Waiting for Sunrise

  ‘I’ll show you where Glockner lives tomorrow. I would suggest your visit be either at the dead of night or perhaps a Sunday – when the building is quiet.’

  Tomorrow’s Friday, Lysander thought. My god . . .

  ‘I’d better get to the bank,’ he said.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ she said, unconcernedly. ‘I’m just going to show you where he lives. What you do next is your affair.’ She finished her Dubonnet and stood up. She was tall, Lysander noticed, and he spotted that the material of her dress was of good quality and well cut. She pulled down her half-veil and screened her eyes.

  ‘You’re obviously in mourning . . .’

  ‘My husband was an officer – a captain – in the French army. We used to live in Lyons. He was killed in the second week of the war in the retreat from Mulhouse. August 1914. He was shot and badly wounded, but when they captured him they left him to die. Untended. I’m originally from Geneva so I came home to be with my brother.’

  ‘I’m very sorry. My sympathies,’ Lysander said, a little lamely, wondering what genuine condolences one could offer to a stranger almost two years after such a bereavement.

  Madame Duchesne flicked her wrist as if batting the formulaic remark away.

  ‘This is why I’m happy to help you in this war. To help our allies. I’m sure that was your unasked question.’

  It was, as it happened, but Lysander thought of something more.

  ‘These letters to Glockner – was there a postmark?’

  ‘Yes, all from London West – English stamps, of course, which alerted me. I have the names of all the staff at the German consulate, my brother brings me their letters first as a matter of routine. See you tomorrow, Herr Schwimmer.’

  She gave him a little bow – the slightest inclination of her head – turned and left. She had a firm confident stride – a woman of real convictions. There was something attractive about her bitter severity, he had to admit, her unshakeable sadness and profound melancholy. He wondered what she would look like in bed, naked, helpless with laughter, tipsy on champagne . . . He called for another glass of Munich lager. He was developing quite a taste for this beer.

  2. The Brasserie des Bastions

  Lysander and Madame Duchesne sat in a café almost directly opposite the entry to Glockner’s apartment building. It was noon. Madame Duchesne was inevitably in black, though this morning she had dispensed with the veil. Lysander wondered what her first name was but felt it impossible to ask such a question on so slight an acquaintance. Madame Duchesne did not invite familiarity. As he thought further, he realized that once Glockner had been identified it would probably be the end of their contact – she would have done her duty.

  ‘He’s later than usual today,’ she said.

  Lysander noticed she had a closed gold cameo on a chain around her neck – doubtless containing a photo of the late Capitaine Duchesne.

  ‘Here he comes,’ she said.

  He saw a smartly dressed man of medium height come out of the building. He was wearing a lightweight fawn Ulsterette overcoat and a Fedora. Lysander noted the spats, also, and that he carried an attaché case and a cane. He couldn’t see if he had a moustache or not as he had turned and headed off down the street.

  ‘Is there a concierge?’ he asked.

  ‘I would imagine so.’

  ‘Hmmm. I’d have to get past her, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s your problem, Herr Schwimmer.’ She stood up. ‘Good luck,’ she said in English, then, ‘Bon courage.’

  Lysander rose to his feet as well, thinking that he didn’t want this to be their last encounter.

  ‘May I offer you dinner tonight, Madame Duchesne? I’ve been in this city for four days now and I’m getting bored with my own company.’

  She looked at him intently, her hard face expressionless. She had dark brown eyes, he saw. Fool, he thought – you’re not on some kind of a holiday.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be most agreeable.’

  He felt a boyish lightening of his heart at this response.

  ‘Wonderful. Where would you like to go?’

  ‘There’s a place near the museum with a very nice terrace that’s only open in the summer. The Brasserie des Bastions. Shall we meet there at 7.30?’

  ‘Perfect. I’ll find it – see you there.’

