Shadows of War

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘And he’s based in Paris?’

  ‘He moves around all over the place, but he has a company here. I’m pretty sure he has just signed up with the French Ministry of Armaments, telling them how to jazz up their munitions production.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Conrad. ‘You do know a lot about him.’

  ‘Any European journalist would know him. After the wedding.’

  ‘The wedding?’

  ‘The damp-squib wedding of the century. Your Duke of Windsor and Wallis Simpson.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘They got married at Bedaux’s chateau in 1937. Candé, in the Loire. Nobody came. How did you miss that? Where were you?’

  ‘In Spain getting shot at,’ said Conrad.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Warren. ‘I guess you had other things to think about. Anyway, Bedaux loaned the couple his chateau, so, as you can imagine, there were a few newspaper profiles on him at the time.’

  Conrad nodded. Like everyone else he had read plenty about the duke when he was Prince of Wales, but Conrad had been fighting in Spain when, as King Edward VIII, he had abdicated the throne. Conrad hadn’t given it much consideration, apart from thinking it was careless of his country to lose such a young and energetic monarch in that way.

  ‘Does Bedaux have any connections with Germany?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘Sure,’ said Warren. ‘The Nazis grabbed his company in 1934, but he still has good contacts there. He organized the Duke of Windsor’s tour in 1937. Did you know about that?’

  Conrad shook his head.

  ‘I covered it from Berlin. It was a big deal in Germany; they loved him. The duke and duchess visited factories and housing projects. Your compatriots weren’t so excited, though. There was a half-assed Nazi salute, playing with Göring’s train set, shaking hands with Hitler, that kind of thing.’

  Conrad winced. ‘Ouch. Was Bedaux there?’

  ‘No. But he fixed it all up. Then he fixed a tour for them to America, which fell through when the American unions kicked up a fuss. They despise his time-and-motion system there. Bedaux had a nervous breakdown, I believe, and he’s laid low since then.’

  ‘Didn’t I read that the duke is in France at the moment?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘Yes he is. He and Wally lived here in Paris after the wedding, but they were down in Antibes when war broke out, and skedaddled back to Britain. The British government sent him over here a month ago. He’s big buddies with the US Ambassador, William Bullitt, and a lot of the other rich Americans in Paris. In fact he’s also buddies with your sister-in-law. At least I assume she’s your sister-in-law.’

  ‘Isobel Haldeman?’ Isobel was Veronica’s younger sister, who had married Marshall Haldeman, an American insurance executive who had moved to Paris a few years before. Conrad hadn’t seen her since he had left for Spain.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Would she know Bedaux as well?’

  ‘Sure too. All those right-bank Americans know each other. Bedaux’s wife is much more American than him. She’s an heiress from Kalamazoo. Fern is her name.’

  ‘I can’t quite accept that Kalamazoo is a real place,’ said Conrad.

  ‘Oh, it is,’ said Warren. ‘And I wouldn’t kid Fern about her home town if I were you. Scary lady, Fern Bedaux.’

  ‘Are the Bedauxs and the Windsors still friends?’

  ‘Don’t know. Mrs Haldeman might have a better idea. You should speak to her. Someone else you might want to talk to is Fruity Metcalfe.’

  ‘Fruity?’

  ‘Hey, don’t blame me for your dumb British nicknames. Although he’s Irish, I think. He was the duke’s best man at his wedding and is acting as his royal sidekick now – what do you call it? Aide-de-camp, something like that. Swell guy. Partial to a drink or two. He’s staying at the Ritz, and likes to prop up the bar there after a hard day’s duking.’

  19

  Paris, 14 November

  Conrad slept on Warren’s sofa. He had a small apartment above Shakespeare and Co., an English language bookshop in the rue de l’Odéon. It was run by an American woman and, according to Warren, it was the centre of American literary life in Paris. Warren loved it.

