by Mark Ellis
The marshal chuckled. “Of course, Admiral Darlan keeps me up to date. However, Pierre, you have your own sources, your own network. No doubt there is interesting information there to which the admiral is not privy. You would not withhold this from me out of any feeling of resentment, I hope?”
Laval chuckled in turn. “Resentment? Me? You know me better than that, I trust, Marshal?”
Both men smiled thoughtfully for a while, contemplating the fact that Laval did indeed have strong grounds for resentment towards the marshal. Until December, Laval had held Darlan’s position as, effectively, prime minister of the Vichy state. However, the marshal had taken fright at Laval’s closeness to the Germans and, egged on by Laval’s many enemies, had sacked him, replacing him eventually with Darlan.
The marshal broke the silence first. “The admiral tells me that all is going well in his negotiation regarding the implementation of the Paris protocols.”
“Does he now? My sources tell me there are some difficulties.”
The marshal turned to the window. A bird was singing outside and had distracted him for a moment. “What a sweet sound. An ortolan, I believe. A lovely little bird.”
“Especially on a dinner plate.”
The marshal threw back his head and laughed. “You are a barbarian, my friend, although I must admit that I have myself partaken. Delicious, I agree. You were talking about difficulties?”
“According to my sources, yes.”
“And your sources would perhaps include Herr Abetz in Paris?”
“Yes, Marshal. To put it bluntly, the Germans are questioning whether the admiral has his heart in the matter.”
“And why are they doing that?”
“Because Darlan is quibbling excessively about various details. He has expressed concerns about the agreed provision of conscript labour, about the requirements concerning Jews, about…”
“What about the Jews?”
Laval pursed his lips. Pétain liked to profess ignorance of the stream of oppressive anti-Jewish laws and regulations his government had introduced. French Jews were now excluded from all commercial and industrial jobs, from the civil service, the army and the press. Draft statutes and regulations for the effective prohibition of Jewish businesses, for the exclusion of Jewish students and for the prohibition of Jewish lawyers and doctors were awaiting imminent passage through the Vichy legislature. And Pétain was asking him innocently about the Jews? Laval decided to ignore the question.
“Suffice to say, Marshal, the Germans are troubled. It is, in my view, unwise to trouble them. They have made a number of very meaningful concessions to us. I don’t need to repeat them, do I, sir?”
The marshal grunted with irritation. “Yes, yes, of course. The occupation costs have been reduced by a quarter, the prisoners of war are being returned and so on. I know.”
“And at the same time some of the things we agreed to give them are proving worthless.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for example, our offer to give the Germans military access to our territory in Syria and Lebanon is likely, as it stands, to prove of no value.”
The marshal reached out to a file on his desk. “I have just been reading the latest report from General Dentz. Yes, the British have launched operations but the general is confident of rebuffing them. He has seven infantry battalions at his disposal, including some crack Foreign Legion regiments. He has another 11 special infantry battalions, including horse and motorised cavalry. On top of all that, he has air strength of nearly 300 aircraft. He’s a good man, Dentz. I am sure with the substantial forces to hand he’ll be able to do his job. A successful job.”
“I understand he has already lost a battle. At somewhere called Litani in the Lebanon.”
The marshal took a paper from the file and flourished it at Laval. “I already have a report on that. You say a battle? It was a minor skirmish over a small river crossing. Nothing of importance. Really, Pierre, I would not have expected such defeatism from you.”
Laval shrugged. “It will be no easy thing to keep the British out.”
“Hah! The British. And what sort of shape do you think they are in? They had to scuttle with their tails between their legs from Dunkirk last year, since when they have been bombed to hell and back by the Luftwaffe. They have been able to achieve nothing in north Africa, except for beating the Italians, which is hardly something to crow over.”
Laval gave the Marshal a weary look. “You have always underestimated the British, I think, Marshal. Of course, it is not just the British in Syria. There are Australians. There are also a couple of what are called Free French brigades. Those brigades have some Foreign Legion soldiers too.”
The marshal banged his hand down so hard on the desk that the young lieutenant poked his head through the door to check that everything was all right. The marshal waved him away, looking so angry that Laval thought he might break the habit of a profoundly conventional and conservative lifetime and curse. Instead he spat out the words ‘Free French’ as if they were swear words. “By what right does that treacherous young man de Gaulle allocate this description to himself and his ragged band of followers?”
“By right of the fact that he lives in England and can do what he wants.”
“For the moment, Pierre, for the moment.” The marshal sat quietly for a moment, recovering his equilibrium. “And what do your sources tell you about him?”
“That he is in Cairo at the moment, trying unsuccessfully to get himself into the confidence of the British Middle East Command.”
“Is he involved with the military planning in Syria and Lebanon?”
“Apparently not, much to his disgust. Churchill doesn’t trust him and so inevitably neither does Wavell.”
The marshal tugged at the right corner of his moustache. “We must be grateful for small mercies. And what of London – while the cat is away are the mice at play?”
“No doubt, being Frenchmen, the officers will enjoy intriguing against each other.”
The marshal gave Laval a pained smile. “Must you always have such a low opinion of your fellow countrymen, Pierre?”
