by Jeremy Scott
He does, but the group open fire. Edmée screams. She’s been hit, her seat is covered in blood.
‘At the same time I felt I’d been whipped in the back,’ says Rubi. ‘I had the feeling that a hot object had lodged itself deeply within me … the poor woman was shouting, bleeding everywhere … I opened my collar, I breathed with difficulty. I had the impression that something was escaping from me – my life. I murmured, “There’s no point in yelling, I’m also wounded.”’
By him in the back seat, Danielle goes into a panic. She paws his slumped body demanding, ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ At the wheel of the car, Vassilopoulos is in high alarm about his wife, bleeding and shrieking beside him. He doesn’t know Paris well or where to go. Rubi gathers himself sufficiently to direct him to Hospital Marmoltan. ‘We made a striking entrance, Edmée didn’t stop screaming.’
She is the first into surgery, followed by Rubi who undergoes a two and a half hour operation to remove a bullet from his right kidney. Hers is a flesh wound in the thigh but Rubi’s condition is serious. He survives, but it is close.
Who shot them? And who were they trying to kill? Was it the French Resistance exacting sentence declared on Danielle for her collaboration? Or was Rubi the intended victim? There was a list of people who wanted to kill Rubi for various reasons. Revenge killings were tacitly accepted by the authorities at the time and armed men available at a discount price. And there may have been other players, other reasons, for by now Rubi was suspected to have worked as a German agent; Military Intelligence had a file on him. Who knows if it had basis? He was a man to whom legend attached itself. The intended assassins of Rubi/Danielle were never identified.
She nurses him back to health. The story, accompanied by a photograph of a rueful Rubi with Danielle at his bedside, runs in the New York Times, and on the front page of La Nación, the Dominican newspaper, which reports that Rubi’s first thoughts ‘were of his country, his relatives and his protector, Rafael Leonidas Trujillo’. The article quoted the cable sent by the injured man to his patron: ‘I’ve been liberated from German internment by Allied forces. Find me in Paris awaiting your orders. Found in a Greek car, I was gravely wounded on September 23 by shots aimed at that car. I believe I’m out of danger after surgery. Danielle has carried herself bravely. She has been at my side night and day from the moment I was injured. Rubirosa.’
The story reads well, and for once it is not to his discredit. Despite his divorce from Flor, Rubi is back in favour with the Great Benefactor on his island kingdom, to which Rubi had no desire ever to return. He is awarded the job of Chargé d’Affaires at the embassy in Rome. Danielle is scheduled soon to start shooting on a picture in Morocco but definitely does not want to pass the wait alone in Paris, so accompanies her husband to his new post.
CHAPTER 5
DORIS DUKE, CASERTA, ITALY, JANUARY 1945
If you lack education and are untrained in any skill, have never been employed, are thirty-three years old, are of tall slightly off-putting appearance, but happen to be the richest woman on earth … if there’s a war in progress, you’ve just dumped your no-good husband and are feeling the urge to save the world … what do you go for?
Doris Duke’s answer is to become a secret agent.
She has just ended a seven-year sexless marriage; she is free and has a keen desire to experience life to the full. Although socially inept, her great wealth provides connections. ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan, the colourful head of Overseas Strategic Services (OSS), is a friend. She is hired by the organisation at $2,000 a month and chooses the codename ‘Daisy’. On 6 January 1945, she flies to Italy from Cairo aboard a converted B-25 bomber.
Tex McCrary, a former journalist now PR officer for the Mediterranean Allied Air Force, has received a cable from General Donovan, DUKE ARRIVING 0400 HOURS CAMPINO B-25. MEET EXPEDITE. He has no idea who this Duke is, ‘How the hell do you meet a Duke properly? A B-25 comes in. Suddenly this long pair of legs dangles out from the bomb door. I assume it’s the captain. He came over and saluted smartly and I said, “Where’s the Duke?” She flipped her hood back and it was Doris.’
McCrary has dated her in New York and danced with her at the Stork Club. He’s necked with her. He is dismayed by her arrival in a war zone. He tells her, ‘Get your skinny blonde ass back on that plane, I’m sending you back.’
