But someone had been careless: there was no mention of a pencil.
Z Organization had a man in Vienna indeed, William McQueen had intended to contact Farrar on the Thursday to pick up the gold. McQueens cover was at risk, but he made cautious enquiries after Farrars death. He found a waiter from the Franz Josef who admitted, when suitably primed with alcohol, that something odd had gone on that night. The manager had taken over the receptionists evening shift. There was a rumour among the staff that two men from the Hotel Metropole had been seen in the Franz Josef on Wednesday night.
The Hotel Metropole was the Vienna headquarters of the Gestapo.
The gold was no longer among Farrars belongings, but that was only to be expected. Uncle Claude and everyone else drew the obvious inference: the Gestapo had somehow identified Farrar as a courier; they had killed him and taken the gold. The fact that they had killed him rather than used him as bait suggested that they already knew for whom the gold was intended. Perhaps Farrar had talked before he died. As a result, Uncle Claude decided his resources were better used elsewhere: McQueen was transferred to Basel, and the Z network in Vienna never amounted to much.
The real irony only became apparent years later, when Michael was interrogating a Gestapo officer who had made something of a name for himself in wartime Holland. Knowing that his prisoner had previously served in Vienna, Michael threw in a question about the Farrar affair.
The officer, who was in the talkative, confiding phase of his interrogation, remembered it well, because of the gold. Farrar, it seemed, had been a womanizer whose bravado was in inverse proportion to his height. On the Tuesday night he had quarrelled with a man he believed to be a German tourist. The cause of the dispute was the favours of a prostitute; and the scene of it was that bar on the Ringstrasse. Farrar had won.
The following evening, the plainclothes man and a colleague had paid a visit to the Franz Josef, intending merely to teach Farrar a lesson. Farrar was out, but the manager gave them a passkey to his room. While they were waiting, they discovered the gold concealed in his suitcase. The presence of undeclared gold marks worth nearly a thousand pounds sterling didnt suggest to the two policemen that Farrar was engaged in espionage. Why should it have done? In those days, plenty of people were trying to move hard currency out of Austria for the most personal of reasons, and foreigners, with their relative freedom to cross the frontiers of the Reich, were often used for the purpose.
On balance, it was safer to kill Farrar if they wanted to take the gold. The manager of the Franz Josef was persuaded to cooperate; he didnt want to lose his job and possibly his liberty. The officers had to give Michaels captive a percentage of the proceeds, because his authority was needed to ensure that the civil police drew the right conclusions.
The police did as they were told. It was, they were informed, a political matter which concerned the security of the Reich. And there was the irony: the lie was perfectly true.
George Farrar was murdered in Vienna on the 15 February 1939: that was the beginning of Michaels pattern.
It was an arbitrary choice, yes: but at least it made the whole affair seem personal and therefore easier to bear. It showed that affairs of state were ultimately dependent on the motives and actions of apparently insignificant individuals. What happened after Farrars death was made somehow more intelligible by the idea that it could be traced back to the greed of two secret policemen, the whim of a Viennese whore and the libido of a commercial traveller in toys.
One
The ivory ruler snapped in two as it hit the top of the desk. Three inches of it ricocheted off the polished oak and landed on Hughs shoe. He jumped backward. The remaining nine inches stayed in Alfred Kendalls hand.
His fathers knuckles, Hugh noticed, were the same colour as the ruler.
Alfred Kendall turned slowly in his chair. He was still dressed in his City clothes, which lent an odd formality to the proceedings.
Do you mean to tell me that the headmaster is lying?
No, Father. Hughs hands clenched behind his back. His body was treacherously determined to tremble. Mr Jervis was mistaken. I
Dont lie to me, boy. Ive known Mr Jervis for a good ten years. He isnt a fool. Kendall tapped the letter in front of him. Nor is he the sort of man to fling around wild accusations.
Hughs vision blurred. I didnt do it.
The words came out more loudly than he had intended. For a moment his father stared contemptuously at him. Hugh tried to look away. It was almost with relief that he saw his father begin to gnaw his lower lip with a long, yellow tooth. This was almost invariably a preliminary to speech.
Never did I think I should read such a letter about a son of mine. Kendalls voice hardened. You dont seem to realize that youve brought shame on the entire family.
