The Only Problem (12 page)

‘Not
very convincing,’ Harvey said. ‘Nobody hangs washing within sight of the
approach to a château.’

‘Nobody
used to,’ Anne-Marie said. ‘They do now. We, for example, are doing it. Nobody
will find it in the least suspect.’

‘Didn’t she tell you the
hotel where she was going to in Paris?’ Harvey said.

‘Not
me,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘I think she’ll ring you if she said she would. In any
case, the inspector is sure to know where she’s staying.’

It was
nine-thirty, and Anne-Marie was leaving for the night, anxious about being
extraordinarily late in returning home; she lived several miles away. A car
driven by a plain-clothes policeman was waiting at the door. She hurried away,
banged the car door, and was off.

Stewart
Cowper had arrived about an hour before, full of travel-exasperation and
police-harassment; he had been frisked and questioned at the entrance to the
house; he had been travelling most of the day and he was cold. At present he
was having a shower.

Harvey
and Anne-Marie had together put the living room to rights. Ruth had not yet
rung him from Paris as she had promised. Where was she? Harvey then noticed
something new in the room, a large bowl of early spring flowers, professionally
arranged, beautiful. Irises, jonquils, lilies, daffodils; all too advanced to
be local products; they must have come from an expensive shop in Nancy.
Anne-Marie must have put them there at some time between the clearing up of the
mess and her leaving, but Harvey hadn’t noticed them. They stood on a low round
table, practically covering it as the outward leaves of the arrangement bent
gracefully over the edge of the bowl. Harvey hadn’t noticed them, either, while
he was sitting having a drink with Stewart, trying to calm him down, nor while
Anne-Marie, anxious about the time, laid out a cold supper that was still
sitting on the small dining-table, waiting for Stewart to wash and change.
Where did those flowers come from? Who brought them, who sent them? Anne-Marie
hadn’t left the house. And why should she order flowers?

Stewart
came in and went to get himself another drink. He was a man of medium height,
in his mid-forties with a school-boy’s round face and round blue eyes; but this
immature look was counteracted by a deep and expressive quality in his voice,
so that as soon as he spoke the total effect was of a certain maturity and
intelligence, cancelling that silly round-eyed look.

‘Did
you bring these flowers?’ said Harvey.

‘Did I
bring what?’

‘These
flowers — I don’t know where they’ve come from. The maid —     and by the way
she’s a policewoman — must have put them there some time this evening. But why?’

Stewart
brought his drink to the sofa and sat sipping it.

Harvey’s
mind was working fast, and faster. ‘I think I know why they’re there. Have you
ever heard of a vase of flowers being bugged?’

‘Rather
an obvious way to plant a bug if the flowers weren’t there already,’ said
Stewart.

But
Harvey was already pulling the flower-arrangement to bits. He shook each lily,
each daffodil; he tore at the petals of the irises. Stewart drank his drink and
told Harvey to calm down; he watched Harvey with his big blue eyes and then
took another sip. Harvey splashed the water from the bowl all over the table
and the floor. ‘I don’t see anything,’ he said.

‘From
what I understand the police have had every opportunity to plant bugs elsewhere
in the house; they need not introduce a bunch of flowers for the purpose,’
Stewart said. ‘What a mess you’ve made of a lovely bunch of flowers.’

‘I’d
take you out to dinner,’ said Harvey. He sat on the sofa with his dejected head
in his hands. He looked up. ‘I’d take you out to eat but I’ve got to wait in
for a call from Ruth. She’s in Paris but I don’t know where. I’ve got to let my
uncle in Toronto know the time of her arrival and her flight number. Did I tell
you that she’s taking the baby to my Uncle Joe’s?’

‘No,’
said Stewart.

‘Well,
she is. I’ve got to arrange for her to be met, and get through to Toronto and
give them reasonable notice. And I’ve got to have a call from Ernie Howe, I
think. At least he said he’d ring.’

‘How
many other things have you got to do?’

‘I don’t
know.’

‘Why
don’t you relax? You’re in a hell of a state.’