  That afternoon Lysander went to the bank and drew out 25,000 francs in 500 franc notes – approximately £1,000. He had been offered 1,000 franc notes but he suspected that, when it came to being tempted by a bribe, the bigger the wad of money on display, the better. He wondered what made Massinger so sure that Glockner was that biddable – perhaps it was a lazy assumption he made about poorly recompensed embassy functionaries. But Glockner didn’t seem down at heel or exhausted. He looked smart and spry – he wasn’t wearing celluloid cuffs or a spongeable cardboard shirt-front – there was nothing, at first glance anyway, that suggested he was corruptible.

  He made sure he was early at the Brasserie, which turned out to be a wood and cast-iron building with two wide verandas extending from an ornate conservatory set back from the edge of the Place Neuve amongst the greenery of the gardens around the museum, yet far enough away from the circling omnibuses and automobiles of the busy square not to be disturbed by their noise or the dust raised by their tyres. He had changed his loathsome brown shoes for his black ones and his Homburg for his Panama and was wearing one of his new silk four-in-hand ties with a white soft collared shirt. He felt more like debonair Lysander Rief, the actor, and not stolid Abelard Schwimmer, the railway engineer. He wondered if Madame Duchesne would notice the subtle –

  ‘Herr Schwimmer? You’re early.’

  He turned to see Madame Duchesne walking along a white gravelled alley of young lime trees towards him. She was still in widow’s weeds, of course, but she was carrying an open fringed parasol against the evening sun and her fine taffeta dress was trimmed with lace at throat and wrists, falling fashionably short to her ankles to reveal gunmetal, buttoned boots with a neat French heel. She may be grieving still two years on, Lysander thought, but she was grieving in style. As they greeted each other and shook hands Lysander found himself speculating about her corsetry – she was very slim – and what chemise and bloomers might be underneath that rustling, close-fitting dress. He checked his thoughts, vaguely ashamed and surprised that Madame Duchesne brought out such lechery in him. As they were led to their table for two he caught a hint of her perfume – musky and strong. She wore no lip rouge or powder but the perfume was a gesture of sorts – perhaps she had put it on for him. He imagined her checking her appearance in the mirror before she set off and reaching for her scent bottle – a dab at the neck and the inside of her wrists . . . Enough. Stop.

  ‘Shall we order a bottle of champagne?’ he suggested. ‘I don’t think Massinger would object.’

  ‘I don’t drink champagne,’ she said. ‘Some red wine with the meal will be perfect.’

  They each decided on the menu du jour: a clear soup, blanquette de veau, cheese and an apple tart. The wine he chose was rough and on the sour side, however, and they left it half-finished. Lysander felt increasingly tense and nervous and their conversation never really advanced beyond the formal and unrevealing.

  As they ordered their coffee, Madame Duchesne asked if he was a soldier.

  ‘Yes,’ Lysander said. ‘I joined up soon after war was declared.’ He didn’t expand on what kind of soldier he had been, telling her only that his regiment was East Sussex Light Infantry, but simply conveying that information seemed to make a difference. He thought Madame Duchesne looked at him differently, somehow.

  ‘And what did you do before you became a soldier?’ she asked.

  ‘I was an actor.’

  For the first time her impassivity wobbled and she registered surprise for a second or two.

  ‘A professional actor?’

  ‘Yes. On the London stage. Following in my father’s footsteps as best I
can. He was a real giant of an actor – very famous.’

  ‘How interesting,’ she said, and he felt it wasn’t just a token remark. He had indeed become more interesting to her as a result, he was sure, and he felt pleased, calling for the bill and thinking he would go off somewhere for a cigarette and a couple of brandies. At least the evening had ended on a better note – better than he had expected. And what had you expected? he asked himself, aggressively. Idiot. Time had been filled, that was the main thing. Tomorrow he would reconnoitre Glockner’s apartment building and its environs and make a decision about what the best time to make a move would be on Sunday.

  As they waited for his change, Madame Duchesne placed a small cardboard box on the table.

  ‘A present from Massinger,’ she said.

  He picked it up – it was heavy and it rattled.

  ‘Perhaps you should wait to open it when you return to your hotel,’ she said.

