Chapter 8
Dear Millicent, I went to the office early to open up and put out the flag, since Orhan, is away. Gül rang from the residence. She was in such a temper that I could scarcely understand her.
'Come! Come here to the residence, at once, or I stuff Pierre with his own insides.'
Gül is a tall woman. Pierre is a small man. There is a knife holder in the kitchen with a dreadful array of razor sharp knives.
'I'll be there in a few minutes. Just a few minutes. Wait!'
I rushed around and found them confronting each other across the kitchen table, knifeless but with hackles raised.
'He, the yaramaz, l'idiot says I interfere with his supplies. I resign. I call on you to take note. Write it now. For the reception tomorrow, je m'en fou!'
'You might have come to the office to resign,' I said repressively. 'I thought something terrible had happened. A mere squabble in the kitchen! Do you both realise that I rushed here, leaving the Irish flag at half mast. The phone will be bouncing in the office now, as secretaries ring to find out if their Ambassadors need to send messages of condolence.'
'I ignore the missing remains of rôti de veau,' declaimed Pierre. 'I ignore bread that disappears, the petit salé that was designated for my own supper last Thursday ... but the moules marinière prepared for tonight's hors d'oeuvre, I cannot overlook.'
'Do you think, you imbécile,' ( Gül is learning French invective rapidly) you crétin of the first quality, that this is the figure of a woman who eats two kilo of moules between lunch and dinner?'
'There was also the question of the gâteau,' snarled Pierre, eying the trim waistline that Gül almost spanned with her hands.
'Ha! You dog's merde that should be cardinalisé like a kicking homard, where do you think they went? Down this stomach?' Her dainty apron lay flat and unwrinkled on her middle. 'Look at your own gut, always swelling.'
'It is true...' mourned Pierre, distracted, 'but that, Gül, is the fault of your baklavas.'
'Never will I make baklava for you again.'
'I am not saying that you ate everything yourself,' said Pierre with the first hint of a conciliatory note in his voice. 'but there is the goat woman who likes good cooking and there is the gendarme who makes eyes at you when you pass.'
'I feed the police? I? I?' shrieked Gül.
'What is this all about?' asked the Countess sternly, entering the kitchen. 'It is known that I do not like noise. Modulated tones are more effective than shouts. Denis, why are you here?'
'It appears, Countess, that food goes missing from the kitchen.'
'Food? Missing?' said the Countess. 'Did I not tell you, Pierre, that I occasionally bring a gift of food to a poor family of my acquaintance? Could you not have consulted with me before creating this racket?'
' I, Pierre, son of Pierre, regulate the kitchen and cannot have interference. Anything you want I will provide, Madame la Comtesse, but you must not interfere My fridge, my larder, my ovens – though they are too small – are sacred.'
'Very well, Pierre, I apologise,' said the Countess, 'and now, if you please, make up a large picnic basket and give it to Orhan, who will deliver it to my poor, deserving friends later today.'
She swept out. I hurried after her.
'To you, Gül, I tender my apologies.' I heard Pierre say stiffly as I left.
'And I regret the names I gave you.'
'What is it, now, Denis?' The Countess was still in an imperious mood.
'You brought breakfast to Ali yesterday in order to lay down, surreptitiously, a trail that the police dog would follow.
'How should I know that police were coming with a dog?'
'Your bedroom window was open. You heard noise, investigated and found the wounded criminal. You assisted him. I saw blood on the tiles before Orhan washed it away. In ordering Orhan to wash it away, you involved him in criminal activity. And Orhan, unlike yourself, cannot claim diplomatic immunity.'
'Denis, surely I couldn't claim diplomatic immunity in a situation like this.'
'I would have to look it up, Countess, there can have been no precedent, ' I said, grinding my teeth.
'He was only a boy ... very weak, badly wounded. Hassan is his name. He hadn't actually done anything, except join some ridiculous hothead society. I washed the wound in his shoulder and patched him up. He knew they were after him with dogs.'
'How did you lay the trail?'
