“What does this mean?”
She shook her head, treating the question like a fly buzzing around her, something she wanted to go away.
“It clearly means something to you.”
“He was someone I knew, who was kind to me once. It is of no significance except to prove that Simon has the diaries. This was stuck into them. He is trying to frighten me. Starting with harmless information, making me nervous about what will come next. Will you help me?”
I nodded. “If I can. But you may have to pay heavily. I will not recommend you pay blackmail; that will merely encourage more demands. A one-off purchase is another thing, though. Are you ready to pay high?”
She nodded.
“Then I will try. The first thing will be to make contact. I will post someone outside your door just in case. And you must let me know immediately you hear anything else.”
“Thank you, my friend.” It was a word which did not often pass her lips. It sounded strange coming from her, as though she did not really know what it meant.
CHAPTER 12
The next day, I put Jules onto the task. “Time to earn your pay, my boy. You know the Countess von Futak’s house?”
Jules nodded. He should; he had already spent more time than he wanted camped outside it.
“Back there again, I’m afraid. I want you to watch the gate. Someone may deliver a letter by hand; I want to know who it is. Everyone who puts anything in the letterbox—I want a full description, times, everything. And no,” I said, as I could see he was about to speak. “I will not tell you why. If you are lucky it will only be for a day or so.”
Jules was lucky: it took a few hours. At lunchtime another letter was delivered, and Jules followed the man who dropped it quickly in the letterbox and hurried on. The description was that of Simon, and Jules tracked him all the way up to Belleville, where he was renting a room in a hotel for itinerants. The letter, I later learned, was a demand for 10,000 francs, which was encouraging: he was getting down to business, and it seemed he was only after small change. Perhaps he did not appreciate exactly how valuable the diaries were. Or perhaps this was just the start.
Jules and I had lunch in my room, which he brought up from the kitchen. The hotel did have running water in the rooms, but not hot. The manager had kindly fitted a gas pipe and a little heater for me because I had taken the rooms for a year. On this I could brew my tea and heat up sufficient water for washing and shaving, as the sanitary arrangements were somewhat limited. That did not matter so much; lavish use of eaude-cologne covered a multitude of sins.
“Listen,” I said, as Jules set out the little table by the window. “I have another job for you. How do you feel like travelling?”
Jules brightened.
“How often have you been outside Paris?”
He thought. “Never,” he said eventually.
“Never?”
“Well, I went to Versailles once, to find my father.”
“And did that experience of foreign climes create a desire for more?”
“Not really.”
“A pity. Because I want you to go to Lausanne. In Switzerland.”
Jules gaped. I might as well have said I wanted him to go to the moon.
“It’s time you saw the world a little,” I said. “You can’t spend your entire life in Paris. It will take you a day to get there, the same to get back and however long it takes to complete the job I want done. I will give you money for the train ticket, and board and lodging when you are there.”
Jules was looking decidedly uncomfortable. He was a street urchin, even if he was one with dreams. The prospect of leaving his stamping ground, the streets and passages he knew so well, struck terror into his heart. But, brave lad that he was, he recovered swiftly. This, I could see him saying to himself, was necessary. This he had to do. I sympathised with his terror and pretended not to notice.
“When in Lausanne, I want you to find out about a man called Stauffer. I know nothing about him, except that he is dead. Start at the local paper, ask for obituaries, that sort of thing. Find out who he was. About his wife, children and relations, especially children. Any unusual stories, scandals or incidents. Anything at all, really. “
Jules nodded hesitantly. “Can I ask why?”
“No. It doesn’t matter why. Think of it simply as good practise for your life as a journalist in years to come.”
“What life?”
“Dear boy, you are made for it. When you leave me, as one day you no doubt will, you will have to get a proper job. You will be an excellent journalist, and I will recommend you to an editor when you are ready. You will have to start at the bottom; after that it will be up to you. What’s the matter? Is there something else you want to do?”
Jules had sat down on the bed, his face white with shock. “I don’t know what to say…” he muttered eventually.
“Well, if you don’t want to do it…”
“Of course I do,” he said, looking up urgently. “Of course I do.”
“Excellent,” I replied. “That’s settled then. I suggest you spend your time on the train beginning to prepare yourself. Buy every single newspaper, and read them all, carefully.”
The look of pleasure on his face as he bustled about, helping himself to money from the drawer to fund his journey, was worth the generosity. In fact, the idea had only just occurred to me, and I had suggested it somewhat too hastily. But it was a good one. Jules was a natural, hence his current success. And it invigorated him and made him even more diligent in my service. I was his ticket to a new life, and he was absolutely determined that it should not slip from his grasp. He went off half an hour later to find his best clothes and set off for Lausanne.
And then I put the whole matter out of my mind, to concentrate on work. “Recent Developments in the French Banking Sector.” One of those wordy, ponderous articles The Times likes so much. I have never understood who it thinks might read them. I was following my hunch about the comments Netscher had made, and had briefly all but abandoned my other business.