Laval opened his arms wide with a look of injured innocence.
“Hmm. And what of British counter-intelligence, Pierre? Have they flown over any more agents? I know you have some man or men well placed to advise you on these matters.”
“I have no fresh information on that, sir. I would expect to hear more shortly.”
The marshal turned to look out of the window again. The birdsong had stopped but one of the military bands had started up in the square. Pétain paused to listen to a few bars. “I think that is a march by the American Sousa – rousing, isn’t it?”
Laval, who had no ear for music, nodded.
“De Gaulle was one of my protégés. You know that, don’t you, Pierre?”
“Yes, sir.” Laval raised his eyes to the ceiling, where a fan revolved slowly and creakily. He had heard the marshal on the subject many, many times since de Gaulle had risen to prominence as the leader of the French opposition in exile. “But to return to what I was saying, Marshal.”
“And what was that?”
“You must do whatever you can to keep in good relations with the Germans. Keep an eye on Darlan as he is rubbing them up the wrong way. If necessary, replace him.”
“Replace him? Replace him with whom, Pierre?”
Laval smirked mischievously and rose to his feet. “I must now say adieu. I am, as always, at your disposal and at the disposal of my beloved France.”
* * *
London
The Bridget Healy file had just arrived from Belfast. It was a slim one. Bridget Mary Healy had been born on 3 February 1919 in the village of Adamstown in County Wexford in the south east of the Irish republic. Her father, James, was a farm labourer and her mother, Annie, a seamstress. She was the youngest of three, with a brother, Finian, 25, and a sister, Patricia, 24. There was a paragraph on Finian’s involvem
ent with the IRA and the terms of a possible prosecution of him for trafficking firearms into Northern Ireland. There was nothing on the sister.
The report included a summary of general police suspicions regarding Bridget’s involvement in Finian’s illegal activities and specific suspicions regarding the bombing incident that led to her hospitalisation. There was a note about Bridget’s disappearance from Belfast at the end of 1940 beneath which someone had scrawled in pencil ‘New York? London?’ A couple of her addresses in Belfast were listed.
The typed report ended halfway down the second page but there were a number of pencilled telephone numbers beneath. The legible ones were Belfast numbers with ticks against them, by which Robinson understood the local police had checked them out. However, at the very bottom of the page was a number that someone had partially crossed out. There was no tick against it. She held the paper up against the small window and tried unsuccessfully to decipher the number. There wasn’t enough light and she couldn’t use the ceiling lightbulb because it was broken. She picked up the file and walked over to Merlin’s office, where she found Bridges at his table, engrossed in a book.
“I just need to look at this in the light, if you don’t mind, Sergeant?
“Go ahead.”
“Good book?”
“Railway timetables, Constable.” He nodded at the several thick volumes in front of him. “Don’t ask. I think I’m going blind.”
Robinson went over to the window and turned the sheet of paper to and fro in the daylight. She was disappointed. “Still no luck. Have you got a rubber, sir?”
Bridges reached into a drawer. “Here.” He threw the eraser sharply to Robinson, who caught it with aplomb. “Well caught! Played some cricket, have you?”
“Rounders.”
“Oh, well, pretty similar. I’ve always found it strange that rounders is so popular in America.”
“They call it baseball there, Sergeant.”
“So they do.” Bridges returned to his railway timetables.
Robinson set the sheet of paper down on Merlin’s desk and started trying to remove the crossings out without eliminating the underlying numbers. After a few minutes of delicate rubbing and tweaking, she felt she was getting somewhere. She raised the paper to the window light again. A number was emerging. She felt a little thrill of excitement before reminding herself that the number might be a complete irrelevance. She walked over to Bridges.
“Sorry to bother you again, sir. Do you think this is a D or a B?” Bridges looked hard at Robinson’s piece of paper.
“I think it’s a B. Definitely a B.”
“And what do you think the whole number is?”
Bridges held the paper closer. “BEL, I think, then 5468 – or is it 5443? No, definitely 5468. BEL5468 – that’s a London telephone number, of course. BEL for Belgravia.”
“So it is.” Robinson felt a buzz of excitement again.
“Whose number is it?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant. It’s written at the end of Bridget Healy’s file. It could be nothing but…”
“Better ring it and find out if it’s nothing or something, hadn’t you? I’m sure Mr Merlin wouldn’t object to your using his phone.”
* * *
“So, sir, you said you wanted to explain something important to me?”
“Yes, Philip. And, by the way, I think we needn’t bother with the ‘sir’ any more. As your father is now gone you are my firm’s largest client, so I think it would be more in order for you to call me Reginald or rather Reggie, as my friends do.”
“Very well… Reggie.”
They were seated at a small corner table in the bar of Tomlinson’s club, White’s, in St James’s Street. Tomlinson had just completed a strained lunch at the club with his fellow partners. The principal subject of discussion had naturally been Simon Arbuthnot. Tomlinson had upbraided Leslie Titmus over ‘the obvious cockup’ regarding Arbuthnot’s will. Titmus had not taken kindly to this criticism. For once, their other partner, Arthur Travers, had been of some use and had calmed Titmus down. The partners had reached the unsurprising conclusion that Tomlinson should do all he could to find Arbuthnot’s new will. The will, however, was not Tomlinson’s main worry. It was the other problem that really concerned him and which he now wanted to discuss with Philip Arbuthnot.
