Doctor Fisher of Geneva

16

Ironically I was delayed on the auto route by an accident: a private car had smashed itself against a lorry on a frozen patch of the road. The police were there and an ambulance, and something was being removed from the wreck of the car with the help of an acetylene burner which flamed so brightly in the dark that it made the night twice as black when I had passed. Albert was already standing by the open door when I arrived. His manner had certainly improved (perhaps I had been accepted as one of the Toads), for he came down the steps to greet me and opened the door of the car and for the first time he allowed himself to remember my name. ‘Good evening, Mr Jones, Doctor Fischer suggests that you keep on your coat. Dinner is being served on the lawn.’

‘On the lawn? ‘ I exclaimed. It was a clear night: the stars were as brilliant as chips of ice, and the temperature was below zero.

‘I think you will find it warm enough, sir.’

He led me through the lounge in which I had first met Mrs Montgomery and then through another room, where the walls were lined with books in expensive calf bindings - they had probably been bought in sets. (‘ The library, sir.’) It would have been much cheaper, I thought, to have used false backs, for the room had an unused air. French windows opened on to the great lawn which sloped down to the invisible lake and for a moment I could see nothing at all but a blaze of light. Four enormous bonfires crackled away across the snow, and lights were hanging from the branches of every tree.

‘Isn’t it wonderful and crazy and beautiful?’ Mrs Montgomery cried, as she advanced from the edge of the dark to meet me with the assured air of a hostess addressing an intimidated guest. ‘Why, it’s a real fairyland. I don’t believe you’ll even need your coat, Mr Jones. We are all of us so glad to see you back among us. We’ve quite missed you.’

‘We’ and ‘us’ - I could see them now undazzled by the bonfires; the Toads were all there, standing around a table prepared in the centre of the fires; it glittered with crystal glasses which reflected the to and fro of the flames. The atmosphere was very different from what I remembered of the Porridge Party.

‘Such a shame that this is the very last party,’ Mrs Montgomery said, ‘but you’ll see how he’s giving us a really great farewell. I helped him with the menu myself. No porridge!’

Albert was suddenly beside me, holding a tray of glasses, whisky, dry martinis and Alexanders. ‘I am an Alexander girl,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘This is my third. How absurd it is when people tell you that cocktails spoil the palate. What I always say is, it’s just not-feeling-hungry that spoils the palate.’

Richard Deane in his turn came out of the shadows carrying a gold-embossed menu. I could see he was already well plastered, and there beyond him, between two bonfires, was Mr Kips who actually seemed to be laughing: it was difficult to be quite sure because of his stoop which hid his mouth, but his shoulders were certainly shaking. ‘This is better than porridge,’ Deane said, ‘what a pity that it’s the last party. Do you think the old fellow’s running out of cash?’

‘No, no,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘He always told us that one day there would be the last and the best and the most exciting party of all. Anyway I don’t think he has the heart to go on any longer. After what’s happened. His poor daughter…’

‘Has he a heart?’ I asked.

‘Ah, you don’t know him as all of us do. His generosity…’ With the automatic reflex of a Pavlov dog she touched the emerald hung around her throat.

‘Drink up and seat yourselves.’

It was Doctor Fischer’s voice which brought us to heel from a dark corner of the garden. I hadn’t seen until then where he was standing. He was stooped over a barrel some twenty yards away, and I could see his hands moving within it as though he were washing them.

‘Just look at the dear man,’ Mrs Montgomery said.

‘He takes such an interest in every small detai1.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘He’s hiding the crackers in the bran tub.’

‘Why not have them on the table?’

‘He doesn’t want people crackling them all through the dinner to find out what’s inside. It was I who told him about the bran tub. Just fancy, he had never heard of such a thing before. I don’t think he can have had a very happy childhood, do you? But he took to the idea at once. You see, he’s put the presents in the crackers and the crackers in the bran rub and we’ll all have to draw them out at random with our eyes shut.’

‘Suppose you get a gold cigar-cutter?’

‘Impossible. These presents have been chosen to suit everyone equally.’

‘What is there in the world which can possibly suit everyone? ‘

‘Just wait and see. He’ll tell us. Trust him. At bottom, you know, he’s a very sensitive sort of person.’

