The Alice Factor

by J. Robert Janes

  “It’s the strain of what he’s doing,” de Heer Wunsch had said and had shaken his head. “It can only end in disaster for him.”

  To think that the Nazis had arrested so many Jews and yet had let Lev’s daughter and son-in-law go. To think that they still expected to be supplied with diamonds after such a thing or that Dillingham’s and the others would continue to sell to them.

  Richard had smiled sadly at this and had said, “Do you know where the tires come from that are on the Heinkel 111 bombers?”

  Tires from England, French guns, armor plate and aluminum ingots, so much, so many things to sell the Germans.

  Pulling up the collar of her coat, she began to walk along the shore. Something would have to be done. She couldn’t risk staying in Belgium much longer. They’d have to work out some other system.

  And Willi? she asked. Willi suspected the truth. Somehow she would have to tell him how it really was. He’d never understand, never believe her for a minute. She couldn’t afford to take that chance in any case.

  Since November, since Crystal Night, the Nazis’ agents in Antwerp had left her alone. No one followed her anymore. She was certain of this. Nor did they watch the house or the office.

  Yet it was strange to have them pay so much attention to her and then to suddenly stop. Richard had been troubled by this—upset, too. “I specifically asked Duncan to get you out, Arlette. I warned him of the danger. The man’s name is Karl Christian Damas. He’s a schoolmaster—tall, thin, about forty-two years of age and left-handed.”

  When the girl reached a dead herring gull, Otto Krantz watched as she stood there looking sadly down at it. What should he do with her? Take her now and break her, or give Hagen a little more rope as the Gruppenführer Heydrich had suggested?

  The things she’d have to tell them.

  Damas removed his glasses and cleaned the condensation from them. “Hagen could not possibly have found out who I was, Herr Krantz. I swear we’ve been far too careful for that.”

  “And if you haven’t?” asked the Berliner sharply.

  There was no answer, so Krantz said it for him. “If you have, my friend, you’ve jeopardized our chance to take the diamond stocks. Now put on your priest’s collar and go have a talk with her. Let’s see if she knows who you are. Ask her if she’s been to confession.”

  The Berliner snorted harshly at his little joke; the Belgian waited stiffly for the outburst to pass. “And if she knows me?”

  Krantz took a moment to study this schoolmaster who had been so useful to them. Unmarried, a bitter, lonely man—why no wife? he wondered. Dark thoughts about women, was that it? Being a Berlin detective had hardened him to everything. “Then I will leave her to you for a while, but you will not kill her until she and I have had a little talk. Now go.”

  The Belgian went along to the car, which they’d left in the lee of a farmer’s shed. It being Sunday, and between church services, there was sporadic traffic. The road stretched away from them on either side to scattered farmsteads, distant church spires and a bleakness that reminded Krantz only too well of the Great War but was eminently suitable for their purposes.

  The Huysmans girl was again gazing out to sea.

  Dressed in a black overcoat, hat, scarf, suit, tie and shoes, Damas looked the part. The Belgian made his way down to the beach and waved a polite hello to the girl.

  She smiled at him when they stood talking. No fear, only innocence in her eyes, the delight of unexpected companionship, the security of a priest.

  Krantz gave a satisfied grunt and turned his back to search the surrounding terrain.

  “Do you come here often?” asked the priest.

  He had seen her from the road and had come to join her because she had looked so sad. “Ah no. I have a job in Antwerp and am just home for the day to see my fiancé and my parents.”

  Damas gave a solicitous nod. “Myself, I am here to visit an old friend and mentor, Father René Roosan in Middlekerke. Perhaps you know of him.”

  “Father René, but of course! Who doesn’t? So he is an old friend of yours.”

  “It’s such a small world.”

  They talked of the priest, who in his younger days had been a missionary in darkest Africa. “It must have been something, all those natives who couldn’t speak a word of his language nor he of theirs.”

