The Saint-Germain Chronicles (11 page)

“Well, you sure as hell botched it,” James said, taking secret pleasure in seeing this elegant stranger at a loss.

“Lamentably, I must concur.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and started toward the door.

James could not resist a parting shot. “You mean you were going to lay out a woman for me, like a smorgasbord, so I could…”

Saint-Germain’s mobile lips turned down in disgust “What do you take me for, Mister Tree? Mirelle knows what I am and finds it most satisfying. She would enjoy the… variety you would offer her. Good God, you don’t believe that I would expose a woman like Madame Kunst to what we are, do you? She understands there is a man here suffering from battle fatigue, and is prepared to make allowances. It is dangerous and unwise to spend time with those who are repelled by us. If you are to survive in this life, you must learn to be circumspect.” He reached for the door, then added, “Roger found the two boxes of earth from Denver, and that will afford you some relief, but not, I fear, a great deal.”

“Earth from Denver?” James echoed.

“Of course. When Madelaine knew that you would walk after death, she arranged to have two cartons of your native earth shipped here, in case it was needed.” It was said lightly, but the significance did not escape James. “She had stored it in the stables, and Roger did not find it until late afternoon.”

“Earth from Denver. I can’t believe it.” There would have been comfort and denial in laughter, but James could not summon any.

“She cares what happens to you, Mister Tree. It was not whim but concern for your welfare that made her get those two boxes.” He opened the door wide and stepped into the hall. His face was clouded with thought and he made his way slowly to the kitchen.

Roger looked up as Saint-Germain came quietly through the door. “She’s bathed and gone to bed.”

“Good. Did you learn anything more?” He was frowning slightly; there was an indefinable restlessness about him.

“Nothing significant. She’s twenty-nine, comes from Salzburg. She used to teach school, her husband…”

“Gunther?”

“Yes. He was an attorney, I gather.” He finished tidying the clutter in the kitchen and turned to bank the coals in the huge, wood-burning stove.

“Do you believe her?” Saint-Germain asked quietly.

“That she was a teacher and her husband an attorney, yes. The rest, I don’t know.” Roger closed the fuelbox and wiped his hands on a rag, leaving blackened smudges on the worn cloth.

“Nor do I,” Saint-Germain admitted. “It may only be shock, but. But.”

Roger blew out one of the kerosene lanterns. “Is she what she seems?”

“Superficially, no doubt,” Saint-Germain said measuredly. “And everything she has told us may be true. If that’s the case, she might be blackmailed. If she has children, and they are held by the SS, she might undertake almost anything to save them. Because if she is what she claims to be, and wants to be out of Austria and away from the war, why didn’t she stop in Switzerland? That’s a neutral country.”

“She might not feel safe there,” Roger suggested.

“And instead she feels safe in France?” Saint-Germain countered in disbelief. “You know what the French want to do to the Germans these days. Why should she leave the comparative haven Switzerland offers for this?”

“It is espionage?” Roger asked, taking the other lantern and starting toward the door.

“We will doubtless soon find out. But we must be very cautious. All the Resistance would need is an excuse to come here hunting German spies and matters might suddenly become unpleasant for us.” He accompanied Roger out of the kitchen and toward the tower, the oldest part of the chateau. “I’m afraid I’ve scandalized Mister Tree again,” Saint-Germain remarked as the reverberations of their footsteps clattered away into the eerie darkness. “He’s accused me of pimping.”

Roger gave a snort of amusement. “How charming. Did he say it directly?”

“Not quite. That would mean he would have to see too clearly what has become of him. It is unfortunate that you did not reach Mirelle. She would have put an end to all this nonsense, and the worst of his anxiety would be over by now. He’s badly frightened; the thing that could not possibly happen to him has happened. Mirelle would tease him out of it. It’s a pity she does not want to be one of my blood in the end. She would do well.” They reached a narrow, uneven stairway that led into the upper rooms of the tower, and Saint-Germain stood aside for Roger so that he could light his way. The lantern was unnecessary for Saint-Germain, but his manservant required more illumination.