Doris Duke and Rubi © Press Association
She’s not a woman to be told what she can and cannot do – not anymore she’s not. She may be painfully shy but she knows her own mind and has a whim of steel. Rejecting the suggestion, she smiles sweetly at her pre-war pal, gives him a friendly kiss on the cheek, hitches a lift into bomb-damaged Caserta, checks into the only functioning hotel, and prepares for her self-appointed mission.
What precisely this consists of is not clear and, on the face of it, Doris is not a spymaster’s first choice as an agent in a foreign theatre of war. She’s almost six feet tall, unmistakably American, speaks only rudimentary Italian and no German. She’s flown here from Cairo where she had wangled herself a job with the US Seaman Service. To obtain her present assignment and get to Italy she’s unashamedly pulled wires. For a woman of such singular wealth a network of connection lies to hand. While working it she’s upset a number of government and military officials who strongly resent being bypassed, particularly while running a war. Even as Doris is unpacking her one suitcase in her Caserta hotel a cable from Cairo is delivered to the Secretary of State in Washington: STRONGLY RECOMMEND WASHINGTON TAKE STEPS TO FRUSTRATE THIS FOR GOOD OF OUR AGENCY. Next day OSS field station in Caserta receives a message from the State Department saying that Doris’s passport is about to be cancelled. She is not to be employed and they are to have no contact with her. Officers within the agency are livid at the special treatment awarded to this heiress spy imposed upon them. Doris’s cover is blown by the ensuing row and her progress stymied.
Not a great start to a career in espionage and subversion but, as stated, her will is strong and she’s not easily to be discouraged. Over dinner that evening she consults with McCrary on her next move. He’s always liked her and is amused by her seigneurial attitude to life. He suggests she switch professions and become a war correspondent. She has no qualifications but she’s here, her passport may be dodgy but she’s physically in possession of it. She can move around. Why not?
Doris is delighted by the idea and by the end of the meal she’s decided that’s what she will be. Within days she and McCrary are lovers and what he has to say about her is in flat contradiction to her husband Jimmy Cromwell’s claim in the divorce court that she is frigid. ‘Sex with Doris was a joy. It was wild and wonderful … I had a great deal of fun with her. It was pure, glorious sex. It was the best I’ve ever known because afterwards we talked and we talked and we talked … We continued the affair for years. I can say I loved her.’
Next day, Doris goes through her address book. One of her first cables is to an old friend, William Randolph Hearst’s son, Bill. She is hired by Joseph Kingsbury-Smith, European general manager of International News Service (INS), and accredited to the Italian bureau. When Rome is occupied by Allied Forces, INS moves there. Doris rents a modest flat in the city and throws herself into the work. She finds the job the toughest and most satisfying of her life. Female war correspondents are almost unknown, but the role might have been created for her. She is fearless. ‘Any goddam crazy idea I had, she would go along with,’ says McCrary. ‘She was never afraid. Never.’
During her stint with US Forces, Doris hitches a lift aboard a plane to London for a few days’ leave. Kingsbury-Smith happens to be there at the same time and his account provides a glimpse into her attitude to money. ‘My wife and I got to know her … the interesting thing was the discovery that she was very very tight with money… She was scared to death to lose a dollar. Her whole attitude was that somebody was out to get her.’
In Italy, many in the Press Corps take exception to Doris. They have put in years of
work to obtain this assignment and resent the fact that this inexperienced young woman can walk into the job so effortlessly. She is mocked as a ‘debutramp’ looking for a kick, just another war-zone junkie. ‘We more or less laughed at her,’ says Mike Stern, then head of the American Press Association in Rome. ‘We kind of victimised her.’ She is sensitive. Hatred can be acceptable, there’s distinction in it, but to be mocked is hard. But she doesn’t react, she’s long learned to control any show of emotion. Don’t get mad, get even is the current maxim. And Doris does so in nothing less than majestic style. The war in Europe ends on 8 May. Four days later, she and a mob of correspondents are gathered at the airport at Linz, waiting for the appearance of General George S. Patton, swashbuckling commander of the Third Army, which has fought its way through Europe to meet up here with the advancing Russian forces.
Patton’s plane touches down and the General comes down the ramp. Doris walks over to his staff car, ‘Why Georgie, how are you?’ she enquires blithely.
