Authors: Michael Ridpath
‘But that doesn’t make any sense!’ Conrad said.
‘It made sense to me. It was as if I was carrying the evil of the Nazis inside me somehow, that it had infected me like some plague and that I had brought it with me to England. I didn’t want to infect you.’
Conrad reached out his hand and stroked Anneliese’s hair.
‘Can you understand that?’ she said. Her eyes were steady, her jaw firm.
Conrad thought of all Anneliese had suffered. Of her stoic misery in London. Of the confidence that he had always felt that she loved him really, and the frustration that she wouldn’t allow him to love her.
‘I think so.’
‘But going to the Russian Tea Rooms, pretending to be some kind of Nazi myself, has made me feel better. I am worth something; I am doing something worthwhile. The world is on the edge of a thousand years of darkness. Don’t you feel it? If France surrenders, if Alston and your father create their puppet government, the Nazis will control Europe. They will control Britain. They will destroy the Jewish people. They will destroy civilization. There will be a new Dark Ages.’
Conrad nodded. She was right.
‘Doing what little I can to prevent that has given my life meaning again. You must do what you can too. Even if it means betraying your father.’
Conrad looked at Anneliese. She knew how important his father was to him; her own father meant everything to her. She knew him; she understood him.
She was right.
He stood up. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘We need to tell someone. Someone who can actually do something about it.’
‘Who?’
‘Sir Robert Vansittart.’
It turned out that that was much easier said than done. It was only a fifteen-minute walk across Green Park and St James’s Park to the Foreign Office, but once there it transpired that the Chief Diplomatic Adviser was busy. Conrad scribbled a note for the commissionaire to give to Mrs Dougherty, saying that he had information of national importance, and then he and Anneliese waited in the grand entrance hall of the Foreign Office.
And waited.
Eventually, two hours later, Conrad heard a familiar deep Ulster voice behind him. ‘Lieutenant de Lancey, would you be good enough to come with me?’
It was Major McCaigue. Conrad introduced Anneliese and they followed McCaigue up to a small windowless office on the third floor that he must have borrowed.
‘Sir Robert asked me to see you at short notice,’ McCaigue said. ‘He thought I would be best able to deal with what you had to say.’
With relief that someone in authority was willing to listen to him, Conrad explained everything that Anneliese had told him.
Major McCaigue listened carefully.
Whitehall, London
An hour later Conrad and Anneliese emerged on to Whitehall.
‘What now?’ said Anneliese.
‘I suppose we leave it to McCaigue.’
‘Do you trust him?’
‘I think so. But I’m not sure I trust those around him. The government. The “authorities”.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Van won’t see me. The “powers that be” seem to think I’m a Russian spy. The War Office is trying to get me confined to barracks.’
‘Major McCaigue seemed confident he could stop Alston,’ said Anneliese. ‘Captain Foley did a good job in Berlin.’
‘That’s true,’ said Conrad. For a mild-mannered bureaucrat, Captain Foley had indeed been effective, springing Anneliese from a concentration camp and spiriting her and her family over to England, as well as hundreds, possibly thousands like her. ‘But somehow I think McCaigue is up against more serious opposition.’
‘Where are you going now?’
‘The hotel in Bloomsbury. I won’t stay at Kensington Square. I think you are right about Father; I don’t trust myself with him. And I have to ring up Veronica.’
‘Veronica?’ Anneliese sounded disapproving.
‘She wrote to me that Polly Copthorne had rustled up a man called Parsons with important information about her husband’s death, and I should get in touch when I was next in London.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘To see Veronica?’
‘No,’ said Anneliese, slipping her hand in his. ‘Just to your hotel.’
‘Yes,’ said Conrad, grinning. ‘I rather hoped you would.’
Mayfair, London
It was still light as Conrad walked up the small street in Mayfair where Veronica lived. Anneliese was unhappy that he was seeing her that evening, but Veronica had insisted on meeting the mysterious Mr Parsons with him. Anneliese had decided to head off to the Russian Tea Rooms to see if she could squeeze something more out of Constance. But she had at least agreed to see him at the Bloomsbury hotel later. Conrad suspected that she just wanted to be sure where he spent the night.
