Hands of the Traitor (11 page)

Something seemed to hold Zoé back from
showing typical Gallic affection. Perhaps it was just too soon for
anything else. She wanted a glass of white house wine, the first
time she'd asked for an alcoholic drink, and Matt took the
opportunity to get a pint of beer for himself.

"Monsieur Grieves is going to pay for
your car to be mended?" Zoé asked after she had tasted and approved
her wine.

"He wanted to award me the Mothercare
Cross. Bravery beyond the call of duty. But he's given me an old
orange Mini instead. It used to belong to his daughter."

"It is good?"

"She's recently bought a new car, but
the garage refused to take the Mini in part exchange."

"You are joking, I think."

Matt laughed. "Generous? You can tell
Tom Grieves is in the same club as Ken. Come on, I'll take you for
a drive. It's the next best thing to a Ferrari."

Zoé held up her hand. "Now
listen,
mon
ami
, I have
some news that is bad. Your grandfather, he will be
famous."

"How famous?"

Zoé sounded cross. "It is a
stupid nurse called Sister Ewing at the South Memorial Hospital.
Your grandfather, you told me he was moved there for security
--
oui?
"

"Yes," agreed Matt. "And it should
never have been allowed. I want to ask him a few questions, but
they won't let me visit him until he's settled down. Why, what's
happened?"

Zoé leaned closer. "Unfortunately, the
hospital sister has what you English call a big mouth. I know, I
have worked with women like her in France."

Matt glanced over at the bar. "I fancy
something to eat. What's Sister Ewing done?"

"You are going to be mad about it,
Matt." Zoé shook her head. "Here is the evening paper. I tried to
phone you at the office, but Ken said you might be looking up an
old ... an old flame called Louise. What is an old flame?" She made
the question sound totally innocent.

"An old girlfriend. Louise is just
someone I knew." He shrugged as though the expression was of no
consequence, and took the paper. It was folded back at page five.
"Anyway, I was at the Internet café all afternoon. On my
own."

Zoé raised her eyebrows and looked
unconvinced.

Matt studied the
write-up.
LOCAL WAR HERO ALEC RIDER.
The photograph showed his grandfather
sitting in a hospital bed, proudly displaying a gold signet ring on
his right hand. He groaned in disbelief. A reporter had managed to
set foot where even the grandson was forbidden to tread.

"At least he put his teeth in," he
observed. "They must have given him a shot of something to seem
this alert. Look at this!" Inset in the main photograph was a
close-up of the signet ring. "That sister has a nerve. How do you
know she's to blame?"

"I telephoned the hospital and
pretended to be a reporter wanting a story for a French
newspaper."

"Really?"

"Of course. They told me the man from
the local paper had got past Sister Ewing by a trick. I think there
is more to it than that. I think she recognized the ring and
telephoned the paper herself. Perhaps she let the reporter in. I
tell you, Matt, I was angry."

Matt felt an unexpected emotional tug.
To think that Zoé had made that phone call for him.

"You suppose I did well,
Matt?"

"You should take up acting. But I'm
not sure the sister's done anything wrong. It's my grandfather's
ring, not mine."

Zoé sounded cross. "It is not
ethical," she protested. "Hospital staff have no right to get in
touch with the press about a patient."

"It's a bit late now."

"I think you want everything kept
quiet while you investigate the Dutchman's ring."

"I do, but they won't get the local rag in
New York if I'm right about DCI being mixed up in this." Matt
folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. "I've had
a busy day."

Zoé slipped behind him and
began to massage his neck. "You are too tense,
mon ami
. You must learn to
relax."

"I'm learning already." It was amazing
the way Zoé did it; her fingers kneading his spine.

"And what have you been
doing?"

"I've written a couple of
letters."

She ran her fingers up his neck and
through his short hair. "Who did you write to?"

"A New York trade association. I asked
if any of the Heinmans were traitors, working for the Nazis in the
war."

"You were, I hope, a little more
subtle than that?"

The massage was over as unexpectedly as it
had begun. Perhaps Zoé felt embarrassed, or it could be a
calculated move to show promise of what was to come -- something to
think about when he was alone. He wished he was back at his place
with Zoé now, not on public view in the White Lion.

He sat up and dabbed her playfully on the
nose by way of a thank you. "Would I tell you how to care for your
patients, Nurse Champanelle? Anyway, if they're guilty, it's time
the Heinmans had a wake-up call."

She kissed him on the cheek and seemed
to be warming to him at last. Maybe it was the wine. "And who else
is getting one of your so tactful letters?"

"It was Ken's idea. I've written to
the French mayor where the Dutchman started the riot."

"What did you say to the
mayor?"

"I told him about Sophie. And I told
him you're a French nurse and you'll go over and attend to him
personally if he doesn't reply quickly."

She didn't smile. "Please, do not make
the jokes. Just because I am here with you, you must
not..."

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to
upset you." He'd not expected this reaction.

She smiled, but it seemed rather
forced. "I am feeling a little tangled. Please forgive me. It is
Florian. He is making the big problems for me. What will you do
about the newspaper report?"

Matt felt a stab of unease. Who on
earth was Florian? Was he the "understanding" Zoé had mentioned on
their first meeting in the White Lion? But she wasn't about to
offer an explanation.

"I asked you what you will do about
the newspaper, Matt."