Hugh shrugged. It was a gesture of discomfort, not insolence, but his father interpreted it otherwise. Kendalls slap caught Hugh unawares: he reeled back against the table.
That, his father said slowly, is just a foretaste of what you should expect. Dont snivel. Listen to what Mr Jervis has to say about you. Dear Captain Kendall, It is with deep regret that I have been forced to expel your son Hugh from the school, with immediate effect. One of his classmates had foolishly brought a ten-shilling note to school. Just before luncheon, the boy reported it had been stolen. It was subsequently found in the pocket of Hughs overcoat. Hugh, I am afraid, made matters worse by trying to dissemble his guilt. For the sake of the other boys in my charge, I cannot permit a pupil who has proved to be both a thief and a liar to remain for a moment longer than necessary. I will forward the termly account at a later date.
The termly account, you note. In the circumstances, Mr Jervis is quite within his rights to charge for the entire Lent term. Have you any idea what the fees are like for a first-rate prep school like Thameside College? Your brother used his time there to win a scholarship. But you have wantonly wasted your opportunities from the first. I scrimp and save to give you the finest education available in England and this is how you repay me. Do you think thats fair? Do you think thats reasonable? Answer me, boy.
Hughs eyes were heavy with tears. Humiliation bred anger, which in turn created a brief and desperate courage. I I thought
Dont mumble at me. And dont you know that tears are unmanly?
I thought Aunt Vida was paying my fees.
Purple blotches appeared on Kendalls face. He jerked himself out of his chair and towered over Hugh.
You impudent little wretch, he said softly. You will regret that, I promise you.
Hughs courage evaporated. He had been stupid to mention Aunt Vida. None of the children was supposed to know that she paid their school fees. But Stephen had found out years ago from their aunts housekeeper.
This time the blow was a back-hander. The edge of Kendalls wedding ring cut into the skin over Hughs cheekbone. He cannoned into the table and fell to the ground.
Get up. And dont you dare bleed on the carpet.
Hugh got slowly to his feet. He touched his cheek and looked at the smear of blood on his fingers.
This time the blow was a back-hander. The edge of Kendalls wedding ring cut into the skin over Hughs cheekbone. He cannoned into the table and fell to the ground.
Get up. And dont you dare bleed on the carpet.
Hugh got slowly to his feet. He touched his cheek and looked at the smear of blood on his fingers.
Handkerchief.
Hugh pulled out the grubby ball of linen from his trouser pocket. He dabbed his face, conscious that his father was still looming over him. Adults were so unfairly large.
You despicable little animal, Kendall whispered.
Hugh held back a sob with difficulty. He knew he would cry sooner or later, but he was determined to put it off for as long as possible. What was happening to him was unjust; yet for some reason that didnt seem important beside the fact that he disgusted his father. He was bitterly ashamed of himself. He wished he were dead.
Bring me the cane. The thinner one.
The two canes were kept in the corner between the wall and the end of the bookcase. Hugh sometimes daydreamed of burning them. The thicker one, curiously enough, was less painful. The thin one was longer and more supple; it hissed in the air, gathering venom as it swung.
He handed it to his father. It was part of the ritual that the victim should present the means of punishment to the executioner.
Alfred Kendall tapped the cane against one pin-striped trouser leg. You know what to do. Waiting wont make it easier. I can promise you that.
Hugh turned away and unhooked the S-shaped metal snake that held up his trousers. His fingers groped at the buttons. When the last one was undone, the trousers fell to his ankles. He shuffled across the room to the low armchair where his mother sat in the evenings. He could feel a draught from somewhere on the back of his knees.
The chair had a low back. Hugh stretched over it, extending his arms along the chairs arms for support. His mothers knitting bag was on the seat of the chair. He could see the purple wool of the jersey she was knitting for Stephen.
His fathers heavy footsteps advanced towards him and then retreated. This, too, was part of the ritual: Alfred Kendall was a man who liked to take measurements. Hugh knew there were four paces between the desk and the chair. To be precise, there were three paces and a little jump. After the jump, his father would grunt like someone straining on a lavatory. Then would come the pain.
The footsteps returned and Hugh held his breath. The first blow caught him by surprise, as it always did. In the interim between beatings, you forgot that it hurt so much.
