“They couldn’t even count it,” Mr. Cunningham confirms from the door with the pride of an impresario. “Could they, Elena? Ask her. Don’t be shy.”
“We give such concerts, darling,” the baroness confides to Pym. “Princes from all countries. We got house from marble. We got mirrors, culture. Like here,” she adds graciously, indicating a priceless oil painting of Prince Magnus in his paddock, done from a photograph. “We lose everything.”
“Not quite everything,” says Rick under his breath.
“When the Germans come, my Luigi he refuse to flee. He face the Nazi pigs from the balcony, got a pistol in his hand, don’t never been heard of since.”
Another necessary break follows in which the baroness allows herself a delicate sip of brandy from a row of crystal decanters on the floor, and Rick to Pym’s fury takes over the story, partly because Rick is already tired of listening, but more particularly because a secret is approaching, and secrets in court etiquette are Rick’s alone to divulge.
“That baron was a fine man and a fine husband, son, and he did what any fine husband would do, and believe me, if your mother was in a position to appreciate it, I’d do the same for her tomorrow—”
“I know you would,” says Pym hastily.
“That baron got some of the best treasures out of that palace, he put them in a box and he gave that box to certain very good friends of his and friends of this fine lady here, and he gave orders that when the British won the war this same box should be handed over to his lovely young wife, with everything it contained, however much it may have risen in value in the meantime.”
The baroness knows the menu from memory and again selects Pym as her audience, for which purpose it is necessary for her to arrest his attention with a delicate hand placed on his wrist.
“One Gutenberg Bible, nice condition, darling, one Renoir early, two Leonardo medical. One first edition Goya caprices, artist annotation, three hundred best gold American dollar, Rubens a couple cartoons.”
“Cunningham says it’s worth a bomb,” says Rick when she seems to have finished.
“It’s Hiroshima,” says Mr. Cunningham from the door.
Pym contrives an ethereal smile intended to indicate that great art knows no price. The baroness intercepts it and understands.
* * *
It is an hour later. The baroness and her protector have departed, leaving father and son alone in the great unlighted room. The traffic below the window has subsided. Shoulder to shoulder on the bed they are eating fish and chips which Pym has been dispatched to buy with precious pound notes from Rick’s back pocket. They wash it down with a bottle of Château d’Yquem from a Harrods crate.
“Are they still there, son?” says Rick. “Did they see you? Those men in the Riley. Heavy built.”
“I’m afraid they are,” says Pym.
“You believe in her, don’t you, son? Don’t spare my feelings. Do you believe in that fine woman or do you think she’s a blackhearted liar and adventuress to boot?”
“She’s fantastic,” says Pym.
“You don’t sound convinced. Spit it out, son. She’s our last chance, I’ll tell you that for nothing.”
“It’s just I wasn’t quite sure why she hadn’t gone to her own people.”
“You don’t know those Jews the way I do. They’re some of the finest people in the world. There’s others, they’d have the coat off her back as soon as look at her. I asked her the same question. I didn’t pull my punches either.”
“Who’s Cunningham?” says Pym, barely able to conceal his distaste.
“Old Cunnie’s first class. I’m bringing him into the business when this is over. Exports and Foreign. He’ll be a tear-away. His sense of humour alone is worth five thousand a year to us. He wasn’t on form tonight. He was tense.”
“What’s the deal?” says Pym.
“Faith in your old man, that’s the deal. ‘Rickie,’ she says to me — that’s what she calls me, she doesn’t pull her punches either—‘Rickie, I want you get that box for me, sell the contents and invest the money in one of your fine enterprises, and I want you to take the cares off my shoulders and give me ten percent a year for life for as long as I’m spared, with all the necessary provisions of insurance and endowment if you go before me. I want that money to be yours to see the world right in whatever way you deem in your wisdom.’ That’s a big responsibility, son. If I had a passport I’d go myself. I’d send Syd if he was available. Syd would go. Cattle and pigs. That’s what I’m going to do after this. Just a few acres and some livestock. I’m retiring.”
“What’s happened to your passport?” said Pym.
“Son, I’m going to level with you, which I always do. That airy-fairy school of yours are hard bargainers. They want cash and they want it on the due day and that’s it. You speak her language, that’s the point. She likes you. She trusts you. You’re my son. I could send Muspole but I’d never be sure he’d come back. Perce Loft’s too legal. He’d scare her. Now slip to the window and see if that Riley’s gone. Don’t get the light on your face. They can’t come in. They haven’t got a warrant. I’m an honest citizen.”
Half hidden behind the chipped green filing cabinet, Pym squints steeply downward into the street in covert counter-surveillance. The Riley is still there.
There are no blankets for the bed so they make do with curtains and dust-sheets. Pym sleeps fitfully and freezes, dreaming of the baroness. Once Rick’s arm falls violently across him, once he is roused by Rick’s strangled voice calling out invective against a bitch called Peggy. And some time in the early hours he feels the soft female weight of Rick’s nether body in silk shirt and underpants backing inexorably against him, which persuades him it is more restful on the floor. In the morning Rick still will not leave the house, so Pym walks alone to Victoria Station carrying his few possessions in a splendid white box-calf suitcase with Rick’s initials in brass underneath the handle. He wears one of Rick’s camel-hair coats though it is too large for him. The baroness, looking more delectable than ever, is waiting on the platform. Mr. Cunningham is there to wave them off. In the train lavatory, Pym opens the envelope Rick gave him and extracts a wad of white ten-pound notes and his first-ever instructions for a clandestine encounter.
“You are to proceed to Bern and take Rooms at the Grand Palace Hotel. Mr. Bertl the under-manager is first Rate, the Bill is taken care of. Signor Lapadi will Contact the Baroness and guide you to the Austrian border. When Lapadi has given you the Box and you have Confirmed in our Language that it’s all there, see him right with the Enclosed and not until. This is going to be the Saving of us, son. That Money you are Carrying took a lot of earning, but when this is over none of us will ever have to Worry again.”
* * *
I shall be brisk with the operational details of the Rothschild assignment, Jack — the days of hope, the days of doubt, the sudden leaps from one to the other. And I truly forget which street corners or codewords preceded the slow descent into inconclusion that has been my memory of so many operations since — just as I forget, if I ever knew, in what quantities of skepticism and blind faith Pym pursued his mission to its inevitable end. Certainly I have known operations since that have been mounted on quite as little likelihood of success, and have cost a great deal more than money. Signor Lapadi spoke only to the baroness, who relayed his information with disdain.
“Lapadi he talk mit his Vertrauensmann, darling.” She smiles indulgently when Pym asks what a Vertrauensmann is. “The Vertrauensmann is man we are trusting. Not yesterday, maybe not tomorrow. But today we are trusting him for ever.”