April In Paris, 1921

by Tessa Lunney

  ‘A book of Keats.’

  ‘Oh!’ His eyes mimicked the perfect ‘O’ of his lips.

  I swallowed a smile.

  ‘Fox and Keats—’

  ‘Not so loud!’ I took his arm and held him close as we walked towards the taxi rank.

  He must have spent last night scrubbing off ink and Soho dirt, as even the skin on his hands looked fresh.

  ‘Well, you know,’ he said, ‘if we’re going to work, we still need to lubricate the old brain cogs a bit. Coffee with cognac?’

  ‘And cake.’

  ‘And biscuits.’

  ‘And finger sandwiches.’

  ‘And pots and pots of tea.’

  ‘And then more coffee . . .’

  I filled in all the details as soon as we closed the door to his room. The Ritz wouldn’t serve us a high tea outside of the dining room, but the staff were prepared to bring up chocolate éclairs, pistachio macarons, plain butter biscuits, chocolate mendiants, mille-feuilles, sliced baguette with little bowls of butter, jam and pâté, and a particularly stinky blue cheese, along with a pot of coffee and a pot of black tea, to which Bertie added a little bottle of cognac from the bar downstairs. The feast almost overflowed the table. We had to prop the book against the teapot so that we could keep working amidst the treats.

  ‘What am I reading for again?’

  ‘You’re reading for my name, Bertie, written like this.’ I wrote out the coded name for him – IKIK UBTTNO.

  ‘Shouldn’t you—’

  ‘I’m looking for the time and place of his next meeting.’

  Bertie read the left-hand pages and I read the right. The initial code was simple, just substituted letters, but Fern had put a code within that. The line YCLCPOS & IVGRNI OSDLEISR TA t IREVR read ‘Cyclops and Virgin soldiers at the river.’

  He had more lines like that: YCLCPOS & OGSDNO IMSSOIN CAECTPDE f OGSDAY read ‘Cyclops and Godson mission accepted for Godsday.’ It was clear that Cyclops and Godson were code names.

  More confusing were lines such as: EBRA ROEDSR ERECVIDE 5230 OCPMELET 1040 OSDLEISR i LPCAE, which read ‘Bear orders received 2503 complete 0104 soldiers in place.’

  I’d written these lines on the hotel paper when Bertie peeked over my shoulder.

  ‘Kiki, you know how I like to boast about being good at the cryptic crossword?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, what I mean is that I’m the Fleet Street champion.’

  ‘Self-crowned or won in a Soho back-street battle?’

  ‘They held a tournament last year—’

  ‘For fun?’

  ‘For a war orphans charity, but yes, it’s a wordsmith’s idea of fun. It was held over the course of an entire week. All the best crossword writers put in their most difficult clues. The winner was the first, all correct, to the final clue.’ He shrugged in faux modesty.

  ‘What did you win?’

  ‘Just glory, sweetpea.’

  ‘No champagne?’

  ‘The jealousy of the hard-news reporters and their editors’ grudging respect was enough for me,’ he said and winked. ‘As was the crate of Drambuie that the sponsor provided. Bought me all sorts of gossip in the wee hours.’ He took the paper as I reached for more baguette with cheese. He muttered the names to himself, turning them in his mouth, probing them for their secrets, as I poured us both a cup of tea and perched half a biscuit in each saucer.

  ‘They must be codenames, Bertie.’

  ‘Cyclops – someone with myopic vision? With severe prejudice?’

  ‘Or one eye – oh! One-Eyed Luc!’

  ‘Is that a new cabaret act?’

  ‘And “Virgin” – that must be Marie! And Godsday—’

  ‘Clearly Sunday. Although that’s more of a quick crossword clue—’

  ‘It’s also tomorrow.’

  ‘We’d better work quickly, then.’ Bertie gave me a serious look, then nodded. ‘Godson, son of God, Jesus, Hey-sus . . .’ He turned over the words, the light through the window now bright, now streaked with rain.

  I shrugged. ‘I’ve only met Luc and Marie. And Fern, of course.’

  Bertie sliced the chocolate éclair and popped a squishy segment into his mouth, his thinking frown crinkling his face. ‘Maybe the names inform each other – “Bear” . . . a Russian?’

  ‘There’s a Russian connection. I’m fairly sure that Luc and Marie are Communist revolutionaries – but with links to Germany . . . so Bear could be a Berliner – you know, after the Berlin coat of arms.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a teddy bear!’ But then he went pale and almost dropped his cup.

