Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

‘He’s best friends with Ribbentrop and Ribbentrop is a Nazi. He’s trying to sell our country out.’

‘Is that what Theo told you?’

Although the lobby was empty, Millie realized she was talking too loudly and lowered her voice. ‘Theo thinks the Duke of Windsor is a spy. He has been giving Theo secrets about the French defences.’

‘Theo has been talking to the Duke of Windsor?’

‘Through some kind of intermediary. He wants me to tell my father.’

Constance frowned. ‘I know you like Theo, Millie, but that cannot possibly be true.’

‘He’s going to bring me proof in the next couple of days. While we wait for your friend Herr Langebrück to come back with his reply, which, by the way, I intend to rip up.’

‘You can’t do that!’ Constance said. ‘That was the whole reason we came here.’

‘We shouldn’t be negotiating with the Nazis behind our government’s back,’ Millie said. ‘Not when we are at war.’ What she meant was behind Theo’s back. And Conrad’s.

‘Why don’t we leave that to Sir Henry to decide?’ said Constance. ‘And your father.’

‘Because Sir Henry is a Nazi and my father is a fool!’ Millie said, the tears stinging her eyes as she did so.

‘What are you going to do about the Duke of Windsor?’ Constance asked.

‘Tell my father, of course, once Theo provides us with some evidence. As soon as we get back to England. I just hope he will listen.’

‘I don’t think you should do that,’ said Constance.

At that instant all Millie’s frustration focused on one person, the girl standing in front of her. ‘Leave me alone, Constance,’ she said. ‘Just leave me alone!’

With that she strode off to the lifts and her room. She needed to be by herself to make sense of all she had just heard. She needed to be away from Constance.

Constance returned to her table in the almost empty ballroom and poured herself a cup of tepid tea from the pot. She had some hard thinking to do.

After a few minutes she went up to her own room and placed a telephone call to London.

The Ritz, Paris

Conrad lit another cigarette and leafed through the pages of the Herald Tribune. He had finished Le Monde. He wondered how long he could safely sit in the lobby. The staff of the Ritz didn’t seem to mind; people waited for other people in grand hotels all the time.

He glanced up every time the doors opened until finally he saw a face he recognized from the brochures he had picked up in Amsterdam. The photographs had done justice to the boxer’s face and the jug ears, but not to the vitality with which Charles Bedaux bounded into the hotel. He spoke to one of the men at reception, requesting the manager.

This was interesting. Nonchalantly, Conrad got to his feet and wandered over to the desk. He asked whether there was a message for him. While the receptionist was looking, the manager appeared. He was perfectly dressed in morning coat, and succeeded in looking both authoritative and deferent at the same time. He clearly knew Bedaux.

Conrad listened to the conversation, which was in French. Bedaux had arranged a private dining room for four people and seemed very concerned about the arrangements. As did the manager. One of the people was ‘Madame Bedaux’, but Conrad didn’t catch the names of the other two. Conrad couldn’t hear the whole conversation, he had to respond to the receptionist who hadn’t been able to find a message for him, but he did catch a couple of words from the manager: ‘eight o’clock’.

Conrad checked his watch. It was half past six. He told the receptionist he would return later and asked him to keep any messages for him from a Monsieur Madvig. May as well put the old Danish Prime Minister to work again. Then he wandered out into the place Vendôme, and found himself a café on a side street.

At ten to eight he strolled back to the Ritz. He was disconcerted to see Charles Bedaux standing in the lobby, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. Conrad decided he had better not hang around there, and so made his way over to the far side of the square, outside an American bank. But it was dark in the blackout, and from that distance he couldn’t make out the occupants of the cars that pulled up at the entrance. He would have to get closer.

He moved over to the shadows outside a jeweller, only a few yards from the entrance to the hotel, confident that no one could see him in the blackout.

At twenty past eight a large Buick rolled up and two faces he recognized emerged. The appearance of the couple seemed to energize the doorman, who ushered them into the hotel. Conrad decided he could risk one more turn though the lobby himself.

Sure enough, as he passed through the blacked-out doors, he saw Bedaux fussing over his dinner guests.

The Duke and Duchess of Windsor.

He span off to the left and found himself in the bar. He ordered a whisky and soda to give himself time to think.

Could that be what Theo was getting at? Charles Bedaux’s relationship with the Duke of Windsor. Was Bedaux giving Theo secret information about the duke? And if so, what? Something about Wallis Simpson? Surely that scandal had played out.

Conrad remembered Warren mentioning Fruity Metcalfe, the duke’s ‘sidekick’. Well, here Conrad was, in the bar of the Ritz. Conrad had no idea what Metcalfe looked like; he scanned the room for likely suspects. There was really only one candidate, a tall middle-aged man in a double-breasted suit, propping up the bar, sipping a whisky and looking glum.

Worth a try.

Conrad moved over to him. ‘I say,’ he said to the man. ‘Are you English, by any chance?’

‘Irish,’ the man replied, looking up.

Conrad perched on a stool next to him. ‘I think I just saw the Duke and Duchess of Windsor in the hotel lobby. Is that possible?’

‘I’d say it’s a racing certainty,’ the man replied. ‘He’s having dinner here tonight.’

‘Oh,’ said Conrad. ‘I didn’t realize he was in France.’

‘Been here over a month,’ said the man, in soft Irish tones. ‘As have I. In fact I spent all day with him.’

‘Really?’ Conrad looked impressed. ‘I’ve never met him, myself. They say he’s charming.’

‘He is that,’ said the man, whom Conrad was now certain was Fruity Metcalfe. ‘You could never accuse the duke of lacking charm.’

‘Are you dining with him tonight?’ asked Conrad. He knew it was a stupid question, because the duke had been wearing a dinner jacket and Fruity wasn’t.

‘No. I work for him. I’m his equerry.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Conrad. ‘The name’s de Lancey, by the way.’

‘Metcalfe,’ said Fruity. He was clearly slightly drunk, but seemed happy with the idea of talking to Conrad. The company seemed to be lifting his air of gloom. ‘What are you doing in Paris, Mr de Lancey?’

For a moment, Conrad almost panicked. What the hell was he doing in Paris? He couldn’t tell Fruity he was trying to find out about Bedaux, and from what he had heard it was difficult for a British officer to get leave in the city. ‘Seeing my sister-in-law. She lives here and she needs some help with something.’

‘Oh, who’s that?’ Fruity asked.

‘Isobel Haldeman.’

‘Oh yes, I know her. Marshall Haldeman’s wife. Must be a rum business for you to come all the way here to sort it out.’

‘I suppose it is, rather,’ said Conrad. ‘I shouldn’t really have told you her name. Didn’t think you would know her.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Fruity. ‘I promise I’ll forget all about it.’ He took a sip of his drink and looked Conrad up and down. ‘Sister-in-law? That makes you Isobel’s brother’s… No, sister’s husband.’