The Numbered Account by Ann Bridge Page B

movements?’ she asked de Kessler.
    â€˜La demoiselle
spoke of visiting Interlaken, to see the Jungfrau; nothing more. The
fiancé
spoke of making some ascensions.’
    â€˜Ah yes, the
fiancé
. Was he tall, dark, with a markedly olive complexion, and the figure of an athlete?’ Julia enquired.
    â€˜C’est exacte
, Mademoiselle,’ the old man said. Chambertin had a question to put.
    â€˜On which day did they come? Six days ago, you say? We must alert Interpol, and also the
Fremden-Polizei
, theSecurity Police. It is possible that they have not yet left the country.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t it be better to leave the police till Monsieur de Ritter has been,’ Julia counselled. She was thinking that she must try to ring up Colin from the Palais des Nations at lunch-time.
    â€˜Mademoiselle, the reputation of the Banque Républicaine is at stake! There is not a moment to lose.’
    Julia refrained from pointing out that the bank had already lost six days.
    â€˜As Monsieur de Kessler has their passport numbers, would there be any means of checking at the frontiers whether they have left or not?’ she asked. ‘No. I expect not—those men in uniform just open your passport, take a good stare at you, snap it shut and hand it back. They couldn’t possibly keep a record.’
    Chambertin smiled a little at this description.
    â€˜No, Mademoiselle, they do not. But they are quite observant, and this party of three, whom you seem to have observed very closely, might well be noticed. How was the aspect of the young girl, by the way?’
    â€˜Ask Monsieur de Kessler,’ Julia said.
    â€˜She was blonde,’ de Kessler said, hesitantly.
    â€˜Yes, but her eyes—the colour—and tall or short?’ Chambertin asked impatiently.
    â€˜She was petite—and
très jolie,’
de Kessler said. Chambertin turned to Julia.
    â€˜Mademoiselle, can you help us?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Julia said. ‘This girl was certainly most carefully chosen as a double of Miss Armitage—needlessly, since the personnel of the bank failed to notice her appearance.’ She could not resist that crack. ‘She is very short indeed, very slender, with tiny hands and feet, and though she is—or has been made to appear—ash-blonde, her eyes are dark brown.’
    Chambertin was scribbling.
    â€˜Perfect,’ he said. ‘And her clothes—did you observe these also?’
    â€˜Yes. A pale cream suit, a little blouse to match, a lightbrown overcoat—and a hat of cream Bangkok straw, trimmed with brown nylon lace to match the overcoat. Shoes and hand-bag of brown crocodile.’
    Chambertin went on scribbling. ‘Miss Probyn, you would be worth a fortune as a detective,’ he exclaimed.
    â€˜I want to be worth Miss Armitage’s fortune, Monsieur Chambertin!’ She looked at her watch—nearly twelve. ‘Could someone call me a taxi?’ She wanted to tidy up at the hotel before going out to lunch.
    She did not, however, let the taxi take her to the Bergues; she got out at the foot-bridge leading to the Île Rousseau, and then walked to the hotel. These types seemed to be up to everything; one couldn’t be too careful. And there was that damned detective, too, actually staying in the hotel. What on earth was he up to?
    In her room she changed into a thinner frock—Geneva heats up in the middle of the day—and looked in the back of her engagement-book to make sure that she had got Colin’s office number. She had, and she would just have to risk telephoning there from the Palais des Nations after lunch; surely it ought to be one of the safest places. Anyhow Colin was usually pretty quick at picking up what she was driving at, either in their ‘darling-darling’ language or, at the worst, in Gaelic. But oh, why hadn’t she written to him about the girl at Victoria? ‘Because one’s afraid of