  ‘Bertie, we’re dropping hints, not crockery.’

  ‘Teddy, my Teddy—’

  ‘Edward Houseman?’

  ‘Yes. He’s – did I tell you? No – I ran into one of his friends last night – cronies, really, they hang off his every word – and they said he’d taken a job with his uncle’s firm, reconstructing Saxony.’

  ‘He’s in Germany!’

  ‘Has been for weeks. No wonder I hadn’t heard from him. But I didn’t think he needed work, much less wanted it.’

  ‘What type of firm does his uncle have?’

  ‘They used to manufacture arms.’

  ‘Hell’s bells—’

  ‘And British-made shells. That was during the war, of course. Now they manufacture steel bits and bobs, for building.’ He exchanged his cup for a cigarette, unable to keep still even after he’d lit it, cutting the mille-feuille into messy little pieces, moving to the window to push the brocade curtain further aside.

  ‘Teddy told you this?’

  ‘Oh no,’ he snorted. ‘When he’s with me, he acts like a regular party boy, pretty and charming and vain.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been with worse . . .’

  ‘Am I bitter? Am I jealous, you ask. I’ve been lied to, Kiki darling.’ He poured a slug of cognac into his cup, unadulterated by coffee. ‘And not just the ordinary lies of a promiscuous boy. I expected those. No, he’s someone fundamentally different to who he said he was. A businessman! A cowboy in the wild west of the Weimar Republic.’

  The plush carpet and brocade contrasted sharply with Bertie’s spiky sentences.

  He gulped the cognac and winced. ‘I found out about the Houseman firm myself, with a little journalistic digging. I quite enjoyed it, by the way. Maybe I missed my calling—’

  ‘Not when you drink cognac like that.’

  ‘Rubbish – have you seen those newsmen drink? It’s my pass into the Press Club.’ He poured himself some more. ‘Anyway, through their war contracts, the Houseman wealth went from substantial to obscene. After bombing the blighters, they’re now offering to rebuild – for a hefty fee – and, to make it happen, have used distant family still in Germany. Oh yes, did you know that Teddy’s family was originally German?’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘The clerk that I took out for drinks waxed lyrical about the firm’s predatory antics. I almost got bored with all that praise. I don’t know what Teddy is up to, but whatever it is, he’s up to it in Germany.’

  ‘And maybe France.’

  Bertie stared at me so fiercely it was almost a glare.

  ‘And maybe Paris.’ I pointed out another Bear sentence: ‘Bear Nord 2040’. ‘Something tells me that this means, “Teddy at Gare du Nord on April second.” Was Teddy, perhaps, AWOL from London on the second?’

  Bertie looked stunned as he sat back down with a thud. He was so still that, in his camel-check suit, he looked like part of the furnishings. I squeezed the nearest part of him to me, his knee, to bring him back to life. I knew how nauseating it felt when your world flipped upside down, the violence of one piece of information. I lit a cigarette and stuck it in Bertie’s confused face. I had an idea and, if I was right, Bertie was in for an even bigger shock.

  I handed him the group photo that Fox had sent me.

  ‘Bertie, tell me – who do you recognise in this photo?’

  ‘Oh
, here’s a little cardboard memory. Well, first off, there’s my favourite nurse-gossip-reporter-spy. Is that – yes, it’s Fox, isn’t it? Don’t know him, or him, lovely jawline, wish I knew him but no idea . . . oh.’ Bertie stopped, cigarette halfway to his mouth, his mobile expression arrested. His still face underwent a gradual change: the bubbly life leeched from it, his eyes sank back into their sockets and his mobile mouth settled into a thin pale line. A blank face that hid the activity within. A mask that could hide grief, anger, jealousy, love, fear or joy equally well.

  ‘That’s Teddy, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him in uniform. It suits him.’

  ‘The man next to Teddy is Hugh Fernly-Whiting, or Fern. He’s the mole.’

  ‘You’ve worked out the clues.’ A smile struggled through the mask of his face.

  ‘Not all of them. But with what I know, we should be able to unlock the rest.’

  ‘We?’ His mask broke then, an almost-tear appearing in the cracks.

  ‘Yes, “we”, Bertie.’ I took his face in my hands and kissed him. ‘Friends in need and all that.’