  Arlette thought of saying, I know someone who could, but left it unsaid. There was something odd about this priest. Something …

  “Your fiancé, Juffrouw Huysmans, why is he not with you?”

  “Oh, Willi … Willi is working on his sailboat.”

  “You’ve had a disagreement. My dear, it’s not hard to tell. Come, come, let me know what’s wrong. Perhaps I can offer a suggestion or two.”

  He was really being very kind, a little shy perhaps.

  Anxiously Damas wondered why she hadn’t answered. “Some little disagreement?” he asked, a reminder.

  She gave a shy smile and then a shrug. “The usual, I think, Father. Willi likes to dance, and I was very tired when my train got in last night.”

  They picked their way around an open space where frozen kelp and rusty tin cans lay with bits of netting.

  “It’s a long ride. The trains are not as good as they used to be. It’s all this talk of war,” he said.

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “He’ll be called up, won’t he? If … if there’s war? I know how you must feel. Tell me, when is the wedding? Perhaps Father René and I … You’ll be asking him, won’t you?”

  She shook her head and found herself blushing under his scrutiny. His gaze seemed so intense. “I do not know Father René that well, only because others speak so highly of him.”

  The priest tossed a hand. “That is so. And the wedding? In the spring perhaps?”

  “More likely the end of summer. Willi wants to get married right away. I … for myself, I want to be sure.” What was it about him?

  “A little time. Yes, that is wisest. But a pretty girl like you? If I were this Willi, I’d not leave you to walk alone on the beach. It’s far too cold in any case. Brr! What would you say to a cup of coffee with a priest who at times is lonely, too?”

  He’d wait to offer her a ride back to Antwerp. He’d give her all the time she needed.

  When he saw the two of them approaching, Krantz stepped into the shed. The car started up, and he was left with a bicycle the girl had padlocked.

  No sooner were they gone, but who should turn up to find the bicycle but the boy, the fiancé, the son of a butcher, whose van looked as if it needed new springs.

  The boy put the bicycle in the back and drove after them.

  All well and good, or had the boy seen him go into the shed and figured things weren’t right?

  The terrain was so flat the boy couldn’t have hidden anywhere. Hectares of tall, frozen grass lay about the shed, the dunes in the distance low and tumbling down to the wide apron of the beach.

  Only when a van of similar size came along the road from Ostend, did he notice that there was a slight bend behind which the boy could well have stopped.

  He’d have had a clear view of the shed, the car, the dunes and the beach.

  The three of them were having coffee in a seaside café when Krantz stepped down from the lift he had thumbed in a truck. They were sitting over by the windows, seen through a screen of people in their Sunday best. The Huysmans girl had removed her hat, coat and gloves; the boy had simply unbuttoned his leather jacket and had put his beret on the table beside him.

  Damas played the benevolent host. Krantz had to credit the Belgian with a coolness that was impressive. “A coffee with sugar and cream,” he said, not looking up at the waitress. “Make it two and a shot of brandy.”

  In fluent German, the waitress reminded him that he could buy all the booze he wanted in their shops, but he couldn’t get a drop of the hard stuff in their cafés and bars. Too cold for beer, too early for a glass of wine. She suggested the layered cre
am cake and he grunted, “Of course.”

  Arlette Huysmans was even better looking than her photograph. She had about her, though, a wariness that troubled him. Perhaps it was simply the embarrassment of her and the boy’s sitting down with a priest they didn’t know. Perhaps it was the way the boy seemed jealous of the attention Damas paid to the girl.

  When her hand closed over the boy’s, Krantz saw her smile briefly and say something reassuring. In turn, the boy simply stared at her hand. Love? Was there love? A girl like that and a clod like him? Family ties? The hometown boy? It didn’t make any sense when the boy was stacked up against Hagen.

  Arlette felt the trembling in Willi’s fingers. “Willi, please don’t be angry with me. I know I was to take the eight o’clock train tonight, but if I can get a lift with Father Lannay, it would save us the money, isn’t that right? I will help with the gas, Father. Please, it wouldn’t be right of me otherwise.”

