Herr von Engel lowers himself in his chair with a flourish of immense satisfaction. “A condition, you say? What right have you to demand conditions?”
Lionel does not flicker. “I have every right. I can contest this matter fiercely. I can call in the American consulate. The British consulate. I can make any number of protests to any number of influential people. Or I can go willingly, cooperate without hesitation in your investigation, and praise your efficiency and professionalism at every level. But the decision, of course, is entirely yours.”
Violet marvels at him: his calmness, the precision of his words, his air of disdainful superiority in the face of von Engel’s blond doggedness. Go willingly. He will not go willingly, of course. There is a plan here, she’s sure of it. Brilliant Lionel.
Von Engel picks up his pen and fiddles with it. A tic beats mercilessly at his temple. Those luscious words, praise your efficiency and professionalism at every level: he’s slavering at them. Lionel knows his man.
“What is your condition, Mr. Richardson?”
“My friends go free. They are escorted by your guards to the front of the border queue, and allowed without further delay into Switzerland. I do nothing, say nothing, until I have watched them board the train for Zurich, in Swiss hands, in perfect safety and without harassment.”
Violet’s mouth freezes open. Jane starts to say something, but Lionel aims her a look of immediate and total command.
“This is impossible, and you know it,” says von Engel. “They are suspects, witnesses in a case of capital murder.”
Lionel shrugs. “Then I’m afraid your career will pay the price. Thank goodness there’s a war about to start. You could join the Army. Pick up your rifle, dig a few trenches. Face down a machine gun or two.”
The tic throbs away. Von Engel’s forehead has taken on a delicate sheen.
Lionel continues: “It’s a simple request, really. You have your suspect. You’ll have a confession. You won’t even need to go to trial. The hero of the hour, the intrepid detective.”
Von Engel stands. “Very well. I meet your condition, Mr. Richardson.” He turns to the guard and barks in German: “Take these three to the border and escort them through.”
The guard’s eyes widen. “Sir?”
“Immediately.”
Violet has time to look wildly at Lionel, to plead with her eyes. He shakes his head. “Don’t forget your valise, darling,” he says, and he picks it up from the floor and hands it to her. The leather handle is warm in her hand. Their fingers touch. He leans to her ear and whispers, “Wait for me in Zurich.”
Five words.
She repeats them on the way out the door, the confused bustle of guards and suitcases, the reassuring hand of Henry Mortimer at the small of her back.
She repeats them as they board the train, and she looks frantically for the low building near the border gate, where Lionel is surely watching from the window.
She repeats them all the way down the twenty miles of rattling track to Zurich, where they find a hotel and order dinner, and the setting sun turns orange in the peaceful west.
Wait for me in Zurich.
Vivian
Paris! City of love! Or was it lights? City of lights. Anyway. The lady looked splendid from the window of the airplane, even clothed in November gray, with that shining serpent Seine clutched to her breast and the grand boulevards crisscrossing her skin. You could not witness Paris from the air without a white ball of excitement going ping-pong in your chest. You could not help the tap tap tap of your pointy-toed shoe, eager to make tracks around the doo-doo to the nearest café and arrange itself for display with a miniature coffee and a long crisp cigarette.
But. First. Duty called, or rather I called Duty, waking it up at seven a.m. for an update on Aunt Julie’s condition and a confession of my own whereabouts.
“For God’s sake, Vivian. Paris?” scratched Mums down the line and across the Atlantic Ocean.
“Yes!” I shouted. “The Georges Cinq! You don’t mind wiring a girl a franc or two, do you?”
“You are impossible, Vivian. I should have refused the call. I suppose you’re continuing with that story of yours.”
“The one you’ve forbidden me to write? Yes, indeed.”
“You are impossible, Vivian,” she said again.
“What, you’re not giving me permission, are you?”
“Obviously it’s not going to stop you if I don’t.”
In other words, fine then, Vivian, go ahead with the damned story, ruin us all, see if I care. I smiled into the receiver.
“Obviously not,” I said. “How’s Aunt Julie?”
“Much better. She’s coming home tomorrow. Do finish up, Vivian. This is costing me a fortune. When will you be home?”
“That depends. I may stay forever.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Forever!”
Her sigh roiled the oceans. “I’ll wire the money to the American Express on the Avenue de l’Opera. And for God’s sake, don’t sleep with any Frenchmen. You’ll catch something hideous.”