Death in Berlin (25 page)

‘When we got to England the man was ill, and I was left on my own. I heard people talking in English so I spoke in English too, and I remember someone saying: “Good God - the child’s English!” I didn’t see the man again: I think he died. I’d forgotten about the woman, but - but now I’ve remembered her again. It was Mademoiselle Beljame …’

‘Why have you remembered now?’ asked Simon quietly.

‘Her hair,’ said Miranda in a whisper. ‘She had a lot of thick yellowish hair, and she wore it banded across her forehead; not strained back and dyed black, like Mademoiselle’s. The straw looked like hair, and - and her face was puffy, and not so old. And then I remembered where I had seen eyes like that before. They weren’t the same colour: I don’t know how I could have forgotten that. Someone - someone only the other day - said that you never forgot a physical defect. But I had forgotten it. Until - until now.’

Simon said: ‘Where is she?’

Miranda turned to look at him, her face no more than a small white blur in the shadows, and tried to speak and could not.

Simon reached out a warm hand and laid it over the two cold

ones that were clutched together so tightly in her lap, and her chilled ringers turned and clung desperately to his. He said: ‘Tell me, dear.’

‘In - in the open-air pool near the swimming-bath.’

She felt rather than saw the sudden involuntary movement of Simon’s body, but his hand remained steady and his voice unhurried. „ ;

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‘She’s dead then.’ It was a statement and not a query.
;
Miranda nodded dumbly, and when she spoke again he had to bend his head to catch the words.

The swimming instructor, Herr Kroll, found her. Or - or perhaps it was Mrs Leslie… I don’t know. They were arguing and pointing, and Colonel Leslie told me to see if I could see anything … and - and at first I thought it was only the reflection of my own face, but then the wind moved some straw and … And I saw her

Simon did not ask any further questions. He released her hands and restarted the car, and before the sudden flood of light from the headlights the violet evening turned to night as the car swept down a long curving road bordered by trees, and turned in the direction of the Herr Strasse.

There was a rigidly enforced speed limit in Berlin, but Simon must have disregarded it, for in an astonishingly short time the car drew up before the Melvilles’ house. He had not spoken during the swift journey from the Stadium, but now he turned to look at Miranda; his face unwontedly grim in the reflected glow of the headlights.

‘You are not to say a word of this to anyone - about recognizing her. Anyone at all. Do you understand?’

Miranda nodded wordlessly. He studied her face for a moment or two, and what he saw there evidently satisfied him, for he laid the back of his hand against her cheek in a brief gesture that was somehow more intimate than a kiss, and then leant across her and jerked open the door of the car: ‘And another thing,’ said Simon. ‘Don’t go out of the house until I’ve seen you again. No matter who asks you. And if for any reason you are alone in the house, lock yourself into your room. Is that understood?’

Miranda nodded again and stepped out into the dark road, and Simon gave a little jerk of his head in the direction of the gate: ‘Go on. I want to see that you get safely into the house.’

Once again it was Robert who opened the front door for her, and turning to look back, she saw the car move away down the road.

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‘Who was that?’ inquired Robert, shutting the door behind her. That wasn’t the Leslies’ car, was it?’

‘No,’ said Miranda, looking curiously dazed. ‘Captain Lang gave me a lift back. He - he wanted to ask me some questions.’

Robert laughed - he appeared to have recovered his good temper. ‘Still Suspect Number One, are you? Don’t worry, darling! It’s my guess that Lang is merely using this business as an excuse for enjoying your society. And who can blame him? Cheer up, ‘Randa!’ He put an arm about her shoulders and gave her a companionable hug as Stella leaned over the landing rail to ask if Miranda had brought the Leslies in for a drink.

‘No,’ said Miranda; and was spared explanations by the ringing of the telephone bell. Robert released her and went over to answer it, and she saw his face stiffen and after a moment relax again. He said: ‘Yes. She’s here,’ and turned towards Miranda holding out the receiver: ‘It’s for you.’

It’s Simon, thought Miranda, her hands suddenly unsteady, but he can’t have got there as soon as this: he can’t have found her yet!

She took the receiver and steadied her voice with an effort, glad that Robert had walked quickly away. But it was only Sally Page, ringing up to ask if she would like to make a fourth to dine and dance at a nightclub on Grunewald Strasse with Andy and herself and a young American; they could pick her up in about twenty minutes.

