‘You’re obviously in mourning . . .’
‘My husband was an officer – a captain – in the French army. We used to live in Lyons. He was killed in the second week of the war in the retreat from Mulhouse. August 1914. He was shot and badly wounded, but when they captured him they left him to die. Untended. I’m originally from Geneva so I came home to be with my brother.’
‘I’m very sorry. My sympathies,’ Lysander said, a little lamely, wondering what genuine condolences one could offer to a stranger almost two years after such a bereavement.
Madame Duchesne flicked her wrist as if batting the formulaic remark away.
‘This is why I’m happy to help you in this war. To help our allies. I’m sure that was your unasked question.’
It was, as it happened, but Lysander thought of something more.
‘These letters to Glockner – was there a postmark?’
‘Yes, all from London West – English stamps, of course, which alerted me. I have the names of all the staff at the German consulate, my brother brings me their letters first as a matter of routine. See you tomorrow, Herr Schwimmer.’
She gave him a little bow – the slightest inclination of her head – turned and left. She had a firm confident stride – a woman of real convictions. There was something attractive about her bitter severity, he had to admit, her unshakeable sadness and profound melancholy. He wondered what she would look like in bed, naked, helpless with laughter, tipsy on champagne . . . He called for another glass of Munich lager. He was developing quite a taste for this beer.
2. The Brasserie des Bastions
Lysander and Madame Duchesne sat in a café almost directly opposite the entry to Glockner’s apartment building. It was noon. Madame Duchesne was inevitably in black, though this morning she had dispensed with the veil. Lysander wondered what her first name was but felt it impossible to ask such a question on so slight an acquaintance. Madame Duchesne did not invite familiarity. As he thought further, he realized that once Glockner had been identified it would probably be the end of their contact – she would have done her duty.
‘He’s later than usual today,’ she said.
Lysander noticed she had a closed gold cameo on a chain around her neck – doubtless containing a photo of the late Capitaine Duchesne.
‘Here he comes,’ she said.
He saw a smartly dressed man of medium height come out of the building. He was wearing a lightweight fawn Ulsterette overcoat and a Fedora. Lysander noted the spats, also, and that he carried an attaché case and a cane. He couldn’t see if he had a moustache or not as he had turned and headed off down the street.
‘Is there a concierge?’ he asked.
‘I would imagine so.’
‘Hmmm. I’d have to get past her, wouldn’t I?’
‘I’m afraid that’s your problem, Herr Schwimmer.’ She stood up. ‘Good luck,’ she said in English, then, ‘Bon courage.’
Lysander rose to his feet as well, thinking that he didn’t want this to be their last encounter.
‘May I offer you dinner tonight, Madame Duchesne? I’ve been in this city for four days now and I’m getting bored with my own company.’
She looked at him intently, her hard face expressionless. She had dark brown eyes, he saw. Fool, he thought – you’re not on some kind of a holiday.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be most agreeable.’
He felt a boyish lightening of his heart at this response.
‘Wonderful. Where would you like to go?’
‘There’s a place near the museum with a very nice terrace that’s only open in the summer. The Brasserie des Bastions. Shall we meet there at 7.30?’
‘Perfect. I’ll find it – see you there.’
That afternoon Lysander went to the bank and drew out 25,000 francs in 500 franc notes – approximately £1,000. He had been offered 1,000 franc notes but he suspected that, when it came to being tempted by a bribe, the bigger the wad of money on display, the better. He wondered what made Massinger so sure that Glockner was that biddable – perhaps it was a lazy assumption he made about poorly recompensed embassy functionaries. But Glockner didn’t seem down at heel or exhausted. He looked smart and spry – he wasn’t wearing celluloid cuffs or a spongeable cardboard shirt-front – there was nothing, at first glance anyway, that suggested he was corruptible.
He made sure he was early at the Brasserie, which turned out to be a wood and cast-iron building with two wide verandas extending from an ornate conservatory set back from the edge of the Place Neuve amongst the greenery of the gardens around the museum, yet far enough away from the circling omnibuses and automobiles of the busy square not to be disturbed by their noise or the dust raised by their tyres. He had changed his loathsome brown shoes for his black ones and his Homburg for his Panama and was wearing one of his new silk four-in-hand ties with a white soft collared shirt. He felt more like debonair Lysander Rief, the actor, and not stolid Abelard Schwimmer, the railway engineer. He wondered if Madame Duchesne would notice the subtle –
‘Herr Schwimmer? You’re early.’
He turned to see Madame Duchesne walking along a white gravelled alley of young lime trees towards him. She was still in widow’s weeds, of course, but she was carrying an open fringed parasol against the evening sun and her fine taffeta dress was trimmed with lace at throat and wrists, falling fashionably short to her ankles to reveal gunmetal, buttoned boots with a neat French heel. She may be grieving still two years on, Lysander thought, but she was grieving in style. As they greeted each other and shook hands Lysander found himself speculating about her corsetry – she was very slim – and what chemise and bloomers might be underneath that rustling, close-fitting dress. He checked his thoughts, vaguely ashamed and surprised that Madame Duchesne brought out such lechery in him. As they were led to their table for two he caught a hint of her perfume – musky and strong. She wore no lip rouge or powder but the perfume was a gesture of sorts – perhaps she had put it on for him. He imagined her checking her appearance in the mirror before she set off and reaching for her scent bottle – a dab at the neck and the inside of her wrists . . . Enough. Stop.
‘Shall we order a bottle of champagne?’ he suggested. ‘I don’t think Massinger would object.’
‘I don’t drink champagne,’ she said. ‘Some red wine with the meal will be perfect.’
They each decided on the menu du jour: a clear soup, blanquette de veau, cheese and an apple tart. The wine he chose was rough and on the sour side, however, and they left it half-finished. Lysander felt increasingly tense and nervous and their conversation never really advanced beyond the formal and unrevealing.
As they ordered their coffee, Madame Duchesne asked if he was a soldier.
‘Yes,’ Lysander said. ‘I joined up soon after war was declared.’ He didn’t expand on what kind of soldier he had been, telling her only that his regiment was East Sussex Light Infantry, but simply conveying that information seemed to make a difference. He thought Madame Duchesne looked at him differently, somehow.
‘And what did you do before you became a soldier?’ she asked.
‘I was an actor.’
For the first time her impassivity wobbled and she registered surprise for a second or two.
‘A professional actor?’
‘Yes. On the London stage. Following in my father’s footsteps as best I can. He was a real giant of an actor – very famous.’
‘How interesting,’ she said, and he felt it wasn’t just a token remark. He had indeed become more interesting to her as a result, he was sure, and he felt pleased, calling for the bill and thinking he would go off somewhere for a cigarette and a couple of brandies. At least the evening had ended on a better note – better than he had expected. And what had you expected? he asked himself, aggressively. Idiot. Time had been filled, that was the main thing. Tomorrow he would reconnoitre Glockner’s apartment building and its environs and make a decision about what the best time to make a move would be on Sunday.