Murder on French Leave Read online

  ‘Only that gloomy Jono,’ she replied. ‘He’s asked me to lunch tomorrow. Is that okay?’

  I was rather fascinated to learn that they were on nick-name terms, without, to my knowledge, having exchanged more than two words, but there were more pressing matters than this to be dealt with.

  ‘Seeing I was only two feet away, you could have asked permission first and said the okays later,’ I pointed out in governessy tones.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Tess; but you went to lunch with his parents, so I didn’t think you’d object. And his mother’s in a fantastic stew about this friend of theirs who’s been killed, and her husband and everything, so it must be an awful drag for him at home.’

  ‘Yes, it must be, but you’re playing it very cool, aren’t you? Did you already know about Mrs Baker before Jonathan told you?’

  ‘Yes, it was on the ten o’clock news, when you were talking to Robin. I came in to tell you about it.’

  ‘I see. And is that by any chance why you accepted the invitation with such alacrity? Crichton curiosity getting the better of you?’

  She grinned: ‘Hark who’s talking!’

  ‘Yes, well, there’s one other thing I’m curious about, as it happens. When you said Mrs Carlsen was so upset about her friend being killed, why did you add: “And her husband and everything?” Which husband and every which thing?’

  ‘Her own, of course. That’s the real bit I came to tell you. Mr Carlsen has been arrested.’

  Seven

  (i)

  At seven the following morning, after a series of nightmares, punctuated by periods of wakefulness, in which the obsession of being fit for nothing the next day became the worst nightmare of all, I struggled to the surface and began to dial our London number.

  One hour later, I was still at it, the telephone system having chosen this of all days to be at its most insouciant. Usually the response was total silence, but sometimes I got a shrill, unbroken whine, and sometimes a bell-like jingle played over a voice mechanically repeating some phrase I could not catch. To vary the monotony, I also got a wrong number and found myself holding an unfriendly, not to mention expensive conversation with a gentleman in Maidstone.

  After about the tenth try, I gave up that approach and set out to find the operator. This proved successful, up to a point, but unluckily for me she turned out not to be a simple English girl who had married a French aristo, but an articulate, fast-speaking native, who rattled off her instructions with such speed and impatience that I could not follow a word of them.

  It was past nine when I finally established contact with Beacon Square, and Robin was no longer there. Our housekeeper informed me that he had not only left, but had taken a suitcase with him, passing the remark that he would be away for several days.

  Since he had not passed any such remark to me, I was immediately thrown into a frenzy of alarm and, drowning in this sea of troubles, the question of whether Ellen should or should not be allowed to go out with Jonathan now appeared as a very insignificant ripple on the troubled waters.

  ‘Where’s he taking you?’ I enquired listlessly, when she appeared with my breakfast tray.

  ‘He’s coming here at twelve, but I don’t know where we’ll go. He says all the places in Paris are a fantastic drag, compared to New York.’

  ‘Well, mind you’re back by the time I get in.’

  ‘Listen, Tess, we’re only going to have lunch.’

  ‘I know, but one thing can lead to another, even in draggy old Paris, and I feel responsible.’

  ‘So do I,’ she replied, regarding me critically, ‘and you look shocking. Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘It’s just that I slept badly,’ I explained. ‘Too many things on my mind.’

  ‘I tell you what, then, Tess; if you’re really in a stew about it, we needn’t go out at all. I’ll buzz out and get a few things for lunch and Lupe can cook it for us. She doesn’t a bit mind staying late and I promise to turf him out before she goes. How’s that?’

  ‘Lovely,’ I replied, ‘and you’re a dear, sweet girl.’

  When she had gone I embarked half-heartedly on my morning skirmish with Figaro. The news of Sven’s arrest was prominently displayed on the front page, but the police were playing it close to the chest. The inside report revealed nothing which I did not already know, while omitting one item which I was becoming increasingly afraid was known to me alone.

  Ellen returned, carrying a string bag loaded with provisions, and a stiff grey envelope, which she had found in our mail box. My name and address were inscribed in a large, positive hand, but it was unstamped and we had no means of telling when it had been delivered. Turning first to the signature, I read: ‘Adela C.’

  There was a Passy address at the top and the message was as follows:

  Dear Theresa,

  You will have heard the news by the time this reaches you. We are confident the mistake will be cleared up pretty soon, but there is a way you may be able to help in the clarification. I dare not phone, in case our lines are being tapped, but will be home all evening, if you could drop by any time after seven. Sincerely.

  I was going through it once again, when Ellen reappeared to caution me about the time.

  ‘Run my bath,’ I told her. ‘And as soon as I’m dressed I’ve a letter to write. I want you to give it to Jonathan, with instructions to place it in his mother’s hands at the first opportunity.’

  I was purposely putting off committing myself until the very last moment, for a hot well-scented bath is often conducive to the bubbling-up of inspiration, and I badly needed one to get me out of this predicament. On the one hand, I had as good as promised Robin not to have any more to do with the Carlsen clan, and personal inclinations also pointed in that direction. On the other, this undertaking had been given before either of us knew that the evidence I alone possessed could save an innocent man from a murder charge. Adela’s letter had convinced me that she and Sven were aware of this, too, and that the cause of justice and humanity required my once more embroiling myself in their affairs.