We sat down at the table. I found myself seated this time between Mrs Montgomery and Richard Deane, and opposite me were Belmont and Mr Kips. The Divisionnaire was at the end of the table facing our host. The array of glasses was impressive and the menu informed me that there would be a 1971 Meursault, a 1969 Mouton Rothschild, and I can’t remember the date of the Cockburn port. At least, I thought, I can drink myself stupid without the help of aspirin. The bottle of Finnish vodka, served with the Caviare (this time the Caviare was handed to all of us), was enclosed in a solid block of ice in which the petals of hothouse flowers had been frozen. I took off my overcoat and hung it on the back of my chair to guard me from the heat of the bonfire behind. Two gardeners like sentries moved to and fro, their steps unheard on the deep white carpet of the snow, feeding the flames with logs of wood. It was a curiously unnatural scene - so much heat and so much snow, and the snow beneath our chairs was already beginning to melt from the warmth of the bonfires. Soon, I thought, we shall be sitting with our feet in slush.

The Caviare in a great bowl was served to us twice, and everyone but myself and Doctor Fischer took a second helping. ‘It’s so healthy,’ Mrs Montgomery explained. ‘Full of vitamin c.’

‘I can drink Finnish vodka with a good conscience,’ Belmont told us, accepting a third glass.

‘They fought a remarkable campaign in the winter of1939,’ the Divisionnaire said. ‘If the French had done as well in ‘40…’

Richard Deane asked me, ‘Did you by any chance see me in The Beaches of Dunkirk?’

‘No. I wasn’t at Dunkirk.’

‘It’s the film I meant.’

‘No. I’m afraid I never saw it. Why?’

‘I just wondered. I think it was quite the best film I ever made.’

With the Mouton Rothschild there was a roti de boeuf. It had been cooked in a very light pastry which preserved all the juice of the meat. A magnificent dish, of course, but for a moment the sight of the red blood sickened me - I was back at the foot of the ski-lift.

‘Albert,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘you must cut up Mr Jones’s meat for him. He has a deformed hand.’

‘Poor Mr Jones, ‘ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘Let me do it. Do you like the pieces cut small?’

‘Pity, always pity,’ the Doctor said. ‘You ought to rewrite the Bible… Pity your neighbour as you pity yourself.” Women have such an exaggerated sense of pity. My daughter took after her mother in that. Perhaps she married you out of pity, Jones. I’m sure Mrs Montgomery would marry you if you asked her. But pity wears off quickly, when the pitied one is out of sight.’

‘What emotion doesn’t wear off?’ Deane asked.

‘Love,’ Mrs Montgomery replied promptly.

‘I’ve never been able to sleep with the same woman for more than three months,’ Deane said. ‘It becomes a chore. ‘

‘Then that isn’t real love.’

‘How long were you married, Mrs Montgomery?’

‘Twenty years.’

‘I must explain to you, Deane,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘that Mr Montgomery was a very rich man. A big bank balance helps real love to last longer. But you aren’t eating, Jones. Don’t you find the beef tender enough or perhaps Mrs Montgomery hasn’t cut it up in small enough pieces?’

‘The meat is excellent, but I have no appetite.’ I helped myself to another glass of Mouton Rothschild; it wasn’t for the flavour of the wine that I drank it, for my palate seemed dead, it was for the distant promise of a sort of oblivion.

‘In the normal course, Jones,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘you would have lost your prize by not eating, but at this last party of ours no one will forfeit a prize except by his own express wish.’

‘Who could possibly refuse one of your presents, Doctor Fischer?’ Mrs Montgomery asked.

‘That is what in a few minutes I shall be very interested to discover.’

‘You know it could never happen, you generous man.’

‘Never is a big word. I’m not so sure that tonight… Albert, you are neglecting the glasses. Mr Deane’s is almost empty, and so is Monsieur Belmont’s. ‘

It was not until we had begun to drink the port (at the end of the meal in the English manner served with Stilton) that he explained his meaning. As usual it was Mrs Montgomery who set him off.

‘My fingers are itching,’ she said, ‘to get at that bran pie.’

‘Just a lot of crackers,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘Mr Kips, you really mustn’t fall asleep until you pull your cracker. You are blocking the port, Deane. No. Not that way. Where were you educated? Clockwise.’

‘Just crackers,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘You silly man. We know better. It’s what’s in the crackers that counts. ‘

‘Six crackers,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘and five contain the same pieces of paper.’

‘Pieces of paper?’ Belmont exclaimed and Mr Kips tried to swivel his head in Doctor Fischer’s direction.

‘Mottoes,’ Mrs Montgomery explained. ‘All good crackers contain mottoes.’

‘But what else?’ Belmont demanded.

‘There are no mottoes,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘These pieces of paper are printed with a certain name and address - Credit Suisse, Berne.’

‘Surely not cheques?’ Mr Kips asked.

‘Cheques, Mr Kips, and each one made out for the same sum, so that nobody need feel jealous.’

‘I don’t much like the idea of cheques between friends,’ Belmont said. ‘Oh, I know you mean to be kind, Doctor Fischer, and we’ve all appreciated the little presents you have often given us at the end of a party, but cheques - it’s not - well - not very dignified, is it, apart from any fiscal problems?’