'I put Hassan's stockings over my shoes and gummied them up with. Poor Ali's coffee was quite cold, I'm afraid. I threw the chèvre in the bushes and put the stockings in my pocket.
'How did you delude a tracker dog?'
'What about Ali? His reputation? His job?'
'À la guerre comme à la guerre. Hassan's life was at stake.'
'How did you get him away?'
She looked teasingly at me.
'My God! You haven't stowed him away in the residence.'
'You didn't mention the blood at the side door to the police, Denis. I suspect that you, too, have an ambivalent attitude to the security forces of our host country.'
'Where is he?'
'I rather think, Denis, that he is in your apartment, in the guest room,' she said with the smile of a cat that has stolen the cream.
Millicent, you may imagine how shocked I was. Orhan has a key to my apartment, for the sake of convenience and security. If Madame instructed him to deposit the wounded man in my apartment, he would do so. He might well be in the guest room. I had shared supper with the cat in front of the television on the previous night and hadn't gone near the guest room. I was far too horrified to expostulate. Then I remembered that Orhan left the residence to drive Henry to Istanbul. He could have had no opportunity to drive to my apartment and evacuate the Countess' protégé there.
'Ha, ' said the Countess, reading my thoughts. 'Orhan possessed himself of the papers you brought here with you. When you seemed to have come without them, he drove past your apartment to collect them. I am sure Henry was much obliged to him. I'm also sure that he didn't once look up from his mathematical doodles.'
'I did not forget the papers.'
'Of course you didn't , my dear Denis, but consider that a young man's liberty, if not his life was at stake.'
'How did you get him away from here?'
She grinned. I remembered Orhan's extravagantly mischievous salute to me as he drove off to bring the Ambassador to the airport.
'In the official car? In the boot? You couldn't have done it. You couldn't have taken such an enormous risk. If anything had gone wrong.'
'Nothing went wrong. It worked like a dream. To see Walter tackling the police and straddling the dog! He was magnificent.'
'When I see Orhan, I'll kill him.'
'Don't do anything precipitate, Denis. Say nothing to Walter. Why discommode him?'
I rushed back to the office and raised the flag to its proper height. Ayse was at her desk , dealing calmly with visa enquiries. I told her that anyone who asked why the flag had been at half-mast should be told that there had been a mechanical error, now solved. You will understand that I went back to my apartment quite unable to present a calm, debonair appearance as I went. There was nobody there, Millicent, only the kitten. She had made a mess on the floor. Nobody had hidden in the guest room. I tickled the kitten and lifted it up above my head, rejoicing. Reaction set in almost immediately. Why had the Countess told me such a ridiculous lie? I'm sure you have guessed how I answered that question. Mrs. Walter Brown was hiding the youth in the residence and sent me off on a wild goose chase to get rid of me. This was terrible. If a fugitive were to be discovered in the apartment of a third secretary, the affair might be hushed up. If it became known that a fugitive had found sanctuary in the residence of the Irish Ambassador, every camera in the world would be directed on us.
I would have rung you, Millicent, to see what your calm good sense might suggest but I remembered that it was your Sodality night. I decided to take Pierre into
my confidence. He is utterly loyal to the Countess, even to the extent of shooting down her wilder figaries. He gave me a Croque Monsieur and a mug of Barry's tea and listened.
'Madame has gone out to lunch. We must search the residence immediately,' he said.
'If we find him...' I began.
'If we find him, 'said Pierre, 'I shall identify him as one of Mr. Muftu's workmen. They infest the place, like woodworm and do as much damage. I shall put him in the renault and lose him in Ullus when I go shopping.'
There was no stranger in the residence.
Should I tell Walter, when he returns from Istanbul, that his wife aided an escaped prisoner to elude the police? She may even have smuggled him out of the residence under their eyes, in the boot of the Mercedes that conveyed him to Istanbul. I think he had better not know.
