The Poellenberg Inheritance (9 page)

‘It's not Thursday,' she said. ‘You're two days early.'

‘Let me come in,' he said. ‘I came right round when I saw the papers.'

‘What papers?' She walked after him down the hall; her own newspaper was still in the downstairs lobby. She had forgotten to collect it.

In the sitting room Fisher waited; she came towards him. ‘It's Black,' he said. ‘So I came round.'

The newspaper was in his hand. She took it from him. The black headline faded out of focus. There was a photograph of a face she knew, a face with high cheekbones and eyes fixed in a narrow stare. Then the heading came at her again. Murdered man identified as War Criminal.

Fisher let her read, watching her face. He had been shaken himself when he opened the paper in a pub outside Shepherd Market. It was an old haunt and he was meeting a friend from his journalist days. He left the pub without leaving a message. It wasn't just the picture and the discovery that Albrecht Schwarz had been found murdered. It was the story printed underneath.

Paula suddenly began to read aloud.

‘Albrecht Schwarz, alias Black, alias Winter, resident in Switzerland with a Swiss passport for the past fifteen years, was one of the small band of notorious war criminals wanted for multiple murder in the Ukraine and for his part in the infamous massacre of the population of the Polish village of Darienne during the German withdrawal in 1944.' She lowered the paper and looked at Fisher. She seemed dazed. ‘Come and sit down and I'll get you a drink,' Fisher said. She didn't move. She was reading the paper again, her lips moving. He found the whisky and poured a stiff measure. The soda syphon hissed; it was empty. It occurred to Fisher that empty syphons and a lack of things like tonic water or matches were hallmarks of women who lived alone. Fisher swore and decided she might as well have the drink straight. He gave her the glass and made her sit beside him.

‘You look upset,' he said suddenly. ‘This has been quite a shock to you.'

‘I can't believe it,' Paula said. ‘He was sitting in my office – a funny little old man, with white hair. I thought he was crazy! Mr. Fisher, I don't understand what's happening. I've just had my stepfather up here shouting at me because I'd seen Black, telling me I was hurting my mother and hadn't any right to go digging up the past – why haven't I? If my father is alive, why can't I find him?'

‘Hadn't you better ask yourself why he hasn't come forward?' Fisher said gently. ‘Why did he have to send Black, – why's he been lying low for all these years?'

Paula put down the glass. ‘What do you mean? Are you trying to tell me he's done something criminal?'

‘I don't know,' Fisher said. ‘Interpol have a record of him, as they did everybody on the top Nazi level. Your father wasn't in the Wehrmacht. He was a general in the S.S.'

‘Why didn't you tell me?' Paula asked.

‘Because my job was to get information out of you,' Fisher said. ‘And anyway you seemed so keen on the idea of him I didn't want to point it out. Look, I've got an idea. Have you eaten dinner yet?'

‘No.' Paula shook her head. ‘And after this I'm not hungry.'

‘You never are,' Fisher remarked. ‘The time I took you out to lunch you left everything on the plate. I'm going to take you out tonight, Mrs. Stanley, and if you don't want to eat you don't have to. And you don't have to talk about any of this either. This is going to be strictly pleasure and not business. Go and get a coat and put some powder on your nose.'

‘I don't want to go anywhere,' Paula said. ‘If you want a drink I can give it to you here.'

‘I can't do without soda,' Fisher insisted. ‘And you're fresh out of it. Go and get that coat. Hurry up.'

He lit a cigarette while he waited for her. She looked shaken and he was quite certain that if he took her at her word, she would sit in the flat and cry after he had left. He felt like an evening out; he had nothing to celebrate; rather, the murder of Schwarz was a first-class check to his investigations. So he might as well celebrate that. But what he really wanted was to get Paula Stanley out of the flat. When she came back into the room he got up. ‘You look terrific,' he said. ‘And that's how you're going to feel in a little while from now. I know just the place for both of us tonight. Come on.'

