Every Hidden Thing

Chapter 17

  Libby

  7th November

  The Simplon Express was not fully booked, but they had to push their way through the noisy crowds of well-wishers, sandwich sellers, baggage trolleys and piles of luggage that cluttered the platform of the Gare de Lyon. The porter carried Libby’s luggage to her compartment and left them.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay, just until this beastly migraine has gone properly, darling? At least you should have taken a sleeper,’ Gillian said in her husky voice for the tenth time, as Libby shook her head for the tenth time, smiling wanly. Her budget did not include sleepers. Blonde, dazzling Gilly was a dear, but she lived in a privileged social whirl and Libby knew that she wouldn’t understand.

  ‘Really, Gilly, you have cosseted me wonderfully, but I am afraid that if I don’t go now, I will lose my courage. I have to do this. Besides, I promised Ari that I would deliver his parcel and the pain has just about gone.’

  ‘Alright then, seeing as you’re so stubborn, just give my love to my uncle Bragadin when you see him, ok?’

  Libby nodded and when Gillian had helped her stow her suitcase, typewriter and the all-important parcel on the rack above the seat, they kissed the air beside each cheek and Gillian dashed off, leaving only a whisper of Chanel 5 behind. In no time the whistle blew and the train slowly slipped out of the station. Libby stood at the window in the corridor while the train gathered speed, until all she could see were dreary vacant-eyed buildings and anonymous suburban streets gliding silently past. Strange, she thought, how the dilapidated outskirts of all cities are so alike. She was sorry to be leaving Paris; it was familiar and loved and she felt as if she was cutting her moorings and descending into the great unknown. She closed the door of her compartment and pulled down the blinds of the windows facing the corridor, so she would not be disturbed by people who had lingered after waving goodbye to friends and relations. Libby shrugged off her camel cashmere coat and black beret, and bundled them onto the rack with her bags. She was warm enough in her cream woollen pants suit. Wearily, she slumped onto the seat and closed her eyes. It was going to be a long night. She still felt washed-out from the migraine although the pain had faded. How she wished she had been persuaded to take the sleeper. While this was a first class coach, it was an Eastern European carriage and very shabby. At least she’d be able to stretch out on the seat; she’d done it before after all. She lay down experimentally on the worn leather for a few minutes but was reluctantly forced to admit that those days were over. One day, she promised herself, she’d do this journey in the luxury of the fabled Orient Express. She sighed as she sat up wearily when she heard the clatter of the coach attendant’s clipper in the lock. He opened the door and checked her ticket then asked her if she had filled in the forms that were needed for the border crossings; one at about midnight into Switzerland and the next one at 3.30 a.m. crossing into Italy.

  ‘Not yet, monsieur. I will have them ready.’ But still she sat listlessly. She thought of Gillian and Hugh and their kindness to her. Libby always enjoyed coming to stay with them in Paris, being able to go jogging in the park or catching the underground and just walking everywhere. But she hung back rather whenever the Tildens entertained. She wasn’t really interested in politics and international affairs and felt a bit inadequate because that seemed to be the sole topic of conversation at these events. She thought briefly of the night she met Michel Gaillard, but she hadn’t heard from him again, so he was history too. Just as well.

  She had enjoyed working for Ari Mayer for those few months. He really was a sweet old man. Well not so old, she amended, but his whole demeanour was elderly. She glanced up at the parcel next to her other luggage and wondered briefly about what it might contain. It was about quarto size and fairly thick. She thought it might contain a large book, but it was well-wrapped. It was easy enough a commission in any case and wouldn’t take up much of her time. She tried to shake herself out of her daydream by looking out of the window, but they had left the city behind and darkness had swallowed up the landscape. All she could see was her own reflection looking back at her.

  Without warning the train jerked and the breaks began to screech, as though someone had pulled the emergency cord. She opened the window to see what the problem could be, but she fell back on the seat in surprise when the door to her compartment was pulled open. The doorway was filled with the form of a young man. Despite the silly hat on his head, she recognised him immediately. It was Dougie Brewer.

  ‘May I come in?’ he asked in French, and before she could protest, he entered the compartment, closing the door behind him. She sat there with her mouth open, unable to utter a sound.