Branching out into banking was difficult, as I had nothing to sell. I wrote to Wilkinson, but did not expect a reply. He never did if he could avoid it. It was somewhat dispiriting; I had a high opinion of my progress, but I had not the slightest idea whether anyone had noticed. So I contacted John Stone, the only other person in whom I could confide. I don’t know why I did this; it was not my habit to go running to figures of authority when in difficulty, but I felt the need to talk the question over with someone, get an outside opinion, so to speak.
He was staying at the Hôtel du Louvre; he had a suite there more or less permanently reserved for him when he came to Paris for business. So I went to lunch with him, although not in the public dining area. I did not want it advertised that I associated with such people, for their sake as well as my own.
It was a pleasant meeting, much to my surprise, as I had not greatly taken to him on our first encounter. He told me how impressed he was by my progress, how Mr. Wilkinson was delighted, and telling everyone in Whitehall about his young prodigy, “For whom, of course, he modestly takes full credit,” Stone added drily.
“It’s very kind of you,” I said. “I didn’t know anyone paid the slightest bit of attention to what I was doing.”
“Goodness, yes. You are considered quite an oracle already. Of course, there is still considerable opposition to the way you go about things, but no one argues with success overmuch. So, tell me, what can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know whether it’s anything at all. It may be just a will o’ the wisp. It was a passing comment I picked up at a dinner party, at the Countess von Futak’s salon…”
“You go to her salon?”
“Ah… yes. Well, not often. Sometimes. Why?”
“Oh, no matter. Go on. Your comment?”
So I told him about old Abraham Netscher, and his musings on the vulnerability of the City of London. It sounded very lame.
“I see,” Stone said when I had finished. “And you think that…”
“Not really, not seriously. At least, it occurred to me that it would be a remarkable coup to pull off, if anyone dared try. But I have no more than that to go on.”
“I know many people in banking,” Stone said thoughtfully, “including Netscher, who is a fine man. But I do not suppose anyone would tell me of such a scheme, even if it existed. I will listen with more care than usual. And, if you desire, I will happily provide you with some introductions.”
“That is kind of you.”
He waved it aside. “Now, tell me of this Countess,” he said.
“Why?”
“She is the talk of Paris; I would like to know why.”
I described her as best I could, the official version, that is, and described her coup—I attributed it to her rather than to Wilkinson—in Biarritz with the Prince of Wales. I noticed I was jealous of her reputation and wanted to keep my knowledge of her entirely to myself.
“You know no more than that?” Stone said, curious for the first time in our acquaintance.
“Do you?”
“She is a Hungarian countess, who decided to travel when her husband died. I think her family disapproved of her marriage, and she was disinclined to forgive them when he died. I met her some months ago and, like you, found her quite charming.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I am giving a small dinner for friends, in four days’ time,” he said abruptly. “Would you care to join me? There will be a couple of people whom you might wish to know.”
“That is kind.”
“And would you do me the great service of escorting the Countess to the restaurant for me? I am afraid I have meetings all day and cannot be sure when they will end. Although she likes to be late, she very much disapproves of other people keeping her waiting.”
“With pleasure,” I said without the slightest hesitation to betray my surprise. It was not that he had invited her, nor that she had, apparently accepted. It was the uncomfortable, almost schoolboyish bashfulness on his face which astonished me.
CHAPTER 13
Escorting a woman like Elizabeth to a dinner is something everyone really should do at least once in their lives. I had only once glimpsed her properly in her public role, in Biarritz; this was very different. I arrived with a carriage at eight, as required, having spent the afternoon preparing myself in a way which was quite unaccustomed. I was, I believe, perfectly elegant, or as elegant as I can be; dressing up formally has never been my favourite occupation and I am quite prepared to admit that I have no sense of style whatsoever. But I looked decent enough by the end, or so I thought. I seemed to have spent hours brushing my clothes and wrestling with collar studs and cravat. I even had to get the bar owner’s wife to come up and help me. Eventually I could take no more; if my cravat was squint, my coat still a little dusty, so be it.
However proud I was of my appearance, my sense of personal presence dimmed to nothing when Elizabeth descended the stairs as I waited to collect her. She was breathtaking, her hair up to reveal her long, white neck, wearing a dress of such beauty that I could not understand how it might have been imagined, let alone made.
I should explain here that she was something of a revolutionary in the matter of dress; fashion she studied as assiduously as a stockbroker studies share prices, or a gambler the form of horses. She was not simply at the height of fashion; dear me no. She defined it; and in so doing created for herself an evanescent power which propelled her to a central role in the workings of society. She was one of those few, and remarkable, people whose choices told other people what they should wear and, in a particular way, determined what beauty and elegance were. She was, in other words, entirely professional and serious about her business, and made it seem natural, easy and thoughtless.
She always went for grey when she really wanted to impress, and that evening wore silver-grey silk edged with pearls—hundreds of them—cut almost obscenely low, sleeveless with long gloves in a slightly darker shade. The dress itself clung close to her body—outrageously so, considering the fashion of a mere nine months earlier—and it was darted with extraordinarily intricate embroidery. The whole was completed with a tight necklace of alternating pearls and diamonds, five strands thick, a delicate matching tiara and a painted Louis XV fan.
