Authors: Michael Ridpath
But those two conceptions of his duty were contradictory. And Theo wasn’t sure how long he could deny that contradiction.
That troubled him. It troubled him deeply.
The Hague
‘
Zijn deze plaatsen nog vrij
?’
Millie looked up at two Dutchmen, both about thirty, both good-looking. She and Constance were having a cup of coffee in the Passage, an elegant shopping arcade just opposite the Binnenhof parliamentary citadel.
‘We do not speak Dutch. We are English,’ she replied in that language.
The shorter of the two men smiled. ‘No matter. I can speak English and I can translate for Jan.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Millie smiled politely. ‘We are waiting for someone. He will be here any moment.’
‘I understand,’ said the English speaker, his face regretful. ‘I apologize for troubling you.’ They withdrew and found themselves a seat in the opposite corner of the café.
‘Pity,’ said Constance. ‘They looked rather nice.’
‘Better than some of the oafs that have approached us over the last couple of days,’ said Millie.
It was hardly surprising that she and Constance had drawn attention. Constance was an attractive woman, and Millie was used to dealing with strange men wanting to start conversations with her. Actually, Constance had proved to be a more amusing travel companion than Millie had expected. She and Millie were very different, but Constance had a general zest for life that was catching. They had spent a couple of days wandering around The Hague, and Constance had been bowled over by the paintings in the Mauritshuis. Millie had the impression that Constance’s enthusiasm for the Rembrandts and Vermeers was all the more rapturous because this was the first time she had ever ventured into an art gallery.
They had talked a lot, but Constance’s background remained sketchy. She had grown up in Cheshire and then moved to London with her mother to stay with relatives after her father had died, but beyond that Constance had revealed little. She gushed about her handsome husband, a naval officer, but then she also gushed about handsome Dutchmen they bumped into in The Hague.
‘So who is this man we are meeting?’ asked Millie.
‘Otto Langebrück,’ said Constance. ‘Works for Herr von Ribbentrop, who is an old friend of Henry’s.’
‘And Foreign Minister, isn’t he?’ said Millie.
‘That’s right.’
Millie frowned. ‘Should we be negotiating with the enemy’s government? I mean, shouldn’t that come through official channels?’
‘Official channels?’ Constance snorted. ‘You know what Chamberlain is like. He’s too stubborn to negotiate with anyone. That’s why we are here, Millie. That’s why Sir Henry and your father sent us.’
‘Yes, but Chamberlain is Prime Minister, isn’t he? I’m not sure we should be going behind his back.’ Millie realized she was beginning to sound like her brother.
‘I loathe Chamberlain,’ said Constance, her eyes alight. ‘He’s the one who got us into this stupid war. Have you read
Rogue Male
?’
‘I’ve heard of it. Came out in the summer, didn’t it?’
‘You should read it. It’s brilliant. There’s just one problem. The hero at the beginning is trying to shoot a European dictator who is obviously supposed to be Hitler. He should have been trying to shoot Chamberlain. Now
that
would have been worth doing.’
‘You are not serious?’ Millie said.
‘I certainly am,’ said Constance. ‘I’d do it. Especially if it would stop this war.’
Millie glanced at her companion. She didn’t seem exactly fanatical, more matter-of-fact. An odd girl, Constance.
‘I think this must be him,’ whispered Constance as a well-dressed man of about thirty approached them.
‘Mrs Scott-Dunton? Miss de Lancey? Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Otto Langebrück. May I join you?’
‘Please do, Mr Langebrück,’ said Millie.
The man oozed charm as he took the third chair around the table. His English was very good. ‘Herr von Ribbentrop sends his compliments to you and to Sir Henry.’
‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Sadly, not. I do not have much time. I believe you have a message for Herr von Ribbentrop?’
‘I do,’ said Constance. She opened her bag and pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Langebrück, who slid it into his breast pocket without opening it.
‘We will be staying here for three days more if there is a reply,’ Millie said. ‘As I’m sure you know, my father is Lord Oakford. I would be happy to pass on any message to him or Sir Henry Alston.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Constance. ‘You’d better speak directly to me. I know Sir Henry a little better than my friend.’
Langebrück glanced at the two women. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I will leave a message at your hotel if I have anything. Where are you staying?’
‘At the Kurhaus in Scheveningen.’
‘I will be in touch.’