  ‘Have you got the Prof’s parcel?’ he began without preamble and as she was still speechless at this intrusion he began examining the luggage above her head. His eyes lit up and he was about to grab the parcel when the door slid open and a man in a navy-blue overcoat stood there. Libby gasped as she saw the gun with a silencer in his hand. Dougie dived for the open window and swung himself over the sill as the man took aim and fired. She jumped up and rushed to the window to see what had happened, not thinking that she could have been shot too. She fully expected to see Dougie’s body lying at the side of the track. Fortunately the train had slowed down considerably by that time and she was relieved to see a shadow moving rapidly across the snow towards the gloom of a small copse a distance from the tracks.

  She turned back to the compartment, but the shooter had disappeared. There was a general hubbub as passengers started shouting. She leaned out as far as she safely could, her red hair billowing in the onslaught of frozen air. She thought she heard a shot from the end of the train to her right, above the rattle and screech of the train as it slowed down. Then she saw two men jump to the ground from the steps of the guards van and start in pursuit of Dougie. The train had creaked to a halt and the ticket examiner and other attendants rushed up and down outside talking excitedly and flashing torches over the train. Someone had obviously pulled the emergency cord. She tried to explain to the ticket examiner what had happened, but he brushed her off saying that it was a dangerous felon who had escaped and the police were after him.

  After much shouting, everyone eventually clambered aboard and the guard blew his whistle as the train lurched into motion. ‘We have had a lucky escape, Mademoiselle,’ was all he said when he came down the corridor shortly afterwards.

  ‘He’s not a criminal, monsieur. I know he’s a student at the Sorbonne . . .’she protested but he simply patted her arm.

  ‘The police will find him, never fear.’ He hadn’t heard a word she had said.

  In a daze she closed the door and pulled her coat over herself, curling up in the corner of the seat and chewing what was left of her fingernails. She was still shivering with fear and her ears were ringing from the report of the gunshot. She had never been so afraid in all her life. It had all happened so quickly; the whole episode had hardly taken more than a minute before Dougie had jumped from the train. She felt somewhat responsible for that poor young man as he had been one of Prof Mayer’s students and she was glad that he seemed to have got away. But why was he asking for the Prof’s parcel? What did he have to do with it, anyway? At that moment she deeply regretted catching that particular train. If I had stayed in Paris as Gilly had begged me to this would never have happened, she told herself miserably.

  It was not much later when a steward came, sounding a dinner gong. She thought she should try having something to eat; at least, it would be something to do rather than just sitting there worrying. She didn’t think she would get any sleep tonight after all of this, anyway. On an impulse, she took the parcel down from the rack and bundled it into her large shoulder bag.

  The train was a very long one, with different sections that would be shunted off at the appropriate destinations and it took her an age to stumble through seven coaches to the dining car. Every once in a while, a window in the corridor was open and she gasped as
a blast of frosty air hit her, her hair tangling around her face. She almost turned back, but she realised she had hardly eaten for a couple of days and she was hungry. She was glad to see that she was still in time for the first sitting. She found an empty table and sat next to the window.

  As she examined the set menu, her taste buds were stirred. In spite of the fright she had had, she began to feel a bit more normal in the warmth of the dining car. She even began to enjoy herself as she sat and casually watched the other diners while she sipped an excellent wine. There were some American tourists sitting at the table on the far side of the dining car who were valiantly trying out their rudimentary French on the steward. She had to suppress a smile as he answered them in very competent English. Suddenly she became aware of a man at her elbow.

  ‘May I share your table, Mademoiselle?’ he asked in French. She looked up at a rather good-looking young man and smiled her assent.

  ‘Yves Lefevre.’ He took the cigarette out of his mouth and squashed it out in the ash tray on the table before extending his hand.

  ‘Libby Wentworth,’ she said as she took it. His hand was warm and strong and he didn’t try to crush hers. Nice manners. Not bad looking either! She indicated the menu on the table. ‘The steward is on his way with my hors d’oeuvres now. If you’re quick you can order before he disappears again.’

  He sat down and soon the waiter came bearing a loaded tray. ‘You are English, Miss Libby Wentworth!’ Lefevre commented with a smile. Her name sounded enchanting on his tongue. ‘Are you going to Belgrade?’ he asked, when he had given his order. He took out a crumpled blue cigarette packet, but put it away as she began to eat. Instead he beat a soft tattoo on the table with nervous fingers.

  ‘No. I’m going as far as Venice.’

  ‘Is this a holiday? It is not a very pleasant time to visit Venice. It is very cold and damp in November.’