“It’s best that she should know her mind now,” Roger said, picking his way up the hazardous stairs. “Later, it might be inconvenient.”

“True enough,” Saint-Germain murmured. “Which room are the boxes in?”

“The second, where the trunks are stored. I stumbled on them by chance.” They were halfway up the stairs now, and Roger paid particular attention to this stretch, for he knew that the one short trip stair was located here.

“To hide a box, put it with other boxes,” Saint-Germain said, paraphrasing the maxim. “I have always applauded Madelaine’s cleverness.”

Roger got past the trip stair and moved faster. “Both boxes are unmarked, but there is the stencil design of an oak on both of them, which was what alerted me.”

“How very like her,” le Comte chuckled. They were almost at the landing, and he smiled his anticipation. “He’ll be more at ease with this.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Roger responded with a shrug. On the landing, he pointed to the door. “That one. There’s a stack of boxes in the north corner. They’re on the top of it.”

As he opened the door and stepped into the room, Saint-Germain said over his shoulder, “You know, it is inconvenient that our scars can’t be altered. Plastic surgery might change any number of things. Mister Tree is going to have some distinctive marks on his arms and thighs which will make identification simple. If there were a way to remove them, it might be easier to go from alias to alias. Well, that time may come.” He looked around for the stack Roger had described. “Ah. There. If you’ll give me a hand getting them down, I will take them to Mister Tree’s room.”

James woke at sunset feeling more restored than he had since his accident. He stretched slowly, oddly pleased that there were no aches to hamper his movements. He was healing, he insisted to himself. When he rose from the bed, there was the first hint of an energetic spring in his step. He dressed carefully, noticing that his clothes had been pressed some time during the day. The only things that he could not find were his shoes. After a brief hunt for them, he shrugged and settled for a pair of heavy boots he had worn years before when he and Madelaine had gone tramping over the rough hillsides together. As he laced them up, he thought how comfortable they were, and hoped that le Comte would not be too offended by them.

When at last he ventured down to the sitting room, he found Madame Kunst finishing the last of her tea, a few crumbs left on the Limoges plate beside her cup and saucer. He hesitated, then came into the room. “Good afternoon.”

She looked up suddenly, guiltily, then smiled as best she could. “Good afternoon, though it is more evening, I think. You are…”

“The American suffering from battle fatigue, yes,” he said with the same directness he had used to disarm politicians and industrialists for more than two decades. “You needn’t worry, Madame. I am not precisely out of control, as you can see.” To demonstrate this, he took a chair and arranged himself casually in it.

“I’m glad you’re feeling… better?” This last change of inflection caught his attention and he leaned forward to speak to her.

“Yes. I’m much revived, thanks.” He had deliberately chosen a chair that was far enough away from her that she would not be too much disturbed by his presence.

“You’re an officer?” she asked when she had poured herself another cup of tea. She pointed to the pot in mute invitation, saying, “If you like, I could ring for another cup.”

“That would be…” He broke off, finding the thought of tea distasteful. “Very good of you, but it would be wasted on me,” he finished, frowning a bit.

“Is anything the matter?” she inquired apprehensively.

“No, not really.” He decided to answer her question. “I’m not an officer, or a soldier, I’m afraid. I’m a journalist. I’ve been covering the action toward Lyon, but it hasn’t been what I expected.”

Madame Kunst smiled politely. “I’d think not.” She sipped her tea. “What is your impression? Or would you rather not discuss it?”

“You must know the answer to that better than I,” James suggested blandly, the habits of caution exerting themselves.

“Only what we are told,” she said with a degree of sadness.

“But there must be raids and…” he said, hoping she would take up his drift.

“We hear about them, naturally, but Salzburg is not as important as other places. It is not important to shipping or the offensive, so we do not know how the rest of the country is going on.” She finished the tea and reluctantly set the cup aside. “They have real butter here, and the milk is fresh.”

The mention of food made James queasy, but he was able to nod. “Yes. There are shortages everywhere. Back home, there are ration cards used for meat and other necessary items. The government encourages everyone to grow their own vegetables.” He knew it was safe to mention this, because it was common knowledge and there were articles in the newspapers which any enemy spy who wished to could read.

