Slowly Amanda entered the lobby. There she was, approaching the main counter!
“Oh, Miss Sadie, you have a message,” said the desk clerk. He handed her a piece of paper.
She read it quickly.
“Can you place a telephone call for me, Charlot?” she asked.
Amanda crept closer, keeping to one side of the lobby and shielding herself from view behind a couple of large potted plants.
All at once her ears perked up. The next moment they became bright red as if to match her anger. Whatever intimidation she may have had about the consequences of following Ramsay’s mistress, it was now entirely vanquished at fury over his betrayal.
“Oh, Ramsay darling . . . you’re coming here!” she heard Grünsfeld say, “—that’s wonderful! But why?”
Amanda tried to catch a peep of the actress through the palm. Obviously Ramsay, wherever he might be, was speaking as she held the receiver to her ear and nodded intently.
“But what makes you think she’s here?” she said.
Amanda gasped. They were talking about her!
“Will you go to England, then?” asked Grünsfeld.
Again she was silent a moment.
“But how will you—”
A pause.
“Of course. I had forgotten . . . until tomorrow night, then, darling.”
She hung up the receiver and handed the telephone back to the clerk. “Thank you, Charlot. I will take the key to my room now.”
“Yes, Miss Sadie. Will the gentleman be requiring a room when he arrives?”
“You were listening, Charlot!” teased the actress with flirtatious tone.
“Only in hopes of serving you more thoroughly, Miss Sadie.”
“You are a charmer, Charlot. But no, I believe Mr. Halifax will find my room quite suitable.”
“Of course, miss.”
Amanda’s eyes narrowed in wrath. If she had tried to speak now, it would have been through clenched teeth. How could he . . . how could they both! Didn’t she care that he was married? Had she no more scruples than Ramsay?
Already the actress had turned and was ascending the stairway. Amanda waited until she was out of sight, then drew in a deep breath, tried without much success to calm herself, and walked toward the counter.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” she said in perfect French. “Je voudrais une chambre, s’il vous plaît.”
“Will it be just for yourself, miss?”
Amanda nodded.
“For one night?”
“I, uh . . . actually I am not sure exactly how long I will be staying,” she replied.
68
High-Ranking Defection
The HMS Dauntless anchored off Salonika on the eastern coast of Greece in midafternoon.
Charles had heard nothing more since the strange communication from Churchill. When night fell, however, he kept his uniform on, halfway expecting a summons.
Around ten o’clock he set aside the book he was reading and lay down on his bunk. Soon he dozed off.
A knock came on the door. Charles roused himself and stood to answer it. The hour was one-thirty.
“Commander Rutherford,” said a stranger standing before him in the corridor. “I am Colonel Rawley. I have orders to take you ashore. I believe you have been apprised.”
“Yes, Colonel,” replied Charles. “Just give me a minute to dash some water on my face, make sure I am thoroughly awake, and get my coat and hat.”
Minutes later they were leaving the silent, sleeping ship, climbing down the rope ladder in darkness to a small waiting transport vessel of some forty feet. Once aboard they headed across the calm black surface toward the harbor. Besides the skipper of the small boat only one or two others were present. No one spoke.
An hour later, Charles stood waiting with the colonel in silence under the dim shadow of a bridge over the Vardar.
Ahead out of the darkness, three men approached.
“Commander Rutherford,” said one of the newcomers, “I am General Payne. The army and navy are cooperating on this matter. I have orders here for you from the First Lord of the Admiralty.”
Charles nodded.
“I have been instructed,” the general went on, “to turn over to you, shall we say, our new friend here. You are to take him back to the Dauntless, keep him secure and out of sight, and return to England immediately. Mr. Churchill will be waiting at Scapa to take charge of the matter personally. All is explained in your orders.”
“I understand,” said Charles.
“I have been told you speak German?”
“Well enough,” answered Charles. “Not exactly fluently.”
“It will be sufficient to communicate with your ward, as it were. I also have orders here signed by Mr. Churchill for Captain Wilberforce.”
“Very good, sir.”
General Payne handed him the two sealed envelopes. They saluted and shook hands. The general and his assistant turned and disappeared in the night. Colonel Rawley now led Charles and the newcomer away. The man was dressed in civilian clothes but bore the demeanor—which the thin light accentuated occasionally in his eyes—of a military officer, probably of high rank.
They reached the Dauntless a little after three-twenty. Rawley saw them safely on board, then disappeared back down the rope ladder. Charles was left alone for the first time with the man whom he judged to be a German officer. He led him along the deck, then down into the ship, careful to avoid the night crew, and to his small lodgings, where quarters had been prepared in a connecting officer’s cabin.
Once safely inside, speaking in German, Charles offered the man something to eat or drink. His guest replied, however, that it had been a long day and all he wanted to do was sleep. Charles showed him briefly around his quarters, then left him.
Once alone Charles sat down on his bed and opened one of the envelopes he had been given under the bridge.
