by Tessa Lunney
“Look, the princes—they’re on the elephant!” He pointed to the elephant as it rose from its knees. On its back, riding together in the saddle, were two handsome and familiar young faces. A short sandy-haired man with a cigarette clamped between his teeth was grinning crazily. He wore black dress trousers, shiny black shoes, a red tail coat and top hat. The man behind him, clearly still in his teens, wore a loose blue satin tunic and trousers, a bright blue turban, golden slippers, and a long fake beard that kept falling off his face with the rhythm of the elephant.
“He’s getting in some practice,” said Charlie with a smug smile, “for when he becomes Emperor of India.”
“But presumably, in Rajasthan, he won’t ride an elephant with a martini glass.”
“Oh no. In India, he’d need a gin and tonic.”
“I see the Prince of Wales is the ringmaster.” I had to change the topic. “But what is Prince George dressed as?”
“I suggested he was a fakir, but he said he wouldn’t be an ascetic even if God came down from Heaven and instructed him. He said he was a magician… but I think he just liked wearing the satin trousers. He kept stroking his thighs like a nancy-boy on the drive here.”
I liked Charlie Coburg less and less.
“I would absolutely love to chat to them, even just a few words, for my magazine.” I looked at Charlie with what I hoped was a sweet, pleading face. It must have worked as he grinned unpleasantly and looked me up and down. I could feel Tom bristle behind me, just as I could feel the heat in my face. I hoped Charlie Coburg took it as a virginal blush, and not the flush of fury it really was.
“In those knickerbockers, Miss Kiki, I’m sure they’d be enchanted.” He laughed in a dirty-uncle kind of way. I only bit back my rejoinder when Tom put his hand on my shoulder.
The princes bounced around on top of the elephant. I didn’t need to feign excitement at seeing them, as with every elephant step it looked like they might fall off. Even the elephant minders looked worried as the cocktails splashed down the side of the animal and Prince George’s golden slippers flipped off his feet and were stamped into the ground. The princes were clearly having enormous fun, but this sense of fun was only shared by random bystanders. The rest of us, who knew who they were, held our breath and willed them to hang on.
But the elephant knew its job, the princes stayed in place, until eventually the animal knelt down to let off its passengers. I felt sorry for it, doing such demeaning work in such a tiny space. I imagined its eyes held the boredom of the endlessly oppressed—or maybe that was just me, imagining myself in its place. I smiled sweetly at Charlie and moved closer to him as he waited for the princes to dismount.
A waiter-clown came up to Charlie, bowed low, then whispered something in his ear. Charlie’s whole body tensed—he seemed to have snapped to attention. He called Phillip over and whispered to him, and Phillip had a similar reaction. They moved toward the princes quickly. I hurried after them, with Tom holding the camera behind me.
“Is everything alright?” I asked Phillip. Charlie had charged on ahead. Phillip started to lag behind to answer me.
“We’ve had word that a couple of spies want to abduct the princes.”
“Goodness! Who?” I cursed inwardly.
“British spies, no less.”
“That’s an extreme form of chaperonage.”
“David was just saying on the way here that they never get to have any fun… though Charlie thinks it’s more serious. With his political movement… you know.”
“Oh yes?” I tried to sound as innocent as I could, and to keep silent the long string of expletives that clanged through my mind. Abducting the princes was supposed to be my plan, but they clearly didn’t suspect me… so this must have something to do with Fry, he must have changed our meager plans without informing me. I cursed all know-it-all men and their secretive ways.
“Phillip!” Charlie rapped out. Phillip hurried over and took instructions, nodding and yes-ing, backing up whatever Charlie was saying. I could see that the Prince of Wales had noticed me. I smiled as I walked toward him. Charlie kept looking around. I followed his gaze to some shadows behind the elephant enclosure. Two of the shadows emerged into the dappled lantern light and I recognized them immediately—there was Fry, dressed in his worker’s outfit, and a tall thin man dressed as a clown. He was never a waiter; he must be Bertie’s lover and Fox’s agent, the man Bertie called Roger. They really were trying to abduct the princes from the party. As much as I hated their poorly planned action, I was bound to help them. I walked more quickly toward the princes.