‘I
know. What are you supposed to be doing here?’

‘Giving
you some advice,’ Stewart said. ‘Of course, I can’t act for you here in France.’

‘I don’t
need anyone. I’ve got what’s-his-name in Paris if necessary.

‘Martin
Deschamps? — I’ve been in touch with him. He can’t act for you in a case like
this. No-one in his firm can, either. That means they won’t. Terrorism is too
unladylike for those fancy lawyers. I’m hungry.’

‘Let’s
sit down, then,’ said Harvey; they sat at the table to eat the cold supper.
Harvey’s hand shook as he started to pour the wine. He stopped and looked at
his hand. ‘I’m shaking,’ he said. ‘I wonder why Ruth hasn’t rung?’

Stewart
took the bottle from him and poured out the wine. ‘Your nerves,’ he said.

‘She
must have had her dinner and put the baby to bed by now, ‘Harvey said. ‘I’ll
give it another hour, then I’m going to ring the police and find out where she
is. Ernie Howe should have rung, too.’

‘Maybe
she didn’t stop over in Paris. Perhaps she went straight to the airport.’

‘She
should have rung. She could have been taken ill. She’s pregnant.’

‘Is
she?’

‘So she
says.’

The
telephone rang. An inspector of police, ‘M. Gotham? — I want to let you know
that Mine. Ruth Jansen has arrived in London.’

‘In
London? I thought she was going to stop overnight in Paris. I’ve arranged for
her to go to Canada to my —’She changed her mind.’

‘Where
is she in London?’

‘I can’t
tell you. Good night.’

‘If she didn’t ring you as
promised,’ said Stewart the next morning, ‘and Ernie Howe didn’t ring you as
promised, and if, in addition, it transpires she went to London, I should have
thought you would suspect that the two were together.’

‘You
think she has gone to Ernie Howe? Why should she go to him? She is pregnant by
me.’

‘She
has Ernie Howe’s baby in her arms. It would be natural to take her to the
father. You can’t possess everything, Harvey.’

‘Do you
know more than you say?’ said Harvey.

‘No, it’s
only a supposition.’

‘I’ll
ring Ernie Howe’s flat as soon as my call to Canada has come through. It’s hard
on my uncle, mucking him about like this. He’s not so young. I’ve just put
through a call.’

‘It’s
the middle of the night in Toronto,’ said Stewart.

‘I don’t
care.’

Anne-Marie
arrived in her thick coat, scarves and boots. ‘Good morning,’ she said, and
then gave a pained wail. Her eyes were on the flowers that she had left in such
a formal display the night before, now all pulled to pieces, even the petals
torn to bits.

‘I was
looking for an electronic bug,’ Harvey said.

‘I
think you are not human,’ said Anne-Marie. She was now in tears, aimlessly
lifting a daffodil, putting it down, then a blue, torn iris.

‘Who
ordered them, who sent them?’ said Harvey.

Stewart
said, ‘I’ll help to clear the mess. Leave it to me.’

‘I had
them sent myself,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘To give you some joy after your ordeal
with the press and your loss of the baby. My sister-in-law has a flower shop
and I made a special-messenger arrangement with her for the most beautiful
flowers; a personal present. I thought that with the loss of Madame and Clara
you would enjoy those lovely spring flowers.’

Stewart
had his arm round the police agent’s shoulders. ‘His nerves gave way,’ said
Stewart. ‘That’s all.’

The
telephone rang; Harvey’s call to Canada. It was a sleepy manservant who
answered, as Harvey had counted on. He was able to explain, without having to
actually talk to his uncle, that Ruth and the baby were probably not coming
after all, and that any references to him in the newspapers and on the
television were probably false.

He put
down the receiver. The telephone rang: ‘Hallo, Harvey!’ The telephone rang off.
Again it rang: ‘Harvey, it’s Ruth.’ She was speaking in a funny way. She was
calling herself Ree-uth, although definitely the voice was hers. It must be the
London influence, Harvey registered all in a moment. But she was going on. ‘I
changed my mind, Harvey. I had to bring Clara (pronounced Clah-rah) to her
father (pronounced fah-thar).’