‘Sorry about that, Millie,’ said Constance with an embarrassed smile when Langebrück was safely out of the café. ‘But Henry did give me strict instructions what to say when we hear back from him.’
Millie didn’t answer. She now knew why Constance was with her: to act as an envoy for Sir Henry Alston with the Nazi government. Presumably Father knew about this. But the guilt weighed down on her. What would Conrad think if he found out what she and Constance had done? Or Theo, for that matter?
That she should be torn between what her brother and her father expected was nothing new for Millie. But she cared what Theo thought. She cared very much.
Paris
The bar was warm, smoky and crowded. It had been a long train journey from Holland and Conrad was tired. He was also late.
He scanned the tables and saw the man he was looking for wedged in a corner reading a book, an almost empty carafe of red wine next to him. Conrad made his way over to him.
‘Hello, Warren. I’m glad I didn’t miss you.’
The American looked up and shot to his feet, pumping Conrad’s hand. He was shorter than Conrad with floppy hair that hung down over his eyes, and a wide amiable smile that showed off gleaming teeth. ‘No chance of that. I can keep myself amused here for hours. We need more wine.’ He waved a waiter over.
‘It’s good to see a friendly face,’ said Conrad. And Warren’s was a very friendly face. Conrad had met him at Oxford almost ten years before. Warren’s ambition had always been to become a novelist, but after a couple of years floundering in Paris, he had secured a job as a junior foreign correspondent for a Chicago newspaper. He had spent the last few years in Berlin and Prague, and had now returned to Paris, covering the war.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Warren asked. ‘I thought it was impossible for British officers to get leave in Paris?’
‘It may be,’ said Conrad. ‘I wouldn’t know. My unit is still in England.’
‘That explains nothing,’ said Warren.
Warren’s inquisitiveness didn’t surprise Conrad; he was a journalist after all.
‘I’m here on some semi-official business,’ said Conrad.
‘Ah,’ said Warren. ‘I understand.’
Conrad realized that Warren had immediately assumed he was doing something in intelligence. Which he supposed was true, sort of. The good thing about Warren’s assumption was that he wouldn’t expect further explanation.
‘How’s Paris?’ Conrad asked.
‘It’s great to be back,’ Warren said. ‘Although I’m getting a bit sick of this
drôle de guerre
. It would be good to report on some real fighting. Still, it has given me time to work on my novel.’
Conrad noticed that the book Warren was reading was
To Have and Have Not
by Ernest Hemingway, Warren’s hero. Rereading it, probably.
‘Have you read
Scoop
yet?’ Conrad asked. ‘It’s brilliant.’
Within seconds they had slotted back into the old familiar argument of Hemingway versus Evelyn Waugh. They talked about Paris, about Warren’s nascent novel, about the war and whether the Americans would join it. Conrad resisted the temptation to rag Warren for trying to live the cliché of the American writer in Paris. He had attempted to write his own novel while in Berlin, but given up after two chapters, and his occasional journalism for the magazine
Mercury
was nothing compared to Warren’s efforts.
They ordered another carafe. The warmth of the bar, Warren’s friendliness and the wine relaxed Conrad, so he felt something of a jolt when Warren reminded him of his reason for being there.
‘OK, Conrad, what’s this semi-official business?’ Warren asked. ‘And what do I have to do with it? I assume I have something to do with it?’
‘You do,’ said Conrad. ‘If you are willing. I’m trying to find out about someone. An American who lives in Paris.’
‘Ah!’ said Warren, his eyes lighting up with interest. ‘And who might that be?’
‘A fellow called Bedaux. Charles Bedaux. A wealthy businessman. You know him?’
‘You bet I do,’ said Warren.
‘Can you tell me about him?’
‘Sure. He was born here, but went over to America before the last war, to Michigan, I think. Invented his own time-and-motion system and made a fortune at it. He has companies all over Europe as well as America, although they hate him there. He fancies himself as something of an explorer: he went on a big expedition in the Yukon a few years ago.’
‘And he’s based in Paris?’
‘He moves around all over the place, but he has a company here. I’m pretty sure he has just signed up with the French Ministry of Armaments, telling them how to jazz up their munitions production.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Conrad. ‘You do know a lot about him.’
‘Any European journalist would know him. After the wedding.’
‘The wedding?’
‘The damp-squib wedding of the century. Your Duke of Windsor and Wallis Simpson.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘They got married at Bedaux’s chateau in 1937. Candé, in the Loire. Nobody came. How did you miss that? Where were you?’