Miranda, feeling weak from a mixture of shock and emotional reaction, murmured excuses and thanks, and rang off. She went to bed early that night, but could not sleep. The past that she had buried deep in oblivion for so long had returned to her, and when at long last she dropped into an uneasy sleep it was to dream of a blond woman with curious eyes, who smelt of caraway seeds and dragged her by the hand through a clinging fog down a long road pitted with shell holes … .

15

‘Pssst!’

The bushes underneath the drawing-room window rustled, and a twig, accurately aimed, flipped against the pages of the morning paper that concealed Miranda’s face.

Miranda lowered it hurriedly.

‘Pssst!’ said Wally Wilkin, his flaming hair and excited eyes appearing briefly above the level of the sill.

‘Hullo, Inspector. On the trail again?’ inquired Miranda, folding away the paper.

‘Sssh!’ begged Wally frantically, casting an agonized look towards the half-open door into the hall. Miranda rose and shut it and returned to the window-seat: ‘Well, Rip Kirby - what is it now?’

‘That there governess,’ hissed Wally. ‘They found ‘er!’

Miranda’s hands clenched suddenly on the window ledge. ‘Who told you? How do you know?’

‘Cos I was there! In the water she was. I saw ‘em pull ‘er out. Coo, it were a treat!’

‘Wally, nor

‘Dad takes me up to see the ‘ockey, an’ ‘e thinks I gorn ‘ome in the o’ther lorry. But I nips off to ‘ave a bathe. Then up comes a chap wot tells everyone to clear off, and I sees there’s a guard on the gate and that ‘tec’s there with ‘is busies; so I ‘ides, and I seen ‘em fish ‘er out. Drowned she was, and all tangled up in that grass-and ‘er bike too. An’ listen - I know oo done it, cos I ‘

There was a sound of women’s voices from the hall, and Wally disappeared with the speed of a diving duck as the drawing-room

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door opened and Eisa Marson came in, followed by Stella carrying a sheaf of cherry blossom and white lilac.

‘Do look, ‘Randa! Aren’t they lovely? Mrs Marson has just brought them over. Isn’t it sweet of her? Would you be an angel and put them in water for me? She’s offered to give me a lift to the Lawrences’, because Robert has the car this morning and I have to take over some clean clothes for Lottie.’

Eisa Marson looked curiously at Miranda, and from her to the window, and her eyes were all at once wide and wary. She walked quickly across the room to lean on the windowsill and look out into the garden, and said with an attempt at a laugh: ‘I see that I have only brought coals to Newcastle. I did not realize that you had cherry trees in your garden.’

‘But no white lilac,’ said Stella. ‘Our lilac isn’t out yet, and it will be several days before we can pick any. I think your garden must get more sun than ours.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Eisa Marson, her gaze roaming quickly about the garden. Miranda looked out, but Wally had vanished and the leaves were unmoving in the morning sunlight.

A bell rang in the hall and Stella deposited her fragrant burden on the coffee table and said: ‘With any luck that will be a new housemaid. The Labour Exchange swore they’d send round a few suitable applicants. Or do you suppose it’s someone ringing up to ask us to forward Mademoiselle’s belongings?’

She went out into the hall, shutting the door behind her, and Eisa Marson said in a bright, conversational voice: ‘You know, I really thought that you were talking to someone in here when we came in!’

‘Did you?’ Miranda’s tone expressed polite interest and Mrs Marson coloured and turned away from the window to walk aimlessly about the room, fingering photographs and ornaments and talking at random of the weather and the recent kidnapping by the Russian police of a German from West Berlin: ‘It says in the papers that they have their agents everywhere - all through the city. Why do we not put a stop to it? Why cannot we protect these people? Why?”

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Her voice rose unnaturally, and a small porcelain horse that she had been fidgeting with slipped from her fingers and smashed in pieces on the parquet floor. Mrs Marson stared at it in horror and plunged down upon her knees to gather up the broken bits.

The door opened and Stella was back, her face white and excited. Mrs Marson began to apologize for her clumsiness, but Stella said: ‘The horse? It doesn’t matter,’ and looked across the room at Miranda: ‘Captain Lang is here.’

