Doctor Criminale

The train had by now emerged from the mountain passes, and we were moving along beside the spread of Lake Geneva: the waters of Léman, by which some have sat down and wept, and many, many others have sat down and written. There was the castle-prison of Chillon, standing in the lake; then the esplanades of Montreux, where Vladimir Nabokov – God bless him – had written and had died. Very soon there was Vevey, where Charlie Chaplin had died, been buried, and, if I remembered rightly, also been exhumed again, for profit. Then there was a lattice of vineyards, stretching up and down the slopes on either side of the train, not a scrap of space wasted, in the good Swiss way. ‘Lausa

11

Lausa

From the moment Ildiko and I stepped down from the Milan express in the station at Lausa

I went back to the station concourse with my tourist trophies, and looked round for Ildiko. Our luggage still stood there, an untidy pile of my rucksack and Ildiko’s plastic-bagged Western purchases, tumbled among the cautious feet of passengers. Of Ildiko herself there was no sign at all. Then I saw her at last, coming towards me through the quiet crowds. I had been away for only a few minutes, but she’d used the time very well. She had already effortlessly acquired several boxes of chocolates, a cheeseknife, two cowbells, a designer watch, and a sweater that said ‘I ♥ Lausa

‘It’s at Ouchy,’ I said, ‘down by the lake. The girl said there’s a little cogwheel railway that goes straight down there, right from under the station.’ ‘Do we go there?’ asked Ildiko, gathering up her ever-growing pile of luggage, ‘I think so.’ ‘We might as well take a look,’ I said. ‘I expect it is very good hotel,’ said Ildiko. ‘One of the ten best in Europe,’ I said, ‘Even the gardener’s shed has five stars. Criminale must have been round at the bank already.’ ‘Oh, I think so,’ said Ildiko, as we went down the stairs toward the funicular railway, ‘That is why people come to Switzerland, to come to the bank.’ ‘Even Bazlo Criminale?’ I asked. ‘I know you imagine that Criminale is a great philosopher who does not think about money,’ said Ildiko, ‘But even a wise man needs some, yes, especially when he has found a new girl.’ ‘He could have got it without coming to Lausa

So we boarded one of those jolly Swiss funicular railways, which ran on ropes down the steep hillside from the centre of the grey city to the side of the grey lake. It was called la ficelle, the girl in the travel bureau had explained to me; and as we rode down it occurred to me that this was not the first time in my pursuit of Criminale that I’d been towed across Europe at a curious angle on the end of a string. We rode down between expensive, tidy apartments, with wonderfully kept window-boxes, set in streets of – and how I should have worried – very elegant shops. When the doors of the little train clanged open at the Ouchy terminus, we walked out to find ourselves in full view of the lake. There was the usual steamer pier, with moored at it the usual white Swiss paddle steamer, with its flapping red and white flag. Across the waters we could see, through the fading wintry day, the lights of the French spa of Evian, friend to smart di

I stopped, checked my guidebook, and then led the way across the square, with its statue of General Guisan, who had rallied the Swiss to fight for their neutrality during the Second World War. We passed the façade of the Hotel d’Angleterre, where, a plaque told us, Lord Byron had sat on the terrace in 1816 and written his long sad poem of liberty lost, The Prisoner of Chillon. But that was not what we were looking for. The hotel where Bazlo Criminale was staying, if Cosima Bruckner was right, was a grand affair indeed. There was nothing secretive or inconspicuous about the Hotel Beau Rivage Palace. Its vast, great-balconied façade shone white even in the dusk. The flags of all major nations fluttered on its high flagpoles. Capped chauffeurs buffed every splash and dustmark off the gleaming Rolls-Royces and Cadillacs that stood in its drives. Arabs in white robes swept in and out of its entrance; the Western suits that passed through its portico were clearly handmade. It was a place where peace conferences were held and treaties were signed. I was impressed, and so, plainly, was Ildiko.

This is really quite nice,’ she said, ‘And we are staying here?’ ‘No, Ildiko, we’re not staying here,’ I said, ‘Bazlo Criminale is staying here. To stay here you have to be very rich, very old, and on a diplomatic mission. In fact you probably have to be of royal blood as well.’ ‘Criminale Bazlo is not of royal blood,’ said Ildiko. ‘Maybe not,’ I said, ‘He’s into royalties of another kind. But you’re right, his sales have to be doing very nicely. You’d have to sell one hell of a lot of books before you could afford a suite at the Beau Rivage Palace.’ ‘But I like it here,’ said Ildiko. ‘Maybe you do,’ I said, ‘But we’ve come here to investigate Criminale, not share the highlife with him. Anyway, remember the television budget. I’m sorry, Ildiko, but I just don’t happen to be one of the world’s bestselling novelists.’ ‘And if I could find some money myself?’ asked Ildiko. ‘I doubt if they even take forints,’ I said, ‘You saw that plaque back there? Lord Byron wasn’t a man to stint on his comforts, and even he couldn’t afford a room at the Beau Rivage Palace. So let’s go and find somewhere nearby we can actually pay the bill for.’ ‘I hate you,’ said Ildiko, picking up her luggage, ‘I don’t know why you are always so mean.’

Now to be absolutely frank (and you know I can be, when I feel like it), I’ve no doubt I got the next bit badly wrong. But then I got quite a lot of things wrong over the course of my confusing quest for Bazlo Criminale. I’d already had my eye on the Hotel d’Angleterre. It was handily right next door to the place where Criminale was staying, always assuming that Cosima Bruckner had the right information, which I was start­ing to doubt, and its very name somehow satisfied my feeble but not totally exhausted sense of patriotism. Unluckily, thanks to the fact that Lausa