“Madame, you are exquisite,” I said and meant every word.
“I do believe I am,” she said with a smile. “Shall we go?”
And so we did, to Lapérouse on the Left Bank, a restaurant which was fashionable enough, but not the sort of place that the great courtesans of Paris normally attended. Maxim’s was—and still is—the favourite haunt of such people; Lapérouse was for politicians, and literati, with a high seriousness quite at odds with the gaudy frivolity which characterised the demimonde.
“I didn’t realise you knew John Stone,” I said as the carriage trundled along the Champs Elysées; it was already long since dark and I could only dimly see her face, even though I was sitting only a foot away and opposite her.
“You must realise by now that I know a great many people,” she said. “I met Mr. Stone on a train journey. I had taken a trip to Vienna…”
“To your family, no doubt?”
“Just so. In fact I was taken there by a shareholder, who then went on to the Far East. So I was alone and Mr. Stone was coming back from somewhere in the Balkans. It is a long and dull voyage, unless you are enamoured of trains, so we entertained each other. I found him very civil and gentlemanly.”
I was desperate to ask, but restrained myself.
“No,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“The answer to the question you are trying not to ask.”
“Oh.”
“I like his company, as I do yours. Of my life he knows only what I have told him, which is little. I very much hope it will stay that way.”
“If it does not, it will not be my doing.”
“I know that. Have you made any…”
“I know where Simon is living, and plan to visit him shortly,” I said. “If he is reasonable—that is, if he is conventionally venal—the matter should be wrapped up soon enough.”
“Thank you.” She said it simply, almost proudly, but it meant much to me. Then the coach slowed and we arrived at the restaurant. Elizabeth’s whole bearing changed, she transformed herself—transfigured, I might say—before my eyes. She was about to step onto her stage.
If there were any lingering insecurities still within her, she did not show them in the slightest. Nor did she let slip even a hint of the immense strain she was under because of her diaries. She was magnificent, carefree, delightful. Every single man in the room—Stone had rented one of the private dining suites—fell under her power within seconds without her having to do anything at all except breathe. She was charming, intelligent, witty, serious as required. Never coquettish—that would have been inappropriate—but always warm and thoughtful in manner. She even managed to restrain her distaste for the other women there; to them she was polite, and it only came through once that she regarded their presence as a waste of space. Why would anyone need more than one woman in the room, when she was that woman? She made the dinner party, which was vibrant, glittering as a result, instead of the rather dull dinner of businessmen it would otherwise have been. Stone was not a natural host and I could not see what the point of the occasion was as far as he was concerned. He provided a setting in which Elizabeth could shine, and she took the opportunity to do so, performing the role without a fault or false step.
I found myself sitting at the end of the table, between the wife of a banker and a senior stockbroker from Petiet, Kramstein, then one of the better-bottomed undertakings at the Bourse. The one was amusing, the other useful. Madame Kollwitz was immunised from any possibility of jealousy or envy by the fact that she was stout, about fifty-five years old and had never been beautiful. This allowed her abundant good humour and perception to come to the f
ore.
“And you have to talk to me, when you would rather be in orbit around the sun,” she said with a twinkle in her eye once we had disposed of the usual preliminaries.
“Certainly not…” I began robustly.
“Oh, of course you do, who would not? She is very lovely and by all accounts quite sweet. Is that not the case?”
“I believe she is very pleasant.”
“A woman whom all men love. A terrible fate for any young girl, I think. Still, I’m sure she can look after herself. Tell me, how truly besotted is Mr. Stone with her, do you know?”
“I didn’t realise…”
“You are most unobservant for a journalist,” she commented. “She has been with him to the opera twice in the past fortnight, and it is reliably reported that both of them detest the opera. Each goes to please the other. Do you think someone should tell them that they are inflicting mutual torture for no good reason?”
“I do not intend to.”
“No. Still, it would be a prize, would it not? Another insult to France from our enemy, to have our most glittering jewel carried off?”
“I don’t think…”
“Oh, look at him!” she said scornfully, brushing my doubts aside. “If you make allowances for the fact that he has not the slightest idea how to woo or seduce a woman, look at the way he is talking to her. Admittedly, he may be telling her all about profit ratios on machine-gun manufacture, but look at the way his head turns towards her, look at his eyes! And look how easily she deals with it as well; not rejecting, but not encouraging, either. Poor man. It could cost him a pretty penny before all is over.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Have you never wondered where all these diamonds come from, dear boy?”
“No,” I said, with, I hope, a credible tone of surprise in my voice. “I assumed she was rich.”
She looked at me pityingly.
“Well, um…”
Fortunately, my attention was taken over by the stockbroker on my right, whose conversation was less fascinating but more useful. We established our mutual credentials, with me stressing my current labours writing on developments in French banking, the evolution of the capital markets, the poor state of the French Bourse in comparison to vibrancy of the London stock market. He was surprised that a journalist should be so interested in such things.