Dear Millicent, the Ambassador has returned from Istanbul. Orhan was sorting the post when I came into the office this morning. I challenged him. He looked amazed at first and then broke into peals of laughter. I was so overwrought, Millicent, that I might have punched him if he had not been reeling around so.
'Don't you remember that I opened the boot of the car to put in the Ambassador's suitcase?' he gasped.
As soon as I thought about it, I saw him lift the lid and stow the luggage in full view of everyone.
'The Countess has been making merry with you, Denis. I'm sure the man was well away before the police arrived. Didn't you notice that the blood was tacky. I had to scrub hard with the yard brush. Very often superficial wounds can make quite a mess. Blood spreads . It is easy to over estimate the amount spilt.'
This is how the matter rests, Millicent. I should, perhaps, resent Orhan's attitude and choice of words did I not realise that an inadequate grasp of the finer nuances of a language sometime lend a person's speech a didactic tone that is not intended.
It was difficult to settle down to routine. I dealt with a complaint from the Turkish Daily News that a pub in Dublin is called The Turk's Head. I replied to a request from a teacher in Istanbul for the collected works of Victor O. D. Power. 'Our English class is enthralled by Kitty the Hare, finding much in it that reflects the traditions of Turkey.'
I check Walter's desk regularly at his request. By the time one becomes an Ambassador, one's head is so full of policy and strategy that an invitation to a function one does not wish to attend may be left in a drawer until it is too late to decline gracefully. I am not in time to save him from addressing a 'Ladies of Ankara' meeting on the subject of the Modern Irish Woman. Maybe Colette will do it.
A new folder caught my attention. There were three items in it. The first was a letter from the Büyük Ankara Hotel:
'With regard to the reported light-failure on the emergency stairs on 17 March, no reason for a failure has been discovered. No other part of the hotel experienced a failure. The controlling switch is in the basement. It would be possible for a guest to switch the light off in error but it is unlikely that a guest should find himself in the service area of the hotel.'
The second item was a report, in Turkish, from a detective agency. It enclosed a receipt and photographs. Though the quality of the shots was poor, there was no mistaking the subject: Félix d'Aubine with his hand on a light switch. According to the report, the photographs were taken at eight am on the thirteenth of April at the bottom of the emergency stairs in the hotel, the day Walter stumbled for the second time.
M.d'Aubine went to Cappadocia, on the fourteenth, supposedly to deal with a rumor of vine blight. Walter must have confronted him when he received the report. I initialled a corner of the file to show that I had read it, returned it to its place and locked the drawer.
I had witnessed Colette's affectionate farewell to her cousin in the hotel lobby. She has not been told. Walter will proceed no further with the matter, for her sake. I am the only one aware of the attempt on the Ambassador's well being. Walter has no close friend in whom he would confide. The responsibility shocks me. At one moment I think that M. d'Aubine attempted a practical joke; at another, that it was a murderous gamble to gain a wife and a château. He may even be in love with the Countess, in the pragmatic French sense of the word. Thank heavens he has gone to Cappadocia. I could not look at him without betraying my feelings.
Fence poles have been deposited at the top of the vacant site on Abdul Pasha Caddesi, the road above ours. The police reproved our landlord for inadequate security after their recent chase. The roof has been mended and a man, armed with a scraper, is chipping away loose plaster from damaged walls and ceilings. The landlord is availing of the opportunity to do yet another search for Albanian gold. Gül found him moving the sundial in the central courtyard. I pointed out to the Countess that we were entitled to set limits to his access to the house.
'He will save Orhan a lot of searching.' she replied.
I have told Orhan that such work must not take precedence over his official duties. It seemed an appropriate moment to ask him again about the role we played in the escape of the fugitive.'Denis, you wouldn't want to know,' was all that I could get out of him. Perhaps he is right. If I had definite knowledge I might have to act on it.