‘I’m paying you all off - that’s what it amounts to.’

‘We are not your employees, damn it,’ Richard Deane said.

‘Are you so sure of that? Haven’t you all played your parts for my amusement and your profit? Deane, you for one must have felt quite at home taking my orders. I’ve been just another director, who lends you a talent you don’t possess yourself.’

‘I don’t have to accept your bloody cheque.’

‘You don’t have to, Deane, but you will. Why, you’d play Mr Darling in Peter Pan shut up in a dog kennel if the cheque was large enough.’

‘We’ve had an excellent dinner,’ Belmont said, ‘which we’ll always remember with appreciation. We mustn’t get over-excited. I can understand Deane’s point, but I do think he exaggerates.’

‘Of course you are quite at liberty to refuse my little farewell presents if you wish. I will tell Albert to take away the bran tub. Albert, did you hear me? Take the bran tub to the kitchen - no, wait one moment. Before you decide I think you ought to know what is written on those scraps of paper. Two million francs on each.’

‘Two million!’ Belmont exclaimed.

‘The name is left blank on all the cheques. You can fill in what name you wish. Perhaps Mr Kips would like to donate his cheque to some medical research on curing curvature of the spine. Mrs Montgomery may even want to buy a lover. Deane can partly finance a film. He is in danger of becoming what I believe in his world is called unbankable.’

‘It doesn’t seem quite proper,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘It sort of suggests that you think us mercenary friends. ‘

‘Didn’t your emerald suggest that?’

‘Jewels from a man one loves are quite different. You don’t realize, Doctor Fischer, how much we love you. Platonic perhaps, but is platonic less real than, well… you know what I mean.’

‘Of course I’m aware that not one of you needs two million francs to spend on yourselves. You are all rich enough to give the money away - though I wonder if any of you will.’

‘It does make a certain difference,’ Belmont said, ‘that our names are not on the cheques.’

‘Tax wise,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘I felt sure it would be more convenient. But you know better about such things than I do.’

‘I was not thinking of that. I was thinking of human dignity.’

‘Ah, yes, I understand you really mean that it’s more difficult to feel insulted by a cheque for two million Francs than one for two thousand.’

‘I would have phrased it differently,’ Belmont said.

For the first time the Divisionnaire spoke. He said, ‘ I am not a financier like Mr Kips or Monsieur Belmont. I am only a simple soldier, but I cannot see the difference between accepting Caviare and accepting a cheque.’

‘Bravo, General,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘It was just what I was going to say myself.’

Mr Kips said, ‘I made no objection. I only asked a question. ‘

‘I, too,’ Belmont said. ‘As our names are not on the cheques… I was only trying to be wise for all of us - especially for Mr Deane who is English. It’s my duty as his tax consultant.’

‘You advise me to accept?’ Deane asked.

‘Under the circumstances, yes.’

‘You can leave the bran tub where it is, Albert,’ said Doctor Fischer.

‘There is something unexplained,’ Mr Kips said. ‘You have mentioned six crackers and five pieces of paper. Is this because Mr Jones is not taking part?’

‘Mr Jones will have the same chance as any of you. In turn you will go to the bran tub and fish for your cracker - you will pull it while you stand by the bran tub and then return to the table. That is to say if you return at all.’

‘What do you mean - if?’ Deane asked.

‘I suggest, before I answer your question, that you all take another glass of port. No, no, please, Deane. I told you before - not anti-clockwise.’

‘You are making us quite tiddly,, Mrs Montgomery said.

Deane said, ‘You haven’t answered Mr Kips’s question. Why only five pieces of paper?’

‘I drink to the health of all of you,’ Doctor Fischer said, raising his glass. ‘Even if you refuse to draw your cracker you will deserve your dinner, for you are helping me in my last piece of research. ‘

‘What research?’

‘Into the greed of the rich.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Dear Doctor Fischer. It’s one of his little jokes,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘Drink up, Mr Deane.’

They all drank. I could tell they were more than a little intoxicated - it was only I who seemed hopelessly condemned to the sadness of sobriety however much I drank. I left my glass empty. I was determined to drink no more before I was at home alone and I could drink myself to death if I chose.

‘Jones doesn’t drink our toast. Never mind. Tonight all our rules are relaxed. I have for a long time wanted to test the strength of your greed. You have submitted to a great deal of humiliation and you have accepted it for the sake of the prize which followed. Our Porridge Party was merely the final test. Your greed was greater than any humiliation that I had the imagination to invent.’

‘There was no humiliation, you dear man. It was just your wonderful sense of humour. We enjoyed it all as much as you did.’

