‘Well, yes, for the moment,’ I answered.
‘I see, saw, you read English djornal,’ he said pointing with his finger – then hurriedly taking off his fawn glove and pointing again (perhaps he had been told that it was rude to point with a gloved index). I murmured something and looked away: I do not like chatting in a train, and at the moment I was particularly disinclined to do so. He followed my gaze. The low sun had set aflame the numerous windows of a large building which turned slowly, demonstrating one huge chimney, then another, as the train clattered by.
‘Dat,’ said the little man, ‘is «Flambaum and Roth», great fabric, factory. Paper.’
There was a little pause. Then he scratched his big shiny nose and leaned towards me.
‘I have been,’ he said, ‘London, Manchester, Sheffield, Newcastle.’ He looked at the thumb which had been left uncounted.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘De toy-business. Before de war. And .I was playing a little football,’ he added, perhaps because he noticed that I glanced at a rough field with two goals dejectedly standing at the ends – one of the two had lost its crossbar.
He winked; his small moustache bristled.
‘Once, you know,’ he said and was convulsed with silent laughter, ‘once, you know, I fling, flung de ball from «out» direct into goal.’
‘Oh,’ I said wearily, ‘and did you score?’
‘De wind scored. Dat was a robinsonnada!’
‘A what?’
‘A robinsonnada – a marrvellous trick. Yes…. Are you voyaging farr?’ he inquired in a coaxing super-polite voice.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘this train does not go farther than Strasbourg, does it?’
‘No; I mean, meant in generahl. You are a traveller?’
I said yes.
‘In what?’ he asked, cocking his head.
‘Oh, in the past I suppose,’ I replied.
He nodded as if he had understood. Then, leaning again towards me, he touched me on the knee and said: ‘Now I sell ledder – you know – ledder balls, for odders to play. Old! No force! Also hound-muzzles and lings like dat.’
Again he tapped my knee lightly, ‘But earlier,’ he said, ‘last year, four last years, I was in de police – no, no, not once, not quite…. Plain-clotheses. Understand me?’
I looked at him with sudden interest.
‘Let me see,’ I said, ‘this gives me an idea….’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if you want help, good ledder, cigaretteйtui, straps, advice, boxing-gloves….’
‘Fifth and perhaps first,’ I said.
He took his bowler which lay on the seat near him, put it on carefully (his Adam’s apple rolling up and down), and then, with a shiny smile, briskly took it off to me.
‘My name is Silbermann,’ he said, and stretched out his hand. I shook it and named myself too.
‘But dat is not English,’ he cried slapping his knee. ‘Dat is Russian! Gavrit parussky? I know also some odder words… Wait! Yes! Cookolkah – de little doll.’
He was silent for a minute. I rolled in my head the idea he had given me. Should I try to consult a private detective’ agency? Would this little man be of any use himself?
‘Rebah!’ he cried. ‘Der’s anodder. Fish, so? and…. Yes. Braht, millee braht – dear brodder.’
‘I was thinking,’ I said, ‘that perhaps, if I told you of the bad fix I am in….’
‘But dat is all,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I speak [again the fingers were counted] Lithuanian, German, English, French [and again the thumb remained]. Forgotten Russian. Once! Quite!’
‘Could you perhaps….’ I began.
‘Anyfing,’ he said. ‘Ledder-belts, purses, notice-books, suggestions.’
‘Suggestions,’ I said. ‘You see, I am trying to trace a person… a Russian lady whom I never have met, and whose name I do not know. All I know is that she lived for a certain stretch of time at a certain hotel at Blauberg.’
‘Ah, good place,’ said Mr Silbermann, ‘very good’ – and he screwed down the ends of his lips in grave approbation. ‘Good water, walks, caseeno. What you want me to do?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I should first like to know what can be done in such cases.’
‘Better leave her alone,’ said Mr Silbermann, promptly.
Then he thrust his head forward and his bushy eyebrows moved.
‘Forget her,’ he said. ‘Fling her out of your head. It is dangerous and ewsyless.’ He flicked something off my trouser knee, nodded and sat back again.
‘Never mind that,’ I said. ‘The question is how, not why.’
‘Every how has its why,’ said Mr Silbermann. ‘You find, found her build, her I picture, and now want to find herself yourself? Dat is not love. Ppah! Surface!’
‘Oh, no,’ I cried, ‘it is not like that. I haven’t the vaguest idea what she is like. But, you see, my dead brother loved her, and I want to hear her talk about him. It’s really quite simple.’