Commander Charles Rutherford, he read,
This will introduce you to Colonel Klaus Spengler, assistant to Generaloberst von Bülow of the German high command. He has come over to our side. The information he possesses could bring this war to a close before summer. He will be in your care to get to Britain as quickly as possible. Keep him in the private quarters next to yours. He is to be seen by no one, not even Captain Wilberforce. Security leaks have already been a problem. I told you when you sailed that you were one of the few men I knew I could trust implicitly. I am more glad than ever that I persuaded you to take up your commission. Little did I know what a significant responsibility I would find myself placing in your hands. I will see you at first opportunity once you are safely back in British waters.
W. Churchill
69
Rising Determination
Fatigue at last overpowered Amanda’s distraught emotional condition, and she managed to sleep tolerably well under the circumstances.
When she awoke, her anger of the previous evening, while by no means gone, had been replaced by a growing determination to turn the tables on Ramsay rather than cower in fear of him. Whatever was going on, she would get to the bottom of it. Let Ramsay try to take her back to Vienna with him—she wouldn’t go without a fight! And now he was behind enemy lines, not her. He was the spy now, and she would start shouting blue murder if he tried anything.
And just maybe she could make up for some of her earlier stupidity by helping to foil whatever it was they were up to. If they got hold of her and killed her in the end . . . well, what did she have to live for anyway? But she had no intention of making that easy for them!
Amanda lay in bed a few minutes revolving these things in her mind. Suddenly she realized she was famished. She got up, bathed and dressed, and went downstairs to the hotel dining room, where the buffet breakfast was laid for the hotel guests. Keeping an eye out, she loaded her plate higher than she would have thought possible, then found a table at the edge of the dining area from which the door would be clearly visible. She proceeded to enjoy three cups of te
a and eat her fill, more than she had eaten since leaving the chalet. Her appetite was finally back, and with a vengeance! And she felt a little of her feisty childhood vigor returning along with it.
Thankfully there was no sign of the Grünsfeld woman anywhere. Amanda may have been feeling a little more spunky than before, but she wasn’t ready for a face-to-face confrontation just yet. Although what was she worried about? The good Miss Sadie would probably never recognize her from their brief encounter in her dressing room anyway. So why not walk right up to her and slap her across the face!
Amanda returned to her room and sat down to think. She didn’t have a lot of money. But the sisters had been generous to her, and between the French francs they had given her and what was left of her Austrian schillings, she had plenty to spare above what would be necessary for passage to England and a train to London from Portsmouth. She would go out and see if she could exchange the schillings for francs, if not at a bank perhaps back at the train station, and then buy some clothes to help her disguise herself.
Returning to l’Atelier des Prés after a successful outing a little after noon, Amanda walked into the hotel lobby with three packages in her arms.
Suddenly her heart leapt into her throat.
There stood Ramsay at the counter!
Her first thought was not, There is my husband, but There is a spy and a louse and an enemy of all that is right and good and true . . . and of England as well!
The shorter version came soon enough on the heels of the latter, however, and with it a return of the nausea she always felt in her stomach at the reminder. To have described her feelings with the word hatred might have been too strong, but anger and revulsion and contempt would all have fit the bill.
She felt like walking up and slapping him in the face too! But instead she slowed her step and drew in a deep breath, trying to keep hold of the cargo, which had nearly dropped to the floor at the sight, and slunk behind a wide column in the lobby.
So, Ramsay Halifax, she thought to herself, we meet again. Well, this time we shall see who outsmarts whom!
How different he now looked from her first sight of him when he had swept her off her feet. He didn’t look the least bit handsome now. The duplicity she finally saw so clearly was written all over him. Why had she not been able to see it before? How could she ever have thought she loved him!
“Yes, Mr. Halifax,” the clerk was saying, “I believe she is expecting you. I shall have your bags delivered to Miss Greenfield’s suite.”
“Thank you,” replied Ramsay, then turned and headed for the staircase.
Casting reason to the wind, after a few seconds Amanda followed. Keeping her head down so that her face would not be visible from above, and sneaking a cautious upward glance every few seconds at the pair of legs half a flight ahead of her, she managed to keep loose contact with his retreating form. Her onetime pursuer had unwittingly now become Amanda’s prey.
Ramsay left the stairs on the third floor and walked along the corridor.
Amanda hurried the rest of the way up to the landing, slowed and tiptoed the final few steps, then cautiously sneaked a peek, first to the right, then the left.
There he was, his back disappearing down the hallway!
Quickly she turned her head away, retreated a few steps behind a corner, then inched an eye back out around it. Ramsay continued to the end of the hall and turned left.
Amanda walked out into the corridor as fast as she dared and after him, her packages beginning to make lead of her arms and rustling as she went. She reached the end of the hall, slowed again, and peeked once more around the edge of the wall.
“Hello, darling,” she heard the slimy voice of the actress say, now stepping out from an open door about halfway down the corridor. “I have been counting the minutes.”
A kiss followed. The sight did not sting Amanda as it might have had she been in love with Ramsay. It only infuriated her yet more.
“When do you have to leave for England?”
“Not for a day or two. I’m meeting—”
The door closed behind them.