Which was ridiculous. After the afternoon he and Anneliese had spent together, Veronica wasn’t a danger. Conrad was glad to be doing something rather than leaving everything to McCaigue. He wasn’t sure what to make of what Anneliese had told him. Should he really ignore his father? Was there nothing he could do or should do? McCaigue had urged him to go back to his unit, but Conrad would find that very difficult.
Perhaps he would learn something from this man Parsons.
He was taken aback for a moment to see his own name, ‘De Lancey’, on one of the four bells by the front door of the building. He pushed it, and a few moments later Mrs de Lancey appeared, wearing a stunning green dress.
‘You do look dashing in your uniform, Conrad,’ she said.
Conrad was about to compliment his ex-wife on how she looked, but decided not to. ‘Where are we meeting this fellow?’
‘We’re not seeing him until eleven. He said he wanted to wait until it was dark.’
‘So what am I doing here now, Veronica?’
‘I thought we needed a drink beforehand. We can’t go to a rendezvous unfortified, can we, darling?’
‘Do we really?’
‘Don’t look so disapproving, darling. I was clever finding this chap, wasn’t I? You might show some appreciation.’
‘Yes, you were,’ Conrad said. ‘Of course I can buy you a drink. Where do you suggest?’
They went to the Café de Paris near Leicester Square, which was crowded. Veronica said it was always crowded. They ordered cocktails; Conrad was disconcerted by Veronica’s choice of a gin and It, which had now become Anneliese’s drink in his mind. That was his fault for introducing his wife’s favourite drink to his girlfriend.
Veronica seemed to sense Conrad’s tension, and was friendly and well behaved. Conrad even found himself relaxing a little. He was careful not to discuss what Anneliese had told him about Alston and his father. Reluctantly, he danced with Veronica. Twice. He enjoyed it.
Then it was time to go. It was completely dark when they emerged on to Piccadilly.
‘Where are we meeting him?’ Conrad asked.
‘Not far. A street near Shepherd Market.’
‘That’s an interesting choice,’ said Conrad.
‘Apparently Mr Parsons thinks that no one will notice people meeting each other around there.’
‘That’s certainly true,’ said Conrad. Shepherd Market had been a haven for whores for centuries. And in wartime, it was bustling. Or perhaps rustling was a better word. Women stood around alone or in pairs, whispering to the servicemen who prowled the streets.
The corner Veronica was looking for was a few yards from Shepherd Market itself, and a little quieter. They stopped. It was exactly eleven o’clock. Veronica lit a cigarette.
‘This is all rather interesting, isn’t it?’ Veronica said, watching a French girl discussing her skills with a fat middle-aged man.
‘I don’t know,’ said Conrad.
‘Aren’t you tempted? Some of these girls look rather pretty.’
‘They look cold and they look desperate,’ said Conrad.
‘If you want to slip away afterwards, I won’t object,’ said Veronica, a hint of amusement in her voice. ‘I might even come along and watch.’
‘I know what you are doing,’ said Conrad.
‘And what’s that, darling? I would have thought bringing your wife along would make the whole thing more, I don’t know, respectable?’
‘Ex-wife,’ muttered Conrad, trying to maintain his grumpiness. But it was oddly pleasurable being teased by Veronica.
Three men sauntered past, talking loudly. They had American accents, but were probably Canadians.
‘Do you know what this Parsons looks like?’
‘I told you I haven’t a clue about him, apart from that you simply must meet him. You are sweet on this German girl, aren’t you? Anneliese.’
‘Yes,’ said Conrad. ‘Yes, I am.’
A man appeared at the top of the narrow street. A big man.
‘That’s a shame,’ said Veronica, quietly.
Conrad glanced at her keenly. She looked away from him as if embarrassed.
The man was now having difficulty keeping on the pavement. Drunk. Very drunk. And easy game for the local traders.
Not Parsons.
Veronica’s eyes widened. ‘Conrad!’ she yelled as she pushed him sharply off the pavement.
Conrad saw a blade moving rapidly towards his side. He went with Veronica’s shove and twisted. The blade ripped his tunic.
Conrad took two steps back. In the gloom he could make out the drunk, holding a thin, pointed knife, legs apart, balanced perfectly. Not drunk. He was big and he was dangerous.
Veronica screamed. The man ignored her, and Conrad backed towards the wall, hands open, eyes on the blade.
