‘As one who showed such courage on their side during the war, you cannot be one of those who thinks Hitler should have been encouraged to attack the “alliance of eagles”?’ Begg offered. ‘The other Great Powers have since made an oath to protect the Slavic empire. Perhaps you feel that we have not been more resolute in tracking down the Hitler gang? I cannot believe you share their views.’
‘My dear Begg, the deposed Chancellor was a beerhall braggart supported by a frustrated military bully, a plump bore with aristocratic pretension and a third-rate broadcasting journalist!’ References to Röhm, to Göring and to Goebbels, whose popular radio programme was thought to have helped Hitler to power. ‘It was a matter of duty for anyone of taste to frustrate his ambitions. He was warned often enough by the Duma, the Assembly and your Parliament. His refusal to sign the articles of confederation were the last straw. He should have been stopped then, before he was ever allowed to marshal his land leviathans and aerial battleships. As it was, it should have taken three days, not a year, to defeat him. And now we have the current situation, where he and his riff-raff remain at large, doubtless somewhere in Bavaria, and far too many of our armed forces, as well as those of Germany herself, are engaged in putting a stop to his so-called Freikorps activities. I understand that it’s believed by some fools in the French foreign service that I yearn to ‘free’ my ancestral lands from the Pan-Slavic yoke, but believe me, I have no such dream. If I were to deceive myself that the people were free under the reign of my own family, I would deserve the contempt of every realist on the planet. And if there are, indeed, certain self-esteeming coxcombs on the Quai d’Orsay who believe I would ally myself with such degenerate opportunists, I shall soon discover their names and, in my own time, seek them out and challenge them to repeat their presumptions.’
Begg permitted himself a small smile of acquiescence. It was as he thought. He had needed only this statement by his cousin to confirm his understanding. But what was Zenith doing here in Paris, keeping such a strange, yet regular schedule? He knew that there was little chance of the albino offering him an explanation. All he had done was rule out the theory, as his French opposite number had hoped, of certain under-admired civil servants at the Quai d’Orsay. He regretted that he was not on terms of such intimacy with Mrs Persson. Although it was unlikely, she could be allying herself with the Hitler gang to further her own schemes.
Of course, Zenith had said nothing of any collaboration, though it was probably not the first time he and the Englishwoman had worked together, she for her political purposes, he for financial gain, Zenith required a great deal of money with which to maintain his lifestyle and finance the causes he favoured. It was known that he employed at least six Japanese servants of uncommon loyalty and proficiency and maintained several houses in the major cities of Europe as well as on the Côte d’Azur. For all that he had received an amnesty after the war, he remained wanted by the police of some Western countries, especially America, yet lived elegantly in such insouciant openness that he had rarely been captured. The opposite numbers of Begg and Lapointe preferred always to wait and watch rather than place him under arrest.
It was the secret of Zenith’s great success that he understood the psychology of his opponents marginally better than they understood his: thus his penchant for openness and his willingness to depend entirely on his own quick wits should he ever be in danger. One day, Begg hoped, that cool intelligence would be employed entirely on the side of the law. Meanwhile, he remained convinced of Zenith’s highly developed sense of honour, which meant he never lied to those he himself respected. Moreover, Zenith was as hated and feared by the criminal classes almost as much as he was sought by the police. That ebony stick of his hid a slender sword remarkable in that it, too, was black, and into it had been carved certain peculiar scarlet markings which a trick of the sword-smith’s art gave the appearance of seeming to move whenever the blade was unsheathed.
Begg had pursued the man across the multiverse more than once and knew that sometimes that sword became an altogether larger weapon, usually carried in an instrument case of some kind. Zenith was a skilled musician, as expert on the classical cello as he was with the popular guitar. Begg knew, also, that more than once Zenith’s opponents had been found dead, drained in some terrible way not of blood but of their very life force. Underworld legend had it that Zenith was a kind of vampire, drawing his considerable physical power from the very souls of his enemies.
At that moment, no casual customer of the salon would have seen anything but one elegant man of the world in amiable conversation with another. An observer might have noted that both seemed to be taking an admiring interest in the tall woman walking, à la Colette, her two Oriental shorthair cats in the noon sunlight, passing through the sparkling waters of the central fountain, with its classical marble merfolk doing homage to Neptune, whose trident was green with verdigris. The spraying water formed a blur of rainbow colour giving the woman an almost unearthly appearance as she entered it and stood for a while staring thoughtfully into the middle distance, seemingly utterly oblivious of the two men.
Begg smiled to himself, well aware that this was Mrs Persson’s characteristic way of taking stock of those she believed were watching her. It had the effect of disconcerting any observer and causing them to turn their gaze away. Even though she aroused no such response in Begg or Zenith, whom she recognised, nonetheless it seemed even to them that somehow she stepped through the shimmering wash of colour and, with her cats, disappeared.
’You are acquainted, I know, with Mrs Persson,’ murmured Begg. ‘The Quai d’Orsay, if not the Quai des Orfèvres, are convinced that she is working for the German insurgency. I would be surprised if it’s true, for I thought her nature too romantic to let her fall in with such a gang.’
’Mrs Persson is not usually in the habit of confiding in me.’ Monsieur Zenith raised his hand as a signal for the waiter to bring him a drink. ’Will you join me, Begg? Is it too early for an Armagnac?’
When the detective acquiesced, Zenith raised a second finger and made a small gesture. The waiter nodded. Almost immediately Zenith was watching with approval as the serviteur mixed his absinthe and placed two specially formed pieces of sugar in the saucer, while Begg received a generous measure of St-Aubin. It was rarely his habit to drink his favourite Special Reserve before lunch, but he was more than usually anxious to remain on agreeable terms with his old opponent. Zenith appeared to live chiefly on Turkish ovals and absinthe.
‘Would you permit me, cousin, to ask you a rather direct question?’ he asked after a couple of appreciative sips.
‘How could I refuse?’ A smile, almost a grin, appeared on Zenith’s handsome lips. Clearly, this unusual approach amused him. And Begg knew he desired amusement almost as much as he needed action to relieve his ennui.
‘I have to assume that your business in Paris has some association with the present situation in Germany. I am also curious to know what Mrs Persson’s association with the Germans might mean.’
‘I fear that any confidence Mrs Persson chooses to share with me must remain just that.’ Zenith’s voice sharpened a little. ‘Naturally the British and French are in haste to conclude their present business with Colonel Hitler, but, while I wish them well, you must know-’
’Of course.’ Begg regretted his directness. He believed he had offended his cousin, whose sense of decorum was if anything somewhat exaggerated. There was no retreat now. ‘I suppose I am asking your help. There is some suggestion that many innocent lives are at stake.’