  ‘Well I plan to stay for a while. What about you? Are you going to Venice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are going there for…?’

  ‘Business mostly. But I hope to be paid a large debt owed to me.’

  ‘Oh. That sounds intriguing!’

  He smiled across at her but didn’t elaborate, so she turned her attention back to her delicious meal of roast leg of lamb and perfectly prepared vegetables.

  When Lefevre’s food arrived, he nibbled at it, preferring to pay attention to the bottle of wine he had ordered. With a smile, Libby put her hand over her glass when he gestured with the bottle towards it. As soon as he could, he lit another cigarette without offering her one. They spoke in a general way about the dramatic events of the evening. As far as she knew, this man didn’t know that it had been her compartment the young man had jumped from and she was reluctant to speak about it. She changed the subject by asking him about his work.

  ‘I am a journalist with Le Matin.’

  At that, she was quite glad that she hadn’t told him that she had literary ambitions!

  ‘And you? No. Don’t tell me. You’re a model.’

  ‘No!’ she said laughing. ‘I worked in a bookshop in London for several years but I’ve been working at the Sorbonne for the last few months to earn extra cash to help me afford this trip.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She saw a fleeting expression cross his face which she couldn’t identify. It was as though he was suddenly alert. No, that couldn’t be it. He had been listening attentively to her, but he seemed to be seeing her more clearly.

  ‘That is very interesting. What were you doing there? I have a few contacts on campus.’

  ‘I was just helping the senior history lecturer tidy his office. Do you know him? Doctor Mayer? Everyone calls him Prof.’

  ‘No. No.’ he responded quickly. ‘I have heard of him mind you.’ He changed the subject, peering through the window at the darkened countryside.

  ‘Look! You can see it has been snowing.’ He turned back to her. ‘It is going to be cold in Venice, I think.’ He offered her his profiteroles, saying that he didn’t really like dessert, but she refused, laughingly patting her waistline.

  He was a very attentive and amusing companion, with a typical French cynicism and she quickly warmed to him. He told her anecdotes from his experiences as a reporter and he had her chuckling in no time. Unfortunately, being in the first sitting, she was unable to sit for too long over her coffee, as there was a crowd of expectant diners waiting to be fed. She stood up and put out her hand.

  ‘Maybe we’ll meet in Venice,’ she said.

  ‘I look forward to that! I may be in the vicinity of Florian’s round about two o’ clock the day after tomorrow, if my business will let me. Maybe we’ll meet there? Here is where I will be staying anyway. You could contact me if you need help with anything. Just in case?’ He pulled a fountain pen from his inside pocket and wrote a number on the back of a business card.

  ‘And you? Are you staying with friends?’

  She shook her head and told him the name of her hotel. He stood up politely as she moved away and he saluted and smiled as she turned around at the exit. Then she dived through the crush of would-be diners around the door.

  She was quite flustered by the time she reached her own compartment, having fought her way through any number of people who were still standing in the corridors despite the lateness of the hour. The train was rocketing along and it was all she could do to write neatly on the forms that she had to fill in before they crossed the border later. She realised that she was beyond sleep and decided to try to read, although the swaying of the speeding train made her brace herself between the armrest and the heater at her feet in order to see the page of the magazine she had brought with her.

  Since the train had left Dijon, the rocking and rattling was causing her eyelids to droop in spite of herself. She forced her eyes open. It would be foolish to fall asleep now. Anything could happen while she dozed, she warned herself. To keep herself awake, she sat up and tried to scribble down the night’s events. The supper with Lefevre had distracted her and she was feeling more optimistic. She wrote down some of their conversation and found she was blushing at the compliments he had paid her. She really hoped she would see him again.

  Dougie’s face came to mind. She hadn’t seen much of him since the incident in Mayer’s office, only occasionally seeing him at a distance. He hadn’t come back again while she was there, but she had suggested to Ari that he lock his office door when neither of them was there. She hadn’t explained her reasons, but he had agreed that it was a good idea.