Heart pounding, Amanda remained where she was a moment longer, then hurried out from behind the wall and ran down the hall to see what room she had been watching. The number on the door read 369.
She turned and quickly ran back the way she had come, slowing to a walk the moment she was around the first corner and out of sight. She continued up to her own room on the fifth floor, finally depositing the three packages on the bed with a weary sigh.
70
Number 42
The arrival at Nr. 42 Ebendorfer Strasse in Vienna was the last thing Ramsay’s mother expected. Suddenly standing in the parlor, where the real Gertrut Oswald had admitted them and to which she had been summoned, were four men who obviously had nothing resembling a social visit on their minds.
She vaguely recognized one but had never met him, so she couldn’t be altogether sure. Two wore high-ranking uniforms of the Austro-Hungarian army. They were accompanied by a German officer of like importance. The long black leather overcoat and wide-bill hat of the fourth might have been sufficient indicators in themselves, but it was the eyes which said most clearly of all that here was a spy if ever there was one. It was this latter who spoke the moment the matron of the house entered the room.
“Mrs. Halifax,” he said, “I am Rald Wolfrik, with Prussian Intelligence. We have a situation. I need to speak with Hartwell Barclay.”
“He is not here.”
“I gathered that. I am asking you where he is.”
“On his way to Paris,” answered Mrs. Halifax.
“Paris—why?”
“We had a certain breach of security. He and my son are attempting to put an end to the problem.”
“Yes, I am aware of the—”
A light clearing of the throat was added briefly for effect.
“—the, uh . . . activities of your son,” said Wolfrik. “We have had him under scrutiny for some time.”
“You have been watching my son?”
“We watch those whom we judge useful,” replied Wolfrik.
Mrs. Halifax thought it best to say nothing further. She held her ground stoically.
“In any event,” the man went on, “we must contact your colleague, Mr. Barclay—immediately. There has been a major defection from the very ranks of the high command itself. You are, I believe, acquainted with Generaloberst von Bülow.”
Mrs. Halifax nodded. “He has been here several times.”
“Yes, so he informed me. His assistant, one Colonel Spengler, has recently disappeared near the Balkans. Our intelligence sources indicate the worst. Generaloberst von Bülow personally sent me here.”
“What is it you want us to do?” asked Mrs. Halifax.
“Steps are being taken to locate Colonel Spengler. Transport, we believe, is by sea. I may need to get to England as soon as possible. These orders from the generaloberst,” he said, indicating a folded paper in his hand, “instruct Hartwell Barclay to get me there.”
“You are the assassin?” said Mrs. Halifax.
“I carry out my orders,” replied Wolfrik. “I will only add that we have a very resourceful individual already on his way north should his services be required. We may also recruit your son’s assistance. Where can we notify Barclay?”
Feeling suddenly short of breath, but realizing she had no alternative, Mrs. Halifax gave them the name of the hotel in Paris.
71
Mademoiselle Très Chic
Amanda sat in front of the mirror in her hotel room with a pair of scissors in her hand.
With a grimace she took hold of a small strand of brown, then clipped it to a length of three or four inches.
That first snip was the hardest, she thought. She followed with another . . . then another.
Twenty minutes later she stood up and took a few steps back, turning her head first one direction, then the other.
Not the best job, she thought.
But the short-clipped hairdo had a distinctively French look. She had seen several girls wearing similar cuts in the shops. Amanda now set the red beret she had bought atop her newly coifed head, tilted it to one side, first to the right, then the left.
Hmm . . . it might work, she thought.
Now for a little makeup around the eyes, and some red lipstick . . .
Of course Ramsay would know her if they met at point-blank range and stared at each other. But she didn’t intend to let that happen. As long as she could blend in among a crowd, she ought to be safe. He wouldn’t be expecting her in a million years.
Another thirty minutes later, Amanda took stock of herself in the mirror—red beret, pale chartreuse scarf, draped over a loose-fitting blouse of somewhat darker green, fashionably slinky black French skirt with black stockings and boots. Along with the lipstick and dark eyes, it was bold and brash, like nothing Ramsay had ever seen on her before. And so very French! She could have stepped out of a fashion show!
“Ah, mademoiselle,” she said aloud, “vous êtes très chic!”
Amanda squinted slightly. “I admit,” she added, “the colors are a little loud and clashy . . . but even I don’t recognize you!”
She turned away and started for the door.
“I think it’s time I found out if this is going to do any good.”
Amanda left her room and descended to the lobby, where, with magazine in hand, she took up a seat in one of several chairs scattered about a spacious sitting area to await the appearance of the man who, a few short months earlier, she had considered her husband. What she considered him now . . . she couldn’t say. She hadn’t figured that out yet.
A long and uneventful hour passed. She began to think the whole thing ridiculous. For months she had been doing her best to get away from Ramsay. What did she now hope to accomplish by trying to find him?
Amanda grew sleepy. Actually . . . this was a stupid idea. Spies and plots and lighthouses . . . she had probably been making the whole thing up. What was she thinking—that she was single-handedly going to help England win the war?
Heathersleigh Homecoming Page 29
