She dropped her left hand, and the count decorously snatched it up, taking her arm in his. She had performed a scene like this in one of her movies, but in that she had known the ending—and the lines.
They halted. They were not alone in the garden. In a bower just off the path ahead was another couple. Nora recognized the tall blond woman as the young wife of their host, remembering the woman’s long white backless gown. She could not see the man very well but he seemed familiar, and was remarkable in that he was not wearing evening clothes like the others. Nora had not seen him in the house and wondered if he had come in through a gate in the garden wall.
The two were arguing, with some anger, but this almost magically ceased and suddenly they were in each other’s arms, their passion excessive for such a public place, even in France. Nora and the count, pretending not to notice, hurried past.
“I know that man,” she said. “I mean, I’ve seen him before. Last night, in the bar of the Ritz.”
“He is part of our little circle, though he has no money. L’héros, we call him. Madame dotes upon him. He was a flier in the Great War. Very brave, it is said. An American, like her.”
“‘Dotes’? It’s none of my business,” Nora said, “but isn’t it a little, well, flamboyant of them to be doing this here? I mean, her husband is just inside.”
“C’est bien entendu,” the count said. “The relationship is very well understood—as you would say, old news. Monsieur, he has his mistress, the Marquise de Villefranche, whom you have met. Madame, she is very young, and she has her American ami. They recently had a querelle, a falling out, which upset her very much. Une tristesse attardant. This also made the marquise very unhappy because she feared Madame would turn her full attention to Monsieur. But now l’béros returns, and all now seems happy again. All is, shall we say, in balance. Did you know Madame in America?”
“No. I never met her until tonight. America is a very big country. There are one hundred thirty million people in America.”
“France is a very big country, but we, in our circle, all know each other. L’héros and Madame did not know each other in America, but his cousin went to school with the older brother of Madame. You see, all very small, all very ensemble. Everyone knows everyone. It is the same in the theater, yes? In the films? You do not know everyone in California, but you know everyone in films.”
In Toledo, she had known the grocer’s daughter.
“Monsieur le Comte,” she said. “I would like to dance.”
He obliged her—for nearly an hour. She danced better than he because she was more familiar with the new steps, but he moved stylishly and they attracted considerable attention. Nora did not see the hostess and her American war hero again.
She allowed the count to take her back to her hotel and to fondle and kiss her breast in the taxicab. When this stirred him to great ardor and greater intimacy, she abruptly confronted him with the unassailable wall of her catholicism. There was hypocrisy in this, but not much. She had exacted a substantial price when she had first surrendered her virtue and had not reduced it much since.
The count was unhappy but made the best of it, kissing her hand in farewell and promising a spectacular pursuit of her in America. She allowed him to kiss her hand again, then left him with only a quick smile in reply. Entering the lobby, she almost regretted leaving him behind.
The night manager beckoned to her from behind the front desk. The hotel seemed to have returned almost to normal.
“Did my parcels arrive this afternoon?”
“Oui, Madame. Mais, there is a small problem about tomorrow. The car we had arranged for you, to take you to Le Havre?”
“Yes, you said I’d have to share it with a gentleman.”
“Yes, but we have only that one automobile available at the moment, and, malheureusement, it is necessary that the gentleman have the car entirely to himself. I am very sorry.”
“Why only for him?”
“The gentleman is traveling very discreetly. It is important that he do so. We will do our best to arrange another car for you, if at all possible, but perhaps you would prefer to take the train. It is much more reliable, and you don’t want to miss your sailing.”
“Who is this ‘gentleman’?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. But if you knew, madame, I’m sure you would understand completely. Do not worry. We will see that you get to Le Havre on time. And in the greatest possible comfort.”
She was more than irritated. She was offended. At the least, she felt that someone in her position should be.
“The ‘gentleman’ isn’t very gentlemanly.”
“He is not even aware of this difficulty. I regret, madame, that the mistake was entirely ours.”
Olga Maretzka spent most of the day sleeping, shedding her fatigue with hour after hour of heavy slumber. Toward darkness, she rose and washed, dressed and ate, then set out on a long journey by foot and tramway to the other side of the city and her next destination.
The building was at the end of a short, dark alley. Olga passed by it first, continuing on to the next corner. She lingered a moment, waiting for the street to empty, then retraced her steps, slipping into the alley unseen.
The flat was a wheezing climb, all the way up dusty, narrow stairs to the sixth floor, and then to the rear of the building. The hallway was filthy and smelled slightly of urine. She did not look at the shadows or try to guess what might be crawling in them. She had seen much worse in Russia, but this was Paris. She expected better.
A cautious face appeared at the doorway, eyes blinking.
“Znajoma,” she said, speaking in the man’s native Polish. “Od Leningradski.”
She was admitted immediately. His expression gentled as he stepped aside for her, but he did not otherwise make her feel welcome. The old Pole had been too long in his grim job. One day she would look that way.
He led her to a small, cramped sitting room with only one dim lamp, and served her hot tea from a samovar. The glass burned her fingers, but she held onto it. If he had intended this as a test, she would pass it.
“I am sorry, dziewczyna, that you were summoned on such short notice from so great a distance,” he said. “You had no trouble?”
