‘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?’