  Damas held up a protesting hand and shook his head. “You must allow me. The pleasure of your company will be sufficient.”

  The boy was insanely jealous of every spare moment the girl had, while she was trying to be so much more mature about things.

  “You said we’d have supper with your parents, remember?”

  “Ah, so I did.” Arlette gave the priest a rueful look.

  Damas said, “A few hours won’t make much difference. Perhaps I could stay here a little longer.”

  He gave her the look of someone wanting to be invited.

  It was the boy who said, “Arlette, why can’t you take the early-morning train? We could go to the concert then. I’ve got two tickets I’ll just have to give away.”

  “The 4:00 a.m. train? It is so early. Ah …” She grinned and squeezed his hand, then nudged Willi’s shoulder playfully. “Of course I could. Do you mind, Father Lannay? He is so lonely without me, this one. I must tell myself to be more kind.”

  They didn’t see much of each other. A six-day work week left little time.

  Damas acknowledged defeat with a smile. He took off his glasses to clean them. The boy was too intense, the girl—what could he say about her?

  Trapped perhaps, or relieved? “Another time then. No, please, stay and have some more coffee. I’ll settle the bill on my way out.”

  They both got up to politely shake hands with him, the girl all smiles now, the boy glad that he was buggering off.

  Krantz waited a good half hour. In all that time the two of them sat there, not saying much, not looking around but only at each other now and then. That they were self-conscious with each other was evident. That they quarreled—was it a quarrel? he wondered—seemed possible.

  The boy urged the Huysmans girl to do something. She twisted and untwisted the engagement ring on her finger and ran her thumb over it, as a girl in trouble would.

  Krantz reached for his hat and left the café. Damas had driven out of sight up the nearest side street.

  When he found the Belgian, the Berliner got into the car. “Well, what did you make of it?”

  Damas didn’t smile. “It’s so very hard to tell if she knew me.”

  “And the boy?”

  “A typical butcher’s son. Jealous as hell and resenting my little intrusion into their affairs.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “They may have played a little game with me. First dinner at her parents and then a concert and the early-morning train for her. I’m wondering if there is such a concert in Ostend this evening.”

  “We’ll check.”

  “And the girl?” asked the Belgian.

  Had the nearness of her excited the schoolmaster? “For now we leave it. If there is a concert, we’ll have a look for them. If not …”

  They drove out of town along the coast road toward Ostend. Arlette watched them until their car had disappeared from view and she was left alone with Willi.

  “Arlette, what the hell’s going on? I thought you were coming to see the Vega. I had everything ready for us. The coffee, some gingerbread cookies, a surprise. Instead of this, you go to the beach of all places, to where that bastard Hagen first came to see you.”

  “Willi, don’t. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “That priest didn’t blink, Arlette. People always do when they take off their glasses.”

  “Yes, I know. I noticed that, too.”

  “He had a friend.”

  What could she say? “Willi, let’s go home. Let’s go and see the Vega.”

  “You’re still in love with Hagen. Those guys are mixed up with him. You bitch, Arlette. You let me think we were engaged. You …”

  She walked away, and when she reached the van, climbed in and sat there waiting for him.

  “Willi, don’t hate me. I couldn’t do anything else.”

  He smashed a fist against the door; he very nearly broke the window. He grabbed her by the hand and she fought with him until he bent her fingers back and she had to let him wrench the ring away.

  Then he threw it at her and tried to push her out of the van. Arlette shrieked and ducked her head, shoved against him and braced her feet. “Willi, no! Please, you don’t understand. They may be waiting down the road to see what we do.”

  De Menten sucked in a breath and flicked a stinging blow at her cheek.

  She didn’t duck. “Do that again. Be just like them!”