  He pulled me into a big hug, a single suppressed sob shuddering through his skinny frame. It hurt, the passion of that sob, the strength used to rein it in, and I had to think of something else in order not to cry myself. So I thought of pockets – the pocket Bertie slipped the photo into, the big pockets in my great coat, how I wished women’s clothing included pockets as then I could stop pinning emergency money to my knickers. Pockets and heartbreak; the juxtaposition was too absurd for tears.

  ‘Right,’ he said with a big intake of breath. ‘Light me another Gauloises and let’s get cracking.’

  ‘Here are Fox’s messages.’ I put a cigarette in his mouth and placed the messages on the floor so we could see all of them together. We sat, crossed-legged like schoolchildren, in front of them.

  Bertie read them out: ‘In some melodious plot of beechen green, with shadows numberless, there is a mole – well, that’s obvious. The mole quite forgets the weariness, the fever and the fret, where men sit and hear each other groan, where youth grows pale and dies. What does that refer to?’

  ‘The war. Fern is an ex-Fox cub.’

  ‘Right. More than ever seems it rich to die, not for the warm South, but for the lands forlorn. Tender is the night and he cannot see what flowers are at his feet. His plaintive anthem fades, his high requiem becomes a sod. The murmurous haunt of flies treads him down. This is really quite morbid, isn’t it? I’d never noticed that about Keats before. The faery lands are too forlorn and the word will toll him back from thee to my sole self. Which word is THE word?’

  ‘My word to Fox – but I think I’ve already given it.’

  ‘And is that word yes, no or maybe?’

  ‘I say no but somehow that’s not the word he hears.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘I’m sure that the lands forlorn are Germany—’

  ‘Aren’t they though.’

  ‘But the high requiem, the plaintive anthem – are they something to do with the new tune that Fern’s whistling? If so, why is it both a requiem and an anthem?’

  ‘Sounds like “God Save the King” sung before we went over the top.’

  ‘Oh! Yes – nationalism and the war and all the glorious dead. Yes, that would work – and perhaps also something to do with the Berlin song titles?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ He picked up one of Fox’s notes. ‘Ever since I put on a uniform, I have just one heart for just one boy – well, I can relate to that – Dream on, little soldier boy – that cuts to the quick – wait, when did you get these again?’

  ‘After my first telephone call with Fox, at the Rotonde.’

  ‘Of course! I delivered this little message, didn’t I. We’re on our Way to France, Why don’t they give us a chance? Goodbye, France, I’ll take you back to Germany, A man is only a man, With Alexander’s Ragtime Band. Who’s Alexander?’

  ‘No one. That just shows that they’re Irving Berlin songs, which is the key to the code – Berlin, Germany—’

  ‘And the clues link France with Germany, yes?’

  ‘If they don’t, then I’m not playing ragtime. But they must, because in the search for Pablo’s painting—’

  ‘Just Pablo now, is it?’

  ‘It was always Pablo, but rarely just Pablo – it was often Pablo as well.’

  Bertie laughed.

  I went on: ‘But in the search for his painting, I was led back to Fern and Violet. The name Hausmann comes up again and again. As do the Brownshirts in Germany.’

  ‘What, those violent veterans in lederhosen and tin hats?’

  ‘They are connected to all the rest of this business. Here,’ I laid out the message that I’d received this morning. ‘But I just have so many questions. Is Hausmann a Brownshirt or a Communist strike leader? If Fern is a double agent for underground German thugs – which the clues strongly suggest – why is he involved with the Communists? And why, after fighting for Britain, are either of them making trouble here in France?’

  ‘Who are the flies with their murmurous haunt?’

  ‘Exactly! I have some ideas but they seem so far-fetched . . . and how is Pablo’s stolen painting mixed up in this? I’m hoping this notebook will tell us.’

  ‘What’s this part of the message? Ever since she put on a uniform—’

  ‘Oh, that.’ I waved it away. ‘That’s Fox being mischievous. Or devious. Or even downright dangerous. I don’t know.’ I shrugged and moved away to the table for some more food.

  Bertie raised an eyebrow and looked at me expectantly.

  ‘Don’t, Bertie darling.’ I wished my voice wouldn’t wobble. I popped a chocolate thingy in my mouth, whole, so I wouldn’t have to speak. When I finally turned around, his face had a soft expression and he patted the floor beside him.

  ‘Then let’s work,’ he said as tenderly as if he’d said ‘I love you.’

  We came across my name UBTTNO more and more. Fern had been following me but it didn’t say why. Did he know that I’d come from Fox? Was it just lust and a spy’s instinct?

