The Poellenberg Inheritance (20 page)

Fisher arrived at the Lebruns' address and found an elegant private house, with a charming eighteenth-century façade. A maid opened the front door and showed him to a first-floor drawing room. Fisher had been trying hard to reconcile Foulet's description of the man as a hard line Communist with the exclusive area and expensive house; the sight of a Modigliani hanging on the wall didn't help. It was a long room, discreetly lit by ceiling spotlights which were directed on the pictures, and the pictures, even to Fisher's disinterested eye, were very good indeed. It was a modern room, subdued and comfortable, with a hint of an art gallery about it, there were several large pieces of avant garde sculpture.

‘Monsieur Fisher,' the maid said. A woman got up from a long white leather armchair and came towards him, holding out her hand.

‘Good evening,' she said. ‘I am Madame Jenarski. Albert won't be a moment. Please sit down. What can I offer you to drink?'

She was somewhere in the fifties, dark haired, with black eyes that glittered like coals, a handsome face which had been beautiful in her youth. She was superbly dressed, and she wore a gold and ruby pin in the shape of a tiger on one shoulder. Rich; very rich indeed. The scent she used cost five pounds an ounce.

She smiled at him; there was a gleam of gold in her mouth. She was not a Frenchwoman; Fisher made a guess and came up with Greek.

He sat down, and accepted a glass of whisky. She offered him a cigarette out of a small gold box. He made a remark about the weather. She sat opposite to him and smiled.

‘Why do you want to see Albert, Monsieur Fisher? His friend Jean Foulet said you would be coming. I hope it's nothing that will worry him.'

‘I hope so too, madame,' Fisher said. ‘But I'm making an investigation and I hope he can help me.'

‘Something to do with the war? Not with the camp, I hope. I can't let you talk to him about that. It upsets him too much.'

‘No.' Fisher shook his head. He admired her directness.

‘I am not concerned with any camp. I presume you mean he was a prisoner.'

‘He was in Dachau for eight months,' she said. ‘When you see him you will understand what was done to him there. People have tried to interview him, wanting to write his life story – you know the sort of thing. It would be too much for him, to be asked questions about that time. It took me five years to get him as well as he is, Monsieur Fisher.'

‘You look after him, I understand.' Fisher decided to clarify the position. ‘Is he an invalid?'

‘No,' she answered. ‘He can walk now, thank God. I took him to the best specialists in Europe to see what could be done. The Germans crippled him, you see. He suffered terribly. When I found him after the war he was in a hospital for incurables, dying of loneliness and despair. It was so fortunate for me that I heard where he was.'

‘And for him too,' Fisher said. The black eyes burned at him.

‘No, for me. He saved my life during the war. I loved him then, when he was the great Resistance hero with every Boche in Paris looking for him, and I love him better now than I did then. Caring for him has been my privilege, monsieur.'

‘Thank you for telling me about it. I won't worry him, I promise you.'

‘I'm sure you won't.' The smile appeared and she was charming again. ‘He will be glad to see you. He likes visitors.'

When the door opened they both got up; the man who came through it was on two sticks, one leg grotesquely twisted up. He was almost bald, with a seamed and wrinkled skin that made him look very old. He wore a patch over his right eye. Fisher came forward and introduced himself.

Madame Jenarski had come to Lebrun's side and slipped an arm round him. ‘Come and sit down, Albert. I have been entertaining Monsieur Fisher for you. I will get you a drink.'

Fisher didn't begin a conversation. He let the old man settle in a chair and accept the drink first. Then it was he who spoke.

‘What can I do to help you?' he asked. ‘Jean Foulet told me a little about you. You're a private detective, aren't you?'

‘Yes,' Fisher said. ‘I can't go into any details of my job, as I'm sure you'll understand, but very briefly I'm interested in the career of a General Bronsart, who was S.S. commander in Paris around June 1944.'

Lebrun had pale grey eyes, at least the one remaining looked that colour; it was sunk deep in his head. Fisher thought suddenly how difficult it was to judge emotion in a man without the guide of two good eyes.

‘I knew of him,' Lebrun said. ‘What interests you about him, monsieur?'

