by Mark Ellis
“Felix, bonjour. Tout va bien?”
“Très bien, Rupert.”
Vorster blinked and smoothed his trousers. “That’s pretty much the limit of my French, as you know.”
“Of course, Rupert. We’ll speak in English as usual. How goes the stock market?”
“Fair to middling, last I heard. Some interesting things bubbling away. But you said on the telephone that you had a small favour to ask.”
“It’s nothing to do with the market or stock tips. You mentioned the other day that you worked with a chap called Philip Arbuthnot?”
Vorster looked down with pleasure at his gleaming black shoes. He had spent some time that morning giving them a good polish. One of the few things he shared with his father was a distaste for dirty shoes. “Yes, I know Philip. He’s a good friend.”
“There’s a Greek fellow who works for Philip’s father in Argentina. His name is Alexander Pulos. My brother in New York has had some… some dealings with Pulos.”
“I’ve heard the name mentioned once or twice by Philip. What dealings?”
“Oh, just commercial matters. I… I’m not exactly sure what. The thing is my brother needs to contact Pulos. Apparently he was told that he had left Argentina and gone abroad on a trip. He wasn’t told where but suspects Pulos may be on his way to London. He asked me to find out if his suspicion was correct. I was hoping you might be able to help me and, if he is here, get details of where he’s staying.”
“You want to meet him?”
“No. Just find out where he is and let my brother know.”
“So he can get in touch with him?”
“Yes.”
Vorster felt his jacket for cigarettes before remembering he’d left them in the office. Meyer offered him one of his Gitanes. “Thanks, Felix. I love these. They are very hard to find.”
“I’ll get hold of some for you, if you like.”
“Very decent of you.” Vorster lit up and took a moment to savour the taste. “Back to Pulos. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he’s on his way to England. You see, Philip just heard that his father was killed in Crete. Obviously that is an event of great importance for the Arbuthnot business.”
Meyer’s eyes widened. “Simon Arbuthnot is dead?”
“Yes. Died in the Cretan retreat. Philip doesn’t have the exact details.”
Felix Meyer knew his brother couldn’t be aware of this development. He lit his own cigarette and looked off thoughtfully to the little refreshment hut in the centre of the park, where he could see the girl with the homemade stockings buying drinks.
“Is that it then, Felix? Find out if Pulos is here and where he’s staying?”
“That’s it.”
“I’ll call you later. Or better still, let’s have a drink. Perhaps your colleagues would like to come. There’s a chance I might have some useful inside information from South Africa. A good mining stock.” Meyer distractedly smiled his agreement and Vorster patted the lieutenant’s shoulder before striding off to the park exit on London Wall. Meyer remained on the bench for a while, thinking hard. Arbuthnot’s death might create a real opportunity for Anton to make headway with his cause. And if it did, shouldn’t he, Felix, forget his antipathy and get more involved?
* * *
Paris
François Bouchard, or John Webster as he was known to his colleagues in the Special Operations Executive, squirmed in agony on the small bunk bed in his cell in the basement of 84 Avenue Foch, the SS headquarters in Paris. The last of his fingernails had been extracted an hour or so ago, soon after the water torture had been halted. So far he had told them nothing but he didn’t think he could hold out for another session. Once he had revealed what he knew they would probably kill him anyway, but that would be a release.
Bouchard was one of the first Allied agents to be parachuted into occupied France. Born and bred in the well-to-do Parisian suburb of Neuilly, he had followed his father into the wine trade after wasting (as his father claimed) or enjoying (as he saw it) three years at the Sorbonne. At the outbreak of the war, he had been running the London branch of his father’s business in a shop just off St James’s Street. Bouchard was distraught at the invasion of his country and, as a proud Frenchman, was keen to do his bit however that might be possible.