  They were both crying. Fog misted the windows. Willi clenched the steering wheel and bowed his head. “I loved you. I really did! I thought we’d be happy. I was saving all my money. I had a good job. Arni was going to sell me a half interest in the garage. I …”

  Like a stone Arlette sat there. “If you love me, then help me. Those two are working for the Nazis. Richard Hagen is spying for the British, and I’ve been helping him.”

  “You’re crazy. Do you know that? Those guys’ll kill you.”

  “And you, Willi, if you ever say a thing about this. Believe me, I’m telling you for your own good as well as for myself and Richard. It would be best for us to remain engaged, but for now I must leave that decision to you.”

  The ring Lev had made for them lay between her shoes. The diamond was a soft rose color, and when she handed it to Willi, all he could say was “Why? Why did this have to happen to us?”

  “Why to anyone?”

  The Kentish wold lay in the grip of winter. Depressed by the news coming out of Europe, Churchill scowled at the land he loved.

  Down from him the road ran through scattered woodlands to rolling hills and valleys. From the nearest woods came the sound of dogs.

  “Richard, what is your considered estimate of the diamond stocks the Nazis now hold?”

  “Sufficient for a year and a half—more perhaps of the crushing boart and the lower grades of tool diamonds, less of the higher-quality stones.”

  “Is it so much?”

  Hagen said that it was. “Without the Antwerp stocks, should they have them?” demanded Churchill.

  “Without them, sir.”

  “Damn it! We could cripple their industry if we could stop the flow of diamonds. Why can’t you people stop selling to them?”

  “If it were left to me …”

  Churchill tossed an apologetic hand. “Of course you’d cut them off, but will the Belgians keep selling to them if there’s war over Poland? Britain will have to act then. She’ll not be able to back out of that.”

  In spite of the heightened international tensions, King Leopold and his government steadfastly adhered to their policy of neutrality, as did the Dutch. “Convince the British government to act now, Mr. Churchill. Let the traders bring their diamonds to London without Leopold’s sanction.”

  “And the skilled personnel the Nazis will need?”

  “Don’t let them be captured.”

  “Tell me about the Congo. If there’s war, will Ernest keep those mines running?”

  “It’s not his decision, Mr. Churchill. It’s La Forminière’s and the Belgian government’s.”
/>   “Yes … yes, but will the Congo mines remain open?”

  “With the rapidly expanding use of boart and tungsten carbide, definitely. The States will have to be supplied, so, too, Britain and France, and anyone else engaged in heavy industry.”

  “There’ll be a naval blockade, an embargo. We’ll not let them through to the Reich. We’ll throttle their industry! We’ll cut them off from the diamonds just as we did in the Great War.”

  Churchill’s anger obviously stemmed from being ineffectual at a time of continued crisis.

  “Richard, I greatly fear that in a few short months I shall be asked back into the cabinet as First Lord of the Admiralty. Should this be the case, I will personally see that the diamonds are escorted to safety.”

  “And the Congo, Mr. Churchill? The blockade?”

  Ruefully Churchill admitted they had a problem. “Blockades can never be what we want them to be. Pray tell me, will your friend not find a way around us?”

  “Dieter’s clever and determined. I think also he’s been told he must succeed.”

  Churchill fixed him with a piercing look. “And are there people at those mines who could arrange things, given the right incentives—assuming, of course, we have plucked the Antwerp stocks from the clutches of the Nazis?”

  Hagen knew he was referring to the corruptibility of certain Belgians, and to men like Damas.

  “Richard, we need to know. God willing we shall save the Antwerp diamond stocks, but if your friend should arrange alternate sources …”

  “Sir Ernest wouldn’t sanction such a thing any more than would the management of La Forminière. Besides, their security’s far too tight.”

  It had been spoken like a loyal company man, but had there been a touch of naiveté? “Then we shall hope that is the case. You’ve been a bloody fool. You know that, don’t you? Heydrich’s read your mind and character to a tee. Saving the Tannenbaums can only lead to trouble for us!”