A Matter of Honor Read online

  “No, sir, a tiny rebellion.”

  Rosenbaum tried to laugh but only coughed.

  “I wonder if you have any further proof of identity other than your passport?” Herr Daumier asked politely.

  Emmanuel Rosenbaum raised his head and, giving Herr Daumier a tired look, turned his wrist so that it faced upward. The number 712910 was tattooed along the inside.

  “I apologize,” said Daumier, visibly embarrassed. “It will take me only a few minutes to bring your box up, if you will be kind enough to wait.”

  Mr. Rosenbaum’s eyes blinked as if he were too tired even to nod his agreement. The two men left him alone. They returned a few minutes later with a flat box about two feet square and placed it on the table in the center of the room. Herr Daumier unlocked the top lock while the other partner acted as a witness. He then handed over a key to Rosenbaum saying, “We will now leave you, sir. Just press the button underneath the table when you wish us to return.”

  “Thank you,” said Rosenbaum, and waited for the door to close behind them. He turned the key in the lock and pushed up the lid. Inside the box was a package in the shape of a picture, about eighteen by twelve inches, covered in muslin and tied securely. Rosenbaum placed the package carefully in his old suitcase. He then shut the box and locked it. He pressed the button under the table, and within seconds Hcrr Daumier and the junior partner returned.

  “I do hope everything was as you left it, Herr Rosenbaum,” said the chairman, “it has been some considerable time.”

  “Yes, thank you.” This time the old gentleman did manage a nod.

  “May I mention a matter of no great consequence?” asked Herr Daumier.

  “Pray do so,” said the old man.

  “Is it your intention to continue with the use of the box? Because the funds you left to cover the cost have recently run out.”

  “No, I have no need for it any longer.”

  “It’s just that there was a small charge outstanding. But in the circumstances, Herr Rosenbaum, we are happy to waive it.”

  “You are most kind.” Herr Daumier bowed, and the junior partner accompanied their client to the front door, helped him into a taxi, and instructed the driver to take Mr. Rosenbaum to Zurich airport.

  At the airport, the old man took his time reaching the check-in desk, because he appeared to be frightened of the escalator, and with the suitcase now quite heavy the flight of steps was difficult to negotiate.

  At the desk he produced his ticket for the girl to check and was pleased to find that the passenger lounge was almost empty. He shuffled over toward the corner and collapsed on to a comfortable sofa. He checked to be sure he was out of sight of the other passengers in the lounge.

  He flicked back the little knobs on the old suitcase, and the springs rose reluctantly. He pushed up the lid, pulled out the parcel, and held it to his chest. His fingers wrestled with the knots for some time before they became loose. He then removed the muslin to check his prize. Mr. Rosenbaum stared down at the masterpiece Man Gathering in Corn by Van Gogh—which he had no way of knowing had been missing from the Vienna National Gallery since 1938.

  Emmanuel Rosenbaum swore, which was out of character. He packed the picture safely up and returned it to his case. He then shuffled over to the girl at the Swissair sales desk and asked her to book him on the first available flight to Geneva. With luck he could still reach Roget et Cie before they closed.

  The BEA Viscount landed at Geneva airport at eleven twenty-five local time that morning, a few minutes later than scheduled. The stewardess advised passengers to put their watches forward one hour to Central European Time.

  “Perfect,” said Adam. “We shall be in Geneva well in time for lunch, a visit to the bank, and then back to the airport for the five-past-five flight home.”

  “You’re treating the whole thing like a military exercise,” said Heidi, laughing.

  “All except the last part,” said Adam.

  “The last part?” she queried.

  “Our celebration dinner.”

  “At the Chelsea Kitchen again, no doubt.”

  “Wrong,” said Adam. “I’ve booked a table for two at eight o‘clock at the Coq d’Or just off Piccadilly.”

  “Counting your chickens before they’re hatched, aren’t you?” said Heidi.

  “Oh, very droll,” said Adam.

  “Droll? I do not understand.”

  “I’ll explain it to you when we have that dinner tonight.”

  “I was hoping we wouldn’t make it,” said Heidi.

  “Why?” asked Adam.

  “All I have to look forward to tomorrow is the checkout counter at the German Food Centre.”

  “That’s not as bad as a workout with the sergeant major at ten,” groaned Adam. “And by ten past I shall be flat on my back regretting I ever left Geneva.”

  “That will teach you to knock him out,” said Heidi, “so perhaps we ought to stay put after all,” she added, taking him by the arm. Adam leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek as they stood in the gangway waiting to be let off the plane. A light drizzle was falling out on the aircraft steps. Adam unbuttoned his raincoat and attempted to shelter Heidi beneath it as they ran across the tarmac to the Immigration Hall.

  “Good thing I remembered this,” he said.

  “Not so much a raincoat, more a tent,” said Heidi.

  “It’s my old army trench coat,” he assured her, opening it up again. “It can hold maps, compasses, even an overnight kit.”

  “Adam, we’re just going to stroll around Geneva in the middle of the summer, not get lost in the Black Forest in the middle of winter.”

  He laughed. “I’ll remember your sarcasm whenever it pours.”

  The airport bus that traveled to and from the city took only twenty minutes to reach the center of Geneva.

  The short journey took them through the outskirts of the city until they reached the magnificent still lake nestled in the hills. The bus continued alongside the lake until it came to a halt opposite the massive single-spouting fountain that shot over four hundred feet into the air.

  “I’m beginning to feel like a day tripper,” said Heidi, as they stepped out of the bus, pleased to find the light rain had stopped.

  Both of them were immediately struck by how clean the city was as they walked along the wide litter-free pavement that ran alongside the lake. On the other side of the road neat hotels, shops, and banks seemed in equal preponderance.

  “First we must find out where our bank is so that we can have lunch nearby before going to pick up the booty.”

  “How does a military man go about such a demanding exercise?” asked Heidi.

  “Simple. We drop in at the first bank we see and ask them to direct us to Roget et Cie.”

  “I’ll bet your little arm must have been covered in initiative badges when you were a Boy Scout.”

  Adam burst out laughing. “Am I that bad?”

  “Worse,” said Heidi. “But you personify every German’s image of the perfect English gentleman.” Adam turned, touched her hair gently and leaning down, kissed her on the lips.

  Heidi was suddenly conscious of the stares from passing strangers. “I don’t think the Swiss approve of that sort of thing in public,” she said. “In fact, I’m told some of them don’t approve of it in private.”

  “Shall I go and kiss that old prune over there who is still glaring at us?” said Adam.

  “Don’t do that, Adam, you might turn into a frog. No, let’s put your plan of campaign into action,” she said, pointing to the Banque Populaire on the far side of the avenue.

  When they had crossed the road Heidi inquired of the doorman the way to Roget et Cie They followed his directions, once again admiring the great single-spouted fountain as they continued on toward the center of the city.

  Roget et Cie was not that easy to pinpoint, and they walked past it twice before Heidi spotted the discreet sign chiseled in stone by the side of a high wrought-iron