‘He stole an art treasure,' Fisher said. He felt that without some amplification on his part, the old man and the Greek woman would refuse to tell him anything. ‘Its original owners are anxious to get it back. There are one or two pretty flimsy clues and one of them is a man's name. Inspector Foulet thought it might mean something to you.'

‘He told me,' Lebrun said. ‘Tante Ambrosine and her nephew Jacquot. Isn't that it? You want to know its significance.'

‘Yes,' Fisher said. ‘Yes, I do. It's very important. Who are Tante Ambrosine and Jacquot?'

It was all so simple, without effort on his part. He asked the question and suddenly, unexpectedly, there was an answer.

‘Tante Ambrosine was the code name for my Reseau during the war,' Lebrun said. ‘And Jacquot was the code name of a member of it. But there is nothing he can do to help you, Monsieur Fisher. He is dead. He was shot by personal order of General Bronsart that June.'

The room was silent; none of them moved. Then Fisher said quietly, ‘Goddamn it. I was afraid of something like that. How well did you know him, sir? Why should Bronsart use his name in connection with hidden loot …?'

‘Why did the General have him shot? He was a humble man, very young and unimportant. He was arrested and not even questioned. Then they executed him the next day. His mother told me how it happened. Now you tell me there is a connection with some hidden treasure …' The single eye switched from Fisher to Madame Jenarski.

‘What do you think, Madeleine?'

‘I think it is all very fascinating.' She smiled at him, tenderness softening her face. ‘Hidden treasure – fascinating,' she repeated.

‘Poor little Jacquot; I can't see what he could have had to do with such a thing. I remember him well.' She turned to Fisher. ‘You see, he worked for Albert, as I did. Although I'm not French, I was in Paris when they invaded Greece, my country. So I met Albert and became one of his couriers. He didn't think very much of me in those days – he didn't approve of the rich. Did you, my darling?'

Lebrun shook his head, the scalp glistened under the spotlight above him. ‘No. I did not. But I tried to redeem you, didn't I? I was a fervent Communist, you see, Monsieur Fisher, and I hoped to save Madeleine's soul in spite of her money. I still do, even though I am fortunate enough to live on it.' He laughed and she joined in.

‘And there's nothing else you can tell me about Jacquot?'

‘Nothing.' They both seemed to shake their heads in unison.

‘He was a courier for me,' Lebrun said. ‘A quiet, simple young man, loyal and a good patriot. He was captured by a piece of bad luck; he was picked up in the street in a Gestapo swoop for hostages. They took the poor devils to Fresnes Prison to hold them for a few days before they shot them. Jacquot was brought out the following morning, picked out at a parade by the General and executed minutes later. I got all the information I could from others in Fresnes. They said Jacquot was away during the night but came back without a mark on him. And when they questioned you, monsieur, believe me, they left marks.' He put up a hand and touched his eye patch. Madame Jenarski got up suddenly. She looked at Fisher.

‘Thank you for coming to see us,' she said. ‘I'm sorry we haven't been able to help more. I will see you out.'

Fisher shook Lebrun's hand. Close to, he could see some horrible scar tissue at the edge of the eye patch. Down in the front hall, the Greek woman turned to him and held out her hand.

‘I saw a report in the newspapers some month or so back,' she said. ‘Bronsart was reported seen. It was a curious coincidence. It was poor Jacquot's mother who thought she saw him.'

‘Thank you for your sympathy.' The Princess was sitting, her back as straight as a steel rod, dressed from head to toe in black, her eyes undimmed by any sign of weeping. Fisher had come the morning after her arrival to make his report. He had offered his sympathy as a formality and she accepted it curtly, as if she despised him for wasting both their time. Looking into the hard face, the features accentuated by the black dress and a chiffon scarf of the same colour, Fisher remembered the blurred features of her dead son, with the lurking wretchedness in the eyes, and felt sorry for him all over again. ‘It is a disgusting business,' she said suddenly. ‘I was besieged with photographers when I arrived. Reporters have been hiding in the hotel. I warned the management that if one intruder got near me, I should move immediately to the Crillon!'