A chance encounter with a Free French officer in a bomb shelter had led him to a meeting at 1 Dorset Square and his recruitment soon after as an agent. His training had been carried out by British and French officers at various locations in and outside London. By March, the officer with principal responsibility for him, a Captain Morrison, had decided that Bouchard was ready for the field and a mission had been agreed. He was to be parachuted into countryside 60 miles or so to the west of Paris, carrying with him radio equipment to be passed to members of the embryonic French Resistance, along with some small arms and plastic explosives. Once he had successfully accomplished this, he was to remain in France for an as yet undetermined period and perform other tasks to assist the Resistance.
The aircraft had left Biggin Hill on a rainy night a week before. ‘Or was it two weeks?’ he wondered as the wrenching pain in his hands subsided for a moment. A week, a month, a day, a year… Seconds, minutes, hours all seemed as one in the pain-wracked blur of his consciousness. Whenever it was, they had been waiting for him. As soon as he hit the ground, the Germans were on him. There must have been seven or eight of them. They cut the parachute away then something hard and heavy had connected with his skull. When he’d come to, Bouchard found himself trussed and gagged in the back of a moving lorry.
He was in a tiny cell with one high, barred window through which a little sunlight found its way. From the hum of people and traffic outside, the smells, the cries of the newspaper vendors and the squawking of the birds, he knew he was in Paris but in which arrondissement he could not tell. Bouchard closed his eyes and imagined he was dining at his father’s favourite table in Maxim’s. Escargots à la Bourguignonne followed by duck breasts in cherry-port sauce. His favourite. He had almost succeeded in conjuring up the delicious flavours when he heard feet outside the cell door. The grille in the door slid open and the captive felt eyes on him. Bolts were unlocked and two men entered.
“Get up, Bouchard.” The first man was tall and immaculately turned out in the uniform of an SS Standartenführer.
Bouchard groaned.
“Get up, I say, or would you prefer I get Lieutenant Braun in here with his little electric toy to get you going?”
Bouchard rose.
“I can’t stand the smell in here. We’ll find somewhere a little more pleasant to chat. It’s a lovely day. Why don’t we have a little walk in the garden? Get him something to put on his feet, Weber.”
Private Weber, a short, fat man with a large red birthmark in the middle of his forehead, clicked his heels and replied enthusiastically. “Jawohl, Standartenführer Schmidt!”
“For God’s sake, Weber, I am not deaf, although I soon will be if you shout at me like that.”
Weber scurried out of sight to return seconds later with a pair of filthy canvas slippers.
“Put them on.”
Shortly after, Fritz Schmidt and François Bouchard were sitting on a small wooden bench under the shade of an old horse-chestnut tree. Weber hovered beside an ornamental pond 20 yards away.
Schmidt turned to look Bouchard in the face. “You are not looking your best, Monsieur. You were quite a nice-looking young fellow before you fell into our hands. I am sure you had few problems with the girls but now…”
Bouchard squinted back at Schmidt, who had the sun directly behind him. He shrugged and said nothing.
“It will no doubt disappoint you to know that the information for which my officers have been pressing you, so far unsuccessfully, has come to us in any event. Thus your terrible pain and suffering have been for nothing.” Bouchard struggled to take in what Schmidt was saying. The only thing that really registered with him was the high quality of Schmidt’s s
poken French.
“Your identity, for example? François Bouchard. Wine dealer. Son of Hercule Bouchard of Neuilly. We have made his acquaintance, by the way. A remarkably healthy and fit old man. Or at least he was until we gave him a few lessons in the ways of the SS.”
Bouchard was able to register this and immediately felt as if Schmidt had kicked him hard in the privates. Unrealistically or not, he had never thought that what he was doing would rebound on his father or his family.
“Is he dead?” he croaked.
“Dead. Goodness no. Do you take us for barbarians? No, we are just entertaining him, so to speak. For the moment, anyway.”
“What other…?” Bouchard’s lips and throat were so dry he could barely speak.
“Private. Get him some water, please.” Weber disappeared into the house.