‘What
are you saying?’ said Harvey. ‘You mean you’re not going to my Uncle Joe in
Toronto. You’ve decided to shack down with Ernie Howe, is that it?’

‘That’s
it,’ said Ruth.

‘Then I
think you might have had enough consideration for my Uncle Joe — he’s
seventy-eight — to let me know.’

‘Oh, I
was busy with Clah-rah.’

‘Pass
me Ernie,’ said Harvey.

‘Ernie,
do you mind?’ said Ruth’s voice, apart.

‘Hallo,’
said the other voice.

‘Ernie
Howe?’

‘That’s
me.

‘What
are you doing with Ruth?’

‘We’ve
just had a tunah-fish salad. We fed Clah-rah.’

Harvey
then remembered Ernie’s voice (that’s where Ruth got the Clah-rah).

‘I make
a good fah-thah,’ said Ernie; ‘and I don’t like your tone of superiority.’

After a
great many more hot words, Harvey began to recollect, at the back of his mind,
that he really had no rights in the matter; not much to complain of at all. He
said good night, hung up, and returned to the sitting room hoping for some
consolation from his friend.

His
friend was sitting on the sofa holding hands with Anne-Marie. Harvey was in
time to hear him say, ‘May I fall in love with you?’

‘She’s
married,’ said Harvey in English.

‘Not at
all,’ said Anne-Marie in her most matter-of-fact voice. ‘I live with my married
brother.’

‘Well,
I thought you were married,’ said Harvey.

‘That’s
when you thought I was a maid.’

‘If you’re
not a maid then what are you doing here?’ said Harvey.

‘He’s
exasperated,’ said Stewart. ‘Don’t mind him.’

Anne-Marie
took a long glance at the disorderly table of ruined flowers and said, ‘I have
to remain here on duty. I’m going to make the coffee.’

When
she had left, Harvey said, ‘You’re behaving like an undergraduate who’s just
put foot on the Continent for the first time, meeting his first Frenchwoman.’

‘What
was the news from England?’

‘Ruth
is with Ernie Howe.’

‘What
do the newspapers say?’

‘I don’t
know. Find out; it’s your job.’ ‘Is it?’ said Stewart.

‘If it
isn’t, what are you doing here?’

‘I
suppose I’m just a comforter,’ Stewart said. ‘I suppose you are.

EIGHT

‘Is it possible,’ said
Harvey, ‘for anyone to do something perfectly innocent but altogether unusual,
without giving rise to suspicion?’

Stewart
said, ‘Not if his wife is a terrorist.’

‘Assume
that she is not.’

‘All
right, I assume. But here you were in a small hamlet in France, a rich man
living in primitive conditions. Well, nobody bothered you until the police
began to suspect a link between you and the FLE a certain time ago, and even
then they only had you under surveillance, from a distance; they didn’t haul
you in immediately or harass you so that your life was uncomfortable. You weren’t
even aware of their presence till lately. And now you’ve been questioned,
grilled; it’s only natural. It might have been worse. Much worse. You don’t
know the police.’

‘My
papers have been scrutinised, all my work, my private things —’

‘I can’t
sympathise too much, Harvey. I can’t say you’ve really suffered. These police
obviously are going carefully with you. They’re protecting you from the mob,
the phone calls. They probably believe you; they know by now, I should think,
that you have no contact with Effie. I think they’re right to watch out in case
she has any contact with you.’

‘You
are wrong,’ said Harvey, ‘to say that I haven’t suffered. Did you hear the
press round-up on the radio this morning? — My name’s worse than Effie’s in the
eyes of the press.’

The
local newspaper, the only one so far to arrive in his hands, was on the
coffee-table in front of them, with the front page uppermost. The headline, ‘The
Guru of the Vosges’ stretched above a picture of Harvey, distraught, in his
sitting room of final disorder at the press conference. Under the picture was
the title-paragraph of the subsequent article: