The Last Two Weeks of Georges Rivac (2 page)

‘It's about the suicide of M Karel Kren,' the agent explained.

Rivac, having settled the visitor opposite his desk and himself about to sit down, shot upright and collapsed back into his chair like a spent rocket.

‘Suicide? Good God! When? Where? How? Impossible!'

‘You did not see the papers this morning?'

‘No. I was in London and came back half an hour ago.'

‘We identified him from his passport and advised the Czech Embassy in Paris through the usual channels who in turn telephoned Prague. His office had no idea what he was doing in Lille, but said that you represented the firm and that he had possibly called on you. Your secretary then confirmed that he had and that you were in London on some business of his.'

‘He did call on me—the day before yesterday.'

‘At what time did he leave your office?'

‘A little after six I should say.'

‘It was six-twenty when he threw himself under a bus in the Avenue de la République.'

‘Not an accident? You are sure?'

‘The driver, his passengers and passers-by all agree that it was deliberate. We should be grateful for anything you can tell us. First, where was he staying? We have been unable to find out.'

‘I asked him that. Naturally I was ready to drive him anywhere. I invited him to dine with me. This is quite appalling!'

‘Yes, M Rivac. Where was he staying?'

‘I am sorry. Of course! He told me he could not stop. No hotel, he said. I had the impression that he was changing planes in Brussels and had time to waste. So he decided to come over and see me.'

‘Any special business?'

Rivac explained. He merely said that the Ministry of Defence in London was not so interested as M Kren had hoped. He did not go into all the details. Being inclined to reproach himself rather than circumstances he was a little ashamed of having given up too easily.

‘Can you suggest any reason why he should commit suicide?'

‘He did say something about not trusting himself to endure pain and added that he had an ulcer. An autopsy—is there to be one?'

‘No need. The cause of death was plain. However, I will suggest it. Had he to your knowledge any enemies?'

‘I know nothing of his life, private or public. Why do you ask?'

‘A trifle. One of those witnesses we suffer from who cannot say what he saw, only what he thought he saw. He is sure that a man jumped out of a car which was waiting at the lights to turn into the Avenue and that he was at once closely followed by another man. When the lights changed the witness crossed the road and did not actually see the accident. He cannot state that the man who jumped from the car was or was not the suicide, and if others noticed the incident they have not come forward. Have you any comment on that, M Rivac?'

‘None. Detained against his will, you suggest? Competitors perhaps? But it is unthinkable! Intertatry was exploiting new ideas but so far as I know patents were not involved. Frankly, monsieur, I am sure it was an accident. Kren was overworked and in a hurry. With his mind on trade—you cannot imagine how export/import is frustrated by red tape—he stepped into the path of a passing bus. How nearly have I done it myself! And if you, monsieur, were then to examine these papers on my desk, you would conclude that it was suicide due to innumerable worries.'

The man from the
Sûreté
thanked M Rivac for his assistance. As soon as he had left, Rivac dashed out for the paper he had missed. It carried a short paragraph on Karel Kren's death in Lille and mentioned Georges Rivac as a young and enterprising agent with international connections whom Kren had chosen to visit England on his behalf. He could not help being pleased. Such publicity was useful.

On Tuesday morning his telephone brought in compliments from casual acquaintances because they had seen his name in the papers. As well as these pointless inanities there was one call of interest from Prague telling him that one of the Intertatry managers, a Mr Appinger, would visit him in the course of the afternoon.

Appinger turned out to be a very different type from Karel Kren, thick-set and of no distinction. His French accent was harsh and his manners oily. After speaking of Kren's business and personal attractions—almost a funeral eulogy—he passed on to the question of British sales. Could M Rivac tell them what the late Karel Kren had in mind? He had made some casual reference to it before leaving for Brussels but no correspondence could be traced. Perhaps he had taken it with him?

Rivac told him all he knew. The firm of Bridge Holdings was only an intermediary, so he again omitted his futile visit to Herbert Spring which could only show him up as inefficient or unenterprising or both. Yes, Kren had apparently had an enquiry from the British Ministry of Defence about Intertatry's new engine; he had meant to follow it up in person but had found himself short of time. Rivac, asked to go over to London instead, had failed to get any good out of the Ministry which could trace no enquiry and thought it unlikely there had been any.

The manager from Prague put a few casual questions: which was the office he had visited and what were the names of the persons he had seen? Rivac replied that it was in Whitehall—he hoped it was—and weakly invented good English names for imaginary civil servants to whom he had talked.

His visitor abruptly stopped questioning him and became very complimentary over the impression that Rivac would make on any business man. Both the family and the firm were very grateful for what he had done. Would he care to spend a few nights in Prague, visit the factory and familiarise himself with recent developments? All expenses would of course be paid and it would be a pleasure to show him the restaurants and diversions of the city. He was returning himself in a couple of days, taking Kren's body with him if the formalities could be completed in time, and would be delighted to get a visa and a seat on the plane for Rivac.

This was not a chance to be missed. Though Rivac could not see any reason for Kren's family or firm to be grateful, he readily accepted the invitation. The unfortunate accident seemed to have aroused a lot of interest in him, and more agencies might come his way.

But the day's excitement was not yet over. He dined more lavishly than usual—for it seemed permissible to anticipate future profits—spent an hour with friends at his customary café and walked home in a pleasant glow of optimism and Armagnac. His telephone rang. The musical voice was a woman's, rippling and confident. She said she had failed to get him earlier and had then tried to calculate the half hour between his return and bedtime. She hoped she had.

Rivac was impressed by her air of youth and efficiency, at once deciding that this was not leading to any invitation to share an expensive bed. He had wide experience of receptionists, secretaries and private assistants who had let him in with a smile or turned him away with charm, and guessed that she was one of them. Her French was engaging but hesitant so he tried her in English. She turned out to be fluent.

‘I am speaking from Valenciennes,' she said, ‘on behalf of Mr Kren's English friends.'

Rivac allowed himself a cautious, ‘Oh, yes?'

‘They know him as Lukash—if that means anything to you.'

‘But damn it, they didn't!'

‘Who didn't?'

‘Mr Spring of Bridge Holdings,' Rivac answered obligingly.

There was a noticeable silence before Youth and Efficiency replied:

‘Oh, but you ought to have talked to our Mr Thompson. When he heard of your visit he so much wished he had seen you.'

‘Is he in Valenciennes with you?'

‘No. I came over to deliver a draft contract and some completed forms to the EEC at Brussels, and Mr Thompson asked me to find your number and telephone you. He was very anxious that you should call again at Bridge Holdings at once.'

‘Well, I can't go this week. I'm flying to Prague.'

‘Mr Rivac, put it off on some excuse! I can't explain now, but you might lose an excellent opportunity. My firm really do want to talk to you, especially after Mr Kren's sad end.'

Rivac said he couldn't be expected to live on cross-channel boats. He was annoyed. It was a waste of time. If Kren's old schoolfriend wanted to talk to him he could have done it the first time, and Spring might at least have brought them together. Anyway Bridge Holdings was not buying from Intertatry but simply a useful introduction to the Ministry of Defence. On the other hand it was silly to sulk. Spring had been very kind and in fact had said that his journey might not be wasted.

‘If you think it's quicker to cross by sea, I could take the eleven o'clock boat tomorrow and brief you,' she offered. ‘It's more important for you than flying to Prague just to see a lot of old-hat machinery.'

He was pleased by that ‘old-hat' in slightly foreign vowels and enchanted by her manner though his mind was on business rather than any dreamed-up affair. Rivac was very correct in his womanizing. He was excitably courteous to wives and daughters and only dropped this fidgeting—though retaining the courtesy—in the Lille brothel which he visited once a month.

There was really no reason, he decided, why he should not go. If this Mr Thompson did not object to talking business after hours he could be back in Lille next day and off to Prague in the evening or next morning or whenever suited Mr Appinger. He put this point to Mr Thompson's able secretary. She replied that there would be no difficulty whatever. A meeting at the office and a working dinner afterwards would suit Mr Thompson very well.

‘And on the boat I shall be dressed in green and red,' she added.

When Rivac got up on the morning of May 25th he was thankful that he was a good sailor. Grey squalls were sweeping over grey Lille, rattling shutters and overturning the deserted café tables. On arrival at Calais he could see that he was in for one of those legendary crossings which had impressed upon the French, more profoundly than war, politics or the perfidiousness of Albion, the belief that England was and must be for ever separate from Europe. The boat with no more welcome in her than a drowned white rat was fairly empty, the few passengers were crowded into the saloon and preparing themselves to pass lying down, if at all possible, the approaching hour of hell. He walked through them and then over the streaming deck but could see no one resembling his imagined picture of Mr Thompson's secretary. He assumed that she had taken one look at the weather report and sensibly decided to fly.

The handful of passengers who preferred the deck to the saloon were congregated on the port side out of the wind so that he found his bench on the starboard side unoccupied. It was his favourite spot, protected from spray by a lifeboat and an angle of the superstructure and far enough aft to be out of reach of the cataracts sluicing down from the bows. There he settled down to watch the spectacular beastliness of the Channel. It attacked immediately. Outside the breakwater the ship corkscrewed over a sea and thudded into the trough, sending spray over the bridge as dense as the debris of an explosion. A few more passengers appeared, driven from the saloon by the debris of more human explosions.

This was probably the girl, staggering down the deck towards him. It was astonishing that she could still hold herself gallantly as if the crossing of feet, the quick sideways shuffle, the recovery were all part of a complicated minuet. She had a green cap over short, dark curls sparkling with spray and a green tweed cloak covering her as far as the high tops of red boots, and concealing arms and hands. He ventured a shy smile.

‘Good morning, Mr Rivac,' she said at once. ‘I am Zia Fodor, Mr Thompson's secretary.'

He had provided her in imagination with an English or Belgian face, pale, pleasant, with fairish hair probably long. That was far from the animated reality contained between the collar of her cloak and the cap pulled down over the forehead. Eyes were grey and steady, mouth smiling and complexion, heightened by the wind, a rich variety of the northern peach rather than the apricot of the Mediterranean.

‘Hungarian, aren't you?' he asked.

‘How did you know?'

‘The name partly. How did you know I was the right man?'

‘I think—experience in both cases, Mr Rivac,' she laughed.

‘We also seem Channel-proof. Where did you get your sea legs?'

‘Someone once slapped my face very hard. He didn't break the ear drum but he disturbed the little what's-it that looks after balance. It doesn't matter which way up I'm put. I ought to be a spacewoman.'

‘What do you hear from Hungary? How are things there?'

‘They are doing their best to make the system work.'

‘I wish we had something better than we have to offer you in the West.'

‘To offer us?'

‘A real Europe, I meant.'

‘And if you had what good would it do?'

‘Not much, I suppose. But you could look forward to it.'

‘Did you ever say anything of the sort to Mr Kren?'

‘Oh, yes! On his first visit when I took on the Intertatry agency I remember he asked me if I had any objection to selling for communists. I said I hadn't and told him why. The closer our interests are, the nearer we are to peace. Europe, that's what matters—a united Europe as far as the Russian frontier. Even in old days it went no farther.'

‘Now I know why Mr Kren chose you to represent him in London.'

‘Do you? The more I think about it, the more I don't know.'

‘Impulse. A chance. You see, he knew he had no time.'

‘He killed himself, you think?'

‘I am sure.'

Rivac wondered how she knew so much about Karel Kren. Her boss must have had a continuing interest in his old school friend, Lukash, but never mentioned him to Herbert Spring.

‘Is it Kren Mr Thompson wants to see me about?'

The ship rolled so violently that they had to catch hold of the seat to avoid sliding off it. She only laughed as if they were on some dizzying machine in a fairground. With conversation momentarily broken off she did not reply to his question but asked another.