She had taken up quarters in the Ritz on the floor below her son Philip. ‘To drown in the Seine,' she said. ‘It's unbelievable. It's such a vulgar thing to happen to us, Mr. Fisher. If my son had died in any other way I could have faced it with more equanimity!'

Fisher could well imagine it. She made so little pretence of being sorry that it was grotesque. He felt his dislike of her increasing in ratio to his pity for the unhappy alcoholic whose passing was so little lamented. ‘I went to see Prince Heinrich,' he said. The steely glance shot at him.

‘Why did you do that?'

‘I wanted to make a report.' Fisher couldn't resist it. ‘I must tell you, Princess, that I thought he had been drinking.' The remark was prompted by sheer middle-class malice; that was how Fisher analysed the motive to himself. He wanted to see the arrogant bitch wilt a little. Her mouth actually curled – with contempt for whom? – Fisher couldn't be sure it wasn't for his effort to score off her.

‘My son did drink from time to time,' she said coolly. ‘But he held it like a gentleman. And that is all that matters. What progress have you made?'

‘Not very much since I last checked with you,' he said. ‘I've traced one man who seemed to be a vital part of it, but he's dead. I'm afraid this could bring us to a dead stop.'

‘Why should it? You are sure the General is alive – I agree with you – his daughter has been contacted, all that remains is to solve the riddle he set for her.'

‘The dead man was part of that riddle,' Fisher said. ‘I'd hoped he was alive and could supply us with some answers. But he's dead, and it was done by the General's personal order.' As soon as he said it, the irrationality was obvious. He wondered how he could have missed seeing it before, when he spoke to Lebrun. But as soon as he left them he had joined Paula and that drove everything else out of his mind. It didn't take the Princess long to see what had eluded him.

‘Bronsart must have known he gave a dead man as part of his clue, so his being dead is not important. What must matter is something else about him. Really, Mr. Fisher, what am I paying for?'

‘That,' he said slowly, ‘is what I've been wanting to ask you. Which is the most important to you, Princess Von Hessel – finding the Poellenberg Salt or getting our hands on the General?'

‘The Salt,' she said; the answer was a little too quick. ‘That's what I engaged you to find. If you find the man who stole it from us, well and good! I don't understand your question.'

‘Both your sons have tried to dissuade me from going on with it,' Fisher said. ‘Your elder son talked of a scandal. I want to know what's behind this, what you haven't told me. I don't like working in the dark.'

‘My eldest son drank,' she said sharply. ‘Sometimes his imagination wandered away from the facts. I've no idea what he was talking about.'

‘Your second son said the same.' Fisher wasn't going to back down now. ‘There's nothing unreliable about him.'

‘Philip came and talked this nonsense to you? I don't believe it!'

‘Twice,' he said. ‘He came to the airport to see me off after my first interview, and the day before yesterday in this very hotel, he as good as ordered me to throw my hand in.'

‘I see.' The eyes were narrow, watchful. ‘And what did you reply, Mr. Fisher?'

‘I said I was employed by you and didn't take instructions from him or anyone else. If you said to drop it, I would, but not otherwise.'

‘I appreciate your loyalty.' It was a sneer, and Fisher reddened. ‘You did the right thing; disregard everything my son Philip says to you. I'll deal with his objections.'

‘I'd rather you dealt first with mine.' That stopped her; she moved abruptly in her chair.

‘I don't have to deal with anything with you,' she said. ‘You're being paid. That's all you need expect from me.'

‘I want the truth,' Fisher said. ‘You can stuff the money unless you tell me what the General had over you that you gave him the Poellenberg Salt.'

She took it well, he had to grant her that; she didn't betray herself by a single flicker. She glared at Fisher. ‘What do you want, more money? Is that what this quest for truth is all about? Don't try and fool with me; I know what your profession is – once removed from the criminal classes!'

Fisher didn't answer. He got up and walked to the door. Her voice rose above its normal pitch.

‘Mr. Fisher! How dare you walk out!'

He turned at the door. ‘That poor devil was married, wasn't he?' He spoke quite calmly. ‘What was the matter with her – why did you have to hide it up?'

‘Come back, please.' She offered the invitation in a normal way, but now there were two red patches on her face, and both hands, festooned with diamond rings, were clutching the chair arms.