‘Sad!’ said Mr Silbermann and shook his head.
‘I want to write a book about him,’ I continued, ‘and every detail of his life interests me.’
‘What was he ill?’ Mr Silbermann asked huskily.
‘Heart,’ I replied.
‘Harrt – dat’s bad. Too many warnings, too many… general… general….’
‘Dress rehearsals of death. That’s right.’
‘Yes. And how old?’
‘Thirty-six. He wrote books, under his mother’s name. Knight. Sebastian Knight.’
‘Write it here,’ said Mr Silbermann handing me an extraordinarily nice new notebook enclosing a delightful silver pencil, With a trk-trk-trk sound, he neatly removed the page, put it into his pocket and handed me the book again.
‘You like it, no?’ he said with an anxious smile. ‘Permit me a little present.’
‘Really,’ I said, ‘that’s very kind….’
‘Nofing, nofing,’ he said, waving his hand. ‘Now, what you want?’
‘I want,’ I replied, ‘to get a complete list of all the people who have stayed in the Hotel Beaumont during June 1929. I also want some particulars of who they are, the women at least. I want their ‘addresses. I want to be sure that under a foreign name a Russian woman is not hidden. Then I shall choose the most probable one or ones and….’
‘And try to reach dem,’ said Mr Silbermann nodding. ‘Well! Very well! I had, have all the hotel-gentlemans here [he showed his palm], and it will be simple. Your address, please.’
He produced another notebook, this time a very worn one, with some of the bescribbled pages falling off like autumn-leaves. I added that I should not move from Strasbourg until he called.
‘Friday,’ he said. ‘Six, punctly.’
Then the extraordinary little man sank back in his seat, folded his arms, and closed his eyes, as if clinched business had somehow put a full stop to our conversation. A fly inspected his bald brow, but he did not move. He dozed until Strasbourg. There we parted.
‘Look here,’ I said as we shook hands. ‘You must tell me your fee… I mean, I’m ready to pay you whatever you think suitable…. And perhaps you would like something in advance….’
‘You will send me your book,’ he said lifting a stumpy finger. ‘And pay for possible depences,’ he added under his breath. ‘Cerrtainly!’
14
So this was the way I got a list of some forty-two names among which Sebastian’s (S. Knight, 36 Oak Park Gardens, London, SW) seemed strangely lovely and lost. I was rather struck (pleasantly) by the fact that all the addresses were there too, affixed to the names: Silbermann hurriedly explained that people often die in Blauberg. Out of forty-one unknown persons as many as thirty-seven ‘did not come to question’ as the little man put it. True, three of these (unmarried women) bore Russian names, but two of them were German and one Alsatian: they had often stayed at the hotel. There was also a somewhat baffling girl, Vera Rasine; Silbermann however knew for certain that she was French; that, in fact, she was a dancer and the mistress of a Strasbourg banker. There was also an aged Polish couple whom we let pass without a qualm. All the rest of this ‘out-of-the-question’ group, that is thirty-one persons, consisted of twenty adult males; of these only eight were married or at least had brought their wives (Emma, Hildegard, Pauline, and so on), all of whom Silbermann swore were elderly, respectable, and eminently non-Russian.
Thus we were left with four names:
Mademoiselle Lydia Bohemsky with an address in Paris. She had spent nine days in the hotel at the beginning of Sebastian’s stay and the manager did not remember anything about her.
Madame de Rechnoy. She had left the hotel for Paris on the eve of Sebastian’s departure for the same city. The manager remembered that she was a smart young woman and very generous with her tips. The ‘de’ denoted, I knew, a certain type of Russian who likes to accent gentility, though really me use of me French particule before a Russian name is not only absurd but illegal. She might have been an adventuress: she might have been me wife of a snob.
Helene Grinstein. The name was Jewish but in spite of me ‘stein’ it was not German-Jewish. That ‘i’ in ‘grin’ displacing the natural ‘u’ pointed to its having grown in Russia. She had arrived but a week before Sebastian left and had stayed three days longer. The manager said she was a pretty woman. She had been to his hotel once before and lived in Berlin.
Helene von Graun. That was a real German name. But me manager was positive mat several times during her stay she had sung songs in Russian. She had a splendid contralto, he said, and was ravishing. She had remained a month in all, leaving for Paris five days before Sebastian.
I meticulously noted all these particulars and the four addresses. Any of these four might prove to be the