“Charming garden, isn’t it? I do so love Paris. How does that Josephine Baker song go? Something about having two lovers, one Paris and the other France. You love Paris and you love your country, do you not, François? Unfortunately for you, so do we Germans. As we take our rightful place in the world, other countries have to take theirs. France has acknowledged the superiority of the Reich and nothing can be allowed to undermine this satisfactory state of affairs… Ah, here is your drink. Help him, Weber.”
Bouchard’s hands were bound so Weber wrenched the prisoner’s head back and poured the water into his mouth. The water must have gone down Bouchard’s throat the wrong way and a violent coughing fit erupted. As he waited patiently for this to pass, Schmidt reached down to remove some specks of mud from his boots. The Frenchman’s coughing eventually subsided.
“So, Monsieur Bouchard, we also learned the names of your contacts in France. We have some of them now, together with the comrades of yours we took at the landing site. Of those, several have not managed to be as stoic as you under interrogation, I’m afraid. We have at least six more people to pick up, of whom a couple are apparently rather attractive young ladies. There will be more, of course.” He laughed. “So you and your Resistance cell are completely blown, my friend.” Schmidt patted Bouchard on the head. “Would you like to know how we found out about you?”
Bouchard couldn’t stop picturing his father’s face. Had they beaten him up? Had they tortured him as they had his son? If so, what for? He could tell them nothing. Schmidt patted his head again. “Wakey, wakey, François. Did you hear my question?”
“No… No… What?”
“Shall I tell you how you were betrayed?”
“If you must.”
“Yes please, sir.”
“Yes… please… sir.”
“One of your own countrymen betrayed you. A Frenchman in London. An officer. He works for Vichy and passed on news of your visit to someone there, who was then good enough to pass the information on to us. We didn’t have the complete picture. We had your alias, John Webster, and a few other details. We were able to get the rest through good police work by the Sûreté here – more Frenchmen – and hard work by the Gestapo and ourselves. The Sûreté were able to identify you through an old photograph. An impressive filing system they have. Apparently you got into some minor trouble on a drunken night out in your student years. A small fine but they kept your picture. Impressive, eh?”
Bouchard slumped back in the chair. He was almost beyond caring.
“You may wonder why I am revealing this to you. If you managed by any chance to escape, the information that Vichy has a spy in London would be very damaging indeed.”
Bouchard turned away from the SS chief, who slapped his leg in irritation. “Oh, Monsieur! You are making this very boring with your lack of interest. Very well, the reason why I am revealing this sensitive information to you is that you will not be escaping. In fact…” Schmidt suddenly reached inside his jacket, withdrew his pistol and shot Bouchard in the centre of his forehead. The Frenchman’s body slid to the ground. Schmidt paused to flick a few small pieces of grey brain matter from his tunic before bending down to whisper in the dead man’s ear. “The reason I am telling you this, Monsieur Bouchard, is that you no longer exist.”
* * *
London
Sidney Fleming had not slept well. Worry about the newly disclosed financial problems at the bank, the missing will and shares had ruined his night. He had finally managed to nod off at five in the morning and, when he woke a couple of hours later, found he had a heavy cold. Fleming knew he was desperately needed in the office but stayed where he was. He dozed on and off for a few more hours, vaguely conscious of the phone ringing and the door being knocked.
When he finally got up he found four messages pushed under the door. Three were typed and said the same thing: ‘Mr Alexander Pulos wishes to inform Mr Fleming of his arrival from overseas and would be grateful for a meeting at Mr Fleming’s earliest convenience’. The fourth was handwritten. ‘For Christ’s sake, Sidney, answer the damned phone. I have travelled halfway around the world to be here!’
Fleming did not need long to decide that he was not in the mood to see the Greek. He was about to ring the front desk switchboard and ask them to tell Pulos he was ill and could not see him at the moment when the telephone rang again. He sighed and picked up the receiver in trepidation, expecting to hear Pulos at the other end of the line. “Yes?”
“Fleming? Tomlinson here. Have you a moment?”
Fleming answered with a sneeze.
“Bless you.”
