Stealing the Crown (A Guy Harford Mystery)

by TP Fielden

She handed over a photographic print, unframed, of a group at a race meeting. Guy glanced at it quickly, noting Betsey standing at the front looking as if she’d just won a large bet but smiling directly at someone else in the group. Close by was the lantern-jawed Granville Cody, while either side of them stood soldiers in uniform.

  ‘More recent,’ said Guy. ‘That’s her husband. I wonder when the other picture must have been taken.’

  Just then, Charlotte woke and gave a squawk from under her embroidered cage cover as a key turned in the door and Rupe walked in.

  ‘There’s whisky and tea,’ said Guy over his shoulder, in answer to the unspoken question. ‘Don’t go near the tea. Then come and help.’

  He pushed the framed photo in front of Rupe and said, ‘I think we have a spy in our midst. That’s Betsey Cody.’

  ‘She’s been looked over.’ Rupe never gave a straight answer if he could avoid it.

  ‘Husband is Granville Cody, in charge of the Aircraft Exchange Commission. I expect you know about him.’

  Rupert nodded.

  ‘Rodie kindly brought me the photo. Guess how she came by it. Our Mrs Cody may give splendid dinner parties and have entranced half of social London, but this picture definitely says she has other allegiances.’

  Rupert grunted. ‘You know where this is?’

  ‘No idea. Strange name for a place, Yaphank. Since they’re all heiling Hitler, it must be Germany? Austria?’

  ‘Actually, it’s in New York State,’ said Rupert slowly, turning the picture over and reading the inscription. ‘Long Island. And thereby hangs a tale.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Rodie,’ he said, turning, ‘you’ve just done something quite amazing.’

  ‘’Course I have. I’m a genius!’

  ‘Seriously, you have no idea how important this picture is. To start with, I’d say that the man standing next to the Cody woman is Max Kuhn.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Yaphank is the home of American Nazism. There’s a place there called Camp Siegfried, a kind of training ground for the US version of the Hitler Youth.’

  ‘What? Now, in the present day? How can they do that?’ cried Rodie. ‘In a free country? How can it be allowed?’

  ‘That’s the point,’ said Rupe. ‘It is a free country. America isn’t at war with Germany – not yet, anyway. People are allowed their rights and if they want to dress up in uniforms and form themselves into militias, there’s nothing to stop them.’

  ‘This is very strange,’ said Guy quietly. ‘These people are called the German-American Bund, are they?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rupe, surprised Guy should know. ‘And that man is someone that colleagues of mine have been chasing for months. He’s Max Kuhn, whose brother just happens to be Fritz Kuhn – the man they call the American Führer.

  ‘Fritz is not much admired by the Nazi high-ups back in Germany – he’s a bit too ostentatious for their liking – though, mind you, he can fire up a crowd when he speaks. Thousands of ’em turn out for his rallies.

  ‘But Max is a different kettle of fish. He’s almost invisible and a very effective operator – Ribbentrop adores him, I’m told. What I can reveal is that we’ve been watching our Max as best we can ever since he visited a man called Walter Schellenberg in Mexico last year.’

  ‘Your boys do get about, don’t they,’ said Guy, but he was only half-listening. He was looking from one photograph to the other, willing them to reveal their separate stories.

  ‘It was Schellenberg who’d previously been given the job of either persuading the Duke of Windsor to come over to the German side or, failing that, kidnapping him. That was in July last year – when the Windsors were on their way through Spain and Portugal to the Bahamas.

  ‘That particular caper was called Operation Willi, and the Nazis believe they very nearly pulled it off. But it wasn’t the success they’d hoped for – as you know, the Windsors are now safe and sound, as far away as could be.’

  Guy put the pictures down, defeated – they refused to speak to him. ‘I imagine Hitler didn’t take kindly to it having failed,’ he said.

  ‘Schellenberg’s head was on the block. That’s when he came up with the idea of targeting the Duke of Gloucester as a substitute.’

  ‘Gloucester,’ said Guy, nodding, ‘who’ll be Regent if the King falls under a bus. Who was criticised for his pro-German stance before the war.’

  ‘Precisely. Now, take a look at that picture again and read the inscription out loud.’

