.

‘Ah, Fräulein, no; not now—this is not the high season. In July and August, yes; sometimes we are loading these vessels till after midnight! But at present it is not so bad.'

‘So how many containers do you use now?'

‘Oh, it varies—but certainly not all. We fill these nearest ones, and load them up; the hotel sends down word how many they need.'

This satisfied Julia. It was highly unlikely that the blueprints would be soused, even if she and Colin were a little late. She got onto the next seat that came down empty, and was carried away through the bright air, down to the road and the car; then she drove on to the Silberhorn.

There were three cars drawn up on the gravelled space outside the hotel, where normally there were none except at lunch-time—one was a grey Volkswagen. Grinning a little, Julia avoided the main entrance and went in by a little door which led directly into the bar; there she encountered Fräulein Hanna, who left off polishing glasses, took her arm, and led her with a certain urgency out into the long broad corridor which served as a hall.

‘Fräulein Probyn, the
Polizei
are here again!' she said agitatedly. ‘And another gentleman also.'

‘Are they? What are they doing?' Julia asked. As she spoke she hung the black brief-case up on one of the many coat-hooks which adorned the hall on both sides, and slung her wind-cheater over it.

‘They speak with Frau Hathaway; but they have asked first for you.'

‘Where are they?'

‘In the garden.'

‘Is the Herr Monro here?'

‘No.'

Julia walked quickly through the
Kleine Saal
into the garden. It was nearly half past seven; Mrs. Hathaway ought not to be out too late—and she ought not to be worried.

Mrs. Hathaway, however, did not appear to be in the least worried when Julia reached the garden; she seemed to be having a party. Chambertin and the man Julia had seen with him at the Aares-Schlucht restaurant were sitting by the old lady, drinking Cinzano and laughing; Müller, the detective, and two other men sat at another table,
trying to make conversation with Watkins, who was refilling their glasses.

‘Oh my dear child, there you are at last! These gentlemen have been wondering what had become of you; they want to see you about something, it seems. I gather you already know Monsieur Chambertin—and this is Herr von Allmen, the Chief of Police in Interlaken.' Nothing could have been easier than her voice and manner.

‘So I had guessed,' Julia said rather coldly as she returned von Allmen's bow. ‘But look, Mrs. H. darling, you don't want to get chilly after your illness—now that I'm here, hadn't you better go in and get some dinner? It's quite late.'

‘Oh no—we're having such fun. Aren't we?' she asked of her two guests. ‘And I'm sure they won't mind my hearing whatever it is they want to ask you about.'

It was obvious to Julia that both men did mind considerably being forced to interview her in the old lady's presence, and she knew Mrs. Hathaway well enough to be sure that she realised this too, and was doing it on purpose. She rejoiced at Chambertin and von Allmen's evident embarrassment.

‘Before anything else,' she said to Chambertin, ‘please tell me about Monsieur Antrobus. Where is he? Has a doctor seen him?'

‘Yes, Mademoiselle. It so happened that there was an English
infirmière
in a party of toursts who were passing through the gorge when'—he coughed—‘when the accident happened;she attended to Monsieur Antrobus at once, and put on a tourniquet. Meanwhile we had telephoned to Meiringen for a doctor and an ambulance, and he was brought out with the least possible delay; he was carried very carefully—our
brancardiers
are excellent.'

Julia was enormously relieved at this news, though the idea of an English hospital-nurse in holiday rig coping with John on the plank-walk struck her as distinctly funny. But the mention of a tourniquet worried her—that sounded as though the bullet had punctured an artery.

‘Where is he now?' she asked again.

‘In Dr. Hertz's Clinic down in the town, here. He expressed a very strong desire to be in Interlaken rather than at Meiringen.'

‘Oh, I'm so glad. He'll be perfectly all right with Hertz,' Julia said happily.

‘You know the Herr Doktor Hertz?' von Allmen asked, looking surprised.