He was not being solicitous of her welfare. He was concerned that she might have brought trouble with her. This was in his eyes.
“In Germany.” She had been compelled to kill a Nazi secret policeman in Trier before escaping into Luxembourg. “I cannot go home back through Germany again. I should not have traveled through it on the way here.”
“Did anyone follow you?”
“In Germany. I took care of it. That is why I cannot go back there.”
He pondered this, staring at her. “They could hunt you down here.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Well, you won’t be here long.” He rose and went to his bookcase, taking a large brown envelope from the papers and volumes jammed into it.
“You will arrange a different way back for me?”
“Of course, dziewczyna.” He did not convince her. His eyes troubled her. He and his confederates might not be interested in letting her get back at all.
They were not alike. She had initially become an assassin to avenge her brother, who had been murdered by an agent of the émigré Whites. She remained one for a number of reasons, but they included the fact that she was well compensated—at least by Leningrad standards. He was an old revolutionary, hardened, mean, and now overly cautious. It was the old who cherished life the most. If she made him uneasy enough, she would soon be dead.
“We should have made better preparation for you, better arrangements,” he said, handing her the envelope and reseating himself. He sat now more in front of the lamp, so that he appeared almost entirely in silhouette. “The opportunity has come up so suddenly. But it is one that must be seized.”
“You’re sure he is here?”
“At the Hotel Crillon. Yes. But not for long. The r
ioting in Paris has frightened them. They are all leaving tomorrow. They are taking ship for America. There are loyal communists on the hotel staff. We have learned this.”
“America? What for?”
He shrugged. “With aristocracy, who knows? They amuse themselves maybe. I can tell you it’s not to take a job cutting sleeves in a sweatshop in New York.”
“A ship.”
“Yes. A Dutchman, leaving Le Havre tomorrow evening. We had hoped you could make use of these street disorders to get at him. There has been much gunfire. But they leave tomorrow. There you are.”
She held the envelope with both hands resting on the shoulder bag in her lap. A quick, easy movement and she could have the long pistol aimed at his wrinkled old face.
“You didn’t try.”
“There are only three of us left and between us we have eliminated eleven of them. That grand duke was my last. It is time to close down here. Waldi is now being followed.”
“So I am to provide your pièce de résistance.”
“What?”
“You, the Parisian, do not know this term?”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I am being déclassé?”
“You are being insolent, dziewczyna. You have a holy mission. You are to bring justice to the most important surviving relative of the Romanovs. This is royal blood. It must be shed.”
“Like that on the floor of the ‘house of special purpose’ in Ekaterinberg?”
“That was not enough. No one said it was enough. Not Lenin, not Bronstein, not Sverdlov.”
“They never even admitted they killed the czar and his family, those cowards. It took Stalin to show such courage.”
He leaned closer. “Your great Comrade Stalin wishes this royal death.”
“That is why I am here.”
“After all, they give us no choice. They are making common cause with the fascists in Germany.”
“They?”
“That entire family. They are German. His cousin the duke is himself a Nazi. The Romanovs were German.”
“Yet you say this last death will suffice?”
“I said it was necessary. I did not say it was the last. For now it will suffice. It will give the other Germans, the other relations of the Romanovs, deep pause.”
“And this is to be done on this Dutch ship?”
He shrugged. “If it is possible. If not, perhaps in New York. Choose your moment. But he must not complete this journey. He must not come back.”
She opened the large envelope, taking out a forged passport and a thick sheaf of French bank notes. “The photograph is not good,” she said. “The forgery is imperfect and the name is ill chosen. ‘Olga Marz.’ It is too similar to my own.”
“We thought that an advantage. Easier to remember for you, to keep in your mind.”
“I don’t require such little tricks.”
“It was the best we could do in such short time. You are supposed to be very resourceful. Make the best of it.”
“And the ship?”
“The Wilhelmina. She sails from Le Havre at six o’clock tomorrow night. Take the train from Gare St. Lazare. We made a booking for you but you will have to obtain your steamship ticket at the dock when you arrive. There’s money enough for the journey. Nearly twenty-five hundred in American dollars there. Vous serez très riche.”
She counted it. “What accommodation?”
“Second class.” He glanced over her clothing. “We did not think you could stand the scrutiny of first class. In third class, you would have to share a cabin.”
She nodded. “That’s all? You have nothing else to tell me?”
“No.”
Olga snatched up the pistol and fired a shot into his chest, the sharp report rattling the tea glasses by the samovar. She was up and heading toward the door before his tottering body hit the floor.
She paused very briefly before stepping out into the hall, satisfying herself that he was dead. Though she disliked him, it was nothing personal. She had her orders.
Even late at night, with the ship tied up in port, the captain is always the busiest member of any crew. Hendrik van der Heyden, master of the S.S. Wilhelmina, had hoped for an hour or more of free time to write some letters and enjoy a glass or two of Bols gin. But, as on every night since he had come aboard, this was denied him. There were new troubles.
