A surge of possessive craving tightened his throat. He must have it, he must, to hang opposite his Sisley. It was a shocking price, of course, but he could well afford it, he was rich, far richer even than the good Leuschner had computed, having of course no access to that little black book, locked in the safe, with its fascinating rows of ciphers. And why, after all those years of sterile work and marital strife, should he not have everything he wanted? That snug profit he had recently made in Royal Dutch could not be put to better use. He wrote the cheque, shook hands with Leuschner and went off in triumph, with the pastel carefully tucked beneath his arm. Back at his villa, before Arturo announced lunch, he had time to hang it. Perfect . . . perfect . . . he exulted, standing back. He hoped Frida von Altishofer would admire it.
Chapter Two
He had invited her for five o’clock and, as punctuality was to her an expression of good manners, at that hour precisely she arrived—not however as was customary, in her battered little cream-coloured Dauphine, but on foot. Actually her barracks of a house, the Schloss Seeburg, stood on the opposite shore of the lake, two kilometres across, and as she came into the drawing-room he reproached her for taking the boat, holding both her hands. It was a warm afternoon and the hill path to his villa was steep; he could have sent Arturo to fetch her.
“I don’t mind the little ferry.” She smiled. “As you were so kindly driving me I thought not to bother with my car.”
Her English, though stylised, was perfectly good, with just a faint, and indeed attractive, over-accentuation of certain syllables.
“Well, now you shall have tea. I have ordered it.” He pressed the bell. “We’ll get nothing but watery vermouth at the party.”
“You are most thoughtful.” She sat down gracefully, removing her gloves; she had strong supple Sogers, the nails polished but unvarnished. “I hope you won’t be too bored at the Kunsthaus.”
While Arturo wheeled in the trolley and, with bows that were almost genuflections, served the tea, Moray studied her. In her youth she must have been very beautiful. The structure of her facial bones was perfect. Even now at forty-five, or six . . . well, perhaps even forty-seven, although her hair was greying and her skin beginning to show the faint crenellations and brownish stigmata of her years, she remained an attractive woman, with the upright striding figure of a believer in fresh air and exercise. Her eyes were her most remarkable feature, the pupils of a dark tawny yellowish green shot with black specks. “They are cat’s eyes.” She had smiled once when he ventured a compliment. “But I do not scratch . . . or seldom only.”
Yes, he reflected sympathetically, she had been through a lot, yet never spoke of it. She was horribly hard up and had not many clothes but those she possessed were good and she wore them with style. When they went walking together she usually appeared in a faded costume of russet brown, a rakish bersagliere hat, white knitted stockings and strong handsewn brogues of faded brown. Today she had on a simple but well cut fawn suit, shoes of the same shade, as were her gloves, and she was bareheaded. Taste, distinction, and perfect breeding were evident in every look and gesture—no need to tell himself again, she was a cultured woman of the highest class.
“Always what delicious tea you give me.”
“It’s Twining’s,” he explained. “I had it specially blended for the hard Schwansee water.”
She shook her head, half reproachfully.
“Really . . . you think of everything.” She paused. “Yet how wonderful to be able to give effect to all one’s wishes.”
A considerable silence followed while they savoured the hard-water tea, then suddenly, an upward glance arrested, she exclaimed:
“My dear friend . . . you have bought it!”
She had seen the Vuillard at last and rising, excitedly, though still skilfully, retaining cup and saucer, she moved across the room to inspect it.
“It is lovely . . . lovely! And looks so much better here than in the gallery. Oh, that so delightful child, on the little stool. I only hope Leuschner did not rob you.”
He stood beside her and together, in silence, they admired the pastel. She had the good taste not to over-praise, but as they turned away, looking around her at the mellow eighteenth-century furniture, the soft grey carpet and the Louis XVI tapestry chairs, at his paintings, his Pont Aven Gauguin, signed and dated, above the Tang figures on the Georgian mantel, the wonderful Degas nude on the opposite wall, the early Utrillo and the Sisley landscape, his richly subdued Bonnard, the deliciously maternal Mary Cassat, and now the Vuillard, she murmured:
“I adore your room. Here you can spend your life in the celebration of beautiful things. And better still when you have earned them.”
“I think I am entitled to them.” He spoke modestly. “As a young man, in Scotland, I had little enough. Indeed, then I was miserably poor.”
It was a mistake. Once he had spoken the words he regretted them. Had be not been warned never to look back, only forward, forward, forward. Hastily he said:
“But you . . . until the war, you always lived . . .” he fumbled slightly, “. . . in state.”
“Yes, we had nice things,” she answered mildly.
Again there was silence. The half-smiling reserve she had given to the remark was truly heroic. She was the widow of the Baron von Altishofer, who came of an old Jewish family that had acquired immense wealth from state tobacco concessions in the previous century, with possessions ranging from a vast estate in Bavaria to a hunting lodge in Slovakia. He had been shot during the first six months of the war and, although she was not of his faith, she had spent the next three years in a concentration camp at Lensbach. On her eventual release, she had crossed the Swiss border. All that remained to her was the lakeside house, the Seeburg, and there, though practically penniless, she had striven courageously to rebuild her life. She began by breeding rare Weimaraner dogs. Then, while the ignominy of an ordinary pensionnat was naturally unthinkable, friends—and she had many—came to stay and to enjoy, as paying guests, the spaciousness of the big Germanic schloss and the huge overgrown garden. Indeed, a very exclusive little society had now developed round the Seeburg, of which she herself was the centre. What fun to restore the fine old place, fill it with furniture of the period, replant the garden, recondition the statuary. Had she hinted? Never, never . . . it was his own thought, a flight of fancy. Self-consciously, rather abruptly, he looked at his watch.
“I think we should be going, if you are ready.”
He had decided to take her to the party in full fig: Arturo wore his best blue uniform, a lighter shade than navy, and they went in the big car. Since this was the only Rolls in Melsburg its appearance always made something of a spectacle.
Seated beside her, as they glided off, his sleeve touching hers on the cushioned armrest, he was in an expansive mood. Although his marriage had been a catastrophic failure he had, since his retirement, seriously considered the prospect of—in Wilenski’s vulgar phrase—having another go. During the eighteen months they had been neighbours their friendship had developed to such an extent as to induce gradually the idea of a closer companionship. Yet his mind had hitherto dwelt on young and tender images. Frida von Altishofer was not young, in bed she would not prove so succulent as he might wish, and as a man in whom the intensive demands of his late wife had induced a prostatic hypertrophy, he now had needs that should, if only for reasons of health, be satisfied. Nevertheless, Frida was a strong and vital woman with deep though conceded feelings, who might be capable of unsuspected passion. Such, he knew from his medical training, was often the case with women who had passed the menopause. Certainly, in all other respects she would make the most admirable aristocratic wife.