‘Yes. But now, Monsieur Chambertin, what is it that you and the Chief of Police wish to ask me about? I don't want to keep Madame Hathaway out of doors too long. And oh darling Mrs. H., could
I
have a Cinzano too? It's been such a day.'

‘Watkins, you haven't given Miss Julia anything to drink,' Mrs. Hathaway said mildly.

‘Oh, I'm so sorry, Madam. I've got some spare glasses here. There, Miss,' the maid said, bustling over from the other table.

‘Thank you, Watkins.' Julia took a good gulp of the Cinzano, gratefully, and then turned again to the two Swiss, with an expectant face.

She saw them glance at one another doubtfully—it was Chambertin who spoke.

‘Mademoiselle Probyn, when this—this episode—took place in the Aares-Schlucht this afternoon, I understand—from several witnesses—that you picked up a black leather case full of papers, and carried it away.'

‘Certainly I did. Didn't you see it lying on the seat of the car, when you and Herr von Allmen came and asked me where I was going?' Julia asked coolly.

‘Yes, I did see it,' Chambertin said, irritated by her tone; ‘and if you had not driven off in such haste I should have spoken of it at once. But the papers in that case, Mademoiselle, are the property of the Banque Républicaine, which I represent, and I wish them to be returned to me.'

‘They're really the property of Miss Armitage's trustees, aren't they, which your poor old Monsieur de Kessler let a lot of impostors steal from him?' Julia replied—eliciting a glance of startled delight from Mrs. Hathaway. ‘What
have you done with the impostors, by the way? Have you laid the old one, Borovali, by the heels?—and did you fish the young one out of the Aar? I told you he'd been thrown in.'

Von Allmen's face, at this point, would have repaid observation.

‘For the moment Herr Borovali is in our hands,' he replied cautiously. ‘But it would interest me to know, Fräulein Probyn, how it comes that you are so familiar with the name of this individual?'

Julia took her time over replying to this. If she mentioned June it might lead to more questions, and then trouble at La Cure, and possibly June arrested too.

‘Really, I think you'd better ask Monsieur Chambertin about that,' she said. ‘He will tell you that it was I who supplied him with the photograph that was circulated all over Switzerland, and enabled you to trace Borovali to the Fluss. And when you lost him there, I found him again at the Golden Bear.'

‘Dear Julia, did you really? How entertaining,' Mrs. Hathaway interposed. Julia turned to Chambertin.

‘What have you done with the two Boches?' She realised that the local chief of police was still rather at sea where she was concerned, and that she was likely to get more out of the banker.

‘Unfortunately, Mademoiselle, technically we have nothing against them; they claim that they were simply tourists, quite unwillingly involved in this affair.'

‘Oh I see,' Julia said, thinking of the tiny revolver that had dropped out of the tartan bag, and what its inner pocket still contained, in a churn half-way up the Niederhorn. ‘So back to Dortmund on tonight's sleepers, I suppose.'

Once again von Allmen's face would have repaid observation—and got it, from Mrs. Hathaway. But he was a senior police official, and as such kept to his point.

‘In any case, Fräulein Probyn, you admit to having obtained possession of these papers. Where are they now?'

‘Hanging up in the hall here, with my jacket. I'll show you in a second, but first, do tell me where Mr. Monro is?'

‘In the hospital at Meiringen. He has a concussion.'

‘Colin? Good heavens! How on earth did that happen?'

‘Fräulein, when a person is thrown into the Aares-Schlucht, bones are liable to be broken,' the police chief said repressively. Chambertin looked embarrassed; Julia laughed rather hysterically. Why did von Allmen know Borovali's real name, and not Wright's? Or had he forgotten? Or had someone thrown Colin into the river too? Before she could work out the answers to these questions the Interlaken bus rolled past, and drew up beyond the cow-stable across the road—a moment later Colin himself walked in from the farther end of the garden. The girl got up, and flew to him.

‘Have you seen John?'

‘Antrobus, do you mean? Yes—I've just come from there. He's perfectly O.K. in that Clinic; he says the nurses are charmers. The doctor's operating this evening.'