Stone's Fall (37 page)

The old man piqued my interest. I wondered for a moment whether he had even come that evening specifically to have that conversation with me, but eventually dismissed the notion. My secret life was unassailable, I was sure. No one connected me—the associate of aristocrats and princes, the dilettante journalist for
The Times
—with the occupant of the little office in the rue Rameau who bought and sold information from diplomats, soldiers and other spies. Nonetheless, I dwelt on his words for several days, and the more I considered them, the more I believed that his words had reflected something he had heard, or half heard.

Could such an attempt succeed? Not in the way that M. Netscher said, of course; he was exaggerating there. But it was certainly true that inflicting severe damage on the City of London would be more harmful than defeating England’s army, were it ever so foolish as to join battle with any other than half-armed natives. Every week, hundreds of millions of pounds flowed through London, its banks and discount houses, clearing houses and depositories. The whole world raised its loans through the City. The decision of a banker could determine the outcome of a war, or whether that war would take place. Wars were fought on credit; cut off the credit and the army must stop dead in its tracks as surely as if it had run out of food or ammunition.

Attacking the reputation of the City could be relatively inexpensive and have no consequences if it failed. But how could it be done? I could not see it. “If it can be imagined, it can be achieved.” Was anyone doing the imagining? I thought about it for several days, then realised that mere thinking would accomplish nothing. I had to do some work.

Discovering anything by examining the career of M. Netscher was fruitless, it turned out: he had been around for such a long time that he knew absolutely everyone, and heard everything. There was no simple solution there; so I had to go back over the last few years and discover who his enemies and rivals were; this also produced nothing of any great interest. Such musings came over the following days, however; and that particular evening ended without anything else of interest. I did, however, write a short report on the conversation and sent it to Wilkinson—I was a good bureaucrat already, and realised the importance of passing on responsibility for things I could do nothing about.

Thursday evening became part of my life, something I looked forward to and enjoyed, partly for the conversation, but more for Elizabeth, whose presence I came to find oddly comforting. I took pleasure in watching her in what was now her natural habitat, so to speak, the way she could conduct a gathering like a maestro, discreetly and without ever imposing herself. I watched with something close to affection as she relaxed ever more into her role, became more sure of herself, more adept at her profession. In general I quite forgot what exactly that profession was. It was impossible to think of her as anything other than that which she wished to be.

One evening, though, the salon ended differently. She had been quiet, unusually reserved all evening; her admirers appeared to feel they had been given short weight. Ordinarily, she would have risen to the challenge, drawn them out, calmed them down, flattered and reassured; this evening she seemed strained and almost ill at ease, almost as though she wished they would go away.

And eventually they all did, except for me; she signalled quietly that she wished me to remain, so I held back until we were alone, the door shut to the world outside. I wondered for a moment whether the evening was going to turn into a night of excitement, but it rapidly became clear that she had—for her—a greater intimacy in mind.

“I am afraid I feel ashamed of myself,” she said, once we moved into the little salon, which she kept for herself alone. “When I said I would not help you in your work, I did not dream that I might need help. And now I do.”

“I, in contrast, am delighted. How can I be of service?”

“My diaries have disappeared. And so has Simon.”

“You keep a diary?” The face of Arnsley Drennan swam back into my mind at that moment, his sneering, mocking face as he congratulated me at least on not being stupid enough to keep a diary.

“It’s your fault,” she continued reproachfully. “I began with those letters I wrote to you from Nancy. I enjoyed writing them, and even after our association came to an end, I kept on writing them, but this time to myself only. I dare have no intimates, no real friends, no family. Only myself. And so it is to myself that I write.”

“You must be very lonely.”

“No,” she said, “of course not. Why should I be?”

“Do you never wish for more?”

“I have never had a friend who has not betrayed me. Or whom I have not betrayed. So I do not permit it.”

“I am your friend, I think.”

“That merely poses the question—will you betray me? Or shall I betray you first? It will happen, you know, sooner or later. It always does.”

“It is a cold world you live in.”

“Which is why I must look after myself above all. I honour my promises, but must care for no one.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She shrugged. “It is not important at the moment.”

I thought it was the most important thing of all, but let it pass. “These letters to yourself, then. They contain details of all you have done? Everyone you have associated with? What are we dealing with here? How big are they?”

“Large. Two volumes, with about three hundred pages each in them.”

“And they are honest?”

“A true account of my life.” She smiled. “They deal with everything and everyone. In very considerable detail. It would cause severe embarrassment to many people. Frankly I do not care about that; it is no more than they deserve. But my life would be ruined as well.”

“And I presume it also says a great deal about my activities in France?”

“Not that much; I didn’t begin them until after our arrangement came to an end. But I think there is enough to get you into trouble. If it’s any consolation, I was very warm about you.”

“It isn’t.”

“What should I do?” she asked.

“You said Simon has disappeared. Who is he?”

“My servant. You remember? He had many troubles with the law. I employed him because—well, I thought that one day I might need such a person. He was always loyal to me.”

“You found him in Nancy?”

“No. I have no contact with anyone from there. He is a Parisian.”

“His loyalty to you seems to have run out. He knew about these diaries?”

“I thought not. But I suppose he did.”

I tried to digest all this unwelcome news. “Well,” I said eventually. “The obvious thing to do, and the easiest, is nothing. If these diaries are ever published you would be very much more famous—notorious, I should say—than you are now. I imagine they would become a great literary success.”

She smiled, but only weakly. “It is not a reputation I want. Besides, far too much would not pass the censors. If that is all there was, I might see your point. It is an age where any sort of debauchery is tolerated, as long as it brings fame with it.

“But I find I like being what I am now, even if it is only an illusion. I do not want to go back.”

I have rarely felt as comfortable and contented as I did sitting in that room. That may seem strange, perhaps heartless, but I must be honest on this point. It was warm, the lighting was soft, the chair I was sitting on comfortable. Elizabeth, dressed that evening in a simple costume of blue silk, was as beautiful as ever I had seen her, and her worry created a degree of intimacy between us that made even me regret my refusal of the offer she had once made and which, I knew, would never be repeated. I could easily have spent the rest of the evening, the whole night, just talking of nothing and watching the fire flicker in the grate. In my life, I think only Freddie Campbell could induce such a feeling of comfort and safety in me: of family, almost, or so I imagined, although as I never had much of a family I cannot speak with authority on the subject.

“Assuming you are correct and that this Simon stole your diaries, it will be almost impossible to find him. We will have to wait until he surfaces. Until then it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. It is easy to disappear in Paris. There are few things more simple, in fact.”

“He has already surfaced.” She handed over an envelope. “This arrived today. It is the only reason I went to my bureau and checked. Otherwise I might not have noticed anything amiss until Sunday, which is when I usually write up my week.”

I studied the contents carefully. It was an extract from a newspaper, a funeral notice of a Dr. Stauffer from the
Journal de Lausanne.
No date, nothing else at all. No message, no demand for money.

“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.