Simon had been up all night, and had not slept for over twentyfour hours. But there was nothing in his face or manner to betray the fact. Stella said abruptly: ‘He says that they have traced Mademoiselle.’

There was a little crash as the broken pieces of china that Mrs Marson had gathered up fell back onto the polished floor.

Simon said: ‘Can I help?’ He crossed over to her and stooping down began to pick up the pieces, an expression of polite concern on his face.

Stella said urgently: ‘Where is she, Captain Lang? Don’t keep us on tenterhooks! Has she only gone to another job? Or did she make a bolt for it to the Russian zone after all?’

Simon straightened up and placed the small white pieces neatly into an ashtray. ‘She’s dead,’ he said laconically.

Stella said: ‘No! Oh, no!’

She pressed the back of one hand against her teeth as though to stop herself from screaming, and did not notice that Miranda had shown no surprise at the news.

‘Why do you not stop it?’ cried Eisa Marson hysterically. ‘Why is there no protection? It is the Russians, I tell you! The Russians]’

Her voice rose to a scream and Stella took her hand away from her mouth and said desperately: ‘Please don’t, Mrs Marson!’ She turned to Simon Lang. -,:.-. f

‘How did she - die?’ ;.

‘She was drowned.’

The rigidity went out of Stella’s body. ‘Oh, thank God!’ ťbe said on a long breath of relief.

She took an uncertain step towards the nearest chair and sinking down into it, hid her face in her hands, and after a moment or two let them drop and looked up: ‘I’m sorry. That was a beastly thing to say. But I didn’t mean it like that; I thought for a minute it was another murder.’

‘It was,’ said Simon Lang briefly.

Stella’s hands tightened on the arms of her chair until the knuckles showed white, but she did not move or speak.

Simon said: ‘She was hit over the head with something like a spanner, and either fell, or was pushed, into the water, somewhere around Tuesday evening or Tuesday night.’

He turned away to gaze abstractedly at an excellent reproduction of Velasquez’s ‘Lady with a Fan’ that hung on the wall beside him, and added as though as an afterthought: ‘Her hands were covered with green paint.’

For a moment no one spoke and then without warning Mrs Marson began to laugh. She rocked to and fro in shrill, hysterical mirth that grated abominably upon their taut nerves and went on, and on…

Stella came to her feet in one swift movement and crossing over to her, grasped her by the shoulders and shook her. Mrs Marson gasped, gulped and dissolved into tears, and Stella put an arm about her and glared defiantly at Simon Lang: ‘I’m going to take her home,’ she said: her face was quite white and her eyes were blazing.

‘A very good idea,’ said Simon politely. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind staying with her until her husband or some responsible person can keep an eye on her? And after that I’d like to see you: we’ll have to go over the details of Tuesday evening again, I’m afraid.’

‘Of course. Come along, dear, I’ll take you home.’ Stella led the sobbing Mrs Marson from the room and the door closed behind them.

Miranda said in a shaking voice: ‘What did that mean?’

‘What did what mean?’ - • ť u :-, a ;

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‘The green paint. Why did it frighten her so?’ tŤs - Ť r ••?

‘Because there is a can of green paint in Major Marson’s garage. They have been painting their garden furniture.’

Miranda said helplessly: ‘I don’t understand!’ and sat down abruptly on the window-seat as though her legs could no longer support her: ‘Simon, what is it all about? Please tell me! You know, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Simon slowly. ‘I know. Not quite everything yet, but enough to go on with.’

He looked at her thoughtfully for what seemed a long time. His eyes were slightly narrowed and there was an expression on his face that puzzled her - though it was probably familiar to Lieutenant Hank Decker of the United States Army and other devotees of poker.

After a moment or two he sat down beside her, and thrusting his hands in his pockets said: ‘What is it that you want to know? I’ll try and answer at least some of the questions.’

‘I want to know about Mademoiselle. I’ve been thinking and thinking about her. I even dreamt of her last night! Was she really the woman I think she was, or did I only imagine it?’

‘No. She was the same woman.’

‘How do you know? Perhaps - perhaps I was mistaken?’

Simon shook his head. ‘No you weren’t. We spent most of last night and a good bit of this morning going through endless files and records and documents and dossiers. It was all astonishingly simple really, and one wonders why on earth no one spotted it before. Do you remember the story Brigadier Brindley told you at Bad Oeynhausen?’