Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

It would all become clearer one way or another the next day.

So, where did Bedaux fit into all this? Perhaps he was involved in some way in the coup preparations? Or in thwarting them?

Conrad wasn’t sure how the hell to investigate the American. He had no official reason to be in Paris, no means of accessing government records, no credentials with which to approach officials. Despite what Warren thought, he wasn’t a spy. What did Theo expect him to do?

He had learned from Warren that Bedaux was working for the French Armaments Ministry. That must mean he was in possession of all kinds of arms-production data, which would no doubt be useful to the German government. But that couldn’t be what Theo was driving at. If Warren knew it, the British secret service would know it, as would the French secret service, for that matter. The British already knew that Bedaux was talking to Theo. So Bedaux’s role working for the French government could not be the whole story.

At ten o’clock, Conrad left his little café and strolled down to the Seine, crossing it by the Grand Palais. Paris seemed to be less overwhelmed by the war than London. There were uniforms and a few sandbags, but the river made its sedate way beneath the city’s beautiful bridges in much the way it had done for the last couple of hundred years.

Conrad found Isobel Haldeman’s apartment in a little place off the avenue Montaigne. He had always liked his wife’s younger sister, although he wasn’t sure what she thought of him. Isobel was much less flamboyant than Veronica: small, with a pointed chin, a pretty mouth and kind eyes, she tended to think before she spoke, something that Veronica would never have been caught doing. The fact that Isobel was the first sister to marry, and that she had snared a rich American, had infuriated Veronica. Marshall Haldeman was the son of an insurance magnate from Hartford, Connecticut, who had been placed in charge of the family firm’s European operations first in London and then in Paris. Veronica thought him dull in the extreme; Conrad thought him a decent enough chap.

Isobel welcomed Conrad into her enormous apartment warmly, although she was clearly surprised to see him. A maid served them coffee as they sat in the drawing room overlooking the fountain in the middle of the place.

‘Have you seen Veronica recently?’ she asked.

‘Not since we were divorced. Over a year ago.’

‘Poor you,’ said Isobel. ‘You always seemed much too nice for my sister. I could have warned you, but by the time I met you, you were smitten.’

‘I was,’ said Conrad. ‘Veronica was someone I could never see clearly. I probably can’t now.’

‘No one can,’ said Isobel. ‘Or at least no one male. Did you know she had split up with Alec?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ said Conrad. Alec Linaro was the motor-racing driver whom Veronica had met while Conrad was in Spain. He was married, of course, but that only seemed to encourage her.

‘Alec wanted to stay with his wife after all. Veronica was furious, poor lamb.’

‘So what’s she doing now?’

‘Driving a general around London, I think. Oh, God. I hope it’s an old and ugly general.’

Conrad laughed.

‘I’m sorry I’m so wicked. I adore Veronica really.’

Conrad stopped himself from agreeing. Veronica was trouble; always had been and always would be. He was much better off without her. He knew that, he just had to remind himself of it at regular intervals.

‘And what are you doing in Paris?’ Isobel asked.

‘Trying to find out about someone,’ Conrad said. ‘An American. Charles Bedaux.’

‘Dreadful man,’ said Isobel. ‘And an awful wife. Fern. I can’t bear her.’

‘From Kalamazoo, I understand.’

Isobel laughed. ‘I know. Isn’t it too wonderful? What do you want to know about him?’

Conrad had realized that if he wanted to get a useful answer, he couldn’t just ask an innocent question.

‘I’m not sure, precisely. A friend of mine suggested that he might be dangerous in some way. To the Allied cause. Now, I know that Bedaux is working for the French Armaments Ministry, but I think it might be something more than that. Do you have any idea what that might be?’

Isobel looked blank. ‘No. But it doesn’t surprise me. He’s very clever and he has a finger in every pie.’

‘Who are his friends?’

‘He’s the kind of person who has heaps of friends,’ Isobel said. ‘Marshall would have a better idea of who the important ones are. But Mr Bedaux hasn’t been in Paris very much over the last couple of years. He arranged a trip for the Duke of Windsor to the States, and it all fell apart. The American unions hate Bedaux and they made a real stink. Bedaux took it rather badly, I believe. Had a breakdown. I think he went to Germany for a cure. Then he did something glamorous like driving across Africa from Cairo to Cape Town. Or was it the other way? He appeared back in Paris a month or so ago: I saw him at an American Embassy do the week before last at his chateau. He seemed in good spirits, although I didn’t talk to him myself.’

‘Does he still see the Duke of Windsor?’ Conrad asked. ‘I understand the duke and duchess got married there.’

‘I haven’t seen Bedaux with them for years,’ Isobel said. ‘Not since the duke went to Germany.’

‘You see the duke yourself?’ Conrad asked.

‘From time to time,’ said Isobel. ‘We have mutual friends among the Americans here.’

‘Do you happen to know where Bedaux is living?’ Conrad asked. ‘Somewhere in Paris, or does he stay at his chateau?’

‘No, he has leased Candé to the US Embassy for the war. I’m pretty sure he is staying at the Ritz.’ Isobel frowned. ‘Why are you so interested in him?’

‘A friend wanted to know.’

‘And I suppose I can’t ask what kind of friend?’

Conrad smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

The frown deepened. Something didn’t sound right to her. ‘I thought Veronica said you were in the army?’

‘I am. I’m on leave.’

‘You fought for the Reds in Spain, didn’t you, Conrad?’

‘I fought for the government, yes.’

‘The communists?’

‘The socialists. There were communists there. Some of them shot at me; they killed two of my friends. If you are wondering whether the friend I was talking about is a communist, he isn’t.’

‘But is he British?’

It was a good question, and one Conrad wasn’t going to answer. ‘Look, I really must be going. I don’t want to take up any more of your morning. Lovely to see you, Isobel.’

With that he escaped, leaving behind a very suspicious sister-in-law.

Scheveningen

Millie and Constance sat in silence, drinking their tea in the grand ballroom of the Kurhaus. Even on a gloomy Tuesday in November, the brightly painted frieze around the dome that rose high above the ballroom floor hinted at the gaiety of summer dances.

Theo was late. Although Millie knew she should be calm and businesslike, her heart was racing. It had only been forty-eight hours since she had seen him, but it had seemed far too long. Constance had caught Millie’s mood, and was nervously silent in sympathy.

There he was! He looked so grave, so handsome as he approached them. Millie smiled broadly, but Theo’s expression was frozen as he sat down next to the women. ‘I have an answer for you,’ is all he said, and handed Millie an envelope.

‘What does it say?’ Millie asked.

‘It gives some idea of what a new German government might expect from the British and French in return for peace.’

‘Can I read it?’ said Millie. She had hoped to be something more than a mere messenger.