“My apologies, Miss Button, but we have to go.” Charlie was firm.
“Cousin Charlie, please, let me at least say hello to this lovely girl…” The Prince of Wales kissed my hand and kept hold of it. I did my best to look flirtatious and coy.
“Only if she can keep up. Phillip!” Charlie nodded to Phillip and they took the arms of the two princes, almost marching them toward the entrance. When the Prince of Wales let go of my hand, I hurried around to his brother, holding my hand out to him.
“Hello, Golden Girl.” Prince George smiled. “What’s your name then?”
“Kiki Button, your Royal… oops! I can’t curtsy when we’re hurrying like this.”
“Never mind about that—help us stay!”
“But how, sir?” I hurried along, trying to keep a hold of his hand. His arm was outstretched and he laughed at the silliness of the situation. Where was Fry? I tried to pull the prince over to the house, but even as the prince moved toward me, Phillip held on tighter, begging me to let go. Charlie barked at them to hurry, Prince George kissed my hand and they ran off to a waiting car. I hurried after them, mentally cursing my costume for not letting me sprint, for not letting me carry something more persuasive than my person—like a gun, perhaps.
“Button, have they gone?” Tom caught up to me.
“Not quite.”
Tom ran with me to the front of the property, but the car doors were shutting, and as it pulled out of the driveway, the princes wound down their windows to call out to me, “Goodbye! Next time! Au revoir!” Phillip was left on the lawn; I could only vent my frustration with a particularly heavy exhale.
“Well! They were fairly hustled away,” I said as lightly as I could manage. “When I told my editor I’d chase after the princes, I never thought I’d do it literally.”
Phillip turned to me. “Yes, a sad business, really. I so wanted David and George to meet Felix. I think they’d enjoy his company immensely.”
“You couldn’t persuade Charlie?” I didn’t mention that Felix was currently in a dress and dancing tango with Bertie. “Not that he really gave you time for any nuanced argument…”
“Oh no. Charlie is somewhat impervious to persuasion. Besides, it was all arranged.”
“What was?”
“This escape. The flight to Italy.”
“You’re flying to Italy?”
“Not literally—ha! Charlie would have a fit. He was always so jealous of von Richthofen—the Red Baron, you know. No, taking the princes to meet the other Brownshirts at the Italian rally. Charlie mentioned it at the café.”
He looked vaguely around the party, the bunting and the strings of lights, the parrots in their cage, as though taking the princes to a fascist rally was nothing out of the ordinary.
“I’m so interested in his politics,” I said; anything to keep him talking, to get more information about the trip to Rome.
“He’s so enthusiastic about it.” Phillip spoke to the bunting. “After the gathering in Coburg—his dukedom, you know—he was so inspired, he just had to go down to Italy to support Mussolini’s fascism. Or is it to enquire secretly about the squadristi? You know, I’m not entirely sure. I’m not a Brownshirt. Yet, as Charlie reminds me; he can be very persuasive, just ask David! But the Brownshirts, they’re too… well, Mama would say I have a strong sense of what is expected of my class. Charlie would call me a snob who woul
d rather be royal than German.”
“They’re… not noblemen?” I opened my eyes so innocently wide I thought it almost impossible that I could be taken seriously. Phillip did not seem to notice.
“Papa has called them beer-swilling peasants. I can’t imagine how their politics and mine would dovetail. I’m sure Charlie will tell me how they do, though.”
“Are you going to Italy too?”
“Oh yes, but I live there. It’s only David and George who have to bamboozle their minders. The rest of us are a little more independent.”
“And not heirs to an empire.”
“Yes, quite. Regardless, I’m in charge of accommodation. I think the fascisti are marching from Naples to Rome at the moment… I’ve booked our rooms at the Hassler. Have you been there? It’s once more in German hands, so Charlie will feel at home. They leave tonight.”