  ‘Happy anniversary,’ began Guy. ‘Oh, I see! Betsey’s married to Kuhn. But when can this have been taken? She’s married to Granville Cody, surely!’

  ‘Well, Camp Siegfried opened up in 1936, so it could be any time after that.’

  ‘We’ve got two photographs here, Rupe. Let’s say this one’s 1936 and the other – well, the way everybody’s dressed up, it could be something like the Derby. The print looks fresh – it could almost be last year.’

  ‘It is last year,’ said Rupe, picking it up for the first time. ‘And I can tell you why. That’s the Newmarket stand in the background, as I should know – I’ve lost a few quid there in my time. The Derby’s always run at Epsom. But it moved up to Newmarket last year because they were worried about an air attack.’

  ‘So,’ said Guy, ‘it looks like Betsey’s married to Kuhn in the first photo, and married to Cody in the second. Four years apart – quick work! I was asking Foxy Gwynne about her, and she told me Betsey turned up here in London in 1937 with Granville in tow.’

  ‘So he’s a Nazi sympathiser.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ broke in Rodie. ‘The safe I cracked open had her stuff in it. Nothing male – hubby must have another one hidden away somewhere else. And the Hitler salute picture was in a locked box underneath a lot of other things at the back – as if she was deliberately trying to hide it. You wouldn’t do that, would you, unless you didn’t want your husband to know?’

  ‘Or the security services,’ said Rupe grimly. ‘But what we have here in this other picture is a story which says Schellenberg, the Nazi who tried to woo the Duke of Windsor, met Kuhn – whose soon-to-be ex-wife has bought her way into British society and has targeted the royal family.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Guy. ‘Now I see why Betsey Cody was so desperate to get an invitation to stay at Barnwell! And why she had that story planted in the New York papers – to scare the Gloucesters into making an effort to suck up to the Americans, especially her and Granville. What I don’t yet understand is how she could be Mrs Kuhn one minute and Mrs Cody the next.’

  ‘Bigamy?’ suggested Rodie with a laugh. ‘There’s a lot of it about these days.’

  ‘Oh, do pipe down!’

  ‘Anyway,’ insisted Rodie, ‘can I keep the other pic? Now you know where it was taken you don’t need it, and I want to show it to my milliner.’

  ‘Your milliner?’ Guy hooted. ‘Exactly how rich are you? Don’t you know there’s a war on?’

  ‘Ha ha! Give it ’ere, ’andsome.’ She whisked it off the table and was putting it in her bag when Guy stopped her.

  ‘One last look,’ he insisted.

  The racetrack photograph had been taken in sharp summer sunlight and was exceptionally clear. Betsey was wearing a tailored suit with an extravagant straw hat and looking extremely youthful for a woman of possibly fifty. She had an animated look on her face, aimed at someone other than her husband.

  ‘Wait,’ said Guy in a low voice. ‘Is there a magnifying glass anywhere?’

  ‘Second drawer down in the dresser,’ said Rodie instantly.

  ‘You have been through this place, then,’ said Rupe. ‘You cheeky beggar!’

  ‘I like to know who I’m dealin’ with.’

  Rodie returned, waving the glass in the air. Guy snatched it from her crossly and returned to the table.

  ‘Well I never,’ he said slowly after a moment or two. ‘There’s someone else we know in this picture.’

  He poin
ted to a smart-looking soldier, clearly the object of Betsey Cody’s close attention, standing at the end of the group.

  ‘That, my friends, is none other than Captain Toby Broadbent. He’s in this, too.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘I just can’t understand what’s going on,’ said Guy, shaking his head. ‘This man Broadbent is everywhere. He’s guarding the King – that’s his official job. Then he’s running errands for Dighton and his seditious English Misters. At the same time he’s hanging round with Betsey Cody, who, on the evidence of this picture, is a Nazi supporter.

  ‘Betsey Cody, meanwhile, is trying to get close to the Duke of Gloucester, presumably to talk him round to the idea of taking the throne if the Germans invade – whether the King’s still alive, or not.

  ‘But how do all these pieces of the jigsaw fit together, Rupe? And how does poor old Ed Brampton fit in?’