‘Now I want to see whether your greed can even overcome your fear - and so I have organized what I would call - a Bomb Party.’

‘What the hell do you mean, Bomb Party?’ Deane’s drinks had made him aggressive.

‘The sixth cracker contains a small charge, lethal probably, which will be set off by one of you when he pulls the cracker. That is why the bran tub is set at a good distance from our table, and that is why the crackers are well buried and the bran tub covered by a lid in case of a spark landing there from one of the bonfires. I may add that it would be useless - indeed perhaps dangerous - for you to crinkle your crackers. They all hold the same type of metal container, but in only one container is there what I call the bomb. In the others are the cheques.’

‘He’s joking,’ Mrs Montgomery told us.

‘Perhaps I am. You will know by the end of the party whether I am or not. Isn’t the gamble worth while? Death is by no means certain, even if you choose the dangerous cracker, and I give you my word of honour that the cheques anyway are really there. For two million francs.’

‘But if someone was killed,’ Belmont said, winking rapidly, ‘why, it would be murder.’

‘Oh, not murder. I have you all as witnesses. A form of Russian roulette. Not even suicide. I am sure Mr Kips will agree with me. Anyone who doesn’t wish to play should leave the table at once.’

‘I am certainly not going to play,’ said Mr Kips. He looked around for support but he found none. ‘I refuse to be a witness. There will be a great scandal, Doctor Fischer. It’s the least you can expect.’

He rose from the table and, as he paced his back-bent way between the bonfires towards the house, I was again reminded of a little black seven. It seemed odd that a man so handicapped should be the first to refuse the risk of death.

‘There are five chances to one in your favour,’ Doctor Fischer told him as he passed.

‘I have never gambled for money,’ Mr Kips said. ‘I consider it highly immoral.’

In a strange way his words seemed to lighten the atmosphere. The Divisionnaire said, ‘I don’t see any immorality in gambling. I have passed many a happy week at Monte Carlo. I once won three times consecutively on 19.’

‘Sometimes I have been across the lake to the casino in Evian,, Belmont said. ‘Never high stakes. But I am by no means a puritan in these matters.’ It was as if they had quite forgotten the bomb. Perhaps it was only I and Mr Kips who believed that Doctor Fischer had spoken the truth.

‘Mr Kips took you too seriously,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘He has no sense of humour. ‘

‘What will happen to Mr Kips’s cheque,’ Belmont asked, ‘when his cracker remains unpicked?’

‘I shall divide it between you. Unless of course it contains the charge. You would hardly want me to divide that.’

‘Another four hundred thousand francs each,’ Belmont calculated quickly.

‘No. More than that. One of you will probably not have survived.’

‘Survived!’ Deane exclaimed. Perhaps he had been too drunk to take in the story of the explosive cracker.

‘Of course,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘all may very well end on a happy note. The sixth cracker may be the one that contains the bomb.’

‘Are you seriously saying there’s a bloody bomb in one of the crackers?’

‘Two million five hundred thousand francs,’ Mrs Montgomery murmured - she had obviously corrected Belmont’s figures and she was certainly dreaming of what Doctor Fischer had described as a happy ending.

‘You, Deane, I am sure, will not refuse the little gamble. I remember how in The Beaches of Dunkirk you bravely volunteered for a suicidal action. You were splendid - at least you were splendidly directed. You very nearly won an Oscar, didn’t you?.. I will go, sir, if I may go alone.” That was the great line I shall always remember. Who wrote it?’

‘I wrote it myself. Not the script writer or the director. It came to me suddenly like that, on the set.’

‘Congratulations, my boy. Now here’s your big chance to go to the bran tub alone.’

I never expected Deane to go. He stood up and drained his port, and I thought he was going to follow Mr Kips. But perhaps in drink he really believed he was back on a film set and an imaginary Dunkirk. He touched the side of his head as though he were adjusting a non-existent beret, but while he was thinking himself back into his old role Mrs Montgomery acted. She left the table and ran across the snow to the bran tub crying, ‘Ladies first,’ knocked off the lid and plunged her hand into the bran. Perhaps she had calculated that the odds would never be as favourable again.

Belmont had probably been thinking along the same lines, for he protested, ‘We should have drawn for turns. ‘

Mrs Montgomery found her cracker and pulled. There was a small pop and a little metal cylinder fell on to the snow. She poked out a roll of paper and gave a scream of excitement.

‘What’s wrong?’ Doctor Fischer asked.

‘Nothing’s wrong, you dear man. Everything’s splendidly right. Credit Suisse, Berne. Two million francs.’ She ran back to the table. ‘Give me a pen, somebody. I want to fill in my name. It might get lost.’