“And not you?”
“I leave tomorrow.” He smiled. “Unlike Charlie, I love to fly. I’ll be there well before their train gets in.”
Phillip saw Felix wave to him and was lost to anything other than exclamations on Felix’s daring as a man and beauty as a woman. Tom caught up with me discreetly as I walked in the opposite direction.
“Did you get all of that, Tom?”
“Does that mean we leave tonight as well?”
“I think we must. But first I have to find Fry and grill him on that bungled kidnapping attempt. Really, what was he thinking? He’s meant to be a seasoned operator.”
“Seasoned ham, more like it.”
I went back to the elephant enclosure to see if Fry had accidentally been stomped on by the elephant, which was the only excuse I could think of for his nonappearance. There was no gathering of people around a mangled body, but there was a man sitting at the base of one of the trees, head in his hands.
“Fry…”
“Kiki…” He groaned, then noticed Tom. “Who the hell’s this?”
“This is Tom. He’s part of my team.”
“Since when did you have a team?”
“Since I decided I wasn’t going to find myself bleeding under a tree, at a party, after a botched mission attempt.”
He snorted. “A hit, a very palpable hit.”
“Tom, do you have a… Thank you.” I took Tom’s handkerchief and started cleaning Fry’s head. “What happened?”
“I was betrayed.”
“By Roger?”
“Who?”
“The tall thin man dressed as a clown, the one who stood next to you.”
“Yes, but his name is Claude—or Klaus, as it turns out. He was meant to be a double-agent for us, reporting on Hausmann, but it turns out he went to school with Hausmann and has instead been reporting to him on us.”
“So he’s the one who told Charlie Coburg what you were up to.”
“Right before he hit me with something large and heavy and left me here under the tree. Little did he know that my head is my least vulnerable spot.”
“There is still a lot of blood though. You will need stitches.”
“Then do it.”
“I don’t have a kit here… or anywhere. I know who would though.”
“Part of your team?”
“Oh yes. She hates Hausmann too. You can rely on her.”
“Does our esteemed boss know about these people?”
“Will he know that you bungled this kidnap? Will he know that you came to do the job that I was already here to do?” Fry said nothing as I cleaned the last of the blood off his forehead. “I didn’t think so. We have each other’s secrets. There, all done. Let’s go. We need to get to Italy.”
Fry groaned as he stood up, leaning heavily on the tree trunk, on Tom, and on me.
“Fox was right,” he said, “you are perfectly capable of running this mission on your own.” With the way he was limping, this was all too true.
“Ah, but a little muscle goes a long way.”
“I thought I was a lot of muscle.”
“But little used.” I laughed at his feeble attempt at a smile. “Come on. Tom, can you get a taxi? I’ll fetch Bertie.”
45
“three o’clock in the morning”
“Katie King! It’s after midnight… ah.” She held the door a little wider when she saw Fry limping through the foyer, leaning heavily on Tom. She was wearing a pink dressing gown, her hair untamed, but she was completely awake.
“Maisie, my love.” I looked around for a servant but we were alone. “We need a few discreet stitches and I don’t own the right kit anymore.”
“And you thought I would?—No, not there, you’ll get blood all over the new upholstery, go into the kitchen—well, you happen to be right, Katie.”
She ushered us all into her apartment, past the loungeroom, and into the kitchen. It was bare and scrubbed, the white tiles on the floor and walls reminding me strangely of a morgue. Or perhaps it was the one, large, bright white light that glared at the pinewood table, stained and shiny with overuse.
“I stole new thread from the hospital only last week.”
“You’ve been using it up?”
“Our maid found the knives too sharp when she did the washing up, poor thing. Yes, just there, by the table. It’s been covered with all the kitchen fluids—fat, bleach, blood—so I’m sure it can handle a few more stains. Boil the kettle, Katie. Tom—it is Tom, isn’t it?”
“Maisie.” He pulled her into a hug. “It’s been years.”
