Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

Conrad hesitated. Should he wait for his father to show up? He might get a chance to intercept him before he reached the front door. But what if the duke wasn’t at home? Or was out for the whole day and evening? What if his father met him somewhere in the middle of town? Conrad would have wasted valuable time.

Somehow he needed to find out the duke’s movements.

So he climbed the steps to the imposing front door and rang the bell.

A very tall, very English-looking butler answered the door.

‘I wish to speak to my uncle, Lord Oakford,’ said Conrad in English.

‘Lord Oakford is not here, sir,’ said butler. ‘He called this morning to see His Royal Highness, but I informed him that His Royal Highness is not in residence at the moment, and so he left.’

‘Pity,’ said Conrad. ‘Where is the duke, might I enquire?’

The butler raised his eyebrows. ‘I am not at liberty to say, sir.’

The man did not look bribable, but Conrad was desperate. He reached into his pocket for his wallet.

The butler glared down his nose at Conrad, turned and shut the door in his face, leaving Conrad on the street feeling like a heel.

Where to now?

It was possible that the butler would have been more forthcoming to Lord Oakford, a peer of the realm and a former Cabinet minister. In which case, his father would know where the duke was, and would be heading there now. So Conrad had to find out the whereabouts of the duke, and quickly.

Fruity Metcalfe! Of course there was a good chance he might be with his master, but there was also a chance he might not, and it was the only chance Conrad had. So he retraced his steps to the Métro and headed for the Ritz.

It was the cocktail hour by the time Conrad got there, and the bar was crowded. Conrad was relieved to see Fruity propping up the bar, a drink in front of him. Conrad squeezed next to him, and then pretended to recognize the Irishman. ‘Major Metcalfe? De Lancey. We met here in November.’

Fruity frowned, and then smiled broadly. ‘Oh, I remember you! What are you doing back in Paris? Or can’t you say?’

Conrad remembered how his evasion last time had been misread as involvement in sensitive work of some kind, and was pleased that Fruity had remembered that too. He didn’t answer, but smiled vaguely. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘By all means,’ said Fruity.

Conrad ordered them both whiskies. ‘How are you?’

‘Bloody furious,’ said Fruity.

‘Oh really? Why?’

Fruity stared into his glass and shook his head in an attempt at discretion.

‘Are you still working for the Duke of Windsor?’ Conrad prompted.

‘I was yesterday. I really couldn’t tell you whether I am today.’

Conrad winced sympathetically. ‘Did you get the heave-ho?’

Fruity hesitated, but he was desperate to talk. ‘Worse than that. The man has cut and run.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I dropped him off at his house last night. Rang him this morning for instructions and the butler said he had left first thing! Taken both cars and headed down to Biarritz to be with Wallis! He never told me. He must have had it all planned last night, but not a dickie bird.’

‘Why wouldn’t he tell you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fruity. ‘Perhaps he felt guilty about not taking me. Or perhaps he was worried about what I might say. He might be a royal bloody highness, but he’s also a serving officer, and he has just left his post. It’s cowardice, that’s what it is! Bloody cowardice.’

Fruity took a gulp of his whisky. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be saying this, but he really has dropped me in it. How am I supposed to get out of here? The Germans will be looking in any moment now.’

‘That is a bit awkward,’ Conrad said.

‘Awkward! It’s bloody disastrous.’

‘Do you really think the Germans will take Paris?’

‘Bound too. At least the French have replaced that fool Gamelin with Weygand, but it’s far too late now. I could have told them what would happen. In fact we did tell them, HRH and me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ve spent the last few months liaising with the French. We saw their pitiful attempts to defend the Meuse. Reserve divisions with no training and badly sited defences. We pointed out the weaknesses; I helped HRH write the report.’

‘Will you take the train down to Biarritz to join him?’ Conrad asked.

‘You haven’t been here very long, have you? Not a hope in hell of getting a seat on any train heading south. You need a car. And no chance of getting one of those, either. None for hire. You might be able to buy one, but it would cost a fortune.’ He shook his head. ‘No. I’m on my own. I will have to work out my own way back to Blighty.’

‘Best of luck,’ said Conrad. ‘I say, you haven’t seen my father around have you. Lord Oakford?’

Fruity shook his head. ‘Sorry, old chap. Another one?’ Fruity pointed to Conrad’s drink, now almost empty.

‘No thanks,’ said Conrad. ‘I must be off.’ He hesitated. ‘The duke didn’t happen to mention any of what you saw at the Meuse to Charles Bedaux, did he? I remember he was having dinner with Bedaux here in November.’

‘Probably, in passing,’ Fruity said. He frowned. ‘I say, you don’t think Bedaux has been talking to the Germans, do you? He is a mysterious cove. And he has been to Germany a couple of times.’

‘And to Holland,’ said Conrad.

‘Good Lord,’ said Fruity. He was looking troubled. ‘How do you know about Bedaux?’

‘Must dash,’ said Conrad, keen to avoid that particular question.

He extricated himself from Fruity and emerged into the place Vendôme, from where he walked swiftly back to the rue de Rivoli and the Hôtel Meurice. There he discovered that his father, or ‘uncle’ as Conrad referred to him, had just checked out of his room, without staying the night. He was with Hyram Leavold, an American banker whom Conrad knew was a friend of his father, and a young woman whom the hotel clerk did not recognize. They had loaded Lord Oakford’s luggage into an American car, a Packard. Lord Oakford and the young woman had driven off, leaving the American banker to hail a taxi.

Conrad left the hotel and stopped at a nearby café for a beer and to gather his thoughts. Which was difficult, since at the next table an exquisitely dressed young woman of about twenty was arguing with an older man. It was unclear whether the man was her lover or her father, but whoever he was, he was intending to leave Paris without her, and she was not happy. Probably a lover, Conrad decided, who was saving the passenger seat in his car for his wife. The woman stormed off; the man caught Conrad’s eye and shrugged.

Lord Oakford had stayed one step ahead of Conrad. He had discovered that the duke had left for Biarritz and then found himself an American with a car who was willing to lend it to him.

Biarritz was a long way away, close to the Spanish border in the south-west corner of France. It would take the duke, and Oakford, a couple of days to get there. More if the roads were jammed. It was unlikely that Oakford would have discovered where the duke was spending the night en route, in which case he would probably drive straight to Biarritz and approach the duke there.

So Conrad had to get to Biarritz. Fruity had been adamant that trains were not an option, and neither was hiring a car. Conrad didn’t have enough money to buy one. He needed to borrow one. And who the hell would lend him one in current circumstances, with the Germans poised to enter Paris any day?

Conrad needed his own generous American. Or a woman married to a generous American. His sister-in-law, for example.

Holloway Prison, London