‘I would advise you not to fill in your name until we have considered things very carefully,’ Belmont said, but he was speaking to a deaf woman. Richard Deane stood stiffly to attention. At any moment, I thought, he will salute his colonel. He must in his mind have been listening to the last orders he had been given and Belmont had the time he needed to reach the bran tub before him. He hesitated a little before pulling his cracker out: the same small cylinder: the same paper, and he gave a little smile of self-satisfaction and his eye winked. He had calculated the odds - he had been right to bet. He was a man who knew all about money.

Deane said, ‘I will go, sir, if I may go alone.’

All the same he didn’t go. Perhaps the director at that moment had ordered’ Cut.’

‘What about you, Jones?, Doctor Fischer said. ‘The odds are narrowing.’

‘I prefer to watch your damned experiment to the end. Greed is winning, isn’t it?’

‘If you watch you must eventually play - or leave like Mr Kips.’

‘Oh, I’ll play, I promise you that. I’ll bet on the last cracker. That gives better odds to the Divisionnaire.’

‘You’re a stupid and boring man,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘there’s no credit in choosing death if you want to die. What in God’s name is Deane doing?’

‘I think he’s improvising.’

Deane was still by the table, pouring out another glass of port, but no one this time had taken advantage of the delay for only myself and the Divisionnaire were left.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Deane said. ‘It’s a kind thought. Dutch courage never did anyone any harm - Quite unnecessary in your case, captain, I know - Thank you, sir, but the more unnecessary it is the better the flavour - If you come back safely we’ll split another bottle - Cockburn’s, like this, I hope, sir.’

I wondered if he would spin the dialogue out till dawn, but at the last sentence he put down his glass, saluted smartly and marched to the bran tub, fumbled for a cracker, pulled it, and fell on the ground beside the cylinder and the cheque.

‘Dead drunk,’ Doctor Fischer said and told the gardeners to carry him into the house.

The Divisionnaire looked at me from the end of the table. He asked, ‘Why did you stay. Mr Jones?’

‘I have nothing better to do with my time, General.’

‘Don’t call me that. I’m not a General. I am a Divisionnaire.’

‘Why have you stayed, Divisionnaire?’

‘It’s too late to turn tail now. I haven’t the courage. I should have gone to the tub first, when the odds were better. What was that man Deane saying?’

‘I think he was acting a young captain who volunteers for a desperate mission.’

‘I am a Divisionnaire, and Divisionnaires don’t go on desperate missions. Besides, there are no desperate missions in Switzerland. Unless this is the exception. Will you go first, Mr Jones?’

‘What do you think of convertible bonds?’ I heard Mrs Montgomery ask Belmont.

‘You have too many already,’ Belmont said, ‘and I think it will be a long time before the dollar recovers. ‘

‘I suggest you go first, Divisionnaire. I’m not in need of money and it gives you the better odds. I’m after something else.’

‘When I was a boy,’ the Divisionnaire said, ‘I used to play at Russian roulette with a cap pistol. It was very exciting.’ He made no move to go.

I could hear Belmont saying to Mrs Montgomery, ‘I am thinking myself of investing in something German. For example Badenwerk of Karlsruhe pay eight and five-eighths per cent - but then there’s always the danger of Russia, isn’t there? A rather unpredictable future.

As the Divisionnaire seemed unwilling to move I did. I wanted to bring the party to an end.

I had to sort through a lot of bran before I found a cracker. Unlike the boy with a cap pistol I felt no excitement - only a quiet sense when I touched the cracker that I was closer to Anna-Luise than I had been since I waited in the hospital room and the young doctor came to tell me she was dead. I held the cracker as though I were holding her hand, while I listened to the conversation at the table.

Belmont said to Mrs Montgomery, ‘I have rather more confidence in the Japanese. Mitsubishi pay only six and three-quarters, but it’s not worth taking unnecessary risks with two million.’

I found the Divisionnaire was at my side.

‘I think we ought to go now,’ Mrs Montgomery said.

‘I am afraid something may be going to happen, though of course in my heart of hearts I am sure Doctor Fischer has only been having a little joke with us.’

‘If you would like to send your car home with the chauffeur, I will drive you back and we can discuss your investments on the way.’

‘Surely you will wait till the end of the party?’ Doctor Fischer asked. ‘It won’t be long delayed now.’

‘Oh, it’s been a wonderful last party, but it’s getting too late for little me.’ She fluttered her hands at us. ‘Good-night, General. Good-night, Mr Jones. Wherever is Mr Deane?’

‘On the kitchen floor, I suspect. I hope Albert doesn’t take his cheque. He would certainly give notice and I should lose a good manservant.’