  No inspiration came, but further reflection persuaded me that since Robin’s partiality for the aforementioned justice and humanity were about as strong as you could find, he could only applaud my decision to speak out.

  To prevent further vacillation on the subject, I dashed off a note to say that I would call between eight and nine o’clock that evening. I then repeated my instructions to Ellen and went down to the main entrance, where the car was waiting to drive me to the studios.

  (ii)

  It was a far more gruelling day than some I have known, and included about fourteen retakes of one short scene, largely because I wasn’t concentrating properly, which didn’t make it any easier to bear.

  We went on later than usual, the rain was beating down as we came out, and the traffic going into Paris was like one enormous, snarling animal. I would have mortgaged my soul to go straight home, put my feet up and have a good cry, and the last straw was piled on by Pierre’s total inability to find the Carlsens’ house, whose address was 12 bis, rue des Quatre Pigeons. Any fool could have guessed that 12 bis would be situated between numbers 12 and 14, and any fool would have been completely wrong. The house in that position defiantly displayed its blue plaque with the number thirteen for all to see.

  Pierre was a dear fellow, but tempestuous by nature, and his approach to every problem was to run about, waving his hands in the air and declaiming to anyone who would listen. After prowling up and down the street for about a quarter of an hour, knocking on doors and getting ticked off by concierges, we eventually located 12 bis at the back of Number 12, approached by what we had taken to be garage doors and forming one side of an elegant courtyard. All very fine when you got there, but who wanted to? Certainly not I, and to be greeted by Dr Müller and two screaming poodles was the last straw bis.

  He led me into a low-ceilinged room on the ground floor, with two windows overlooking the courtyard, and furnished in a mixture of
French and American styles. There were comfortable, chintzy armchairs, shelves loaded with books and records, and some dashing-looking rugs slung around on the parquet; but the pair of pompous chandeliers and the florid wall brackets had obviously been acquired with the lease.

  The central heating was also of the Franco-U.S. variety, consisting of enormous ancient radiators, creaking and gasping like traction engines in their struggle to keep the temperature registered at ninety degrees Fahrenheit.

  Adela was suitably attired for this Turkish-bath atmosphere, in a pale blue silk caftan, with strips of gold sandal on her long narrow feet. She looked cross, but no more fearful or unhappy than at our last meeting.

  ‘Why, you finally made it,’ she said, stretching forth a languid hand, but not getting up. ‘Come right along in and sit down while Franz fixes you a drink. You met Thea already, and this is Reg Baker. Coco, baby, will you please stop that noise and let Mummie speak?’

  I planted myself on a sofa beside Mrs Müller, and the second poodle, whose name was Yves, immediately jumped into my lap. Stubbornly resisting my furtive efforts to toss him off, he trod out a nest for himself and curled up for a snooze, which didn’t make me feel any cooler.

  ‘Throw him off, if he bothers you,’ Adela said, not sounding serious about it.

  Dr Müller was standing by a drinks cabinet, making enquiring faces at me, so I asked for a Scotch on all the available rocks. I should have known better, and I did; but there are times in everyone’s life when the inner voices nagging on about taking strong drinks on an empty stomach are liable to be ignored, and this was one of them.

  Adela, on her own, I could have coped with. Admittedly, her somewhat bored and petulant attitude, so unlike Jonathan’s description of the woman in a stew, had rather thrown me; but it takes all sorts, and she had every right to behave as she chose. The difficulty was that, in taking my cue from her, I could only offend the susceptibilities of the bereaved husband. He had gone to the opposite extreme and was obviously under severe emotional stress. He had removed his jacket and, with his straggly damp white hair, white face and white shirt-sleeves, looked as though he had been tricked out for some grotesque soap powder commercial. The boyish look had gone and he was hunched in his chair, tossing back whisky, twitching spasmodically and staring at Adela with pale, bloodshot eyes. Every so often he cleared his throat, as though about to speak, but either thought better of it, or was unable to find the words.

  I saw Dr Müller glance at him warily and at one point he went over and placed a reassuring or restraining hand on his arm, murmuring a few words in German, but Adela took no notice of him at all, apparently not even hearing the strangled croaks.

  Thea remained as imperturbable as ever, although there was one slight indication that she was not quite so composed as she pretended. One hand mechanically fondled the ears of the second poodle, who stared up at her, glassy-eyed with gratitude.

  No one spoke as I lit into my drink and I became gripped by the absurd fear that the combination of hunger and nervous exhaustion would cause my insides to rumble out like a Hammond organ. Getting in first, I said:

  ‘Let me begin by saying how dreadfully sorry I am about all this, but I’m sure you want more than just sympathy and, as you know, I’m here to provide some practical help. I had rather expected your solicitor to be here, but I don’t know much about French law, and perhaps the fact that you’re all here as witnesses will be enough. If it isn’t, I don’t mind signing an affidavit, or whatever they call it, and I’m certain that as soon as the police hear what I have to say they will release your husband at once.’