  But he was too curious and placed the box on his knee below the level of the table and lifted the lid back. He saw the gleam on the short barrel of a small revolver. There were some loose bullets beside it that had caused the rattling.

  ‘What do I need this for?’ he asked.

  ‘It may be useful. Who knows? Massinger gave one to me, as well.’

  Lysander slipped the box in his jacket pocket and they walked out into the formal gardens – box hedges, the trained rows of limes and planes, raked gravelled paths. There was still some light in the sky and the air was cool.

  ‘Thank you for my dinner,’ she said. ‘It was a pleasure to get to know you better.’

  They shook hands and he felt the squeeze of her firm grip. Again he sensed this curious desire for her – this woman who apparently had no desire in her life.

  ‘By the way, my real name is Lysander Rief.’

  ‘You probably shouldn’t have told me that.’

  ‘May I know your first name? Forgive me, but I’m curious. I can’t gain a full idea of a person without knowing their full name.’

  ‘Florence.’ French pronunciation, of course, so much nicer than the English – Florawnce.

  ‘Florence Duchesne. Lovely name.’

  ‘Goodnight, Herr Schwimmer. And I wish you good luck for Sunday.’

  3. 25,000 Francs, First Instalment

  On Sunday morning at 9.45 Lysander saw the concierge and her husband leave Glockner’s building for church. He had gone in the day before with a fake parcel for a Monsieur Glondin and had been assured by the concierge that there was no one of that name in the building – a Monsieur Glockner on the top floor, but no Glondin. It was definitely Monsieur Glondin, he said – must be a mistake, sincere apologies. He had gained a good sense of the entry floor and the stairway up to the apartments and, judging by the heavy cross the concierge wore around her neck and the larger cross on the wall of her cubby-hole, he suspected that a pious absence might be likely as the church bells began to chime on Sunday morning.

  After a minute or so he pushed open the small street door and strode to the stairway, unnoticed by the little boy who was sitting in the concierge’s seat with his head down scribbling in a book. He climbed the stairs to Glockner’s apartment on the fourth floor.

  Standing outside the door, ready to ring the bell, he paused a moment, running through the plan of action he had made, mentally ticking off everything he had brought with him in the small grip he was carrying – every eventuality covered, he hoped. He took the revolver out of his pocket and rang the doorbell. After a while, he heard a voice close to the door.

  ‘Oui? Qui est là?’

  ‘I’m a plumber sent from downstairs. There’s a leak coming from your apartment.’

  Lysander heard the key turn in the lock and the door opened. Glockner stood there in a silk dressing gown.

  ‘A leak? Are you –’

  Before Glockner could register that he didn’t look in the least like a plumber Lysander pointed his gun at his face.

  ‘Step back inside, please.’

  Glockner did so, clearly very alarmed, and Lysander locked the door again behind him. Gesturing with the gun, he steered Glockner into his sitting room. Glockner was recovering his composure. He put his hands in his dressing-gown pockets and turned to face Lysander.

  ‘If you’re an educated thief you might find some books that are worth stealing. Otherwise you’re wasting your time.’

  The room was lined with bookshelves, some glass-fronted, some open. A blond parquet floor with a self-coloured navy rug. A deep leather armchair set beneath a standard lamp with a pliable shade to direct the light for well-illuminated reading. A writing desk with a chair and on the one clear wall a line of framed etchings – cityscapes. An intellectual’s room – Florence Duchesne’s pen-portait was correct. Glockner spoke good French with a slight German accent. He was an even-featured, clean-shaven man in his mid-thirties with a slight cast in his right eye that made his gaze seem curiously misdirected, as if he wasn’t paying full attention or his mind had wandered.

  Lysander pulled the hard chair away from the writing desk and set it in the middle of the room.

  ‘Sit down, please.’

  ‘Are you German? Wir können Deutsch sprechen, wenn Sie das bevorzugen.’

  Lysander stuck to French.

  ‘Sit down, please. Put your hands behind your back.’

  ‘Ah, English,’ Glockner said knowingly, smiling widely and nodding as he sat down, revealing some extensive silver bridgework at the side of his teeth.