  ‘Ooh, that’s me!’

  ‘Of course it is, Bertie. He was my shadow when you were my sun.’

  ‘A God-sun? Sun-god, Apollo . . . that’s not right . . .’

  My name was often reduced to either Button or KB. But one line stuck out: UBTTNO ON ILKN EBRA ISELISA KF. NOYL ILKN IPACSSO. IMINAML HTERTA RPCOEED a OCED RGEEN.

  ‘Button no link Bear Silesia FK. Only link Picasso. Minimal threat proceed as code green.’

  ‘“Only link Picasso” . . . Fern is connected to the theft of Pablo’s painting. This is proof!’

  ‘What’s code green?’

  ‘It’s not Fox terminology. With Fox’s orders, you were either successful or dead.’

  ‘You were clearly always successful.’ Bertie looked at me with new admiration. ‘No wonder your old boss wants you back.’

  ‘Hmph.’ I didn’t want to think about Fox’s intentions just now. ‘What about this first part – I have no link to the Bear character – Teddy bear?’

  ‘Oh God, Kiki, no, I could hardly bear it.’

  ‘Ha! But what about this part – Silesia or FK? In Silesia, from Silesia? What’s FK?’

  ‘The Freikorps. Fern knows you’re not connected to them, Kiki.’

  ‘So he assumes I’m no threat.’

  ‘More fool him. But Silesia – that’s interesting.’

  ‘Too interesting.’

  We kept reading. Silesia came up often, that north-eastern section of Germany that was trying so hard to be Poland. Bear was in Silesia with the Freikorps, for a series of meetings or transactions, it was hard to tell which.

  ‘What about this?’ Bertie pointed to a line: XEHCNAEG ASUTDRYA MP IRHGT ABKN.

  ‘“Exchange Saturday PM right bank”.’

  ‘Do you have a party on the Right Bank tonight, Kiki?’

  ‘I . . .’ I could hardly think of anything but this mission. ‘Yes . .
. you know, I think I do! Something held in honour of yet another exiled Russian prince. The invitation’s at home.’

  ‘Well then.’ Bertie leant back with a satisfied look on his face.

  My head buzzed with coffee and sugar as I looked at the notes on the floor, covered in ash and crumbs. The street sounds came through the open window, curled around the lampshades and into our hair.

  ‘Is that it – that there’ll be an exchange tonight? Have we just solved the riddle, Bertie?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out. Have you got your handcuffs ready?’

  ‘I might have to solicit for them. Tom is supposed to tell me the drop-off point and time—’

  ‘He works for Fox too?’

  ‘Only as much as you do. But a Fox cub delivered this latest message – I think he’s meant to be my . . .’

  ‘Chauffeur?’

  ‘Corpse carrier.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Kiki.’

  ‘Not literally! I only deal with metaphoric deaths now – oh! “Jesus Christ”!’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, JC – perhaps someone with the initials JC is Godson?’

  ‘James Christopher? Jeremy Clarence? Jellicoe Connaught?’

  ‘Jean-Claude.’ I couldn’t help but click my fingers – Eureka – as Céline’s face, mentioning her son, popped into my mind.

  ‘Who’s Jean-Claude?’

  ‘The link between Fern and Pablo, that’s who.’

  20

  I Found a Rose in the Devil’s Garden

  I PUT ON MY MOST DARING DRESS. It was golden, a silk shift that hugged every curve until it fluted out around the knees. The neckline dived, the back line headed for hell, both were decorated by sparkling beads that swirled away from the seam and down to the hem. A wide sash hugged my hips and its beaded fringe whispered to my knees. It barely stayed on my shoulders and only just covered my knickers and suspenders. I’d bought new shoes to match the dress: golden satin heels embroidered with flowers and leaves. I twisted my waves into curls around my face, my mouth a succulent red and my eyes dark with mascara. I wound my opera cape around me and headed out into the night.

  I had arranged to meet Bertie outside the opera house as the party was around the corner. The drizzle of the day had stopped and the city felt fresh and crisp. There was a chill to the night, just the right amount to up the drinking and start the dancing, just the right amount to wrap a certain Fern in my opera cloak and sneak him out to . . . But as I clipped along in my satin shoes, I had to ask myself – sneak him out to where? Lure him to what? Unless the Fox cub was at the party, I didn’t know what to do with Fern once I had him. Simply arrange to meet him tomorrow, once I knew the drop-off place? In these final moments it seemed unwise to be caught without a plan.