Eric Ambler - The Schirmer Inheritance

“Early thirties and quite attractive.”

“For God’s sake.”

“You don’t have to worry.” The Embassy man had chuckled in an odd way.

George had ignored the chuckle and asked about Miss Kolin’s history.

She had been born in one of the Serbian towns of Yugoslavia and was a graduate of the University of Belgrade. She had an almost phenomenal talent for languages. A British Major working with a relief organization had found her in a displaced-persons camp in 1945 and employed her as a secretary. Later she had worked as an interpreter for an American legal team doing preparatory work for the Nuremberg trials. When the team’s work had ended, one of the lawyers, impressed as much by her secretarial ability as by the fact that she was multi-lingual, had given her introductions to the International Standards Organization and the American Embassy in Paris and advised her to try to work up a connection as an interpreter and verbatim reporter. She had soon established herself. She now had a solid reputation at international trade conferences for the speed and reliability of her work. Her services were much in demand.

There were several women waiting in the foyer of the hotel and George had to ask the concierge to point his visitor out to him.

Maria Kolin was indeed attractive. She had the sort of figure and posture that makes inexpensive clothes look good. The face and features were broad, the complexion brown against sleek straw-coloured hair. Her eyes were prominent and heavy-lidded. The only make-up she wore was lipstick, but this was boldly applied. She looked as if she had just returned from a ski-ing holiday.

Although she had obviously seen the concierge point her out to him, she remained staring blankly into the middle distance as George approached, and gave an unreal start of surprise when he spoke.

“Miss Kolin? I’m George Carey.”

“How do you do?” She touched the hand he held out to her as if it were a rolled-up newspaper.

“I’m very glad you could come along,” George said.

She shrugged stiffly. “Naturally, you would wish to interview me before deciding to employ me.” Her English was very clear and precise, with only the faintest trace of an accent.

“They told me at the Embassy that you were a busy person and that I was lucky you were available.” He put as much friendliness as he could into his smile.

She looked past him vaguely. “Ah, yes?”

George felt himself beginning to be irritated by her. “Shall we sit down somewhere and talk, Miss Kolin?”

“Of course.”

He led the way across the foyer to some comfortable chairs near the bar. She followed a little too slowly. His irritation increased. She might be an attractive woman, but there was no reason for her to behave as if she were fending off a clumsy attempt at seduction. She was here about a job. Did she want it or didn’t she? If she didn’t, why waste time by coming at all?

“Now, Miss Kolin,” he said as they sat down, “how much did the Embassy people tell you about this job?”

“That you were going to Germany to interview various persons there in connection with a lawsuit. That you would want verbatim reports of the interviews transcribed. That it might be necessary to attend later at an American Embassy to have these transcriptions notarized. The length of time for which you would require me would be not less than one month and not more than three. I should receive my normal fees on a monthly basis, and all travelling and hotel expenses would be paid in addition.” She looked past him again, her head held high-a lady of quality importuned by a lascivious workman.

“Yes that’s about right,” George said. “Did they tell you which lawsuit it was?”

“They said that it was a highly confidential matter and that you would no doubt explain what it was necessary for me to know.” A faint, indifferent smile-men are such children with their little secrets.

“Right. What passport do you have, Miss Kolin?”

“French.”

“I understood you were a Yugoslav citizen.”

“I am naturalized French. My passport is valid for Germany.”

“Yes, that was what I wanted to know.”

She nodded but did not say anything. One could be patient with the slow-witted, but one was not obliged to pander to them.

Several sentences came to the tip of George’s tongue at that moment, most of them designed to bring the interview to an abrupt conclusion. He swallowed them. Just because she wouldn’t pretend to be stupider or more eager for the work than she really was, he didn’t have to insult the woman. She had an unfortunate manner. All right! Did that make her a bad interpreter? And what did he expect her to do? Cringe?

He offered her a cigarette.

She shook her head. “Thank you, I prefer these.” She brought out a packet of Gitanes.

He struck a match for her. “Are there any questions about the job you would like to ask me?” he said.

“Yes.” She blew smoke out. “Have you had any experience of using an interpreter, Mr. Carey?”

“None at all.”

“I see. Do you speak any German?”

“A little, yes.”

“How little? It is not a pointless question.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. Well, I speak the German I learned at high school. I was stationed in Germany for a few months after the war and heard a fair amount of German spoken there. I can understand the drift of most conversations between Germans, but I sometimes misunderstand so completely that I might think I was listening to an argument about politics when what I was really hearing was a discussion of the finer points of chicken farming. Does that answer your question?”

“Very clearly. I will explain the point. When you are using an interpreter, it is not always easy to avoid listening also to the conversation being interpreted. That way confusion may arise.”

“In fact, it’s better to trust to the interpreter and not try to do the work for her.”

“Exactly.”

The barman was hovering in the background. George ignored him. The interview was as good as over and he did not want to prolong it. Her cigarette was half smoked now. When it had burned down another quarter of an inch, he would get up.

“I expect you know Germany pretty well, Miss Kolin.”

“Only certain parts.”

“The Rhineland?”

“A little.”

“You worked on the preparations for the Nuremberg trials, I hear.”

“Yes.”

“As a Yugoslav you must have found that very satisfactory.”

“You think so, Mr. Carey?”

“You didn’t approve of the trials?”

She looked down at her cigarette. “The Germans took my father as a hostage and shot him,” she said crisply. “They sent my mother and me to work in a factory in Leipzig. My mother died there of blood-poisoning from an infected wound which they refused to treat. I do not know exactly what happened to my brothers, except that eventually they were tortured to death in an S.S. barracks at Zagreb. Oh yes, I approved of the trials. If they made the United Nations feel strong and righteous, certainly I approved. But do not ask me to applaud.”

“Yes, I can see you must have wished for a more personal revenge.”

She had leaned forward to stub her cigarette out. Now she turned her head slowly and her eyes met his.

“I’m afraid that I have not your belief in justice, Mr. Carey,” she said.

There was a curious, persecuted little half-smile on her lips. He realized suddenly that he was on the verge of losing his temper.

She rose to her feet and stood in front of him smoothing down her dress. “Is there anything else you would like to know?” she asked calmly.

“I don’t think so, thank you.” He stood up. “It was very kind of you to come along, Miss Kolin. I’m not sure yet when I shall be leaving Paris. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I know.”