  I paused here, not for lack of breath, nor even because the oppressive atmosphere and the discomfort and weight of the dog in my lap were making my heart pound a little, but because I was disconcerted by their reactions. There was no question that I had their full attention. They were moulded into it, like figures in a frieze, but, far from the signs of relief I had looked for, the tension had perceptibly heightened and become more hostile. Even Mrs Müller had stopped stroking the dog, which now whimpered and scrabbled at her legs, and Reg Baker stared at me in open disbelief.

  It was frustrating, as well as puzzling, and conscious of some inadequacy on my part, I made a huge effort to get my message across, saying to Adela:

  ‘Is anything wrong? I’m pretty tired and I could be expressing myself badly, but I had the impression from your letter that you realised I was in possession of vital evidence which would exonerate your husband. Naturally, I concluded that you wanted to find out if I was prepared to speak up, so I came to tell you that I am. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘And I certainly do appreciate it, Theresa,’ Adela said, rousing herself to speak at last, but still frowning in a way I found inexplicable. ‘I really do, dear, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘You see, my child, for us it is not so simple,’ Dr Müller said. He had been hovering in the background during my speech, but now entered the group and sat down on the arm of the sofa. I thought he was going to place a hand on my shoulder, but he withdrew it, pushing it through his own springy grey hair instead, and went on, in the manner of one seeking the right words for an idiot:

  ‘So, if we seem a little slow, you are asked to forgive us. I think I speak for all when I say we are now wondering how it is you should know in advance what we were going to ask you. Nothing of this has been mentioned in the press, or anywhere at all, except between ourselves. Is it possible that you have seen Sven, and he has told you, himself?’

  ‘No, certainly not. I’ve been working all day and, besides, I don’t even know where they’ve taken him.’

  ‘So! Then may I ask how you should already know what we are speaking about?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ I said impatiently. ‘What do you think? Isn’t it obvious to a child of four that you want a statement about what I had seen, including the time and place?’

  ‘Then, my dear young lady, I must congratulate you. Not only to have seen this thing, but to guess the importance, when nothing has been made public, that is quite something! Did she perhaps mention it, herself? Eh, yeh, yeh! Here we have our solution, I think.’

  ‘Nothing of the kind. We are completely at cross-purposes, if you must know.’

  To emphasise the point, I heaved myself upright, to the great annoyance of the poodle, who growled in a threatening way, before twisting himself back into a comfortable knot. ‘Frankly, I have no idea what you are talking about. What do you mean and what is she supposed to have told me?’

  ‘I knew it,’ Adela said in a bored tone. ‘I told you all along it was a waste of time.’

  ‘But what is all this about?’ I demanded. ‘If I knew that, I could say my piece and then perhaps I could go home.’

  Dr Müller took over again and this time he really did lay a hand briefly on my shoulder, saying with the utmost gravity:

  ‘It is about a gold necklace.’

  ‘Oh, that! What about it?’

  ‘You knew that it was missing when . . . when our poor Leila was found?’

  ‘Yes, it was in the papers.’

  ‘But not that the police found it in Sven’s possession and this is why he has been arrested?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that, but the point is . . .’

  ‘Forgive me, but no more confusions, please! The point is that the necklace was found here, in this apartment.’

  ‘Found by the police?’

  ‘Exactly. One of them was making a search, while another was in here, questioning Sven and Adela. They did this to all of us.’

  ‘And where was it hidden?’

  ‘Not hidden at all. Wrapped in some paper in his over-coat pocket.’

  I certainly had to hand it to that policeman. Knowing something of Sven’s eccentric ways, it was the obvious place to look, but for a stranger to have assessed him so accurately amounted to genius. However, this was not the sort of comment they expected of me, so I endeavoured to look sui
tably stunned.

  ‘So! You are finding this hard to believe, but there is a quite simple explanation.’

  ‘Which the police find hard to believe, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, although it is not at all impossible. Simply that the clasp of this necklace, which is made like a snake’s head, with a ruby and pearl, has been broken and so she cannot wear it.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting she gave it away, on that account?’

  ‘No, no. It was something very precious to her. It had some good luck meaning, so she would wish always to wear it. But she had explained about the broken clasp to Sven, and he, who knows so many experts in so many different worlds, offered to take it to a jeweller of his acquaintance, where the repair could be done with very small expense and so delicately that she would not be able to see the difference.’

  ‘Yes, from the little I know of him that sounds reasonable enough, but where do I come in?’

  ‘I shall explain. When your cousin spoke to Jonathan on the telephone last night, she told him that you had actually met Leila in the morning and talked with her. They were quite excited about it, these young people, saying that you must have been one of the last to see her alive. Is it true?’

  ‘That I was one of the last to see her alive? Of course not. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning when I met her.’

  ‘But, you see, this may be very important. I should tell you that she left her house very early, before breakfast even. She was very conscientious and we think she had meant to get to her office before anyone was about, to catch up with all the work that had been neglected. We know that she was there, in fact, before nine o’clock, because that was when she met Sven and told him about the broken necklace. But she was very badly upset about this, and about other things as well, and so he told her he would get it mended for her, and he advised her not to worry so much about the work, but to go home and rest for a few days more.’

  ‘But she didn’t take his advice?’