The man feinted to the right and then plunged again towards Conrad’s left side. Conrad was quick and skipped to his right, turned and somehow grabbed the man’s wrist.
The man tripped Conrad, but Conrad didn’t let go and they both fell on the street, the man on top. Conrad stared into his eyes, black in the darkness. His nose was broken, a boxer no doubt, or at least someone who had been in a few fights in his time. The man was pushing the knife downwards towards Conrad’s neck. Conrad was strong, but the man was stronger. Conrad stared at the blade as the man pressed it down to his chin; below his chin.
Then the man let out a cry, and his face contorted in pain. The downward pressure reduced a little, so Conrad could resist it. The man was trying to concentrate on the knife and Conrad’s throat but was finding it very difficult ignoring whatever was causing him such agony.
Conrad jerked suddenly to one side so that the knife struck the pavement, then he butted the man hard in the nose.
The man cried out and dropped the knife.
Conrad’s fingers knocked it away.
He saw Veronica grab it.
Both men got to their feet. Veronica held the knife in front of her.
‘Throw it to me!’ shouted Conrad as the man charged Veronica.
She did as he had asked her and he caught the spinning knife by the handle. The man had pushed Veronica into the wall, and pulled back a fist to strike her, when Conrad plunged the blade into his back. He slumped to the ground.
With difficulty Conrad withdrew the blade and stabbed him again.
The man lay face down on the pavement. Still breathing, from what Conrad could see. Dark liquid oozed out from under his body on to the cobbles.
Conrad stood up straight, panting. ‘Did you grab his balls?’ he asked Veronica.
‘Did you kill him?’
‘Not quite, unfortunately,’ said Conrad. Two men who had heard the scuffle were making their way cautiously towards them down the alley. ‘Time to go. Let’s split up: you run that way!’
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the police?’ said Veronica. ‘If you
have
killed him, it was self-defence.’
‘No!’ said Conrad, grabbing Veronica by the arm and propelling her up the street. ‘We run. Now!’
Veronica hesitated and set off.
Once Conrad was sure she was moving, he slipped down an alleyway, brushing off a relatively sober corporal who tried to grab him. He emerged from the other end of the alleyway as he heard the first police whistle and slowed to a stagger, just another one of the many men looking for a little fun in the middle of a war.
Conrad took a long route back to Veronica’s flat. He rang the bell, and her flatmate answered, a very thin blonde woman who introduced herself as Betty. She looked shocked.
Conrad walked up the four flights of stairs to find Veronica on the sofa of their tiny sitting room, still wearing her green dress.
‘We don’t have a drop to drink in the house,’ she said.
‘I could use a stiff one myself,’ said Conrad. ‘But you should stay here. Betty can look after you.’
‘Hold me, Conrad.’
Conrad hesitated, but then sat down next to Veronica and held her. Her smell was familiar, yet she was shaking in a most unfamiliar way.
‘What if you killed that man?’ she said when they broke apart.
‘I’ve killed a few men,’ said Conrad. ‘He was trying to kill me.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Conrad. ‘But I can guess. Are you sure that wasn’t Parsons?’
‘I don’t know if it was bloody Parsons!’ said Veronica. Then: ‘Sorry. Sorry, Conrad. I’ll ask Polly about him tomorrow.’
‘Find out who he is, how well she knows him.’
‘Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.’
‘Now I have to go.’
‘Please stay, Conrad.’
‘No. I have to go.’
Conrad smiled encouragingly at a still-stunned Betty, and left.
Anneliese was waiting for him back at the Bloomsbury hotel. Conrad wondered briefly how she had managed to get up to his room. Hotel-keepers really were lowering their standards in time of war, although she was still wearing her nurse’s uniform, which might have helped.
‘Where were you?’ she said as soon as he entered his room. And then, when she saw his expression. ‘What happened?’
Conrad told her about the attack. Anneliese had her own news from the Russian Tea Rooms. Tyler Kent and Anna Wolkoff had been arrested the previous morning. Constance hadn’t been there; in fact none of the regulars were there. Anneliese herself had left quickly and returned to the hotel.
‘I’m glad you waited for me,’ said Conrad.
‘I’m scared,’ said Anneliese.
‘Come here.’ Conrad pulled her close to him and held her tight. He kissed her forehead and then her lips.