The woman smiled. ‘One moment, sir, take a seat.’
Conrad sat in the waiting area and listened as the receptionist spoke rapid Dutch on the phone to someone. Fortunately there was a pile of brochures on the table in English, Dutch, German and French. Conrad grabbed one and began to scan it. It extolled the ‘Bedaux System’, which seemed to be a scheme that improved factory productivity. There were photographs of cheerful workers in Holland, France and Britain. There were graphs. And there was a photograph of a short burly man with shiny dark hair brushed back and large jug ears, smiling as he shook the hand of a French company chairman.
Charles Bedaux.
‘Mr de Lancey?’
Conrad looked up to see a slim woman of about forty wearing a dark suit.
‘My name is Mrs ter Hart. I am the General Manager of this office. Can I help you?’ Her English was good; her accent, though slight, sounded to Conrad’s acute ear more Eastern European than Dutch.
Conrad rose and shook the woman’s hand. ‘Ah, yes. I work for Gurney Kroheim in London,’ he began, hoping that Bedaux International was not an existing client of his father’s bank.
‘I know it,’ she said.
‘Good, good. I was in Amsterdam seeing a couple of the bank’s clients, and one of my colleagues asked me to pick up information on Bedaux International.’ Conrad held up the brochure. ‘This looks very useful. Do you mind if I keep it?’
‘Not at all,’ said Mrs ter Hart. ‘Do you know why your colleague is interested in our firm?’
‘Not absolutely sure, no,’ said Conrad. ‘I think he’s interested in the Bedaux System.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes.’
Mrs ter Hart was beginning to look suspicious. Keep it vague, Conrad told himself.
‘The system is usually implemented in factories not banks,’ said Mrs ter Hart. ‘It can often double productivity.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Conrad. ‘I think my colleague wants to see whether it can be applied to some of the more repetitive tasks that go on in a bank. He would like to discuss it with Mr Bedaux directly. Where is he? Is he here?’
‘That would be a novel application of the system,’ said Mrs ter Hart sternly. Then she seemed to consider the proposition. ‘Mr Bedaux is always very busy, but he likes novel ideas. He visits Amsterdam fairly frequently, and London occasionally. But he is based in Paris, as I am sure you know.’
‘Do you have his address there?’
The Dutchwoman picked up the French brochure and handed it to Conrad. ‘It’s on the back page.’
‘Thank you, Mrs ter Hart,’ said Conrad, deciding to make his escape before he put his foot in it.
‘Not at all,’ said the woman. ‘By the way, what is your colleague’s name?’
Conrad searched for the name of an employee at Gurney Kroheim, but all he could come up with was a couple of the directors, friends of his father. ‘Alston,’ he said. ‘Henry Alston.’
Mrs ter Hart nodded. She produced a card.
Conrad took it and smiled. ‘I’m afraid I have given all mine away this trip. Thank you so much.’ He left, clutching the brochures.
He found a café by a canal around the corner from Bedaux’s office. The canal was called ‘Singel’, just like the one in Leiden. No wonder Theo knew of its existence in Amsterdam if it was so close to the mysterious Bedaux International.
Conrad had three hours until his flight left back to London. He had found out a little about Charles Bedaux. The American ran a very successful international management-consulting business with offices all over Europe. He was based in Paris. And he had big sticking-out ears.
A start, but nothing to indicate why he could possibly be as important to the outcome of the war as Theo implied.
If Conrad went back to London, that was where his enquiries would end. He might be able to find out a little more about Charles Bedaux from friends of friends in business, but to investigate the man properly he needed to go to Paris. And the only time he could do that was right now.
He asked the waiter where the nearest post office was. It was only a few minutes’ walk away, just behind the royal palace. It took a while, but eventually his call was put through to Sir Robert Vansittart in London.
Van sounded harassed, but eager to speak to Conrad. ‘Any luck?’
Conrad remembered Van’s instructions not to be too specific on the telephone in case of listeners. Which, in this case, was very fortunate.
‘Yes, I would say so. It turns out our man was a fraud.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Quite certain. Our friends haven’t had a chance to chat with their hosts much, but it’s likely they will eventually. The shopping list was found.’
‘I see. What about the beer?’
Conrad smiled at Van’s reference to the beer hall bomb. ‘No idea who spilled it.’ He thought a moment. ‘My old friend thinks it was the publican, but that’s just speculation.’
‘The publican? I think I know to whom you refer. It sounds odd. You are suggesting they spilled it on purpose?’
‘That’s what my old friend guesses.’ Conrad thought he had done a pretty good job of conveying Theo’s answers to Van.
‘You are flying home today, are you not? Come and see me straight from the airport and you can brief me directly.’
‘That might be difficult,’ said Conrad. ‘The thing is, I need to go to Paris this afternoon.’
‘Paris? For what purpose?’
‘Something my old friend told me. Difficult to discuss over the telephone. But I can explain everything when I get back to London.’
It was unlikely that concern over Conrad’s absence from his unit was high on Van’s list of priorities.
It wasn’t. ‘All right,’ Van said. ‘How long will you be?’
‘Not sure,’ said Conrad. ‘Two or three days.’
‘Be sure to report back here when you return.’ With that Van hung up to turn to more important matters of state.
Berlin
There was a spring in Theo’s step as he made his way down the Kurfürstendamm. The moon peeked out behind clouds, giving the street a dim, blue, illicit glow. In the blackout, the Ku’damm had lost its bright lights and its glitter, but the pavement was crowded and there was an air of tense excitement, of danger, of pleasure snatched in wartime, which Theo found exhilarating.
He needed cheering up. He had flown in to Tempelhof from Schiphol and delivered Lord Oakford’s message directly to Colonel Oster. There he had learned that the offensive on the western front had been postponed, and as a result General Halder had ordered all plans for the coup to be burned. A wave of disappointment had washed over Theo. He had known it all along: the general was a damned coward. All the generals were cowards.
But tonight Theo was going to enjoy himself.
He grinned at the image of the familiar cockatoo, drunk but happy on its sign above the doorway, and descended some steps. Inside, the Kakadu was doing great business. The trademark barmaids — brunettes alternating with blondes — were having trouble keeping to their pattern behind the bar. Theo winked at Mitzi, one of the Kakadu’s Eintanzers, wearing a typically absurd dress that laid bare her smooth pale flesh in all kinds of unexpected places. Heinie got him a table, not too far from the floor, and he ordered a bottle of ersatz champagne, a kind of fizzy alcoholic apple juice.
Theo lit a cigarette and examined the crowd. Plenty of uniforms: the grey-green of the Wehrmacht, like his own, the blue of the Luftwaffe and the occasional black of the SS. And there were girls. Lots of beautiful girls, doing their bit to encourage their fighting men.
He could feel her coming. There was a lull in the conversation, men’s eyes flicked to follow her, women’s eyebrows knitted a millimetre or two. She was tall, she was blonde and she was cool, so cool. She wore bright red lipstick, her high cheekbones were accentuated by clever use of make-up, and she never smiled. Ever.