“I almost didn’t recognize you in your swimsuit. In my head, you’re forever in uniform.”
“In my head too.”
“Here’s the brandy.” She took a bottle from a cupboard. “Dose yourself first.”
“I’m Bertie.” Bertie held out his hand. “Don’t mind the snake.”
“I never do. So good to finally see you again!”
“And Maisie.” I put my hand on Fry’s shoulder, where he sat heavily at the kitchen table. “This is Agent Bacon, but everyone calls him Fry. He had a little disagreement with a now-former colleague.”
“I’ve seen a few of those before. We’ll fix you up.”
“You’re only a nurse.” Fry’s voice growled.
“Only!” Maisie feigned offense. “Well, I can get a seamstress if you prefer. My maid does a lot of darning—shall I wake her up?”
“I thought you were taking me to a doctor, Kiki.”
“If I was going to take you to a doctor, I’d send you back to Fox.” I raised my eyebrows but he merely looked at the table, rubbing his finger along the grain. Maisie had taken off her dressing gown to prep, unselfconscious about her pink striped pajamas.
“Trust me, Fry, this is much better. Free, quiet, and quick, and all you’ll have to show for it is a neat little scar under your hairline.”
“I can see why you might be worried, Fry,” said Maisie as she washed her hands and put on her apron. “Why would a bourgeois housewife know how to stitch skin? But after the Somme, when I worked forty-eight hours straight assisting all the over-burdened surgeons, you shouldn’t be worried. I could stitch cuts like yours in my sleep.”
“And did, in fact.”
“Hmph.” Fry looked sullen. “I don’t suppose I have much choice.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Fry submitted with poor grace to Maisie’s ministrations. I held my cape tighter around my shoulders. This kitchen smelt of soap and old fat and was too spartan for circus clothes. Bertie had taken a seat opposite Fry and peered with undisguised interest. Tom stood close to me, watching Maisie with her box of surgical bits and pieces, working quickly and neatly.
“There!” said Maisie. “All done.”
“What?” said Fry. “But… I didn’t feel anything!”
“I know! Good, isn’t it?” She packed up her box in a few deft movements and took her needle to be disinfected at the sink. “It’s a new local anaesthetic. I apply it directly to the affected area of little jobs like this. My maid, Gina, is so clumsy and such a wimp, if
I didn’t dose her up, she’d cry for the rest of the day over one little cut. You looked like you could do with the same care.”
Fry did nothing but scowl.
“Maisie, we’re heading to Rome tonight.”
She looked at me, scanning my face, then smiled broadly.
“Do I have time to pack a thing or two?”
“If I can use your telephone.”
“In the living room, with the rest of the drinks.”
I nodded to Tom and left Bertie to light Fry a cigarette.
“Is Bertie safe with Fry?” He looked back through the kitchen door.
“I think you mean, is Fry safe with Bertie?” I took off my cap, finally, itchy after the long party. “They’re big boys, they can take care of themselves. Especially if you take in whisky.”
“They only have rum… Carribbean spiced rum.” He frowned at the label next to the drinks cabinet. “And you?”
“Just a cigarette.”
He lit one for me and waited, his eyes flicking over the green décor, the small modernist pieces on the walls, the big radio in the corner next to the dark green easy chair, the streetlights through the curtains, anywhere but at the mirror over the fireplace that showed our ragged reflections, anywhere but at me. I took his hand and kissed his knuckles. He moved closer, so we were only a handspan apart.
“Tom…”
“Do you have to call him?”
“You don’t want to hear me play his games.”
“I don’t want you to play his games.” He looked at me with such intensity.
“He won’t hear me otherwise.”
As he left, I had to turn away to force myself to focus. I stood at the window, looking at the Parisian streets lit up like a photograph under the fat moon. My skin felt prickly with cold; I was light-headed with hunger. I inhaled deeply on my cigarette through the French and English operators, through Greef’s polite concern.
“Vixen.” His voice was silver, soft and soporific.
“Don’t you ever sleep, Fox?” I suddenly felt very tired.