The Divisionnaire whispered to me, ‘Of course, we might just walk away and leave him? If you would come with me. I don’t want to go alone.’

‘In my case I have nowhere to walk to.’

In spite of the whisper Doctor Fischer had heard him.

‘You knew the rules of the game from the start, Divisionnaire. You could have left with Mr Kips before the game started. Now because the odds are not so good you begin to be afraid. Think of your honour as a soldier as well as the prize. There are still two million francs in that tub.’

But the Divisionnaire did not move. He looked at me with the same appeal. When one is afraid one needs company. Doctor Fischer went mercilessly on: ‘If you act quickly the odds are two to one in your favour.’

The Divisionnaire shut his eyes and found his cracker at the first dip, but he still stood irresolute beside the tub.

‘Come back to the table, Divisionnaire, if you are afraid to pull, and give Mr Jones his chance.’

The Divisionnaire looked at me with the sad expressive eyes of a spaniel who tries to hypnotize his master into uttering the magic word ‘walk ‘. I said, ‘I was the first to take out a cracker. I think you should allow me to pull mine first.’

‘Of course. Of course,’ he said. ‘It is your right.’ I watched him until he had returned to the safe distance of the table, carrying his cracker with him.

With my left hand gone it was not easy for me to pull a cracker. While I hesitated I was aware of the Divisionnaire watching me, watching as I thought, with hope. Perhaps he was praying - after all I had seen him at the midnight Mass, he might well be a believer, perhaps he was saying to God, ‘Please, gentle Jesus, blow him up.’ I would probably have made much the same prayer - ‘Let this be the end’ - if I had believed, and didn’t I have at least a half-belief, or why was it that as long as I held the cracker in my hand I felt the closeness of Anna-Luise? Anna-Luise was dead. She could only continue to exist somewhere if God existed. I put one end of the protruding paper tape between my teeth and I pulled with the other end. There was a feeble crack, and I felt as though Anna-Luise had withdrawn her hand from mine and walked away, between the bonfires, down towards the lake to die a second time.

‘Now, Divisionnaire,, Doctor Fischer said, ‘the odds are even.’ I had never hated Fischer so much as I did then. He was taunting us both. He was taunting my disappointment and he was taunting the Divisionnaire’s fear.

‘At last you are facing the enemy’s fire, Divisionnaire. Isn’t it something you have dreamt about during all those long years of our Swiss neutrality?’

I heard the Divisionnaire’s sad voice, while I stood staring at the dead and useless cracker in my hand.

‘I was young then. I’m old now.’

‘But two million francs. I’ve known you a long time, Divisionnaire, and I know how much you value money. You married money, you certainly didn’t marry beauty, but even when your wife died and left you all she had, it didn’t satisfy you, or you wouldn’t have come to my parties. Here’s your chance. Two million francs for showing a little courage. Military courage. Facing fire, Divisionnaire.’

I looked across the grass at the table and I saw that the old man was near to tears. I put my hand in the bran tub and pulled out the last cracker, the cracker which should have been Kips’s. Again I tugged with my teeth and again there was the same small crack no louder than a match striking.

‘What a fool you are, Jones,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘Where was the hurry? You’ve irritated me all the evening by your mere presence. You aren’t like the others. You aren’t in the picture. You haven’t helped. You prove nothing. It isn’t money you want. You are just greedy for death. I’m not interested in that sort of greed. ‘

The Divisionnaire said, ‘But there’s only my cracker left.’

‘Yes, Divisionnaire, and it’s your turn now all right. No getting out of it. You must play the game to the end. Get up. Put yourself at a safe distance. Unlike Jones I don’t want to die,’ but the old man didn’t move.

‘I can’t shoot you for cowardice in the face of the enemy, but I can promise you the story will be all round Geneva. ‘

I took the two cheques out of the two cylinders and returned with them to the table. I tossed one of the cheques to Fischer. ‘There’s Mr Kips’s share,’ I said, ‘to divide among the others.’

‘You are keeping the other?’

‘Yes.’

He gave me one of his dangerous smiles. ‘After all, Jones, I have hopes of fitting you in the picture. Sit down and have another glass while the Divisionnaire picks up his courage. You are quite well off now. Relatively. In your own eyes. Draw the money out of the bank tomorrow and tuck it safely away, and I really believe that soon you will begin to feel like all the others. I might even start the parties again if only to watch your greed growing. Mrs Montgomery, Belmont, Kips, Deane, they were much like they are now when I first knew them. But I shall have created you. Just as much as God created Adam. Divisionnaire, your time’s up. Don’t keep us waiting any more. The party’s over, the bonfires are going out, it’s getting cold, and it’s time for Albert to clear the table.’