The Wilhelmina was to have been the crowning achievement of the Lage Lander Line’s aspirations, a flagship to put the company in a class at least challenging the position of the rival Holland-Amerika service. But the Wilhelmina had been plagued with trouble ever since she had come out of the shipyards at Saint Nazaire, which Lage Lander had gone to because of the superior quality of their work. First there had been difficulties with the boiler valves, which had almost produced an explosion. Then, in sea trials, the ship had shown such a tendency to excessive roll and list that a major and costly refitting was necessary, including the removal of the heavy marble in the first-class bathrooms and the addition of permanent lead ballast on the lower decks.
In the second sea trials, a fire had broken out in one of the oil-firing heating units that had spread through ducts to an adjoining compartment before the crew had been able to extinguish it. The repairs for that had been completed just three weeks before, and now there was a major problem with the electrical wiring in the main machinery supply switchboard in the after-turbo generator room. The engineers had been working on it all day.
As a final frustration, there were now late-night visitors, important men behaving unpleasantly. Because of the delays and rumors of her troubles, the Wilhelmina’s passenger list for this maiden voyage had been greatly reduced by cancellations. She would be carrying less than one-third of her full capacity of 1,420 passengers, and only a few dozen or so in first class. These gentlemen were adding a large traveling party—and new difficulties—to that number.
Van der Heyden took one small glass of the smoky gin neat and quick, then went forward to the expansive wheelhouse of the bridge. As they were in port, only the duty quartermaster and the young third officer, Kees Witte, were on duty.
“Where are they?” said the captain.
“Waiting in the first-class smoking room, sir. Waiting impatiently.”
“Wat ist er aan de hand?”
“I don’t know, sir. They insist on talking only to you. I think it may be about arrangements. Het ist belangrijk.”
“For this class of people, Kees, everything is important. ‘Vlug, vlug, vlug.’”
The captain turned away. Instead of descending to the deck where the two important men waited, he went out onto the starboard wing of the bridge. The Wilhelmina was tied up with her port side to the quay, prow facing toward the east end of the long harbor. She was still taking on fuel oil and provisions, and working lights made bright circles in the open areas of her decks. She was a long beauty, 854 feet from her high, proud bow to her tapered stern. Her beam was 90 feet, and she stood 165 feet high from keel to the top of her radio mast, drawing 28 feet of water. Her three smokestack funnels were smartly raked, adding the look of speed to her lines. In sea trials she’d been certified for twenty-six knots, not enough to win the Bleu Ribband for fastest liner afloat but adequate to make good on the bold promises of express service in Lage Lander’s advertising.
Cunard had christened its grand Queen Mary the year before. Both the French Line and Holland-Amerika had also risen sufficiently from the world depression to have new ships in the works. With three of its oldest ships still laid up, crews dismissed and scattered and the remaining personnel working at three-quarters pay, Lage Lander had not yet risen from the Depression. The Wilhelmina was intended to accomplish the task. It was an expensive gamble, but it would be at least two years before Holland-Amerika’s next Nieww Amsterdam came down the ways. Lage Lander would have a fighting chance.
She was as complete a ship as any of the big British, French, or German—with swimming pools, Turkish baths, gymnasiums, r
acquet courts, a bank, smoking rooms, library, lounges, drawing rooms, cinema, shopping arcades, dog kennels, gambling rooms, and deluxe dining rooms and restaurants for both first and second class, and accommodations for third-class passengers not all that primitive.
If only the Wilhelmina would cease this endless succession of minor catastrophes. Van der Heyden was considered one of the most skillful navigators and ship handlers on the Atlantic, but he was also known to lose control of himself in a crisis, and he was rapidly approaching that point again. He had ripped into his chief engineer that afternoon for a mistake that had been made back at the shipyards. This was unfair not only to the officer but to the steamship line. They were risking everything on him, a confidence he did not deserve. He had lost not only his temper over the years. He had once lost a ship.
Now he must face a different sort of crisis—one in which he dare not even raise his voice. He closed his cabin door behind him, and descended from this elevated station into the world below that was his ship.
After a brief argument over the telephone, Reichscommissioner Goering relented and agreed to meet Reichsführer-S.S. Himmler at his headquarters in the Reich Main Security Office, a grandly glorified police station. “One principle must be absolute for the S.S. man,” Himmler had proclaimed. “We must be honest, decent, loyal, and comradely to members of our own blood and to no one else.” The activities on the ground floor and basement of this huge, gloomy building were a testament to his very literal adherence to this “principle.” Hundreds disappeared within these walls almost daily.
Himmler had once been Goering’s subordinate, head of the Prussian police and Gestapo during Goering’s prime ministership of that state. He now considered himself der Dicke’s equal, and gave every hint of a willingness to make himself his old comrade’s superior.
Goering indulged him a little in this. He wanted no enemies in the S.S. He saw no great threat in the man’s rivalry, for Himmler was not particularly sophisticated or competent—merely ruthless. Goering kept out of his way as much as possible, though, except when he needed to make some use of Himmler. Normally, he would not have agreed to bring his great personage to anyone’s office other than Hitler’s, but he wanted Himmler to feel placated. He had a very specific use for the Reichsführer-S.S. just now.
Dance on a Sinking Ship Page 9