"Nothing. If I make a fuss they'll
probably make sure they keep the story going for a couple of weeks.
Fortunately the 'Local War Hero' hasn't been quoted much. He
probably wasn't able to remember anything -- apart from the army
giving him the ring to keep." Matt pointed to the page. "He says he
wants to find the mysterious Fergus Hawkins. That's his old padre.
According to the paper, Granddad blew up a Nazi rocket site
single-handed. Probably an exaggeration. Says he still wonders
about a French girl called Sophie Bernay." He shrugged. "I don't
expect any harm's been done. He's not likely to make it into the
nationals."

"Ah." Zoé shook her head so that her
dark hair fell across her high cheekbones. "When I rang the
hospital, they said..."

"I don't want to know." He threw the
paper onto the table. "Let's have something to eat from the bar. A
French stick?"

"It is crowded and noisy in here
tonight, and you told me the food is awful. We will go for a drive
in your new car, and you can tell me about your work."

What you mean is, tell you
about Louise
. Not that he intended to say anything; and he wouldn't ask
about Florian. He'd also have to stop making silly
jokes.

NORTH AMERICAN TRADES
ASSOCIATION

NEW YORK, USA

Dear Mr. Rider,

With reference to your letter
which I received today, the Heinman about whom you request
information will be Albert Becker Heinman, the wartime president of
Domestic Chemicals Incorporated of New York. Albert B. Heinman was
not involved in military service, and was killed in a hunting
accident in Alaska in August 1944. His body was never recovered,
and his young son Frank B. Heinman succeeded him as company
president.

Mr. Frank Heinman, although now
in his seventies, has only recently retired and continues to take
an active financial role in the family-run company. His son, Jason
B. Heinman, now holds the position of president. The company has
been trading as Domestic Chemicals International since 1966, and is
still known as DCI.

You appear to be confused
over some of the dates. As a loyal American family, the Heinmans
would most definitely not have been doing business with Nazi
Germany in the war years.

I suggest you contact Mr. Frank
B. Heinman who will be intrigued to learn of your interest, and
will be able to provide you with details of DCI's minimal
commercial links with Germany in the mid 1930s for the production
of artificial fibers.

With regards,

Ingrid
Rosestein,

Customer Inquiries
Section.

Matt clenched his fists in
triumph as he showed Zoé the letter in his lunch break. "I know why
Albert Heinman's body wasn't recovered. Alaska? He was working in
France
--
and the Dutchman found one of his hands last month. Not trading
with Nazi Germany? Two gold signet rings from the same site, both
with a D, a C and an I?"

Zoé took the letter. "It sounds
perhaps
concluant
. What next?"

"If the Heinmans did something to my
grandfather, I want to nail them to the wall."

"And what will you use as the
'ammer?"

"Sophie, if I can find her. That woman
must know something. There's one more person I have to see, and
then we wait for the French mayor to dig up Sophie. Well, not
literally I hope."

"And your grandfather?"

"He certainly became famous for two days
-- when he got into the nationals."

*

THE CHAMBER of Commerce was a large house
in one of the few remaining leafy roads in the area; a former
mansion and still glorious, supported by wealthy local business for
the benefit of wealthy local business. Matt parked his battered
Mini in a slot between two executive cars.

The woman in the front office
recognized him as soon as he opened the door. She looked
daggers.

"I've come to see Louise Grantham," he
said lightly.

He'd always suspected the dragon was a
mother figure to Louise; a confidante who viewed him with suspicion
whenever he called here.

"I don't imagine Louise will see you,
Mr. Rider. Not after what you've done to her. Frankly I'm surprised
you've got the..."

"Just ring her and tell her to come
down," interrupted Matt, probably confirming all the woman's worst
prejudices. Goodness knows what Louise had been saying about
him.

"You'll have to wait."

Matt said he wouldn't wait; he'd go
upstairs and find Louise.

The woman must have phoned a warning. By
the time he got to the top of the impressive marble staircase, the
sort seen in costume dramas where a demure maiden walks hesitantly
down to take her first dance with the handsome Mr....

"Matt!"

"Louise, I've come to ask you
something."

"I thought we weren't seeing each
other," she snapped.

"That was your idea, not
mine."

A skinny youth in a tight-fitting
suit, his black hair greased flat like a pre-war matinee idol, came
out of the next office and stayed to watch and listen. Matt noticed
that Louise stood more upright than usual, as though her new
boyfriend made her feel self-assured. She was Esmerelda, no longer
Quasimodo. Even her hair was blonde all the way to the
roots.

"Have you come to ask me back?" She
seemed to be calming down a little. "You've got a new
job?"

"A new car." Matt stared at the
matinee idol until he moved downstairs and out of earshot. "I'm
trying to find out about a company called DCI, Domestic Chemicals
International in New York. What they did in the past, what they're
doing now, who runs it. That sort of thing."

It might have been his imagination,
perhaps wishful thinking, but Louise seemed disappointed by the
practical nature of his request. Maybe she was expecting him to
fall to his knees and beg her to think again.

When he was away from Louise he had no
problem. But here he wondered if they should give it another go. He
looked at her closely, remembering the things they'd shared over
the last two years. The good times together as well as the upsets.
The misunderstandings.

The betrayal.

And yet he still felt something. You
couldn't just wipe out memories like that. Perhaps next time it
would be different.

"New York? I can find you the address
of an American trade association. They'll have records going back
to the war years."

"I've already written to one of them.
NATA. The North American Trades Association. I heard back from them
this morning. They suggest I contact the ex-president if I want to
know anything more. I can't. If this inquiry comes up with an
answer I don't want, I'd prefer to keep Domestic Chemicals in the
dark."