  Rodie, satisfied she had played her part, had taken Charlotte’s cage into the kitchen and was having a lively conversation with her. Rupe lit a cigarette.

  ‘Let’s take it all apart, piece by piece,’ he said. ‘You think that Broadbent shot Ed Brampton, but you don’t have a motive. All the time you’ve been assuming it must be something to do with Dighton – that Dighton wanted him out of the way and got Broadbent to do the deed. Try and look at it another way, Guy. Supposing Dighton had nothing to do with Brampton’s death?’

  ‘But he must have!’ replied Guy heatedly. ‘Those meetings I had with him – when he kept asking me what was happening with my investigation! They were because he wanted to know what I’d discovered. Whether whatever I knew was going to implicate him!’

  ‘Supposing it wasn’t that? I’m just saying supposing,’ said Rupert soothingly. ‘Take Dighton out of it for a minute. What we’ve got here on the table in front of us offers up another story. Broadbent knows Betsey, and we now know that Betsey is a secret Nazi. I go for your idea that it’s not who killed Ed, but who wanted him killed. Supposing that person was Betsey Cody? Supposing she got wind of the fact that Ed knew about her and the German-American Bund? You told me yourself about that government memo you found with his diary – he knew about the Bund. He knew Broadbent.’

  ‘But I still don’t know how he got the memo!’

  Rupert waved it aside. ‘What would make more sense is that Ed discovered Betsey’s Nazi secret, and either he confronted her with it – if he knew her personally – or else he challenged Broadbent with it. That would require Ed to know that Broadbent knew Betsey, obviously. But she’s a household name, thanks to your chum Ted Rochester and his newspaper columns – if her name came up in conversation it’s quite likely Broadbent would boast of knowing her. Everybody else does.’

  ‘So Broadbent killed Ed Brampton not on Dighton’s orders, but on Betsey’s? Why would he do that?’

  ‘I refer Your Lordship to Exhibit Two,’ said Rupert. ‘Concentrate on the way she’s looking at Broadbent in that picture.’

  ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, I do mean. “The look of love”, is how a cheap magazine would describe it.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is – remarkable!’ Guy gave a snort of laughter. ‘There’s somebody else at the Palace that Mrs Cody’s been seeing as well. I wonder how she finds the time.’

  ‘If Broadbent – a trained killer, don’t forget – is besotted with her,’ continued Rupert, ‘how hard would it be for him to agree to bump off someone who’s causing her grief?’

  ‘That would mean, surely, that Broadbent’s in on her Nazi activities,’ said Guy. ‘It’s a lot to take in – it would make him a traitor as well. Especially since he’s part of the King’s bodyguard.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be out of the job by the end of the day,’ replied Rupert confidently. ‘Even so, you can’t be sure that Broadbent knew Betsey’s a Nazi – look at the way she hid that photo away at the back of her safe. Her very life depends on nobody knowing her true allegiances – why would she tell him what she’s up to?’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s entirely possible,’ said Guy. ‘He’s not very bright. And what’s he doing with her anyway? She must be twenty years older than him.’

  ‘She’s ultra-rich, extremely glamorous, all the right connections. Why ever not?’

  ‘So what happens next?’ asked Guy. ‘This is your department, Rupe, what’s your plan? You set out to expose Dighton’s activities with the Misters – have you got enough evidence to do that? I set out to find Ed Brampton’s killer – have I got enough to do that?’

  ‘There’s a way of doing it,’ said Rupe, ‘and doing it all. But I’ll need your help.’

  The door to Mrs Cody’s palatial apartment was opened by a muscular young man in a tailcoat.

  ‘Guy!’ Betsey rushed forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘This is a colleague, Betsey – Rupert Hardacre. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Certainly not, certainly not! A glass of champagne, both?’

  ‘No, thanks. Betsey, we’ve come—’

  ‘—to tell me you’ve fixed up the Gloucesters. Hooray! I think they’ll find us most grateful guests. I do like to give a present!’

  ‘Not about the Gloucesters, Betsey. Well, it is in a way.’

  Betsey was bubbling with anticipation. ‘My secretary said when you called that you mentioned them.’

  ‘I’m going to let Rupert talk to you for a moment, Betsey.’ Guy glanced at the manservant standing against the wall, wondering if he was likely to cause trouble.