“It was very good of you to respond so quickly to my telephone call, Philip.”
“Not at all, sir… sorry, Reggie. It was only a matter of 10 minutes to get here. Much easier than if you’d wanted to see me at the office.”
“Indeed. Well, I have just had a meeting here with my partners. We all agreed that the sorting out of your father’s estate is the firm’s number-one priority. The new will devised by your father will either turn up – with you, no doubt, as the principal beneficiary – or it won’t and you will be the principal beneficiary through intestacy. The former would be preferable but either way you’ll be all right.”
“And what happens while I wait for you to sort all this out?”
“You take your rightful place at the helm of your father’s business empire, of course, although I trust that as you are learning the ropes you will allow the counsel of my firm and your father’s principal associate, Sidney Fleming, to guide you.”
The young man smiled nervously. “Mr Fleming seemed to have different ideas at lunch yesterday.”
“I think we need to act with sensitivity. I shall take it upon myself to broker a sensible plan of action with Fleming and the other important players. Fleming has taken the chair of the business at the request of the other directors for the present and this should be respected. The fact remains, however, that he is only a minor shareholder. You are, or will be when we have sorted out the technicalities, the majority shareholder. It will all be in your hands to do with as you will.”
A sliver of sunlight caught the glass ashtray on their table and made it sparkle. Arbuthnot raised a hand to shield his eyes. “What about this fellow Pulos? He holds an important position in the Sackville Group. Won’t he want a say in what happens?”
“Fleming says Mr Pulos may huff and puff a little but assures me that he can be managed.”
“But if Fleming decides, as the Yanks say, not to play ball…?”
“Philip, trust me. You will be the majority shareholder and everyone will eventually fall into line. If they don’t we shall find replacements.”
“Very well. If you say so. What was this other important matter you wanted to talk to me about?”
Tomlinson drank some water before speaking. “Philip, as you know, when your father came to our office he removed all the papers in the testamentary box file.”
“Yes, of course, as you said. He took the will and just left that short letter saying he would be replacing it.”
“Yes. Well, as I mentioned yesterday without going into detail, there were other documents in that box. Not just the will. He took those too and they are important.”
“What are these documents?”
“Do you know what a bearer share is, Philip?
“Can’t say that I do. That law study programme you’ve got me on hasn’t got to company law and stocks and shares yet.”
Tomlinson smiled nervously. “In this country, securities holdings in corporations are normally held in the form of share certificates, issued to the holder by the corporation and registered in the company’s books.”
“Yes, I do know that.”
“Most other countries have a similar system but, in some jurisdictions, there is an alternative or variation on this means of ownership. Instead of having their names registered in the company books, shareholders may hold their securities in the form of bearer shares.”
“Which are?”
“As the name implies, the shares are owned by the bearer. There is no registration process. Possession of the shares is all that is required to confer the full benefits of ownership.”
“And why are you telling me this?”
&nb
sp; “There were bearer shares in your father’s file. He took them when he removed the will.”
“And what did these bearer shares represent?”
“Argentina is a jurisdiction where bearer shares are not uncommon. Your father’s bearer shares represented his holding in the South American enterprise, Enterprisas Simal.”
“So that is…” Arbuthnot started to make a calculation in his head but Tomlinson beat him to it.
“Approximately 75 per cent of your father’s total business empire.”
“Christ!”
“We obviously need to find them.”
“But why on earth did he remove them?
“I have no idea. One of the first things your father did years ago when he retained our firm was to deposit those shares with us for safekeeping. Initially they were kept separately and securely in my office. Then, when we prepared your father’s first will, he suggested we keep everything together in the same file. So we did.”
Arbuthnot looked down and fiddled distractedly with the knot of his tie. “I’d better go and make a thorough search of the office in my father’s flat. I’ve been putting it off as I know it will be depressing. But now needs must. I’ll go there right now. I have his safe combination and his housekeeper has his desk keys. I’ll bet the certificates are somewhere there.”
“Do you want me to come and help? It’s possible the new will could be there as well.”
“No. No, thanks. I’d rather do it myself. There’ll be a lot of personal stuff. I’ll go right now.”
“Of course, Philip. Let me know how you get on.” Tomlinson watched the young man walk off purposefully. Simon Arbuthnot had often told him that, despite appearances to the contrary, the boy had some steel in him. Perhaps his father would be proved right?
* * *
Felix Meyer lifted his cup, closed his eyes and happily breathed in the aroma of grade A French coffee. Good coffee was like gold dust in London but somehow Three Carlton Gardens still had a plentiful supply. Next to the coffee cup on his desk sat a small, framed drawing of a black-haired youth. It was one of his brother’s better likenesses of him. Felix smiled as he looked at the initials his brother had signed with a flourish under the gap in the face’s cleft chin.