He looks at her in astonishment. ‘Doris!’ he exclaims, ‘What are you doing here? Has the polo season started?’
She knows him from Hawaii, where he’d been stationed before the war. Now without a moment’s hesitation she steps into the staff car and seats herself beside him. The vehicle sweeps off to the historic rendezvous, watched by the crowd of reporters in baffled rage.
The totemic meeting of Russian and US forces is celebrated at the headquarters of Soviet Marshal Feodor Tolbukhin, in a castle which once was the summer residence of Emperor Franz Joseph. Russian soldiers standing to attention line the drive; inside is a scene of barbaric splendour. Dozens of strapping female Soviet volunteers in drab ill-fitting tunics have been shipped in to staff the place without any training whatever; they have never seen a modern kitchen before, far less an indoor lavatory.
Patton, his ADC and Doris are entertained to a lavish rowdy feast. The marshal and his savage court are high on firewater and victory. A band is playing, the table is crowded with tins of caviar and bottles of vodka. Buxom Soviet workers attend the guests, spraying them with rank perfume. A stupendous showgirl, imported from Moscow, provides a spirited cabaret, stripping off all her clothes. General Patton applauds enthusiastically, then rises to inform his host that he intends to honour the dancer with a medal. Detaching one from the display on his chest he moves to pin it on her but finds only bare flesh … The Marshal bellows his approval. Roaring drunk, he unclasps one of his own medals; he in turn wishes to honour an American working woman and fellow comrade embodying the working-class values that soon will rule the world. Lurching over to Doris Duke, the richest woman in it, he pins the decoration to her breast then kisses her on both cheeks with full wet lips.
The next four days Doris spends with Patton, sharing this continuing celebration and his bed. ‘She liked older men. She was in love with her father,’ McCrary observes. And Doris herself has recorded her impression of top brass as lovers. ‘It is common knowledge that generals … are usually under-endowed. That is probably what motivates them. I got it from his wife that General Douglas MacArthur was absolutely tiny. Georgie did not suffer from that problem.’ In further explanation of Patton’s attraction, she explains, ‘He wore polished leather knee boots. I found those boots to be a marvellous turn-on.’
For his part, Patton is understandably elated just now at his place in history. ‘Write something about me,’ he tells her. She intends to anyway and has secretly been making notes, but now she has his sanction for a full kiss and tell. Combining epic conflict apercus, it’s one hell of a good piece. Novice she may be, but she’s a forerunner in a form of journalism that today is a staple item of redtop fare. Her interview with Patton runs in every major US paper. To the undying fury of the Press Corps, she has scored a journalistic coup.
With the end of hostilities in Europe, the Hearst-owned INS shifts to syndicating stories more suited to the peacetime mood. The film star Danielle Darrieux has just arrived in Rome, accompanied by her husband, Porfirio Rubirosa. She is not welcome in France because of past collaboration with the Nazi occupier; he is no longer acceptable there as a diplomat, having served as legate to the Vichy regime.
INS assigns a reporter to interview the film star. On the day after the couple’s arrival, Doris Duke shows up at their hotel suite to do so. It takes Rubirosa only minutes to identify and place this gangling, badly dressed, pointy-chinned blonde. During the interview Danielle is cool and guarded, refusing to be drawn by Doris’s questions. But Rubi, a good three inches shorter than Doris, is attentive and charming. Afterwards, they move to a restaurant for lunch. Even before the meal is served, and while the three are still declaring their mutual pleasure at finding themselves en poste together in this delightful city, Rubi has determined to marry her.
Doris knows his reputation; a now-professional journalist, she has done the necessary research. She knows about his part in the assassination of the dissident Dominican exile Boscome in New York, his dubious wartime activities, gem smuggling, thefts, that he worked as an Abwehr agent; she knows that he is dangerous.
A few days after that interview, while Danielle is otherwise engaged, Rubi and his prospective bride are meeting in a hotel bar. She seeks reassurance on her safety. ‘I asked Rubi straight out of the blue whether he would consider killing me to get my money.’
