‘I do,’ said Constance. She opened her bag and pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Langebrück, who slid it into his breast pocket without opening it.
‘We will be staying here for three days more if there is a reply,’ Millie said. ‘As I’m sure you know, my father is Lord Oakford. I would be happy to pass on any message to him or Sir Henry Alston.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Constance. ‘You’d better speak directly to me. I know Sir Henry a little better than my friend.’
Langebrück glanced at the two women. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I will leave a message at your hotel if I have anything. Where are you staying?’
‘At the Kurhaus in Scheveningen.’
‘I will be in touch.’
‘Sorry about that, Millie,’ said Constance with an embarrassed smile when Langebrück was safely out of the café. ‘But Henry did give me strict instructions what to say when we hear back from him.’
Millie didn’t answer. She now knew why Constance was with her: to act as an envoy for Sir Henry Alston with the Nazi government. Presumably Father knew about this. But the guilt weighed down on her. What would Conrad think if he found out what she and Constance had done? Or Theo, for that matter?
That she should be torn between what her brother and her father expected was nothing new for Millie. But she cared what Theo thought. She cared very much.
Paris
The bar was warm, smoky and crowded. It had been a long train journey from Holland and Conrad was tired. He was also late.
He scanned the tables and saw the man he was looking for wedged in a corner reading a book, an almost empty carafe of red wine next to him. Conrad made his way over to him.
‘Hello, Warren. I’m glad I didn’t miss you.’
The American looked up and shot to his feet, pumping Conrad’s hand. He was shorter than Conrad with floppy hair that hung down over his eyes, and a wide amiable smile that showed off gleaming teeth. ‘No chance of that. I can keep myself amused here for hours. We need more wine.’ He waved a waiter over.
‘It’s good to see a friendly face,’ said Conrad. And Warren’s was a very friendly face. Conrad had met him at Oxford almost ten years before. Warren’s ambition had always been to become a novelist, but after a couple of years floundering in Paris, he had secured a job as a junior foreign correspondent for a Chicago newspaper. He had spent the last few years in Berlin and Prague, and had now returned to Paris, covering the war.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Warren asked. ‘I thought it was impossible for British officers to get leave in Paris?’
‘It may be,’ said Conrad. ‘I wouldn’t know. My unit is still in England.’
‘That explains nothing,’ said Warren.
Warren’s inquisitiveness didn’t surprise Conrad; he was a journalist after all.
‘I’m here on some semi-official business,’ said Conrad.
‘Ah,’ said Warren. ‘I understand.’
Conrad realized that Warren had immediately assumed he was doing something in intelligence. Which he supposed was true, sort of. The good thing about Warren’s assumption was that he wouldn’t expect further explanation.
‘How’s Paris?’ Conrad asked.
‘It’s great to be back,’ Warren said. ‘Although I’m getting a bit sick of this drôle de guerre. It would be good to report on some real fighting. Still, it has given me time to work on my novel.’
Conrad noticed that the book Warren was reading was To Have and Have Not by Ernest Hemingway, Warren’s hero. Rereading it, probably.
‘Have you read Scoop yet?’ Conrad asked. ‘It’s brilliant.’
Within seconds they had slotted back into the old familiar argument of Hemingway versus Evelyn Waugh. They talked about Paris, about Warren’s nascent novel, about the war and whether the Americans would join it. Conrad resisted the temptation to rag Warren for trying to live the cliché of the American writer in Paris. He had attempted to write his own novel while in Berlin, but given up after two chapters, and his occasional journalism for the magazine Mercury was nothing compared to Warren’s efforts.
They ordered another carafe. The warmth of the bar, Warren’s friendliness and the wine relaxed Conrad, so he felt something of a jolt when Warren reminded him of his reason for being there.
‘OK, Conrad, what’s this semi-official business?’ Warren asked. ‘And what do I have to do with it? I assume I have something to do with it?’
‘You do,’ said Conrad. ‘If you are willing. I’m trying to find out about someone. An American who lives in Paris.’
‘Ah!’ said Warren, his eyes lighting up with interest. ‘And who might that be?’
‘A fellow called Bedaux. Charles Bedaux. A wealthy businessman. You know him?’
‘You bet I do,’ said Warren.
‘Can you tell me about him?’
‘Sure. He was born here, but went over to America before the last war, to Michigan, I think. Invented his own time-and-motion system and made a fortune at it. He has companies all over Europe as well as America, although they hate him there. He fancies himself as something of an explorer: he went on a big expedition in the Yukon a few years ago.’
‘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.’