“Let’s find that restaurant before our
entente cordiale breaks down,” said Adam. They retraced their steps towards the
fountain and, as the sun was trying to find gaps between the clouds, they chose
a pavement cafe overlooking the lake. Both selected a cheese salad and shared a
half bottle of white wine. Adam was enjoying Heidi’s company so much that he
began to tell her stories of his army days. She had to stop him and point out
that it was nearly two. He reluctantly called for the bill. “The time has now
come to discover if the Tsar’s icon really exists,” he said.
When they had returned to the entrance of
the bank Adam pushed open the heavy door, took a step inside and stared around
the gloomy hall.
“Over there,” said Heidi, pointing to a
woman who was seated behind a desk.
“Good morning. My name is Adam Scott. I have
come to collect something that has been left to me in a will.”
The woman smiled. “Have you made an
appointment with anyone in particular?” she asked, with only the slightest
trace of accent.
“No,” said Adam. “I didn’t realise that I
had to.”
“I’m sure it will be all right,” said the
lady. She picked up a phone, dialled a single number and held a short
conversation in French. Replacing the phone she asked them both to go to the
fourth floor.
As Adam walked out of the lift, he was
surprised to be met by someone of his own age.
“Good afternoon, my name is Pierre Neffe and
I am a partner of the bank,” said the young man in perfect English.
“I did warn you that I would be redundant,”
whispered Heidi.
“Don’t speak too soon,” replied Adam. “We
haven’t even begun to explain our problem yet.”
M. Neffe led them to a small, exquisitely
furnished room.
“I could settle down here,” said Adam,
taking off his coat, “without any trouble.”
“We do like to make our customers feel at
home,” said M. Neffe condescendingly.
“You obviously haven’t seen my home,” said
Adam. M. Neffe did not laugh.
“How can I help you?” was
all
the
young partner offered by way of reply.
“My father,” began Adam, “died last month
and left me in his will a receipt for something I think you have had in your
safe-keeping since 1938. It was a gift given to him by one of your customers.”
Adam hesitated.
“A Mr Emmanuel Rosenbaum.”
“Do you have any documentation relating to
this gift?” enquired M. Neffe.
“Oh, yes,” said Adam, digging into the map
pocket of his trenchcoat. He passed over the Roget
et
Cie receipt to the young banker. M. Neffe studied it and nodded. “May I be
permitted to see your passport, Mr Scott?”
“Certainly,” said Adam, delving back into
his trenchcoat and passing it to M. Neffe.
“If you will excuse me for
one moment.”
M. Neffe
rose, and left them on their own.
“What do you imagine they are up to now?”
said Heidi.
“Checking first if they
still have the icon, and second if my receipt is authentic.
1938 was rather a long time ago.”
As the minutes ticked by, Adam started to
feel disappointed, then depressed, and finally began to believe it was all
going to turn out to be a complete waste of time.
“You could always take one of the pictures
off the wall and put it in your trenchcoat,” teased Heidi. “I’m sure it would
fetch a good price in London.
Perhaps even more than your
beloved icon.”
“Too late,” said Adam as M. Neffe reappeared
with another banker whom he introduced as M. Roget.
“Good morning,” said M. Roget. “I am sorry
that my father is not here to meet you, Mr Scott, but he has been held up in
Chicago on business.” He shook hands with both Adam and Heidi. “We have on file
a letter from Mr Rosenbaum giving clear instructions to the bank that the box
is not to be opened by any other than” – he looked at the piece of paper he had
brought with him – “Colonel Gerald Scott, DSO, QBE, MC.”
“My father,” said Adam. “But as I explained
to M. Neffe, he died last month and left me the gift in his will.”
“I would be happy to accept what you say,”
said M. Roget, “if I might be allowed sight of a copy of the death certificate
and of the will itself.”
Adam smiled at his own foresight and once
more searched in his trenchcoat before removing a large brown envelope with the
words ‘Holbrooke, Holbrooke and Gascoigne’ printed in heavy black letters across
the top. He took out copies of his father’s death certificate, the will and a
letter marked ‘To Whom It May Concern’ and passed them to M. Roget, who read
all three documents slowly, then handed them to his senior partner, who after
he had read them whispered in his chairman’s ear.
“Would you object to us phoning Mr Holbrooke
in your presence?” asked M. Roget.
“No,” said Adam simply. “But I must warn you
that he is rather curmudgeonly.”
“Curmudgeonly?” said the banker. “A word I
am not familiar with, but I think I can sense its meaning.” He turned and spoke
to M. Neffe, who swiftly left the room, only to return a minute later with a
copy of the English Law Society Register, 1966.
Adam was impressed by the bank’s
thoroughness as M. Roget checked that the number and address on the letterhead
corresponded with the number and address in the Year Book. “I don’t think it
will be necessary to call Mr Holbrooke,” said M. Roget
,.
“
but
we have encountered one small problem, Mr Scott.”
“And what is that?” asked Adam, nervously.
“Mr Rosenbaum’s position is somewhat
overdrawn, and the bank’s rule is that an account must be cleared before any
box can be opened.”
Adam’s pulse raced as he assumed that he
hadn’t brought enough money to cover this eventuality.
“The account is only 120 francs in debit,”
continued M. Roget, “which is the charge for housing the box over the past two
years since Mr Rosenbaum’s deposit ran out.”
Adam breathed a sigh of relief. He took out
his wallet and signed a traveller’s cheque and handed it over.
“And finally,” said M. Roget, “we will need
you to sign a form of indemnity for the bank.”