Your very welcome letter was waiting for me, Millicent, when I got back from Antalya. Of course I should have told the police about the blood on the pavement and told Walter about his wife's involvement. I agree with that one must be frank. Unfortunately, I lose sight of the principle when surrounded by conflicting circumstances. You say that it is ridiculous that Walter should keep the attempt on his life secret. I suppose it is, but he probably doesn't want to worry Colette. You ask if she might be a party to the attempt. Impossible. You asked me if Ayse has considered doing anything about her front teeth. How like you, dear Millicent, to take a sympathetic interest. In fact, I had quite forgotten that I mentioned them. They are not at all as prominent as I thought at first. In answer to your questions: dentistry in Ankara is second to none, far cheaper than at home, and you can get your bridgework done here when you come out.
Sharon Pyx from the American Embassy invited me to dinner. I found candles lit, romantic music and a table set for two. I talked politics and religion all evening and pretended she was dressed in a business suit. Over dessert she came to the point.
'I told you a while ago, Denis, of a liaison between the Portuguese Ambassador and Angelina Barbellini. Nothing in it. I have had it, since, on very good authority, that Miguel was not interested in women. Barbellini is a womaniser and Angelina just wanted to have her hand held. She will need consolation again, soon. The Colonel is in hot pursuit of your Mrs. Brown.'
'Why are you telling me this? How do you know?'
'I have connections in the Italian embassy who want to keep the Colonel out of trouble. He is usually discreet in his amours – the fox hunts a long way from home – but he seems to be bewitched by your Countess. '
'Mrs. Brown is devoted to her husband.'
'Barbellini's secretary, one of our people, has personal experience of his techniques. She judges that an advance has been made in the last week.'
'The Countess doesn't like him.'
'Keep her away from him.'
'When you say that the private secretary of the Italian military attaché is ''one of our people'' what do you mean?'
Sharon sighed. Her chest wobbled up to the top of her gown. I'm sure she uses the trick to distract people, the way a squid lets off a cloud of ink.
'Why force me to be explicit, Denis darling? We could find more interesting things to talk about.'
I spooned up the last little bit of pecan pie.
'Do you mean the CIA?'
'Well, you know, Denis, that since the six-day war in sixty-seven, we are concerned to keep a strong Turkey on the other side of Syria. The current unrest is not in anybody's interest. We need ears everywhere. Colonel Barbellini has the proper ancestry and political connections in Italy to make him acceptable to the Turkish right. He has been swallowed by a group of right-wing army officers.
We make him more attractive to them by feeding him a little information ourselves. Our people milk him – unknown to himself, of course: he doesn't like America. Too liberal. If Barbellini creates a scandal with Mrs. Brown, we could lose him. The Italians are still sensitive about indiscreet liaisons. My boss thought you might draw Colette's attention to yourself, for a while. We could find ways and means of rewarding you ... all in the cause of peace on earth, of course. She has been heard to say that you are a handsome young man, though a trifle shy.'
I declined a pousse-café and came home in a bad temper. I am annoyed that I missed the opportunity to ask Sharon if there is any truth in the rumour that the CIA has supplied the Turkish police with the latest in surveillance equipment. I wouldn't get a truthful answer but I might have annoyed her. Thank heavens our relationship makes me immune to the wiles of the Sharons of this world.
I slept uneasily and wakened at dawn, so I walked down to the market in Ulus. People were carrying home the bread that is distributed to the needy in the early mornings. Stalls were being set up. The fish stalls gleamed silver. The sellers were fanning out gills, bright pink under the light and draping octopus arms artistically over the counter edge. Roasted sheep trotters and heads were being packed into glass display cases. Deep in consultation with a honey seller was a wiry little man with a black beret and a drooping moustache – Pierre, sampling different slabs of honeycomb with a reverence that I would expect him to reserve for French wine. The seller offered me a taste of dark green honey.
'From pine trees,' said Pierre. 'No nectar in pines, but plenty of aphids.'
Someone once said that it is impossible to swallow an oyster while thinking of a blueprint of its interior. The mouthful of honey was not assisted in its passage by the knowledge that it was distilled essence of greenfly. It went against my breath. Pierre thumped me on the back and barely allowed me time to recover before launching an attack.