Fleming sneezed again.
“Are you all right, Sidney?”
“I’ve got a stinking cold and a sore throat. Not at my best. Can’t it wait, Reggie?”
“I’m sorry but I think you’ll want to hear this straightaway.”
Fleming sighed and slumped into his chair. “Very well then. Fire away.”
“I was just visited by an army officer. Lieutenant Edgar Powell recently returned from Crete. Do I have your attention, Sidney?”
Fleming sat up instantly. “You do. Did he…?”
“He was with Arbuthnot at the end. He, Arbuthnot and another soldier were on the retreat, trying to get to Sphakia, where our ships were waiting to evacuate troops to Egypt. They were crossing open ground when they were attacked by two German aeroplanes. Powell was the only survivor.”
An extremely fat pigeon landed on the hotel window ledge and looked inquisitively through the glass. Fleming closed his eyes and tried to imagine his partner’s final moments.
“Sidney, are you there? Sidney?”
“Yes, sorry. I was just…” The pigeon flew off. “Did the lieutenant say it was quick? Was he in much pain?”
“It was quick. There was pain but not for long. But look, Sidney, this wasn’t just a thoughtful visit by someone who was with a man when he died. Powell has something of Simon’s. Something that might be very important.”
“What?”
“Simon gave him a letter. Insisted with his dying breath that Powell deliver it.”
“To whom?”
“That’s the point. Arbuthnot tried to write down the name of the addressee when he could no longer speak but couldn’t complete it. Powell didn’t think it was right to open it but he’d like to fulfil his promise and give it to the right person.”
“So no-one has seen the contents of the letter?”
“No.”
“And who does Powell think is the right person to give it to?”
“Powell says Simon only managed to get the first letter down clearly. An S.”
“Did he show you the letter?”
“No. He didn’t have it with him. He just wanted my advice as Arbuthnot’s lawyer.”
“Well, I hope the advice you gave him was to give it to you. Solicitor begins with an S, doesn’t it?”
“Of course I pointed that out. He said that a police friend of his had advised him likewise.”
The mention of the police made Fleming uncomfortable. “And so?”
“He said he knew Arbuthnot had a son and a sister. He had decided that the let
ter should go either to me, Philip or Lucinda. I assured him that if it were handed to me, I would immediately pass on its contents to them.”
“Any problem with that?”
“He said what if it turned out that the contents of the envelope were to be kept secret from one or other of them?”
“All the more reason to give it to you.”
“As I advised him. He said he’d think about what I said. Emphasised that he wanted to do the correct and honourable thing in fulfilling a dying man’s last wish.”
Fleming reflected that Powell sounded like one of those typical stuck-up ‘play up and play the game’ Englishmen he’d always detested. ‘Correct and honourable’ for Christ’s sake! He was only delivering a bloody letter. “So how was it left?”
“He’s going to sleep on it. He’ll decide tomorrow morning but said he was inclined to give it to me.”
“Good. What’s in the letter do you think?”
“With luck, something about the missing will and bearer shares.”
“I hope you’re right.” Fleming wondered if there might also be something about the shenanigans Brightwell had uncovered. If so, it would be best if he saw the letter first. Best for other reasons too. And S also stood for Sidney, didn’t it?
“Where does Powell live?”
“He gave me an address in Flood Street – 44 Rossetti Garden Mansions. Why?”
“Oh, just wondering. Presumably that’s where the letter is.”
“Presumably.”
“Well thank you, Reggie, for putting me in the picture so promptly. Please keep me posted.”
“Of course, Sidney, and I wish you…”
“Do you know that Pulos is in town?”
“Yes. He telephoned the office. I haven’t called him back yet. Going to do it now.”
“Tell him I’ve got the flu, will you? And that I’ll call him as soon as I’m feeling better.”
“Very well, Sidney.” As he put the telephone down, Fleming thought he heard an odd clicking noise. However, preoccupied as he was with considering how he might get first sight of Simon’s letter, he gave it little thought.