The cane wrapped around his buttocks. It felt like a branding iron. Despite himself, Hugh yelped. He pressed himself forward against the back of the chair. His hands dug into the arms.
The footsteps slowly retreated. Once again, they advanced.
The cane seemed to land on precisely the same spot. This time, Hugh cried out. His father said nothing, though his breathing was more laboured than usual; he never spoke when administering punishment.
Hugh tried to concentrate on counting. You never knew in advance how many strokes you were going to get. Four was probably the average, at least for himself and Stephen, though it was at least a year since Stephen had been beaten; Meg usually had three, but then she was a girl. Five was by no means unknown. Stephen boasted that he had been given six on two occasions.
Five Six. Hugh stirred, but even the slightest movement made the pain worse. His arms and legs were trembling. To his horror, he realized that the footsteps were again coming towards him.
Seven.
Eight.
Hughs legs buckled. He was crying now the pain was so great that he no longer cared. His tears glistened on the purple wool.
Stand up, snapped his father. Cant you even take your punishment like a man?
There was a clatter as his father returned the cane to its corner. Metal and flint rasped together and the smell of tobacco filled the air.
Hugh levered himself into an upright position. For a few seconds he stared stupidly at the trousers which shackled his ankles. He bent down with difficulty and tugged them up to his waist. The pain was no longer blindingly acute; it had softened, if that was the right word, to a dull, angry throb. Every movement made it worse.
Alfred Kendall was leaning on the desk; he held the Gold Flake in his left hand. His thumb and forefinger were stained yellow, like the ragged fringe of his military moustache.
He exhaled a lungful of smoke in the direction of his son. Well?
Hugh had missed his cue. The ritual demanded that the victim should thank the executioner. It was an exquisite refinement: you thanked someone for inflicting pain on you, thereby implying you deserved or even desired it. It suddenly became very important to Hugh that he should not make the required response.
I am waiting, Hugh.
His father walked slowly towards him. With him he brought his characteristic smell a compound of stale tobacco, hair oil and a musty, sooty odour which Hugh associated with suburban trains. Without warning, Kendall nipped the lobe of Hughs ear between finger and thumb and twisted it through ninety degrees.
Hugh gasped and tried to pull his head away.
You always were a weakling, his father observed. His grip tightened on the lobe. A real boy of your background would have learned to stand punishment years ago. Im still waiting.
It was at this moment that Hugh decided never to forgive his father in any circumstance. Aloud he said: Thank you, sir.
Alfred Kendall released the ear and nodded towards the door. Hugh, who was expert at interpreting his fathers nods, opened the door and stood aside to allow his father to pass through first. Kendall set great store by the courtesy that men owed to women and the young to their elders and betters. It was a sign, he often remarked, of good breeding.
His father flung open the kitchen door and motioned to Hugh to stand beside him in the doorway.
They were all in there. The opening of the door had cut off both their conversation and their movements, leaving a strained, still silence. Hughs mother was standing by the gas cooker, stirring the contents of a saucepan; the rich smell of mutton stew made his mouth water. Meg, still in her school uniform, was at the kitchen table doing her homework. Stephen sat opposite her; he had changed since he returned from the bank, and the Star was spread open in front of him. Hugh was sure that they had been talking about him. He knew from experience that the sound of a caning was clearly audible from the hall.
Kendall sucked on his cigarette. Hugh will go straight to bed. He will have nothing to eat tonight and no one will visit him. Do I make myself clear?
Mrs Kendall covered the saucepan with its lid. Alfred, perhaps I should
Ive made up my mind, Muriel. The boys enough of a namby-pamby as it is, without you trying to make it worse. Well have dinner at the usual time.
He laid a heavy hand on Hughs shoulder, turned him around and pushed him towards the stairs.
The stairs were a form of torture. Hugh climbed slowly, clinging to the banister; his body protested at every step. He heard his father go back into the dining room and close the door.
From the landing another flight of stairs wound upward to the attic where Meg slept. Hugh could just remember the time when the room had belonged to a maid. On the right was the big bedroom at the front, where his parents slept; Stephen had the room opposite. Hughs was farther down the landing towards the back of the house, next to the bathroom over the scullery.