an uninterested one, of Renata, but when his gaze turned to Stafford Nye, there was definite interest and appraisal. Caution, thought Stafford Nye. Caution! He must play his part right now. Play the part that was expected of him. Only — what the hell was that part? What was he doing here? What were he or the girl supposed to be doing here? Why had they come? The hero spoke.
'So,' he said, 'we have guests!' And he added, smiling with the arrogance of a young man who knows that he is vastly superior to any other person in the world. 'Welcome, guests, welcome to you both.'
Somewhere in the depths of the Schloss a great bell began tolling. It had no funereal sound about it, but it had a disciplinary air. The feeling of a monastery summoned to some holy office.
'We must sleep now,' said old Charlotte . 'Sleep. We will meet again tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock.'
She looked towards Renata and Sir Stafford Nye.
'You will be shown to your rooms. I hope you will sleep well.'
It was the Royal dismissal.
Stafford Nye saw Renata's arm fly up in the Fascist salute but it was addressed not to Charlotte , but to this fair-haired boy. He thought she said: 'Heil Franz Joseph!', copied her gesture and he, too, said 'Heil!'
Charlotte spoke to them.
'Would it please you tomorrow morning to start the day with a ride through the forest?'
'I should like it of all things,' said Stafford Nye.
'And you, child?'
'Yes, I too.'
'Very good then. It shall be arranged. Good night to you both. I am glad to welcome you here. Franz Joseph — give me your arm. We will go into the Chinese Boudoir. We have much to discuss, and you will have to leave in good time tomorrow morning.'
The menservants escorted Renata and Stafford Nye to their apartments. Nye hesitated for a moment on the threshold. Would it be possible for them to have a word or two now? He decided against it. As long as the castle walls surrounded them it was well to be careful. One never knew — each room might be wired with microphones.
Sooner or later, though, he had to ask questions. Certain things aroused a new and sinister apprehension in his mind. He was being persuaded, inveigled into something. But what? And whose doing was it?
The bedrooms were handsome, yet oppressive. The rich hangings of satin and Velvets, some of them antique, gave out a faint perfume of decay, tempered by spices. He wondered how often Renata had stayed here before.
Chapter 11
THE YOUNG AND LOVELY
After breakfasting on the following morning in a small breakfast-room downstairs, he found Renata waiting for him. The horses were at the door.
Both of them had brought riding clothes with them. Everything they could possibly require seemed to have been intelligently anticipated.
They mounted and rode away down the castle drive. Renata spoke with the groom at some length.
'He asked if we would like him to accompany us but I said no. I know the tracks round here fairly well.'
'I see. You have been here before?'
'Not very often of late years. Early in my life I knew this place very well.'
He gave her a sharp look. She did not return it. As she rode beside him, he watched her profile — the thin, aquiline nose, the head carried so proudly on the slender neck. She rode a horse well, he saw that.
All the same, there was a sense of ill ease in his mind this morning. He wasn't sure why…
His mind went back to the Airport Lounge. The woman who had come to stand beside him. The glass of Pilsner on the table… Nothing in it that there shouldn't have been — neither then, nor later. A risk he had accepted. Why, when all that was long over, should it rouse uneasiness in him now?
They had a brief canter following a ride through the trees. A beautiful property, beautiful woods. In the distance he saw horned animals. A paradise for a sportsman, a paradise for the old way of living, a paradise that contained — what? A serpent? As it was in the beginning — with Paradise went a serpent. He drew rein and the horses fell to a walk. He and Renata were alone — no microphones, no listening walls — the time had come for his questions.
'Who is she?' he said urgently. 'What is she?'
'It's easy to answer. So easy that it's hardly believable.'
'Well?' he said.
'She's oil. Copper. Goldmines in South Africa . Armaments in Sweden . Uranium deposits in the north. Nuclear development, vast stretches of cobalt. She's all those things.'
'And yet, I hadn't heard about her, I didn't know her name, I didn't know –'
'She has not wanted people to know.'
'Can one keep such things quiet?'
'Easily, if you have enough copper and oil and nuclear deposits and armaments and all the rest of it. Money can advertise, or money can keep secrets, can hush things up.'
'But who actually is she?'
'Her grandfather was American. He was mainly railways, I think. Possibly Chicago hogs in those times. It's like going back into history, finding out. He married a German woman You've heard of her, I expect. Big Belinda, they used to christen her. Armaments, shipping, the whole industries of Europe . She was her father's heiress.'
'Between those two, unbelievable wealth,' said Sir Stafford Nye. 'And so — power. Is that what you're telling me?'
'Yes. She didn't just inherit things, you know. She made money as well. She'd inherited brains, she was a big financier in her own right. Everything she touched multiplied itself. Turned to incredible sums of money, and she invested them. Taking advice, taking other people's judgment, but in the end always using her own. And always prospering. Always adding to her wealth so that it was too fabulous to be believed. Money creates money.'
'Yes, I can understand that. Wealth has to increase if there's a superfluity of it. But — what did she want? What has she got?'
'You said it just now. Power.'
'And she lives here? Or does she –?'
'She visits America and Sweden . Oh yes, she visits places, but not often. This is where she prefers to be, in the centre of a web like a vast spider controlling all the threads. The threads of finance. Other threads too.'
'When you say, other threads –'
'The arts. Music, pictures, writers. Human beings — young human beings.'
'Yes. One might know that. Those pictures, a wonderful collection.'
'There are galleries of them upstairs in the Schloss. There are Rembrandts and Giottos and Raphaels and there are cases of jewels — some of the most wonderful jewels in the world.'
'All belonging to one ugly, gross old woman. Is she satisfied?'
'Not yet, but well on the way to being.'
'Where is she going, what does she want?'
'She loves youth. That is her mode of power. To control youth. The world is full of rebellious youth at this moment. That's been helped on. Modern philosophy, modern thought, writers and others whom she finances and controls.'
'But how can –?' He stopped.
'I can't tell you because I don't know. It's an enormous ramification. She's behind it in one sense, supports rather curious charities, earnest philanthropists and idealists, raises innumerable grants for students and artists and writers.'
'And yet you say it's not –'