The Divisionnaire sat silent, his old head bowed towards the cracker on the table. I thought, He is really crying (I couldn’t see his eyes), crying for the lost dream of heroism that i suppose every young soldier goes to bed with.

‘Be a man, Divisionnaire.’

‘How you must despise yourself,’ I said to Doctor Fischer. I don’t know what made me say those words. It was as though they had been whispered in my ear, and I had simply passed them on. I pushed the cheque down the table towards the Divisionnaire. I said, ‘I’ll buy your cracker for two million francs. Give it me.’

‘No. No.’ He was hardly audible, but he didn’t resist when I drew the cracker from his fingers.

‘What do you mean, Jones?’

I couldn’t bother to answer Doctor Fischer - I was on more important business - and anyway I didn’t know the answer. The answer hadn’t been given me by whoever had given me the words.

‘Stop where you are, damn you. Tell me, what in Christ’s name do you mean?’

I was far too happy to reply for I had the Divisionnaire’s cracker in my fingers and I walked away from the table down the slope of the lawn towards the lake, the direction which I had imagined Anna-Luise taking. The Divisionnaire buried his face in his hands as I passed; the gardeners had gone, and the bonfires were dying. ‘Come back,’ Doctor Fischer called after me, ‘come back, Jones. I want to talk to you.’

I thought: When it comes to the point he’s afraid too. I suppose he wants to avoid a scandal. But I wasn’t going to help him over that. This was a death which belonged to me, it was my child, my only child, and it was Anna-Luise’s child too. No skiing accident could rob the two of us of the child I held in my hand. I wasn’t lonely any longer - they were the lonely ones, the Divisionnaire and Doctor Fischer, sitting at opposite ends of the long table, waiting to hear the sound of my death.

I went down to the very edge of the lake, where the slope of the lawn would hide me from both of them, and for the third time, but this time with complete confidence, I took the tape between my teeth and pulled the cracker with my right hand.

The silly insignificant crack and the silence which followed told me how utterly I had been fooled. Doctor Fischer had stolen my death and humiliated the Divisionnaire; he had proved his point about the greed of his rich friends, and he was sitting at the table laughing at both of us. It had certainly been a good last party as far as he was concerned.

I couldn’t hear his laughter at this distance. What I heard was the pad and the squeak of footsteps in the snow as they came along the edge of the lake. Whoever it was stopped abruptly when he saw me - all I could make out was a black suit against the white snow. I asked, ‘Who are you?’

‘Why, it’s Mr Jones,’ a voice said. ‘Surely it’s Mr Jones. ‘

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve forgotten me. I’m Steiner.’

‘Why on earth are you here?’

‘I couldn’t stand it any more.’

‘Stand what?’

‘What he did to her.’

At that moment my mind was occupied with Anna-Luise and I had no idea what he meant. Then I said, ‘There’s nothing you can do about it now.’

He said, ‘I heard about your wife. I am very sorry. She was so like Anna. When I heard she had died it was just as though Anna had died all over again. You must forgive me. I am talking clumsily.’

‘No. I can understand what you felt.’

‘Where is he?’

‘If you mean Doctor Fischer, he’s been playing his best and final joke and he’s up there laughing to himself, I imagine.’

‘I’ve got to go and see him.’

‘What for?’

‘When I was in that hospital I had a lot of time to think. It was seeing your wife which made me start to think. Seeing her in the shop was like Anna come alive. I had too much accepted things - he was so powerful - he had invented Dentophil Bouquet - he was a bit like God Almighty - he could take away my job - he could even take away Mozart. I never wanted to listen to Mozart after she died. You must understand, please, for her sake. We were never really lovers, but he made innocence dirty. Now I want to get near enough to him to spit in God Almighty’s face.’

‘It’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?’

‘It’s never too late to spit at God Almighty. He lasts for ever and ever, amen. And he made us what we are.’

‘Perhaps he did, but Doctor Fischer didn’t.’

‘He made me what I am now.’

‘Oh,’ I said - I was impatient with the little man who had broken my solitude - ‘go up there then and spit. A lot of good may it do you.’

He looked away from me up the slope of the lawn which we could barely distinguish now in the dying light of the fires, but as it happened Mr Steiner didn’t have to climb up the slope to find Doctor Fischer, for Doctor Fischer came climbing down to us, climbing slowly and laboriously, watching his own feet, which sometimes slid on an icy patch.

‘Here he comes,’ I said, ‘so you had better get your spit ready.’

We stood there waiting and it seemed an interminable time before he reached us. He stopped a few feet away and said to me, ‘I didn’t know you were here. I thought by this time you had probably gone away. They’ve all gone away. The Divisionnaire’s gone.’