They drove into the centre of London, down past the Houses of Parliament, where a light burned in the clock tower of Big Ben to show that the House was sitting, on down Whitehall and round Trafalgar Square, where Nelson surveyed the city from his column and the pigeons roosted peacefully on the official buildings in spite of all efforts to dislodge them. The fountains shot water jets into the air, and the tourists wandered round the basins, clustered on the steps, enjoying the warmth of the evening. Up Piccadilly, past the Circus with its neon lights and sad little groups of addicts already assembling in a queue at the all-night chemist for their supplies.

They swung into Berkeley Square.

‘Where are we going?' Paula asked.

‘Annabels,' Fisher answered. ‘Soft lights, very loud music, and plenty to look at.' He gave the car key to the doorman. ‘Put it somewhere for me, will you.'

The doorman saluted and smiled. Fisher had a very big expense account on his company. Apart from his share in the profits. He could afford the best night club in London. Paula had never been there. Better-class night clubs were not James' idea of fun, and professionally she didn't move in that kind of circle.

The men who took her out were the type who chose discreet, folksy little places where the food was good. They went into the bar, which was exactly like the study in a rich man's country house. The walls were covered with sporting cartoons, prints, and valuable pictures. There was an open fire with an old-fashioned wire guard in front of it; leather sofas, a specially woven tartan carpet. A few yards beyond, the restaurant was a dark cavern filled with music. It was still early for the club, and there were very few people there.

Fisher didn't take her to the bar; it was too public. People sat there in order to be seen. They went straight to a table.

He ordered champagne for them both. He reached over and held her hand. It was cold.

‘I can't go on calling you Mrs. Stanley,' he said. ‘It seems indecent in a place like this. My name is Eric.'

‘Call me Paula.' She looked down at her hand in his. He had strong hands with thick powerful wrists, where dark hairs grew. His hand was warm and it gripped.

‘Why did you bring me here?'

‘To take you out of yourself. Drink up. Don't you like champagne?'

‘Yes. Why are you doing all this for me? Why should you bother?'

‘You've got a thing about this, haven't you?' Fisher said. He was leaning close to her; he could smell her scent and her hand was warmer.

‘Why shouldn't someone care about you? You must have had a lot of men.'

‘One husband,' she said. ‘Who left me for another woman. Two other women to be honest. He said I wasn't much good at it.'

‘Good at what? Sex? Or being married. They're not the same thing, I understand.'

‘Good at either,' Paula answered. She drank some of the champagne. ‘I was too reserved. Too wrapped up in myself I thought he was hell too, so I suppose it was equal. And you're wrong about the men. The only ones who ever fell for me were thoroughly off beat.'

‘I've never liked conventional women,' Fisher said. ‘Maybe that's why I've never married. Apart from leading a slightly disorganised life.'

‘Why did you choose it? Nobody ever meets a private detective.'

‘Now, now,' Fisher said. ‘We're not all sleazy little men in macs, poking into hotel bedrooms. We have a very big agency. We deal with all sorts of problems.'

Like missing Nazi treasure. Odd items like a Benvenuto Cellini masterpiece worth millions. Things like that. He looked down at her and smiled.

‘You're feeling better, aren't you? Not quite so shaken.'

‘Not quite.' He felt the hand inside his give a slight pressure. It roused a pang of excitement in him.

‘Tell me some more about yourself. You're a bachelor and a detective. Were you in the police?'

‘I was a journalist,' he said, ‘for about five years. It was great fun, lots of travel, quite a bit of excitement. Then I met this chap called Dunston, he was in Interpol. We worked on a gold smuggling racket together in West Berlin, and we liked each other very much. He's not like me, much more of a solid type. Wife and three children. I didn't see him for quite a time, then one day he looked me up. He'd left Interpol and started his own investigating service. He asked me to join him. So I did and here I am. More champagne?'

‘I couldn't,' she protested.

‘Oh yes you could. It won't hurt you. Anything more you want to know about me?'

‘I can't think of anything. Except what you won't tell me. Why you're looking for my father and who's employing you.'

‘I tell you what,' Fisher said cheerfully. ‘You tell me why Schwarz really came to see you and I'll answer your questions. Now I am going to take you for a dance. We came here to forget about all that.'

She got up. ‘I can't forget it, Eric. I can't think of anything else.'