  Warren also had to work, so Conrad left his apartment and, armed with Isobel Haldeman’s address, which Warren had dug out for him, found a café in which to while away a couple of hours until he could decently turn up at her house. The sun shone weakly on the quiet street, the coffee was good, and for a moment Conrad was able just to enjoy the fact he was sitting in a café in Paris instead of chasing his men around the mud of Salisbury Plain. An old soldier with a fine white moustache and one leg gave Conrad a gruff nod. He sported the red ribbon of the Légion d’honneur on his lapel, and alternated puffs at a pipe with sips of an early morning ballon de vin rouge. He was a reminder of what war could do, what it would do again once it eventually got going.

  Which might be as soon as the next day, if Theo was correct about the date of the offensive. Unless Theo was also correct about the generals dumping Hitler. Conrad understood the Prussian military ethos, how difficult it was for them to move against their commander-in-chief and to break the oath that Hitler had made them all take swearing allegiance to him personally. Conrad prayed that they would have the courage to do it.

  Because if they didn’t, hell would be let loose on the Low Countries and northern France. Again.

  That would be a disaster. Conrad was convinced that the Munich peace talks were a colossal error, that the appeasers like his father were wrong, and that the only thing to do was to stand up to Hitler. That was, after all, why he had joined the army. But things were not that simple. Perhaps he should have helped his father negotiate with Theo, if it led to a genuine peace with honour. He knew his father’s motives were noble: if your aim was to preserve peace, why start a war? Conrad’s argument had always been that you had to show your willingness to stand up to Hitler if you wanted to stop him. If the generals did get rid of him, then Conrad would have been proved right.

  But what if they didn’t? Conrad wouldn’t have stopped Hitler after all. And hundreds of thousands, possibly millions of people would die, soldiers and civilians. Lord Oakford would at least be able to say that he did everything he could have done to prevent the massacre.

  It would all become clearer one way or another the next day.

  So, where did Bedaux fit into all this? Perhaps he was involved in some way in the coup preparations? Or in thwarting them?

  Conrad wasn’t sure how the hell to investigate the American. He had no official reason to be in Paris, no means of accessing government records, no credentials with which to approach officials. Despite what Warren thought, he wasn’t a spy. What did Theo expect him to do?

  He had learned from Warren that Bedaux was working for the French Armaments Ministry. That must mean he was in possession of all kinds of arms-production data, which would no doubt be useful to the German government. But that couldn’t be what Theo was driving at. If Warren knew it, the British secret service would know it, as would the French secret service, for that matter. The British already knew that Bedaux was talking to Theo. So Bedaux’s role working for the French government could not be the whole story.

  At ten o’clock, Conrad left his little café and strolled down to the Seine, crossing it by the Grand Palais. Paris seemed to be less overwhelmed by the war than London. There were uniforms and a few sandbags, but the river made its sedate way beneath the city’s beautiful bridges in much the way it had done for the last couple of hundred years.

  Conrad found Isobel Haldeman’s apartment in a little place off the avenue Montaigne. He had always liked his wife’s younger sister, although he wasn’t sure what she thought of him. Isobel was much less flamboyant than Veronica: small, with a pointed chin, a pretty mouth and kind eyes, she tended to think before she spoke, something that Veronica would never have been caught doing. The fact that Isobel was the first sister to marry, and that she had snared
a rich American, had infuriated Veronica. Marshall Haldeman was the son of an insurance magnate from Hartford, Connecticut, who had been placed in charge of the family firm’s European operations first in London and then in Paris. Veronica thought him dull in the extreme; Conrad thought him a decent enough chap.

  Isobel welcomed Conrad into her enormous apartment warmly, although she was clearly surprised to see him. A maid served them coffee as they sat in the drawing room overlooking the fountain in the middle of the place.

  ‘Have you seen Veronica recently?’ she asked.

  ‘Not since we were divorced. Over a year ago.’

  ‘Poor you,’ said Isobel. ‘You always seemed much too nice for my sister. I could have warned you, but by the time I met you, you were smitten.’

  ‘I was,’ said Conrad. ‘Veronica was someone I could never see clearly. I probably can’t now.’