'Monsieur Denis, what is this brown soda bread that the Ambassador wants for breakfast? What is this coddle, boxty, colcannon? I steep kippers in whiskey and serve them alight as Larousse Gastronomique says the Irish do and he thinks it is French. Your Ambassador's taste is equalled as a nuisance only by Madame's search for gold, which is rivalled only by the hammering of the landlord's worker and the telephoning of Colonel Barbellini.'
'What does Barbellini want?'
'Madame.'
I must have registered dismay because Pierre continued with a crooked grin that elevated one side of his moustache and exposed a fang.
'But Madame does not want Barbellini.'
'You are sure?'
'No.'
I realised how unseemly it was to be discussing this matter with the cook and asked: 'The search for gold is continuing?'
'Madame has scraped the bathroom fittings to be assured that they are not made of solid gold. She centres her expectations on the swimming pool, since that is where she saw the manifestation. Orhan emptied it this morning. He will assist Madame in tapping the floor underneath. She has offered him a reward if they discover a cache or a skeleton.'
'Did you ever see the ''manifestation'', Pierre?'
His left eyebrow shot up towards his beret.
'I have decided never to serve soufflé. There is turbulence in the house. Perhaps Madame has created a ghost by believing in one. For myself, I think the building is not stable. We are in an earthquake zone, close to a rift. We move.'
I returned to circumstances not so entirely out of our control.
'I trust that no actual damage is done to the house by the searchers?'
'Who allowed the amputation of a leg from the dining room table?'
Pleased at his little joke he clapped me on the shoulder and said,
' In a little time there will be a different enthusiasm. It is always so. Madame is an enthusiast. Only this matrimony has stuck,' Pierre sighed, 'and I should so like to go home.'
'Marriage is permanent, Pierre.'
'Madame's husbands never last long. Only the château is permanent. Sooner or later she will come home. M. d'Aubine has been patience itself.'
'Perhaps the Ambassador will retire early and go to France with her to manage the vineyards.'
Pierre shuddered fastidiously.
I am intrigued by his reference to the Countess's 'husbands'. Could there have been a marriage, even marriages we have not heard about? It is the second time he has made a comment open to that interpretation.
Walter got quite patriotic today in his enthusiasm for improved trade relations. It made him look youthful for a half-hour. This is the first chance I have got to tackle him about the file from the detective agency. He was dismissive.
'I don't anticipate further trouble from Félix. It was a casual gesture, opportunistic. He would like to marry Colette. No malice towards me personally. It just happens that I stand in the path of his destiny.'
'Tell the Countess.'
'Why should I? She is fond of him and depends on him. He kept the château afloat through the phylloxera crisis. He won't come back to Ankara for a while.'
'He may have an ally here.'
'Pierre won't put arsenic in my boiled egg while Barbellini is in the offing.'
I am embarrassed by the casualness of his reference to Barbellini and don't know how to interpret it.
I stood in for Walter at the Tuesday meeting of heads of delegation. Returning to the office, I stopped to look in a silversmith's window at a silver pomander. I think you might like. A woman in strict religious dress shoved in beside me. She was bent and leaning on a stick. I moved aside to allow her more room. She moved closer still, opened a big gaudy pink bag she carried, fished out a packet of peppermints and popped a sweet into my mouth – which, admittedly, was hanging open in surprise. Then she giggled, poked me in the ribs and went off at a great rate, hopping along on her stick. It was a very odd incident and I don't know what to make of it.
I'm rushing out to dinner in the residence, conscripted to take the place of a guest who is indisposed. The dinner is, ostensibly, in honour of the new Turkish Ambassador to Ireland but Walter has invited, by way of business, Türker Alpay from the Justice Department who has been agitating recently about our restrictive policy with regard to visas. The Barbellinis will be there, quite unnecessarily.