  ‘Mrs Cody,’ began Rupe, ‘I’m here on government business. If you don’t mind, I’m going to ask you some questions which will, I’m afraid, require an answer.’

  Until that moment the hostess had been eyeing up the newcomer in a speculative sort of way, but suddenly her expression was alert, defensive.

  ‘Mark,’ she called to the man in a shriller voice, ‘get the secretary to telephone Granville. Tell him to come home immediately. I mean now.’

  ‘These are official questions and I urge you to answer them truthfully,’ said Rupert evenly. His tone was non-threatening but determined.

  ‘You were born in 1890 in St Paul, Minnesota with the name Bettina Kohler. After college you took a secretarial job at the local bank.’

  ‘Such a long time ago, one can barely recall . . .’

  ‘You married the bank’s chairman in 1912, he died in 1922. In 1925 you married Till Braben, a US citizen born in Munich who ran a large lumber business.’

  ‘What exactly is the point of all this?’ Betsey retained a voice of authority but she stood leaning slightly, her hand gripping the arm of a chair very tightly.

  ‘Just wanting to confirm,’ said Rupert smoothly, just wanting to alarm. ‘You divorced Braben in 1930 after you met Max Kuhn, another German-born American.’

  Betsey looked at him, immobile. Her grip tightened on the chair.

  ‘Max Kuhn is, or was, a leading light in the German-American Bund, the American Nazi Party. I think it’s probably safe to assume you were a card-carrying member too.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who?’

  ‘I’ve been talking to our friends over the road at the US Embassy,’ Rupert went on, ‘and they’ve been tremendously helpful. Max Kuhn is the Bund’s chief strategist, while his brother Fritz is its nominal leader. The Führer, I think you probably call him, Mrs Cody – am I right?’

  The woman sat down very suddenly.

  ‘In 1937 you met Granville Cody, a recently widowed and extremely wealthy businessman. By the end of the year you’d divorced Kuhn and married Cody. Each of your marriages took you further up the social ladder, but though Cody had money, he had no polish. You set about changing all that and you brought him to London, where you used his wealth to buy yourself a place in high society. Your newly acquired, powerful connections ensured that when war broke out your husband was handed the job at the Aircraft Exchange Commission, where he’s made a colossal contribution to the war effor
t.

  ‘Mrs Cody,’ said Rupert, the charm gone from his voice, ‘does your husband know you are a Nazi?’

  ‘No.’ She was shaking but remained stiff and upright.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you are still in touch with your previous husband, Max Kuhn.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are, in fact, still acting on his behalf.’

  No answer.

  ‘In June and July last year there was an attempt by the Germans to persuade, or otherwise to kidnap, the Duke of Windsor while he was in Spain. We now know that when that action, Operation Willi, failed, a similar operation was conceived by a German officer called Walter Schellenberg. In February this year, Schellenberg visited Miami at the same time that Max Kuhn was staying there at the Biltmore Hotel.

  ‘Mrs Cody, it was there, in Miami, that a plot was cooked up to persuade the Duke of Gloucester to seize the British throne, either in the event of a German invasion of Britain, or if the King were to die. Gloucester’s job would be to push aside Princess Elizabeth and reign as Regent, a useful non-threatening deputy since Hitler sees himself as the future emperor, just as Napoleon was. You were the single-most important player in this plot. You’d established yourself in London pre-war and quickly surrounded yourself with some of the most important people in the land. You bought their company and friendship with jewellery and trinkets and other acts of largesse which they found irresistible. If an English hostess had tried that on, she’d have been ridiculed for her vulgarity, but because you’re American, another set of rules applies. The English upper classes sometimes look down on the Americans as savages in suits, even if you are cleverer than most of them lumped together.’

  The woman remained impassive, her eyes focused on Rupert’s left shoulder, her gaze never wavering.

  ‘You had one job, and one job only, and that was to persuade Gloucester that it would be for the good of the country if he were to take over. The Duke harbours a deep resentment for the way he’s been overlooked here and sidelined there – failing to take account of his own ineptitude. In other words, he’s frustrated and therefore biddable. You thought you stood a good chance of success.’