M. Roget passed over a long form containing
clause after clause in tightly printed French at which Adam only glanced before
passing it over to Heidi. She studied each clause carefully. M. Roget used the
time to explain to Adam that it was a standard disclaimer clearing the bank of
any liability concerning what might be in the box and Adam’s legal claim to it.
Heidi looked up and nodded her agreement.
Adam signed on the dotted line with a
flourish.
“Excellent,” said the banker. “All we have
to do now is go and retrieve your box.”
“I suppose it could be empty,” said Adam
once the two of them were left alone again.
“And it could be jam-packed with gold
doubloons, you old pessimist,” said Heidi.
When both men returned a few minutes later,
M. Neffe was carrying a flat metal box about twelve by nine inches, and some
three inches deep.
Adam was disappointed by its modest size,
but didn’t show his feelings. M. Roget proceeded to undo the top lock with the
bank’s key and then handed Adam a small faded envelope with signatures scrawled
across the waxed seal. “Whatever is in the box belongs to you, Mr Scott. When
you have finished, perhaps you would be kind enough to let us know. Until then
we shall remain outside in the corridor.”
Both men left the room.
“Come on,” said Heidi, “I can’t wait.” Adam
opened the envelope and a key fell out. He fumbled with the lock which clicked
and then he pushed up the lid. Inside the box was a small flat package wrapped
in muslin and tied tightly with string. The knots took some undoing and then
finally an impatient Adam tore off the string before slowly removing the
muslin. They both stared at the masterpiece in disbelief.
The simple beauty of the golds, reds and
blues left them both speechless. Neither of them had expected the icon to be so
breathtaking.
St George towering over the dragon, a massive
sword in hand on the point of plunging it into the heart of the beast.
The fire that belched from the dragon’s jaw was a deep red and made a startling
contrast to the gold cloak that seemed to envelop the saint.
“It’s magnificent,” said Heidi, eventually
finding her voice.
Adam continued to hold the tiny painting in
his hand.
“Say something,” said Heidi.
“I wish my father had seen it, perhaps it
would have changed his whole life.”
“Don’t forget he wanted it to change yours,”
said Heidi.
Adam finally turned the icon over and found
on the back a small silver crown inlaid in the wood. He stared at it, trying to
recall what Mr Sedgwick of Sotheby’s had said that proved.
“I wish my father had opened the letter,”
said Adam, turning the icon back over and once again admiring St George’s
triumph.
“Because it was his by right.”
Heidi checked there was nothing else left
inside the box. She then flicked down the lid and Adam locked it again with his
key. He tucked the muslin round the masterpiece, tied it up firmly and slipped
the little painting into the map pocket of his trenchcoat.
Heidi smiled. “I knew you’d be able to prove
that you needed that coat even if it didn’t rain.”
Adam walked over to the door and opened it.
The two bankers immediately returned.
“I hope you found what you had been
promised,” said M. Roget.
“Yes, indeed,” said Adam. “But I shall have
no further need of the box,” he added, returning the key.
“As you wish,” said M. Roget, bowing, “and
here is the change from your traveller’s cheque, sir,” he said, passing over
some Swiss notes to Adam. “If you will excuse me I will now take my leave of
you. Monsieur Neffe will show you out.” He shook hands with Adam, bowed
slightly to Heidi and added with a faint smile, “I do hope you didn’t find us
too cur – mud – geonly.” They both laughed.
“I also hope that you will enjoy a pleasant
stay in our city,” said M. Neffe as the lift took its leisurely pace down.
“It will have to be very quick,” said Adam. “We
have to be back at the airport in just over an hour.”
The lift stopped at the ground floor and M.
Neffe accompanied Adam and Heidi across the hall. The door was held open for
them but they both stood aside to allow an old man to shuffle past. Although
most people would have stared at his nose Adam was more struck by his
penetrating eyes.
When the old man eventually reached the
woman at the reception desk, he announced, “I have come to see Monsieur Roget.”
“I’m afraid he’s in Chicago at the moment,
sir, but I’ll see if his son is available. What name shall I tell him?”
“Emmanuel Rosenbaum.” The woman picked up
the phone and held another conversation in French. When she had replaced it she
asked, “Would you go to the fourth floor, Mr Rosenbaum?”
Once again he had to take the fearsome lift,
and once again he only just got out before its great teeth sprang back on him.
Another middle-aged woman accompanied him to the waiting room. He politely
declined her offer of coffee, thumping his heart with his right hand.
“Monsieur Roget will be with you shortly,”
she reassured the old gentleman.
He did not have to wait long before a
smiling M. Roget appeared.
“How nice to make your acquaintance,
Monsieur Rosenbaum, but I’m afraid you have just missed Mr Scott.”
“Mr Scott?” the old man uttered in surprise.
“Yes. He left only a few minutes ago, but we
carried out the instructions as per your letter.”
“My letter?” said Mr Rosenbaum.
“Yes,” said the banker, opening for the
second time that morning a file which had remained untouched for over twenty
years.
He handed a letter to the old man.
Emmanuel Rosenbaum removed a pair of glasses
from his inside pocket, unfolded them slowly and proceeded to read a hand that
he recognised. It was a bold script written in thick black ink.
Forsthaus Haarhot
Amsberg 14
Vosswinnel
Sachsen
Germany
September 12, 1946
Dear M. Roget,
I have left in your safe-keeping a small
icon of St George and the Dragon in my box 718. I am transferring the ownership
of that painting to a British army officer, Colonel Gerald Scott, DSO, OBE,
MC
. If Colonel Scott should come to claim the icon at any
time please ensure that he receives my key without delay.
My thanks to you for your help in this
matter, and I am only sorry we have never met in person.
Yours sincerely, Emmanuel Rosenbaum
“And you say that Colonel Scott came to
collect the contents of the box earlier today?”