The Poellenberg Inheritance Read Online Free Page A

with his cold, and the grim dignity of her mother, Paula knew that their calm was a façade. Their glances at each other were apprehensive; their attitude tense and worried. The telephone call was never mentioned again. It was tacitly understood that she would do as her mother wanted and ignore the caller. But they weren’t sure of this, and that disturbed them. Paula spun out the day and a half till she could leave with decency. At the door they came out to say goodbye, accompanied by the dogs. It occurred to Paula that only the animals were sorry to see her go.
    â€˜Goodbye, dear.’ Her mother brushed her cold lips against her face.’
    â€˜Goodbye, Paula.’ Gerald Ridgeway had his arm linked with his wife’s; he smiled at her and waved. There was a strained, unhappy look about his mouth under the ginger moustache. He looked miserable and unwell. She got into the car, wound down the window and waved to them. ‘Goodbye, thanks for the weekend; it was a lovely rest. Take care of yourself, Gerald, don’t stay out in the cold.’
    All the clichés of departure, the trite little phrases of farewell expected from a stranger. It was the coldest leavetaking she could remember, and it suddenly hurt so much she couldn’t wait to start the car and drive away.
    And then it didn’t seem to matter. The next day was Monday and her appointment with Black was only a few hours away. For the first time she would be able to discover about the other half of herself. She had forgotten that the caller had something important to tell her; she had forgotten about Poellenberg, that mysterious word which had drained the blood from her mother’s face till she looked like a corpse. Paula wasn’t thinking of anything but the excitement of discovery and the hunger to know, so that if Providence were merciful, she would be able to love, even if it were a memory passed on to her at second hand.
    Eric Fisher’s plane landed at Munich airport at three-thirty. It was a warm afternoon, and the sun beat down upon the tarmac, making him sweat. Fisher was used to flying; he regarded it as a good opportunity to sleep. He was bored by the routine, the pre-lunch snacks, the rattling drinks trolley, the bland hostesses who looked so unreal he was tempted to put it to the test by pinching a round bottom in a tight skirt.
    So he settled into his seat, even for a short trip like the flight from London to Munich and went straight to sleep till they landed.
    He knew Munich slightly, and was looking forward to spending a day and a night there, revisiting old places known from the early days of the Cold War, when he had been a journalist. He supposed that his business could be accomplished within a couple of hours and he would have the rest of the time free. The clients were paying all expenses and he had booked himself into the Hoffburger, which was the city’s best hotel. Outside Customs, he paused. He was expecting to be met. A man in a dark brown chauffeur’s livery came towards him and gave a military salute. Fisher noticed with surprise that he wore old-fashioned leather boots and polished leggings.
    â€˜Herr Fisher?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Her Highness’s car is just outside. Your bag, if you please. Follow me this way, sir.’
    With pleasure, Fisher thought, threading a way through the crowd. Nothing so crumby as a common taxi. Her Highness’s very own awaited. He grinned, enjoying himself. This was the sort of client he preferred. The car was an enormous Mercedes, shining black with silver-grey upholstery and a large coat-of-arms painted on the doors. He got into the back seat; he felt tempted to give a regal wave to the porters left outside on the pavement.
    The drive took thirty-five minutes; Fisher timed it just for something to do. Scenery didn’t interest him. He took a case of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. The glass screen separating his compartment from the