‘With his cheque?’

‘Of course. With his cheque.’ He peered through the dark at my companion. He said, ‘You’re not alone. Who is this man? ‘

‘His name is Steiner.’

‘Steiner?’ I had never before seen Doctor Fischer at a loss. It was as though he had left half his mind behind him at the table. He seemed to look towards me for help, but I gave him none.

‘Who’s Steiner? What’s he doing here? He had the air of searching a long time for something which he had mislaid, like a man turning over the objects in a cluttered drawer, seeking a cheque book or a passport.

‘I knew your wife,’ Mr Steiner said. ‘ You made Mr Kips dismiss me. You ruined both our lives.’

After he had spoken the three of us stood there, silent in the darkness and the snow. It was as though we were all waiting for something to happen, but not one of us knew what it would be: a jeer, a blow, a simple turning away. It was the moment for Mr Steiner to act, but he did nothing. Perhaps he knew his spit wouldn’t carry far enough.

At last I said, ‘Your party was a great success.’

‘Yes?’

‘You managed to humiliate us all. What are you going to do next?’

‘I don’t know.’

Again I had the impression that he was looking to me for help. He said, ‘There was something you said just now… ‘It was incredible, the great Doctor Fischer of Geneva, looking to Alfred Jones to help him remember - what?

‘How you must have laughed when I bought the last cracker, and you knew that all I would get was a little fart when I pulled it.’

He said, ‘I didn’t mean to humiliate you.’

‘It was an extra dividend for you, wasn’t it?’

He said, ‘I hadn’t planned it that way. You are not one of them,’ and he muttered their names: a sort of roll call of the Toads. ‘Kips, Deane, Mrs Montgomery, the Divisionnaire, Belmont, and there were those two who died.’

Mr Steiner said, ‘You killed your wife.’

‘I didn’t kill her.’

‘She died because she didn’t want to live. Without love.’

‘Love? I don’t read love stories, Steiner.’

‘But you love your money, don’t you?’

‘No. Jones will tell you tonight how I gave most of it away.’

‘What are you going to live for now, Fischer?’ I asked. ‘I don’t think any of your friends will come back.’

Doctor Fischer said, ‘Are you so sure that I want to live? Do you want to live? You didn’t seem to when you took those crackers. Does what’s-his-name Steiner want to live? Yes, perhaps you both do. Perhaps when it comes to the point I have an inclination to live too. Or what am I doing standing here?’

‘You had your fun tonight anyway,’ I said.

‘Yes. It was better than nothing. Nothing is a bit frightening, Jones.’

‘It was a strange revenge you took,’ I said.

‘What revenge?’

‘All because one woman despised you, you had to despise all the world.’

‘She didn’t despise me. Perhaps she hated me. No one will ever be able to despise me, Jones.’

‘Except yourself.’

‘Yes - I remember now that was what you said.’

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

He said, ‘It was a disease I caught when you came into my life, Steiner. I should have told Kips to double your salary and I could have presented Anna with all the Mozart records she wanted. I could have bought you and her, like I bought all the others - except you, Jones. It’s too late now to buy you. What is the time?’

‘Past midnight,’ I said.

‘Time to sleep.’

He stood a moment in thought and then he set off, but not in the direction of the house. He continued walking slowly along the lawn by the lakeside, until he was out of sight and sound in the silence of the snow. Even the waters of the lake didn’t break the silence: there was no tide to lap on the shore below us.

‘Poor man,’ Steiner said.

‘You are very charitable, Mr Steiner. I’ve never hated a man more.’

‘You hate him and I suppose I hate him too. But hate - it isn’t important. Hate isn’t contagious. It doesn’t spread. One can hate one man and leave it there. But when you begin to despise like Doctor Fischer, you end by despising all the world.’

‘I wish you had done what you planned and spat in his face.’

‘I couldn’t. You see - when it came to the point - I pitied him.’

How I wished Fischer had been there to hear how he was pitied by Mr Steiner.

‘It’s too cold standing around,’ I said, ‘we’ll catch our death…’ But wasn’t that, I thought, what I wanted to do? If! stayed long enough. A sharp sound tore the thought in two.

‘What was that?’ Steiner said. ‘A car back-firing?’

‘We are too far from the road for that.’

We only had to walk a hundred yards before we came on Doctor Fischer’s body. The revolver which he must have carried in his pocket lay beside his head. The snow was already absorbing the blood. I put out my hand to take the gun - it might, I thought, serve my turn too - but Mr Steiner stopped me. ‘Leave that to the police, ‘ he said. I looked at the body and it had no more significance than a dead dog. This, I thought, was the bit of rubbish I had once compared in my mind with Jehovah and Satan.