He rises to the occasion with suave gallantry. Gently laying his hand upon hers, he looks at her with his sultry bedroom eyes and breathes, ‘I have done much worse.’ She finds his words irresistible. Ten days later, Danielle flys to Monaco on location, leaving Rubi in Rome, the same city as the richest woman in the world.
Doris’s father, Buck Duke, was a man of extraordinary foresight and business acumen. Born in a shack in North Carolina, his parents grew tobacco, which as a teenager he hawked around local townships from a wagon. When his father built a factory in Durham he was already playing an active part in the newly formed company.
At this period, the late 1800s, sales were almost entirely in pipe and chewing tobacco. Buck’s prescience showed in acquiring the recently invented Bonsack rolling machine and switching production to cigarettes made from paler tobacco. He also demonstrated an innovative flair for the new arts of advertising and promotion. A statuesque French actress with a racy reputation, Madame Rhea, featured on giant posters, proffering a pack together with full cleavage and come-hither smile. This first example of celebrity endorsement was followed by others. Buck was the first to sponsor baseball, basketball and roller-skating teams to display his logo, while salesmen (and, later, saucily uniformed salesgirls) peddled Duke brands to spectators at the events. His methods proved wildly successful. In 1890 he formed the American Tobacco Company, capitalised at $25 million (equivalent to $750 million today). The company controlled over 90 per cent of the cigarette business in the US.
When Doris was born in November 1912 it was in the mansion he had constructed on Fifth Avenue and East 78 Street, which was based on the Chateau Labottiere in Bordeaux. The Times reported, ‘No child of royal blood ever came into the world amid more comfortable and luxurious surroundings … The magnificent mansion was turned into a private hospital; no expense was spared in obtaining the best physicians and nurses … The money of the tobacco king will someday belong solely to this baby.’
Another newspaper published a Rich List of her competitors’ worth: John Jacob Astor $3 million. John Nicholas Brown $10 million. Edward Vincent McLean $50 million. W. K. Vanderbilt $60 million. Doris Duke’s value was set at $100 million (to calculate today’s equivalent, multiply by around twenty-five).
Doris’s mother, Nanaline, was Buck’s second wife. His first he’d divorced for rampant infidelity. ‘She was always on heat,’ says Doris, who was his only child. Nanaline had been raised in genteel poverty in the Old South; her own mother had been obliged to take in boarders. But Nanaline had pretensions to grace and style. As Buck’s wife, she saw it as her mission to bring background and breeding to the Duke family, and
to invest her boorish husband and herself with the status and social respectability that is the perquisite of great wealth.
As a mother to Doris, Nanaline was distant and chill; but Buck was obsessed with his daughter. The publicity surrounding her birth and fortune made him nervous, kidnapping was becoming the characteristic American crime. He moved the family to London, leasing Crewe House in Curzon Street, now the Saudi embassy. His security was stringent as it is today at the same building. Doris was kept indoors, not allowed to mix with other children and given 25 US cents a week as an allowance.
On the outbreak of the Great War in 1914, Buck transferred the household back to the US for safety. He was a workaholic who got up at 7 a.m., breakfasted on stewed prunes and was at his office on Fifth Avenue at 45 Street by 8.30. Content to wear the same crumpled suit for days, he set no store by fancy manners. Nanaline, however, was dedicated to the family’s social advancement. Her initial plan for her husband to become a tax exile in England and acquire a title had been thwarted by the war. Now she set out on the well-trodden route of ostentatious real estate and conspicuous consumption favoured by most swells of the era.
Apart from the chateau on Fifth Avenue, Buck already owned Duke Farms in New Jersey and a country estate at Charlotte, North Carolina. Now he and Nanaline bought a huge mansion overlooking the sea, Rough Point. Newport had become the place for the summer. In this post-war period of roaring prosperity, America’s rich – new and old – berthed their yachts in Newport harbour and constructed ‘summer cottages’, many of breathtaking grandeur. The Breakers, owned by the Vanderbilts, had seventy-five rooms. Occupation during the season was provided by rigorous entertaining. The parties, costume balls and extravaganzas were continuous and competitive. It was quite usual for gold trinkets and unmounted jewels to be served as party favours on silver trays by liveried staff. At one particular rout, a Servants’ Ball, the guests arrived costumed as their own maids and butlers.