  She wrote about Dougie’s shocking disappearance. In spite of herself she was intrigued. What had happened earlier? Why did he want the parcel? She loved spy stories, but she was afraid this was much more than a story. That gun had been terrifyingly real. She stood up and opened the door, looking up and down the corridor. At one end, a man was standing looking out of the window. The corridor lights had been dimmed and she couldn’t see his face properly, but she could hear a soft, tuneless whistle. Wasn’t he the man who had been after Dougie? She couldn’t be sure. She had shut her eyes as soon as she saw the gun pointed at them both. But then, some men had jumped off the train in pursuit of Dougie, she thought, puzzled. Maybe it was just her imagination working overtime. She nodded to him in what she hoped was friendly unconcern, but she felt uneasy and hoped that he wouldn’t approach her. She turned to the window and peered through her cupped hands to eliminate the reflection from the lights in the passage. Bright moonlight washed the snowy fields that streaked by the window, and in the distance she could see mountains rising up into the starry sky. It looked like a picture postcard.

  The ticket examiner was making his way down the corridor, banging his clippers on the handles as he progressed, warning the occupants that they were nearing the Swiss border. She realised she had not yet given the ticket examiner her forms and passport and she dived back into the compartment as he came closer. She was prepared to open the subject of the earlier excitement onc
e more, but as the rather tired old man took the papers and her passport, she realised that there was no point. She just nodded her thanks to him and he passed on down the coach.

  The rest of the journey was a blur. After arriving at Lausanne, she opened the door a crack and to her relief she spotted the rather sinister man from down the corridor get off and hurry away from the train. Good. She turned off the compartment lights. She felt a deep sense of relief as, taking off her low-heeled shoes and pulling her coat over her, she lay down to sleep with her handbag under her head for a pillow. Minutes later the train jolted and began pulling out of the station.

  Libby loved the sound of the wheels on the tracks and the rocking of the train promised to lull her to sleep. Suddenly however, the compartment exploded with noise and chatter. The lights came on and she sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes and blinking in the brightness. There were three young men and a girl who plumped themselves down on the opposite bunk talking very loudly in a language she had never heard before.

  All were smoking foul-smelling cigarettes. She looked pointedly at the sign above the wash basin ‘Défense de Fumer. Nepusaҫi.’ No smoking. They obviously could not read either of these languages.

  ‘Hello,’ they said nodding. She nodded back.

  ‘Where are you from?’ she asked, trying to make conversation.

  ‘Hello,’ said the girl again. They all beamed at Libby. Okay, she thought dismally. No spik Inglisch either, obviously. She forced a smile and this time pointed to the No Smoking sign. They grinned back at her and puffed on, even offering her one. However they did open the window for a bit and the icy wind diluted the smoke and soon they were able to close it.

  They were friendly kids, much younger than she was, and quite shabbily dressed. Probably from Yugoslavia, she supposed. Although they could not speak each other’s languages, they tried hand signals and lots of nods, with a bit of broken French thrown in for good measure. One of them even took a Polaroid photo of Libby, while his friend made faces to make her smile. When it was ready, he stripped off the backing sheet and presented it to her with a flourish. The picture was blurred, but it made her chuckle. She was very amused when the older one leaned forward in a confiding way and said with a waggle of his eyebrows,

  ‘Vous,’ he said, pointing at her, ‘moi,’ patting his chest and ‘Belgrade’ with a thumb-jerk. She couldn’t help but be flattered by a proposition from someone at least ten years younger than she was. She shook her head and laughed at his cheekiness. It was good to laugh. It felt like it was developing into a veritable circus when, some while after they had crossed into Italy, an impossibly handsome young Italian came into the compartment selling ‘genuine’ Parker pens and Rolex watches and stopped to chat up the dark-headed girl. Mercifully, her young companions’ cheerfulness flagged towards morning and eventually, when Libby turned off the ceiling light, there was no word of protest from the others.

  Peace settled as they collapsed against each other like discarded puppets. She knew there was no more time to try and sleep as they were entering Venezia-Mestre station. She gathered her things together and put on her beret and coat. Sunrise was still a long way away, but the darkness was thinning into a heavy-eyed twilight. She was exhausted but couldn’t help marvelling at the long bridge that connects Venice to the mainland. It is both a train bridge and a road bridge, built by the Austrians almost two hundred years ago. There are no real roads on Venice and vehicles are left at a car park on the western end of the island, from where one has to walk or take water transport.

  When the train pulled into the station, her companions woke up and helped her onto the platform with lots of handshakes and smiles. She was almost sorry to leave them; they represented a link with everything that was familiar. As she stood among the bustling crowd of alighting passengers, she looked around hoping to see her dinner companion of the previous night. But after some minutes of scanning passing faces, she gathered up her small pile of possessions and set off.