Jack Higgins - To Catch a King

Amongst them was a convoy of cars headed by a Buick towing a loaded trailer. At a small town, west of Aries, a barricade had been erected by gendarmes to prevent any further passage to refugees.

As the Buick slowed to a halt, the small, rather slight-looking man seated beside the dark-haired woman in the back, stood up so that he could be clearly seen. He smiled with considerable charm, but the authority there was unmistakable.

‘I am the Prince of Wales,’ he said in excellent French. ‘Let me pass, if you please.’

The officer in charge gazed at him in astonished recognition, then saluted and barked a quick order to his men. The barricades were hastily removed and the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and their party passed through.

In Berlin on the following Friday it was raining as Hannah Winter left her apartment in Königstrasse. It was eight-thirty; an hour before the first cabaret of the evening at the Garden Room which was a good mile away near the Unter den Linden. Not much chance of a taxi these days so she’d have to hurry. There was a Mercedes parked across the street. She glanced at it hopefully, then realized it was a private car and started to walk.

Two young men came round the corner and moved towards her. They were in Nazi Party uniform of some sort, although what it signified she had no idea. There were so many uniforms these days. They paused, blocking the pavement, the faces beneath the peaked caps hard and cruel, ripe for mischief. She was in trouble and knew it.

‘Papers,’ one of them said.

She remembered Uncle Max’s first rule. Never show fear. ‘I’m an American citizen,’ she replied calmly.

‘So?’ He snapped his fingers. She produced her passport from her bag and handed it over.

‘Hannah Winter – twenty-two. That’s a good age.’ His companion sniggered and he returned the passport. ‘And your pass.’

The other one moved closer, enjoying this, his eyes stripping her. She took out her pass reluctantly and handed it over.

He laughed delightedly. ‘Well, would you look at this. A Yid.’ He moved closer. ‘Where’s your star, Jew? You know it’s a serious offence to be out without it. We’re going to have to do something about that.’

He was very close to her now, forcing her back towards the mouth of the alley behind. There was the sound of a car door slamming and she saw a man emerge from the rear of the Mercedes and start across the street.

‘That’s enough,’ he called softly through the rain.

He was of medium height, wore a slouch hat and a black leather coat. A cigarette dangled from the left-hand corner of his mouth.

Her interrogator scowled ferociously. ‘Clear off, if you know what’s good for you. This is police business.’

‘Is that so?’ the man said calmly. ‘Fräulein Winter, is that right? My name is Schellenberg. I heard the exchange sitting in my car over there. Are these men annoying you?’

‘She’s a Yid, out on the street without her Star of David.’

‘And an American citizen, if I heard correctly. Is this not so, Fräulein?’

His smile had a kind of ruthless charm that was accentuated by the duelling scar on one cheek and her stomach was, for some unaccountable reason, hollow with excitement.

‘Yes,’ she said.

A hand grabbed Schellenberg’s arm and shook him furiously. ‘Clear off – now. Unless you want your face kicked in.’

Schellenberg wasn’t in the least put out. ‘Oh dear, you are a nasty little boy, aren’t you?’

He waved his right hand casually. Two men in uniform as black as the Mercedes got out of the car and hurried across. Their cuff-titles carried the legend RFSS picked out in silver thread. Reichsführer der SS, the cuff-title of Himmler’s personal staff.

Schellenberg said, ‘A lesson is needed here, I think.’ He took the girl by the arm. ‘Fräulein.’

As he guided her firmly across the road towards the car, there was a sound of a blow, a cry of pain, but she did not look back.

Fifteen minutes later the Mercedes pulled in to the kerb in front of the Garden Room. Hans, the doorman, came forward hesitantly, a look of astonishment on his face when he saw who was inside. He opened the door and Schellenberg got out and turned to assist her.

‘So, this is where you work?’ He examined the photographs in the glass case beneath the poster. ‘“Hannah Winter and the Connie Jones trio, direct from the Albany Club, New York.” Sounds interesting. I must come one night.’

She said calmly, ‘I’m Jewish, as you very well know and, as you can see from the photo, Connie is a Negro. I hardly think we’d be of much interest to a member of the master race.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I understand you get excellent audiences.’ He smiled gently. ‘Shall we go in?’

‘I use the stage door.’

‘And I, on the contrary, always go in by the front.’

He had her by the arm again and she went without protest. Hans hurriedly got the door open for them. Her uncle was at the front desk talking to the hat check girl. He was a shrewd, kindly looking man, with a shock of grey hair and steel-rimmed glasses who always managed to appear untidy in spite of his dinner jacket.

At the sight of his niece and Schellenberg, the smile was wiped instantly from his face and he hurried forwards.

‘Hannah, my love, what’s happened? You are in trouble?’

‘I was, but not any more, thanks to Herr Schellenberg. This is my uncle, Max Winter.’

‘Herr Winter,’ Schellenberg said amiably and turned back to Hannah.

She was at that time just twenty-two, a small, rather hippy girl with good legs; a face that was handsome rather than beautiful with high cheekbones, dark eyes and black hair worn unfashionably long.

He took her right hand, holding it for a moment. ‘And now, Fräulein, after seeing you in a better light, I am more determined than ever to catch your act, isn’t that the American phrase? But not tonight, I regret to say.’

He raised her hand to his lips and again she was conscious of that unwanted hollow excitement.

‘Herr Winter.’

He went out and when Hannah glanced at her uncle she found that he had turned quite pale. ‘Uncle Max – what is it?’

‘That man,’ he whispered. ‘Where did you meet him? Don’t you know who he is? That is Walter Schellenberg, SS Brigadeführer and major general of police. Heydrich’s right-hand man.’

Hannah Winter had been born in November, 1918, two days before the Armistice was signed to end that most terrible of all wars. Her father, Simon, once a violinist with the Berlin Philharmonic, emigrated to New York in 1920 and opened a small restaurant on 42nd Street in partnership with his wife’s father. During the years of Prohibition, the establishment developed into a highly successful nightclub, but his health had never been good because of chest wounds received while serving as an infantryman on the Somme and he died in July 1929.

The club, after Prohibition, once again became a restaurant and prospered under the shrewd direction of his wife. Hannah she had raised to be a nice Jewish girl who would one day make a good marriage, have children, do all the right things.

It might have worked, except for one important point. Hannah Winter had been blessed with an extraordinary singing voice. She discovered her talent by chance, singing with a student jazz band at high school. From that time on, she had never seriously contemplated any other way of life.

At seventeen, she had appeared at the Paloma Ballroom in Hollywood with Benny Goodman. As a straight band singer she had toured with Artie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey.

But she was at her best always in the more enclosed world of club and cabaret, preferably backed by a good trio. It was then that she was able to bring an intensity to her performance of the average popular song that rivalled anything Bessie Smith had been able to do with the blues.