  Lysander walked behind him, and taking a short noose of rope from his grip, slipped it over Glockner’s wrists and pulled it tight. Now he could put his revolver down and with more short lengths of rope bound Glockner’s arms together and secured them to the back of the chair. He stepped back, put the revolver in his pocket and placed his grip on the desk, reaching in and removing the wad of 500 franc notes. He placed it on Glockner’s knees.

  ‘25,000 francs, first instalment.’

  ‘Listen, you English fool, you moron –’

  ‘No. You listen. I just need the answer to one simple question. Then I’ll leave you alone to enjoy your money. No one will know that it was you who told me.’

  Glockner swore at him in German.

  ‘And if you behave yourself,’ Lysander continued, unperturbed, ‘then in another month you’ll receive another 25,000.’

  Glockner seemed to have lost something of his self-control and assurance. He spat at Lysander and missed. A lock of his fair, thinning hair fell across his forehead, almost coquettishly. As he continued to swear vilely at him the silver in his teeth glinted.

  Lysander slapped his face – not hard – just enough to shut him up. Glockner looked shocked, affronted.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ Lysander said, switching to German. ‘We know everything – the letters from London, the code. We have copies of all the letters. I just need to know the key.’

  Glockner took this in. Lysander would have said that this news had genuinely disturbed him somewhat, as if the full seriousness of his plight were suddenly made clear to him.

  ‘I don’t have it,’ he said, sullenly.

  ‘It’s a one-on-one cipher – of course you have it. As does the person who is sending you the letters. We’re not interested in you – we’re interested in him. Give us the key and the rest of this Sunday is yours.’

  As if to underline his words, the big bells from the cathedral a few streets away began to chime, sonorous and heavy.

  ‘You’ve just signed your own death warrant,’ Glockner said, with too evident bravado. ‘I don’t have the key – I just pass the letters on to Berlin.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. Why don’t I believe you?’

  Lysander took the wad of money off Glockner’s knees and reached into his grip and drew out a bundle of washing line, unspooling it and then roping Glockner securely to his chair – his chest and arms, his thighs and shins – bound tight like a spider spinning the filaments of sticky web around a pinioned fly. Then
he tipped the chair back until Glockner was lying on the floor.

  Lysander stood over him, looking down. In reality, he had no sure idea what he was going to do next – though it was clear that the bribe option had failed. However, having Glockner helpless like this served to make the obvious point that there would be alternative attempts at ‘persuasion’ imminently.

  ‘It doesn’t need to be this hard, Herr Glockner,’ he said, as persuasively as he could. ‘You don’t need to suffer. You shouldn’t suffer.’

  He wandered round the apartment and looked at the etchings on the wall – street scenes of Munich, he saw.

  ‘Münchner?’

  ‘You’ll be dead by the end of today,’ Glockner said. ‘They’ll find you and kill you – they know everything that’s going on in this town. I’ve an appointment at 11.00. If I don’t show up they’ll come directly here.’

  ‘Well, that gives us less than an hour for you to make up your mind and see sense, then.’

  Lysander paced about the room. He drew the curtains and switched on the electric side-lights, wondering what to do. What was it Massinger had said? Cut off his fingers, one by one . . . Oh yes, very straightforward. Right, where do we start? Obviously, he wasn’t going to be able to mutilate the man and he felt a useless anger rise in him, directed at Massinger and his brutal complacency. This was exactly the situation he’d posited to Massinger – what if the bribe was not accepted? – and he had been mocked for his scepticism. In a mood of mounting frustration he walked out of the sitting room and went to find the kitchen.

  The flat was small – apart from the sitting room there was a bedroom, a bathroom and a small clean kitchen with a stove and a soapstone sink and a meat-safe. He began to open drawers, looking for knives or shears – those kitchen shears for boning chickens – they’d snap a finger off at the joint. He would threaten Glockner – perhaps squeeze a fingertip between two blades of the scissors; perhaps that would work, terrorize him enough. The imagined snip would perhaps be more disturbing than anything real.