Duncan Kyle - The King's Commisar

'Do go on, dear boy.'

Pilgrim was smiling. 'Actually he found three. All dated from the First World War, or from the very early

'twenties. The way Zaharoff did it was to deposit enough straight cash to buy an annuity and cross-refer it back to Senior Partner's notes.'

'He would. Done it myself,' said Malory. 'Which company?'

'Condor Planet Mutual. In Senior Partner's Notes it simply says "Authorized, ZZ." '

'Who was he paying?'

'Widow of a French politician.'

'Briand?'

'That's the one. Then there was some guy in the Balkans.'

'In Bulgaria,' said Graves.

'Who's dead,' Pilgrim said.

'Which leaves one, I think?' Malory's eyebrows lifted interrogatively. "Who is that?'

Pilgrim grinned. 'You're right about the "is", Horace. It's an old lady. Lives in Nice. Name of Bronard.'

'Bronard, eh?'

'Yup. Paid since - guess, Horace.'

'I would suspect nineteen-eighteen.'

'You'd be wrong. Nineteen-twenty.'

'And is the lady unfortunate enough to be a widow?' Malory asked.

'I don't know.'

Malory looked at Graves, who said, 'I don't know, either. But I'm on my way to Nice on the afternoon plane to find out.'

Pilgrim rubbed his hands. 'We're really gonna crack it, Horace! That name Bronard - it has to be the same one, huh?'

'I would imagine so.'

'Sure it does. We're gonna get the whole thing. No more Turners, no more goddam Georgian houses. The whole thing, Horace!'

Malory smiled, I do hope so,' he said.

'Oh, sure, Horace. Dikeston's had his fun. Here's where we get the answers he keeps holding back from us.

It was hot in the town of Nice, and had been so for weeks. So, as always in the summer there, the day's heat came not only from the sun overhead: it came from stones which had long been absorbing it, from paving baking beneath the feet, from asphalt cracking like dermatitic skin to reveal tar shiny beneath. Graves toiled up the steep narrow alleyways of the old town. His jacket was off and slung by a finger over his shoulder, his tie loose at his throat, and sweat made wide wet patches on his back and beneath his arms. He was where the taxi-drivers would not go, for the narrow alleys with their rough projecting stones unfailingly made expensive scrapes on bodywork.

Graves swore as he climbed. The rule still held, that apparently inalienable rule he had noted after Dikeston's first appearance in his life: the rule that said - you will encounter discomfort. You. Not Pilgrim, not that old bastard Malory, but you, Graves.

If he turned and looked back, the blue Mediterranean glittered with invitation no great distance away. In a quarter of an hour he could be in the water, all this behind him, encompassed by a profound feeling of comfort. Pretty girls to look at, long drinks to sip.

He cursed again, and climbed on.

The square was tiny, barely meriting the name; really it was no more than a place where alleys met. In it there was nothing of what the world understands when the name of Nice is mentioned: there was no sunshine, no palms, no sand, no beauty, no self-indulgent luxury. But then, the richest cities always have places for the poor.

Graves, glancing round him, understood that at once. A few feet above, an ancient olive tree thrust its gnarled trunk from a wall and darker shade lay in an inviting pool beneath it. He stepped into its comfort and lit a cigarette, and he stood very still as sweat ran down his body. Five minutes passed. He saw a tin sign half-fastened to a wall opposite. Byrrh it said. An open doorway stood beside it, the room beyond very dark. He levered his moist body off the wall and took the few paces that were enough to cross the little square. It was cool inside the tiny bar. There was a zinc counter, a sink, a few bottles, and water dripping. The woman was in black and her face was much lined from the sun.

'Une bi ère, madame, s'il vous plaît. '

'Pas de bi ère. '

Anything cold would do.

'Pas de glace. '

In Nice! he thought. No ice, in Nice.

He took a glass of white wine, far from cold, and it was sour on his palate. The woman kept her eyes on him.

He finished the wine in a gulp. 'I am looking for Madame Bronard.'

No answer.

'She lives close by?'

Just the black eyes on him. He tried again. Once. 'She must be very old now, Madame Bronard. You know her, madame?'

-A shake of the head.

He walked out into the heat. A man sat on a rock that jutted from a wall. Graves went over to him. 'I am looking-'

'For Madame Bronard. Oui. I heard.'

'You know her?'

'Oh yes.' The man looked at him with a strange expression. 'But do you?'

'No. But I want to see her.'

The man began to roll a cigarette in thick, stiff fingers. After a moment of concentration he looked up again. 'She is very old.'

'I know.'

'Also hostile to strangers.'

'Nevertheless. . .'

A shrug. A thick finger pointing. There was a doorway at the mouth of the second alley; its door stood open to admit air. 'The house there, m'sieu. Third floor. She's-she's not easy, well, to . . .'

Thank you.' Grave's smile was answered with another shrug.

He found stairs of worn stone, uncarpeted, and began to climb. It was refreshingly cool in the house, and there was a draught of sorts down the stairway. Poor old soul, Graves thought, all these stairs to climb!

The door was old, oaken and blackened. Spidery handwriting on a grubby card said 'Bronard'. He knocked, and something scraped at the far side of the door. An ancient voice said, 'Who knocks?'

He saw that a little grille had moved, and tried to look through it. 'My name is Graves, madame, Jacques Graves.'

'What do you want?' A harsh tone now in the weak voice.

'To talk to you. On business.'

'Business?' Shrill and surprised. 'I have no business.'

'I'm from London.'

Silence. He said it again, slowly. 'Did you hear, madame? I'm from London. From England.'

'Oh, I heard. My pension. It's about my pension?'

'Well, yes.' He heard movements inside, beyond the door; the click of a bolt withdrawn. A full minute passed, then the cracked voice said, 'You can come forward.'

Graves raised the iron lever and stepped inside. There was no hall, no passage. He was at once in the little room, and it was clear this was where she lived. A bed stood against one wall; there was one small table, one chair, a small chipped stone sink.

Madame Bronard sat in a wheelchair on the far side of the room. Behind her were narrow floor-to-ceiling french windows, flung wide, and a tiny iron-railed balcony. She was little more than a silhouette against the shadowed light outside, and moreover was dressed head to foot in black. On her knee was a bag of black canvas which Graves's imagination first told him must be a black cat. Macbeth, he thought: Act One, Scene One. You can find a blasted heath anywhere. She said, 'My pension. You are from the company, hein?'

'From a company, madame.'

'Pffft. The people who pay. With the so foolish name.'

'Condor Planet Mutual. No, madame, I am not.'

'Then who?'

'I must explain. May I sit down?' He took a step towards the solitary chair.

'No.' Her hands moved incessantly, like big trembling white insects on the black bag. She said, 'Three pounds English, you understand? Enough when it began.'

He suddenly understood the bitterness.

'But not for years. I have had half a century of grinding poverty. You hear me, m'sieu from Londres?'

Graves said. 'It was never increased?' and cursed himself for failing to think about how much interest the principal would produce, for not asking Condor Planet Mutual for details.

'Increased? Never! I wrote. I begged. They stopped answering. Just the few scus, every month. Who are you from?'