  ‘No one can,’ said Isobel. ‘Or at least no one male. Did you know she had split up with Alec?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Conrad. Alec Linaro was the motor-racing driver whom Veronica had met while Conrad was in Spain. He was married, of course, but that only seemed to encourage her.

  ‘Alec wanted to stay with his wife after all. Veronica was furious, poor lamb.’

  ‘So what’s she doing now?’

  ‘Driving a general around London, I think. Oh, God. I hope it’s an old and ugly general.’

  Conrad laughed.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m so wicked. I adore Veronica really.’

  Conrad stopped himself from agreeing. Veronica was trouble; always had been and always would be. He was much better off without her. He knew that, he just had to remind himself of it at regular intervals.

  ‘And what are you doing in Paris?’ Isobel asked.

  ‘Trying to find out about someone,’ Conrad said. ‘An American. Charles Bedaux.’

  ‘Dreadful man,’ said Isobel. ‘And an awful wife. Fern. I can’t bear her.’

  ‘From Kalamazoo, I understand.’

  Isobel laughed. ‘I know. Isn’t it too wonderful? What do you want to know about him?’

  Conrad had realized that if he wanted to get a useful answer, he couldn’t just ask an innocent question.

  ‘I’m not sure, precisely. A friend of mine suggested that he might be dangerous in some way. To the Allied cause. Now, I know that Bedaux is working for the French Armaments Ministry, but I think it might be something more than that. Do you have any idea what that might be?’

  Isobel looked blank. ‘No. But it doesn’t surprise me. He’s very clever and he has a finger in every pie.’

  ‘Who are his friends?’

  ‘He’s the kind of person who has heaps of friends,’ Isobel said. ‘Marshall would have a better idea of who the important ones are. But Mr Bedaux hasn’t been in Paris very much over the last couple of years. He arranged a trip for the Duke of Windsor to the States, and it all fell apart. The American unions hate Bedaux and they made a real stink. Bedaux took it rather badly, I believe. Had a breakdown. I think he went to Germany for a cure. Then he did something glamorous like driving across Africa from Cairo to Cape Town. Or was it the other way? He appeared back in Paris a month or so ago: I saw him at an American Embassy do the week before last at his chateau. He seemed in good spirits, although I didn’t talk to him myself.’

  ‘Does he still see the Duke of Windsor?’ Conrad asked. ‘I understand the duke and duchess got married there.’

  ‘I haven’t seen Bedaux with them for years,’ Isobel said. ‘Not since the duke went to Germany.’

  ‘You see the duke yourself?’ Conrad asked.

  ‘From time to time,’ said Isobel. ‘We have mutual friends among the Americans here.’

  ‘Do you happen to know where Bedaux is living?’ Conrad asked. ‘Somewhere in Paris, or does he stay at his chateau?’

  ‘No, he has leased Candé to the US Embassy for the war. I’m pretty sure he is staying at the Ritz.’ Isobel frowned. ‘Why are you so interested in him?’

  ‘A friend wanted to know.’

  ‘And I suppose I can’t ask what kind of friend?’

  Conrad smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  The frown deepened. Something didn’t sound right to her. ‘I thought Veronica said you were in the army?’

  ‘I am. I’m on leave.’

  ‘You fought for the Reds in Spain, didn’t you, Conrad?’

  ‘I fought for the government, yes.’

  ‘The communists?’

  ‘The socialists. There were communists there. Some of them shot at me; they killed two of my friends. If you are wondering whether the friend I was talking about is a communist, he isn’t.’

  ‘But is he British?’

  It was a good question, and one Conrad wasn’t going to answer. ‘Look, I really must be going. I don’t want to take up any more of your morning. Lovely to see you, Isobel.’

  With that he escaped, leaving behind a very suspicious sister-in-law.

  Scheveningen

  Millie and Constance sat in silence, drinking their tea in the grand ballroom of the Kurhaus. Even on a gloomy Tuesday in November, the brightly painted frieze around the dome that rose high above the ballroom floor hinted at the gaiety of summer dances.