‘In Spain getting shot at,’ said Conrad.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Warren. ‘I guess you had other things to think about. Anyway, Bedaux loaned the couple his chateau, so, as you can imagine, there were a few newspaper profiles on him at the time.’
Conrad nodded. Like everyone else he had read plenty about the duke when he was Prince of Wales, but Conrad had been fighting in Spain when, as King Edward VIII, he had abdicated the throne. Conrad hadn’t given it much consideration, apart from thinking it was careless of his country to lose such a young and energetic monarch in that way.
‘Does Bedaux have any connections with Germany?’ Conrad asked.
‘Sure,’ said Warren. ‘The Nazis grabbed his company in 1934, but he still has good contacts there. He organized the Duke of Windsor’s tour in 1937. Did you know about that?’
Conrad shook his head.
‘I covered it from Berlin. It was a big deal in Germany; they loved him. The duke and duchess visited factories and housing projects. Your compatriots weren’t so excited, though. There was a half-assed Nazi salute, playing with Göring’s train set, shaking hands with Hitler, that kind of thing.’
Conrad winced. ‘Ouch. Was Bedaux there?’
‘No. But he fixed it all up. Then he fixed a tour for them to America, which fell through when the American unions kicked up a fuss. They despise his time-and-motion system there. Bedaux had a nervous breakdown, I believe, and he’s laid low since then.’
‘Didn’t I read that the duke is in France at the moment?’ Conrad asked.
‘Yes he is. He and Wally lived here in Paris after the wedding, but they were down in Antibes when war broke out, and skedaddled back to Britain. The British government sent him over here a month ago. He’s big buddies with the US Ambassador, William Bullitt, and a lot of the other rich Americans in Paris. In fact he’s also buddies with your sister-in-law. At least I assume she’s your sister-in-law.’
‘Isobel Haldeman?’ Isobel was Veronica’s younger sister, who had married Marshall Haldeman, an American insurance executive who had moved to Paris a few years before. Conrad hadn’t seen her since he had left for Spain.
‘That’s right.’
‘Would she know Bedaux as well?’
‘Sure too. All those right-bank Americans know each other. Bedaux’s wife is much more American than him. She’s an heiress from Kalamazoo. Fern is her name.’
‘I can’t quite accept that Kalamazoo is a real place,’ said Conrad.
‘Oh, it is,’ said Warren. ‘And I wouldn’t kid Fern about her home town if I were you. Scary lady, Fern Bedaux.’
‘Are the Bedauxs and the Windsors still friends?’
‘Don’t know. Mrs Haldeman might have a better idea. You should speak to her. Someone else you might want to talk to is Fruity Metcalfe.’
‘Fruity?’
‘Hey, don’t blame me for your dumb British nicknames. Although he’s Irish, I think. He was the duke’s best man at his wedding and is acting as his royal sidekick now – what do you call it? Aide-de-camp, something like that. Swell guy. Partial to a drink or two. He’s staying at the Ritz, and likes to prop up the bar there after a hard day’s duking.’
Paris, 14 November
Conrad slept on Warren’s sofa. He had a small apartment above Shakespeare and Co., an English language bookshop in the rue de l’Odéon. It was run by an American woman and, according to Warren, it was the centre of American literary life in Paris. Warren loved it.
Warren also had to work, so Conrad left his apartment and, armed with Isobel Haldeman’s address, which Warren had dug out for him, found a café in which to while away a couple of hours until he could decently turn up at her house. The sun shone weakly on the quiet street, the coffee was good, and for a moment Conrad was able just to enjoy the fact he was sitting in a café in Paris instead of chasing his men around the mud of Salisbury Plain. An old soldier with a fine white moustache and one leg gave Conrad a gruff nod. He sported the red ribbon of the Légion d’honneur on his lapel, and alternated puffs at a pipe with sips of an early morning
ballon de vin rouge.
He was a reminder of what war could do, what it would do again once it eventually got going.
Which might be as soon as the next day, if Theo was correct about the date of the offensive. Unless Theo was also correct about the generals dumping Hitler. Conrad understood the Prussian military ethos, how difficult it was for them to move against their commander-in-chief and to break the oath that Hitler had made them all take swearing allegiance to him personally. Conrad prayed that they would have the courage to do it.