Death Has Deep Roots (12 page)

“Not very habitable now,” said the young man, showing his side teeth for a moment in a grin.

“Who—”

“The British Air Force, in March, 1944. An attack at rooftop level.”

Nothing more was said, and in a minute they were outside the Hotel Apollinaire. Before Nap could thank him the young man had vaulted on to his bicycle and disappeared.

It was late afternoon when Nap came lazily up again to the uplands of consciousness. He lay staring at the ceiling. He had been dreaming that he was back in Occupied France. It was a dream he had once had quite often, but very rarely of late. He wondered what had brought it back: the talk with Madame Delboise on the boat, the young man he had met in the street, or the acorn coffee which he had had for his breakfast, many hours before, and the taste of which still lingered on his palate.

He looked down at his watch. The time was five past four. He had slept for eight hours, and he was beginning to feel abominably hungry. Lunch would now be over, and he was unlikely to be able to get dinner before seven. He lay for a few minutes thinking about that dinner. He would have plenty of time for it. The night train for Le Mans which he was planning to catch did not leave before ten. Nap had just decided that
tournedos Henri Quatre
would follow nicely on
rilettes de maison
when his attention was attracted by a slight scraping sound.

Sitting up abruptly he realised that he was not alone. From the arm chair, level with the head of his bed, a pair of muddy grey eyes looked at him. Their owner, as Nap saw when he had got over his first surprise, was an undistinguished little man with a crop of long well – greased black hair framing a young unhealthily white face. Nap thought he had rarely seen a man he disliked more at sight. One of his least pleasing characteristics was a sort of downy unshavenness, the result apparently not of Bohemian leanings but of the desire to avoid beheading a formidable crop of pimples in the jawbone area.

“What the devil,” said Nap, “are you doing in my room?” In his surprise he spoke in English, and seeing that this appeared to have gone over his visitor’s head he repeated it in colloquial French with embellishments.

“I thought it would be a convenient place for a talk,” said the man.

“If you don’t get out at once—” Nap looked round for the bell— “I shall shout for the manager and have you put out.”

“You can shout for a long time in this hotel,” said the stranger. “People will only imagine that you are happy. There is always plenty of noise in this hotel.”

Here Nap was forced to agree. He had eaten his breakfast to the accompaniment of one of the loudest wireless sets he had ever encountered. Even now he could hear it booming faintly in the distance.

“All right,” said Nap, “then supposing I throw you out myself?”

“You could, of course, try that.” The stranger made no appreciable move but his hand seemed to be resting under his coat.

There was a moment’s silence. An air of unreality pervaded the whole scene. Nap fought with the idea that it was a continuation of his dream.

“What I have to say will not take long,” said the man.

Nap said nothing.

“You should return to England.”

“Why the hell should I?” said Nap. “I haven’t spent my fifty pounds yet.”

“It is stupid to suggest that you are here as a tourist. We know why you are here. We know what you have come here to do.”

“I only wish I did,” said Nap. He was still trying to work out whether it would be worth starting a fight. The last thing he wanted was to make trouble or draw attention to himself. Also he disliked the prospect of fighting a fully dressed man when he himself was in pajamas and had bare feet. One would present too many vulnerable points.

“That is all,” said the man. “I do not threaten. I just state the truth. What you are embarked on is not your business. It does not concern you. You should go back to England, now.”

“I—”said Nap.

The man got to his feet, with no apparent haste. One moment he was standing there, looking down at Nap. The next moment he was gone. The door closed softly. Footsteps pattered away down the passage.

Nap put aside any thought of following him, and started slowly to get dressed.

Downstairs, in the lobby of the hotel, the white – faced man paused for a moment before he stepped out into the street. He looked quickly to left and to right, almost an automatic gesture.

He did not look behind him. If he had done so he might have seen a young man glance up from one of the tables in the coffee room and stare thoughtfully after him. A young man in steel-rimmed glasses.

Upstairs in his room Nap finished his dressing and started to write a letter. He sat on the bed, balancing the pad on his knee. It was quite a long letter, and it was in French.

When he had finished he read it over, placed it in an envelope and addressed it to Monsieur Bren, at the Sûreté, Paris.