“There isn’t much opportunity to grow vegetables in a city flat,” she said.

“True enough. I have a cousin who always sends me canned goods at Christmas. She has quite a garden and thinks I need her food.” He wanted to get off the subject, but did not quite know how.

Madame Kunst spared him the trouble. “How long have you been in France, Herr… I believe I was not told your name.”

This time he could not avoid giving his name. “Tree, Madame Kunst. You see, I have been told who you are. I’m James Emmerson Tree. I’ve been in France a little more than a year.”

“So long, with the war and all.” She waited patiently for him to answer.

“Reporters go where the story is, and this is the biggest story around,” he said with a shrug that did not completely conceal his disillusion with his work. “I’d been in France before, in the Twenties, and it made me the logical candidate to come back to cover this.” He ran his hand through his hair. “You’ll have to forgive me, Madame Kunst. I must be disconcerting company. These clothes aren’t the latest, I haven’t done anything much about my hair or shaving, but don’t be alarmed.” He touched his chin tentatively and felt a slight roughness, as if he had shaved the evening before.

“We do what we can in these times,” she said, trying to appear at her best. “I have two dresses, and the other is worse than this one.”

There was a tap at the door, and then Roger entered. “Excuse me, Madame Kunst, but if you are finished with your tea, I will remove the tray for you.”

“Yes, I am, thank you,” she replied, a trifle more grandly than she had addressed James. “It was very good.”

“There will be a supper in two or three hours. Served in the breakfast room, as it is easiest to heat.” He picked up the tray and started toward the door. “Mister Tree, le Comte would appreciate it if you could spare him a moment of your time.”

James scowled. “When?”

“At your convenience. In the next two hours, perhaps?” He gave a little bow and left the room.

“My aunt had a butler like that, years ago,” Madame Kunst said wistfully when Roger had gone.

“He’s very efficient,” James admitted grudgingly, deciding that Roger was a bit
too
efficient.

“Servants aren’t like that any more.” She smoothed the skirt of her dress and looked over at James. “How did you find the situation in France? When you arrived?”

“Chaotic,” James answered. “It’s apparent that this war has taken a dreadful toll on the country.”

“On all Europe,” Madame Kunst corrected him.

“Sure. But I’ve been covering France, and this is where I’ve had to look for the damage, the ruin and the destruction. I’ve heard about conditions in Russia, and I’m appalled. Italy is supposed to be having very bad troubles, and the Netherlands and Scandinavia are suffering, too, but France, in many ways, is taking the brunt of it. When I was in London, I was shocked, but when I came to France, I was horrified.” He sensed that he was talking too much, but was no longer able to stop himself. “The First World War was ruinous, but this is something a lot worse. And the rumors we keep hearing make it all sound more awful than we think it is. There’s nothing as bad as trench warfare going on, and no mounted cavalry against tanks, as there was before, but the cities are burning, and the country is laid waste, and there doesn’t seem to be any end in sight. What can anyone think? It can’t go on endlessly, but there is no way to end it.”

“At home, we all pray that it will end,” she said softly, her large brown eyes turned appealingly toward him. “Don’t you think the Americans could do something? If
your President would insist that we stop, all of us, at once, then it could not
go on. Without the Americans, the British and the French could not continue this
insanity.”

“The Americans don’t see it that way, Madame Kunst,” James said rather stiffly, feeling disturbed by her afresh.

“But what are we to do, if it goes on and on? Everyone in my family is dead but myself, and no one cares that this is the case. Down the street from where my family lived, there is a widow who has lost four sons, all of them flyers, killed in air battles. She is like a ghost in her house. And there are hundreds, thousands like her.”

“As there are in France and Italy and England and Holland, Madame Kunst. As there are in Chicago and Montreal and Honolulu.” He got up. “Excuse me, but it might be best if I talk to le Comte now, rather than later.”

Her face changed. “Have I offended you? Please, don’t think me heartless, or uncaring of the sufferings of others. That is why I spoke to you about a resolution to this terrible war, so that there need not be such women ever again.”