‘Family loyalty?’ said Petra. ‘I’d lie like a trooper for mother and my brothers and sister and their children, of course. Otherwise — in my mother’s expression — phooey! And that goes for that horrible boy Florian.’
Gavin believed her and climbed to the flat above. This time the door was opened by a maid. Gavin gave his name and rank and asked whether Mr Bernardo Rose was at home. Before the girl could answer, Maarte Rose joined her in the outer vestibule.
‘What is it, Ethel?’ she asked. Gavin explained. Maarte dismissed the girl and looked at Gavin enquiringly.
‘My son is in no trouble?’ she asked. Gavin smiled.
‘I hope not,’ he said, ‘but I should be glad to have a word with him, if he is Mr Bernardo Rose.’
‘About what?’
‘About his movements during the past few weeks.’
‘But he has not been much in England during the past few weeks. We are in the diamond business and my son goes often to Amsterdam. It saves my husband the journey and leaves him free, also, to attend to the work on this side.’
‘Is your son in England now?’
‘Yes, but busy, very busy.’
‘In his office?’
‘In his office, yes.’
‘May I have the address, please?’
‘Not until I know why you want to see him.’ Her round, fair-complexioned face spelled obstinacy.
‘Well,’ said Gavin, ‘an accusation has been levelled against him, and I want…’
‘False! My son would do nothing against the law. We have a good name. It would not pay us to cheat people.’
‘I know. It is nothing to do with your family business. I’m sorry I can’t explain.’
‘I did not know that in England we have the secret police.’
‘Come, now, Mrs Rose, you’ll have to trust me. After I’ve spoken to your son he will be at perfect liberty to tell you anything he chooses about the interview, but, if we are to refute this charge which has been made against him, I really must see him. Don’t you understand that?’
Maarte studied him with solemn, unemotional blue eyes.
‘Please to come in,’ she said. ‘I will engage Bernardo upon the telephone and find out whether he is willing to speak to you.’
‘He’ll be very unwise if he refuses to speak to me,’ said Gavin, smiling at her, but obtaining no response except the same direct and serious scrutiny. ‘But, before you telephone, perhaps you would be kind enough to answer a question.’
‘Perhaps. What is it? Please to sit down. Now?’
‘In which country did you spend the war years?’
‘In which country? Why, of course, here in England.’
‘You were in England when war broke out?’
‘Certainly! Since I was born I am living in England, so I was certainly here when war began.’
‘Thank you. And your husband?’
‘He and his family are English Jews since 1900.’
‘Was he in the Army, then, during the war?’
‘A gunner, yes.’
‘A prisoner of war?’
‘Oh, no, never a prisoner of war.’
‘And Bernardo, I take it, was too young to fight?’
‘Bernardo is a little boy of not quite two when war breaks out. He is a little boy evacuated to America, to my husband’s sister, as soon as we think things may be bad.’
‘I see. Thank you. That clears that up, then. Were any of your relatives still in Holland during the war?’
‘Oh, yes. My aunt Binnen and my cousins, her daughters. They were interned, they say, and suffered hunger and bad treatment, but not my aunt. She was of the Dutch Resistance. We are proud of her.’
‘Yes, of course you are. Now, if you wouldn’t mind ringing up your son…’
He did not hear the conversation between Bernardo and his mother, as the telephone was not in the room where he was sitting, but Maarte came back after a surprisingly short absence and told him that Bernardo would be pleased to see him over a drink at six o’clock that evening. The hostelry was named and Gavin took his leave. He treated himself later to a large, indigestible tea and lingered over it, and then went off to meet Maarte’s son. He felt interested in Bernardo.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dinner with Bernardo