“Your name is Honorifique Sainte?”

“Yes.”

Monsieur Sainte, as he stood in the witness box, was a thick-set white-faced man. It would have been difficult to have guessed his age more closely than that he was over forty and under sixty. The fairest description of him could have been that he looked a complete hotelier – a calling which only the French, perhaps, recognise as one of the learned professions. He spoke in good English; as, indeed, he also spoke excellent Italian and fair Spanish.

“You were formerly the proprietor of an hotel at Saumur on the Loire?”

“That is so.”

“Perhaps you would tell the court shortly how you came to England.”

“Certainly. My hotel – it was on the river front at Saumur, near the main road bridge, unfortunately – was completely destroyed by allied bombing in June of 1944. It did not seem at that time likely that I should be able to start again – or not in that part of France which I knew. Licenses to rebuild were almost impossible to obtain. Since I had to move, I decided to make a complete change. After some negotiation I got the necessary permission to come to England in 1946.”

“I hope you have not regretted it,” said Mr. Justice Arbuthnot courteously.

“On the contrary,”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Now, Monsieur Sainte, can you tell us how you met the prisoner?”

“Certainly. Whilst in England I maintained a close contact with an organisation call the Bureau de Lorraine, which exists to help Frenchmen in England. It was from them that I heard that Mademoiselle Lamartine was in England and was in need of work.”

“You knew her name?”

“Yes. All in the Basse Loire district had heard of Mademoiselle Lamartine’s misfortune.”

“You had not met her before?”

“No. I had met her previous employer, Père Chaise, at Langeais. I had been once or twice to his farm during the Occupation but on each occasion, Mademoiselle Lamartine was absent, on errands, I think, for the Maquis.”

“Were you yourself visiting Père Chaise’s farm on Resistance work?”

The witness paused for a moment before answering. Then he said, “It would be easy and creditable at this distance to say Yes but in fact it would not be true. I went to see Père Chaise on business. He was one of the persons who supplied me with food for my hotel. During the Occupation it was patriotic, you understand, to work on the black market.”

“You were not yourself a member of the Resistance.”

“That is a very difficult question to answer. Many, I have no doubt, who did as much or as little as I did would now claim to have been the most active members of the Resistance. I gave what help I could and I did anything I was asked to. I did not go out of my way, however, to incur danger. I certainly took no active part in sabotage or resistance.”

“I quite understand,” said Mr. Summers. The frankness of the answer seemed to please him a good deal more than it did Macrea, who was observed to be savaging several pages of his brief.

“Will you now direct your attention to the period between the time when the prisoner came to work in your hotel and the events of March fourteenth of this year. During that time – a space of between two and three years – did the prisoner make any effort to get in touch with Major Thoseby?”

“Yes, she did.”

“How often?”

“I cannot say. The occasions that naturally came to my attention were when she asked for a time off in order to visit the British War Office, as she did on several occasions. The Foreign Office, once, I think, and latterly the Société de Lorraine.”

“It would be correct then to say that during that period she made consistent and repeated efforts to see the deceased?”

“I cannot say that she wished to see him. I know only that she was anxious to discover his whereabouts.”

“Quite, quite. And it is very right to be accurate about it,” said Mr. Summers sounding nevertheless rather annoyed. “Now let us deal with the events of March fourteenth. Perhaps you had better tell us in your own words what happened.”

“Certainly. I was in my office at about half-past six when Major Thoseby telephoned.”

“How did the witness know it was Major Thoseby?” said Macrea.

“Well – I—”

“My learned friend means that you had at that time no means of knowing who was speaking,” said Mr. Summers smoothly. “No doubt it will satisfy him if you say ‘a person announcing himself as Major Thoseby’ telephoned to you.”

“Of course I knew it was Major Thoseby,” said Monsieur Sainte. “He himself said so. However, as you wish.”

“Did you gather when he would be arriving?”

“I understood that he might be there as early as half-past eight or as late as half-past ten, or even eleven. I said that the hotel remained open until eleven. He said he would certainly be there by that time.”

“What did you do next?”

“I sent for the prisoner and told her.”