‘You
are
going to forget about it. Just for tonight. Tomorrow I shall bully the hell out of you to get the answers, but not tonight. This is a nice slow tune. Come on.'

Paula didn't dance with him, she clung; his arm supported her, his body warmed hers as he pressed her against him. The dance floor was small and it was full of people twined around each other. Some of the couples jigged and gesticulated; the discotheque switched from the slow beat to a fast rhythm, playing at earsplitting pitch.

Fisher ignored the tempo and went on holding her against him. She didn't move or respond to his pressure; his intention had been to cushion her against the shock and he had succeeded. Too bloody well, he thought, and permitted a laugh at his own expense. She was extraordinarily attractive; he had known many women who could claim to be more beautiful or more obviously sexy, but Paula Stanley was having a profound effect upon him. The fact that she was completely unaware of it, and was doing nothing to contribute to it, made Fisher even more disturbed. She rested her head on his shoulder and danced with her eyes closed.

Fisher made an effort. ‘Back to the table,' he said. ‘I'm thirsty.' The club was now uncomfortably full; beautiful women in expensive evening dresses, smart young girls in velvet dungarees and pure silk shirts, escorts of all ages came drifting through to dance. Fisher settled behind his table and took hold of Paula's hand.

‘You are feeling better, aren't you?'

‘Better or high, I'm not sure which,' she said. ‘Did I thank you for doing this for me?'

‘You did,' Fisher said. ‘This is about the fourth time. And I'm not going to repeat it again, but it's a pleasure. Drink up.'

‘If I do,' she said, ‘I'll go to sleep.'

‘That won't matter,' Fisher said. ‘You'll feel pretty nasty in the morning, but the worst will be over by then. One more dance to keep your eyes open, and then I'll take you home.'

As soon as he met her, Fisher had decided that she had the most unusual eyes he had ever seen.

The colour was indescribable; it was the vulnerable expression in them which was worrying him. She looked as if she were easy to hurt. Fisher wasn't used to this after a life spent in the company of assorted female toughs, good for a screw, a booze-up and a laugh. Paula Stanley was not his type at all.

He spent another fifteen minutes holding her tight on the dance floor wishing he could go to bed with her, and then he drove her home.

Outside her flat he stopped, leaned across and opened the car door.

‘I'm not being a gentleman and seeing you in,' he said, ‘because I'm a bit high myself, and I can't promise to behave unless you get out pretty quickly.'

Paula turned to him.

‘If you want to come up with me, you can. I don't mind.'

‘Thanks.' Fisher bowed his head. ‘Thanks very much. But I don't go for the lamb to the slaughter routine. You're not fit for anything but a good night's sleep. Ask me up another time and you'll be surprised what happens!'

‘You can phone me tomorrow,' Paula said. She slid out of the car and stood on the pavement. In spite of what he had said, Fisher got out with her.

‘Have you got your keys?'

‘Yes. I shan't go into the office. And I'll answer whatever you like if you call me tomorrow. I owe you that for what you've done tonight. Goodnight, Eric. And thanks again.'

He watched her go through the front door; he waited in the car until he saw the light in her window go on.

She had asked him up and he had refused. He couldn't believe it. He had spent the evening wanting her so much it hurt, and then behaved like a gentleman. Something very suspect, he decided, very odd indeed, was happening to him in his old age.

Margaret Von Hessel was alone with her younger son. They were drinking coffee in the enormous conservatory that ran down the south side of the house. Every variety of hothouse plant was growing round them; the Princess could remember exactly the same atmosphere in her grandmother's day. Humid closeness, and the pervading tropical scents. She sat in a tall wicker chair, and her son Philip arranged the cushions behind her. She looked up at him and patted his hand. He reminded her so much of her side of the family. Whereas her son Heinrich was a pure Von Hessel of the Würtzen branch. Weak, degenerate, a drunkard; useless to God or man.

Women and gambling had been the old Prince's occupations; his great empire ran itself, wealth bred wealth without his making any effort, and he had married more. Margaret was his second cousin. She had not loved the Prince; love was not part of the settlement.