Nothing unusual happened until Walter got up to toast the new Turkish Ambassador to Ireland. He had scarcely got into his stride, welcoming the guests, saying how flattered we were that such a senior officer was coming to Ireland, when there were a series of crashes in the basement, as if someone had thrown glasses at a wall. Walter listened with a smile, made an urbane reference to the ghost in the machine. He continued his speech but he had lost his audience. The Countess pressed a napkin to her lips. I slipped out. The door to the basement was locked and the keys, tied with a miraculous medal and a blue eye, hung on a nail. I opened the door and went down. There was nobody below. Wineglasses lay shattered on the tiles near the pool. I checked the garden door. It was locked.
I returned to the table in time to toast the Ambassador designate. The lights went off as we raised our glasses. The Countess gasped. It was just another power cut. It did not last long and the light from the candles on the table was adequate.
Dinner was an artistic triumph. The first course was oeufs surprises truffés. Each white eggshell, perfectly guillotined, was set in a silver eggcup and filled with brown truffled yolk. It tasted awful, but it was proclaimed a triumph. It is a recognised classic of French cuisine. The eggs were served up with as much 'cock-a-doodle do' as if the waiters had laid them that instant.
We had wine from Château Fontenoy. I was pleased to note that Angelina and the Countess engaged in a brief conversation over coffee while the Colonel gave me his views about local politics. The 'forces of law and order' should be given 'free rein' in the fight against 'evil'. He is a stupid, blinkered man and consequently, forceful, fulfilled and happy.
I stayed until the last guest had gone. Then
Walter and I retired to the ground floor where a log fire was burning on the hearth.
'You slipped out during my speech, Denis.'
'I checked the basement. A few glasses broken.'
'Subsidence. The poplars around the building draw water to themselves in a drought, the clay shrinks, the house subsides. Some morning you will come around and the residence will have sunk out of sight, drowned in its own swimming pool.'
'You still swim in the mornings, Ambassador?'
'At seven thirty each morning, Pierre unlocks the door for me and hands me heated bath towels and my dried, and ironed, swimming gear. I have said that I do not like hot towels, that I do not need to have my shorts pressed. Gül, he says, insists.'
'Maybe you shouldn't go down there alone until we find out what is happening.'
'I'm a materialist. If I ever meet with an accident, Denis, don't blame ghosts.'
The Countess joined us. Pierre brought fresh orange juice and coffee. I felt a rush of affection for the three of them.
'What I would really like,' said the Countess 'is a glass of Château Fontenoy. Have we got any left, Pierre?'
'Several bottles, Madame.'
'We will each have a glass. You will join us, Pierre, if you please. Don't stand on ceremony with Denis. He is one of the family.'
I had taken enough wine for one night but how could I refuse?
'I was afraid that we would not have enough for the dinner,' she continued 'so I bought some, at enormous expense, locally. I hope the Customs will clear our supplies soon.'
I hope so too but I anticipate more delay. Walter knows very well that the present system is a continuation of the Ottoman system where the official had to make his own wages from a client's subscriptions, yet he refuses to make the necessary payment or allow me to do so.Pierre joined us. The firelight flamed in our glasses.
'Delightful,' murmured Walter.
I thought it was a very good wine and said so. Pierre sipped, paused and sipped again. The Countess held some in her mouth and seemed to be swishing it around inside. Then her eyes sought out Pierre's and I saw her eyebrows elevate slightly. Pierre's rose in response.
'It has body,' said Walter. All his attention was on the wine and he did not see, as I did, the flash of intelligence that passed between his wife and the cook, the flash of fury that lit her eyes and reddened her face.
'Too excellent for words,' said Pierre dryly and I could see that he was willing the Countess to keep calm. She put down her glass with a thump and took several deep breaths.
'Denis, my love, you look tired.'
I said that she looked wonderful, as indeed she did. Her face glowed with contained temper. She patted her cheek and said that she had found a fantastic beauty salon. Just one trip a week kept her from looking like a witch.
I wonder what the fuss about the wine meant. My own palate, though improving, is not attuned to the finest nuances. Perhaps Pierre served it a degree too warm or too cold or handled it incorrectly in some way. Maybe the Countess detected some deterioration in quality under M. d'Aubine's stewardship. A locally purchased bottle may have suffered in transit. But why had she fumed in silence. It was unlike her.