“Yes. What were her reactions?”

“She was excited—naturally. She already knew he was coming. We had had a message a day or two before. I asked if she would be staying in to meet him when he arrived. I knew it was the night on which she usually went out.”

“And then—?”

“She said No. She would see him when she got back.”

“Were you surprised?”

“I think I was – a little.”

“And then?”

“The next thing was the arrival of Major Thoseby. I was in my office when he arrived. Camino showed him straight in.”

“You had a talk? By the way, what time was this?”

“Just before half-past eight. Yes – we had about ten minutes’ talk.”

“What were your impressions of Major Thoseby?”

“I was very glad to see him – we had a very friendly talk.”

“I didn’t quite mean that. I meant, did he strike you as nervous or excited about his visit – or just casual?”

“Major Thoseby was a very reserved man.”

“So we have been told. I will put this to you then. When you told him that the prisoner was not in to meet him did he seem surprised?”

“Yes. I thought he was surprised. Also, I thought, a little relieved.”

“Can you explain that in any way?”

“Well, yes. The explanation that I offered to myself was that he anticipated a difficult interview – perhaps a stormy one – perhaps even an emotional one – and considered that such would better be postponed.”

“Why did you think that a postponement would make it any better?”

“Well, it is difficult, for example, to be emotional after breakfast.”

“I see – you thought—”

“Is this witness being presented as an expert witness on psychology?” said Mr. Macrea.

“Certainly not.”

“Then are not all these answers rather in the nature of supposition—”

“I think I agree with Mr. Macrea,” said the judge. “I don’t think you should take these questions any further. The jury can draw their own deductions from the evidence without this witness’s interpretation of it.”

“If your lordship pleases. We will go on then to the later events of that evening. What was the next thing that happened?”

“Well – the next thing would be when I heard—no, I forgot. At about a quarter to ten Mrs. Roper came to see me.”

“You were in your office?”

“Yes – I spent the whole evening in my office. Mrs. Roper was only with me for about five minutes. She wished to discuss her account. About an hour later I heard, from upstairs, one very loud shout or scream. I listened for a moment. There might have been an innocent explanation for it. Then there were more screams, loud and repeated. I jumped up and ran out.”

“One moment, please,” said Mr. Summers. “I am anxious to fix this particular moment as accurately as possible.” He walked over to the plan which still stood in the well of the court. “Did you leave your room by the door into the passage?”

“No, I went straight out through the reception desk. It is a few seconds quicker that way.”

“Was there anyone in the reception desk?”

“No. Mademoiselle Lamartine was—”

“If you please, we will come to that in a moment. The reception desk was empty. What next?”

“I ran up the stairs.”

“Did you observe anyone else whilst you were doing this?”

“Yes. I saw the door to the kitchen open and Camino came running through. I also heard the swinging doors which lead to the street begin to turn. I remember thinking, ‘What a moment to have a visitor!’”

“Yes, and then?”

“I ran along the annex passage. The screams had stopped, but I had had the impression that they were coming from the end room. As I got there Mrs. Roper came out. She said something – I forget what it was. I pushed past her and saw Mademoiselle Lamartine. She was standing looking down at the floor. Major Thoseby was lying on the floor. He was half hidden by the door. His coat was open and the shirt and the top of his trousers were covered in blood. It did not seem to be flowing quickly. I put a hand on his heart, but I think that before I did this I knew he was dead.” Most of the people in court – barristers, solicitors, law students, journalists – were by training accustomed to using their imaginations. As the witness finished speaking they could see a clear picture of the little, bare, upstairs bedroom at the back of the family hotel. The plain furniture, the yellow electric light, the worn carpet. Sprawled across the carpet the body of Major Thoseby, his shirt and trousers dark with blood – “the blood did not seem to be flowing quickly.” But a lot of blood would run out if the stomach and the liver and the heart bag were punctured. The shirt, where it hung out from the top of his trousers, would be sodden with blood. The top of the shirt very white in contrast. “I put a hand on his heart.” But it was too late. The heart had already ceased to beat. Major Thoseby, who had survived so many such imminent and urgent perils in Occupied France, had come to his end in a residential hotel near Euston.