  Theo was late. Although Millie knew she should be calm and businesslike, her heart was racing. It had only been forty-eight hours since she had seen him, but it had seemed far too long. Constance had caught Millie’s mood, and was nervously silent in sympathy.

  There he was! He looked so grave, so handsome as he approached them. Millie smiled broadly, but Theo’s expression was frozen as he sat down next to the women. ‘I have an answer for you,’ is all he said, and handed Millie an envelope.

  ‘What does it say?’ Millie asked.

  ‘It gives some idea of what a new German government might expect from the British and French in return for peace.’

  ‘Can I read it?’ said Millie. She had hoped to be something more than a mere messenger.

  ‘No,’ said Theo. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. But it doesn’t really matter. There’s no point now.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Millie. Theo was making no attempt to hide his anger.

  ‘Because it’s not going to happen. Hitler is not going to be deposed.’

  ‘Have they called it off?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Theo. ‘We have been ordered to burn all our plans. The generals are too cowardly to take action.’ Theo looked directly at Millie. ‘We’re stuck with him. We are all stuck with him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Theo,’ Millie said. Unthinkingly she reached out her hand over the table. ‘I know how hard you have worked for that.’

  Theo stared at her hand and made no effort to take it. Embarrassed, Millie withdrew it. ‘Theo? What is it?’

  ‘Did you see a man named Otto Langebrück yesterday? At a café in the Passage in The Hague?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ Millie stammered.

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘He works for the Foreign Ministry, doesn’t he, Constance?’

  ‘He works for Herr von Ribbentrop,’ Constance said.

  ‘He doesn’t work for the Foreign Ministry, he works in the Ribbentrop Büro, Ribbentrop’s private office.’

  ‘But Ribbentrop is the Foreign Minister, isn’t he?’ Millie said.

  ‘Yes. And he’s a dyed-in-the-wool Nazi. He’s one of Hitler’s biggest supporters. He’s not one of us; he’s one of them.’

  ‘From the point of view of those of us who want peace, it makes sense to speak to people in the current German government,’ Constance said. ‘You said yourself it now seems unlikely Hitler will be overthrown. In that case the British government will have to negotiate with the existing regime.’

  ‘You went behind my back, Millie.’

  Looking at the expression of disappointment and anger on Theo’s face, Millie felt miserable. ‘I’m sorry, Theo, but we had to.’

  ‘You didn’t have to. You mean your fath
er told you to.’

  Millie felt tears springing to her eyes. She had to control them. She had to control them.

  ‘It was Sir Henry Alston’s idea,’ said Constance. ‘Sir Henry got to know Herr von Ribbentrop on bank business in Germany before the war.’

  Millie was grateful for Constance’s support, but Theo seemed unimpressed.

  ‘I can see why you are upset, Herr von Hertenberg,’ said Constance. ‘But you must understand that this is too important for considerations of personalities to play a role. We are talking about war or peace here.’

  ‘By “considerations of personality”, you mean trust, don’t you?’ said Theo.

  ‘I trusted my father,’ said Millie.

  Theo stared at her, his eyes cold. Then he looked up at the high dome above him. A grand piano played a waltz inappropriately in the background.

  ‘Come with me,’ Theo said to Millie. ‘Not you, Mrs Scott-Dunton, just Millie.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ said Theo. ‘There is something I want to tell you. Come on.’

  There was a cold wind outside, and Millie started shivering. Theo led her down some steps on to the beach and she hurried after him as he strode towards the waves crashing on to the beach.

  He turned to her. His composure had gone, replaced by a mixture of pain and determination.

  ‘I’m sorry, Theo,’ Millie said, the tears streaming hot down her wind-bitten cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘We have to trust each other, Millie,’ Theo said. ‘People like you and me and Conrad are on the same side. The side of reason. The side of peace.’

  ‘I know. But so is my father. And Sir Henry Alston, and Constance. That’s why they got in touch with Herr Langebrück. To bring peace.’

  Theo turned his back on Millie to stare out at the grey North Sea, flecked by white foam in the stiff breeze. Millie wrapped her arms around her chest. She was cold. But she couldn’t abandon Theo.