The oeufs surprises did not agree with me. I dreamed I was posted, as Ambassador, to China and required to eat a 'hundred-year-old egg' before I could present my credentials. Walter may also have slept uneasily. He came to work late, looking green, and didn't go out to lunch. His mood is grimmer than it was last night.
'It is time to get rid of the disturbances in the basement once and for all,' he said crossly. 'Denis, find the address of the Society for Research into Psychic Phenomena. I'll write to them today.'
'British or American?'
'British. They have more experience.'
Did I tell you, Madeline, that I have a fifteen-minute Turkish lesson, before work, with Ayse, our local secretary, most mornings? It is far more convenient than attending a class. The unsettling news is that Félix d'Aubine has returned to Ankara. I went to inspect the new plasterwork in the residence this morning and let myself in the front door. There was a thundering row in progress on the upper balcony. Certain members of the Spouses Association call Colette 'the Fishwife'. Her voice has a carrying quality more common in American women. I couldn't help overhearing as she yelled 'Escroc!' The man's voice was less distinct but as he retreated down the stairs, and I saw that it was her cousin. The Countess berated him from above as he descended. I retreated, unseen, to the guest cloakroom. M. d'Aubine left, pursued by a final 'Merde!' as he pulled the door shut.
I was delighted, Millicent. I have been plagued by doubts since you asked me if the Countess might have been implicated in M. d'Aubine's attempt on Walter. Pierre's reference to Madame's ''husbands'' took on a sinister meaning. I had begun to wonder how much Colette would inherit if Walter died, whether or not we might be dealing with three French adventurers engaged in serial killings for money. I had even got to the stage of wondering how much Walter would be worth in insurance and pension. I decided, as I listened to her voice that I had been unjust to her. She was truly, sincerely upset. There was no covert glee in her voice. She must have found out about his cowardly trick with the lights. I emerged from the cloakroom and collided with Orhan. He was dressed in overalls and covered in dust.
'Found anything yet, Orhan?'
'Denis, come and help us,' called the Countess from the stairs. I was saved by the doorbell.
'It is Colonel Barbellini, Madame.' said Orhan. 'I saw him come through from next door.'
'Malédiction!' growled the Countess. 'Hold him a moment, Denis. Orhan, disappear. No more work today.'
Gül opened the door and I sat with Barbellini and talked about the weather. He did not seem embarrassed by the bunch of pink roses he was holding. Was it a polite thanks for last Saturday's dinner or a tentative love offering? The Countess swept down the stairs and gushed over him and his flowers. I sought out Pierre in the kitchen and asked for coffee.
'I heard the row,' I said, as he ground the beans.
'A trifling disagreement about wine.'
'About the Château wine?'
'About a local vin de table.'
He gave me my coffee but excused himself from further conversation on the grounds that he must concentrate on a delicate culinary process. I inspected the recently completed plasterwork. It seems to be smooth enough. I wish they would tackle the roof.
When I returned to the office, I told Walter that d'Aubine was back in town.
'So Colette told me.'
'She had a row with him in the residence just now.'
'They row regularly. Virtuoso performances, enjoyed by both.'
'What precautions will you take?'
'Félix knows that Colette will get a copy of the photograph and a report from the detective agency, if I meet with an accident.'
'Did you tell her that he tried to break your neck on the stairs?'
'Of course I didn't, Denis. He will be sensible. Think it through. Colette has no other close relation. She has always relied on him. They were kissing cousins in their teens, I believe. Now he manages Château Fontenoy as if it were his own.' 'Isn't that the point? Doesn't he want it for his own? And isn't the way to ownership through Colette.' 'Denis, Félix may delude himself that Colette would turn to him if I were eliminated. I know better.'
'Or fancy you do!' I said to myself, as I turned away.
'As a young man about to be married, you should be prepared to believe in domestic felicity,' was his parting shot.