“Can I have another Scotch?”
Greg signaled to the barman.
“Go on.”
“We had three visits from room service during the day. Besides the maid who came to make up the room, and whom he sent away. Room service came twice, for breakfast and lunch, but only after Romford had pressed the button by the bed. They came to the door, knocked, came in, took our order, went away, and came back with the food.”
“Nothing unusual there.”
“No, but the other time there was just a knock on the door. Romford went to answer it. He hadn’t summoned room service this time— I’m certain of it. He hadn’t pushed the button—because I was with him, in bed all the time. The man just arrived. I could see the trolley being pushed into the hall by a small, bald man with rimless spectacles; then Romford closed the door between the bedroom and the rest of the suite. The door remained closed for about—oh, fifteen minutes and I heard the two men talking, though I couldn’t make out what was being said. Then I heard the trolley leave—it rattled slightly. Romford came back into the bedroom and had with him a bottle of wine, which he said room service had brought, courtesy of the hotel management. Why would they need a trolley to bring a bottle of wine?”
“What time would this be?”
“Half past two.”
Greg looked at me. “They bring the money in a tureen, Romford counts it, then off it goes to the bank.”
“Maybe,” I said. “That means at least one other person is involved. Where are the kitchens in the Bar au Lac?”
“In the basement, I expect,” said Greg. “But I’ll have it checked.”
I put my hand on Rebecca’s. “You did well, but it’s over now.”
“No, it’s not,” growled Greg.
Rebecca and I looked at him. “If you stop now he might suspect something. One more time, I’m afraid.”
Rebecca looked shattered and turned to me.
“Don’t worry,” I said, smiling in what I hoped was a comforting way. “Just have dinner. Over the cheese contrive to take offense, have a fight—and walk out. Easy.”
Rebecca brightened. “You bet!”
Because it was next to impossible to follow the people from room service every time they left the kitchen and went up to the rooms, and do it without being noticed, we stationed a man outside the kitchens, which was easy enough to do because there were a lot of people milling around there, visiting storerooms, the barbershop, the lavatories, or the boiler room, and we put someone else on Romford’s floor. At first this proved puzzling because, when we checked the times later, we found that the arrival of room service at Romford’s suite did not always coincide with the times that the trolleys had left the kitchen.
It took two days for the penny to drop.
Every so often, a “room service” trolley arrived at Romford’s room that did not come from the kitchen.
The following day, therefore, we had a man on every floor. This too was easier than it sounds because they were dressed as hotel staff—carrying towels, fresh sheets, flowers, that sort of thing—and because the Bar au Lac is huge: its corridors extend for hundreds of yards, the staff almost as numerous, and as anonymous, as the guests.
What our systematic surveillance eventually showed was that, once or twice a day, “room service,” always appearing from room 306, on the third floor, transferred first to another room—a different one each day and on different floors—and then made a second journey, always to room 411, Romford’s suite. The trolley remained in 411 for about fifteen minutes (our observations agreed on this point with Rebecca’s) and then always returned to room 306. This trolley was never taken anywhere near the kitchens. Sometime later, the occupant of room 306 reappeared, now dressed in a sober suit and carrying an attaché case. He was followed and invariably went to the Haller & Kuhn Bank on Westheimstrasse.
It didn’t take Greg long to establish that the occupant of room 306 was a certain Rolf von Maltzen, that he was Swiss-German, and that he was a representative for Scholz-King, an Anglo-Swiss steel company.
The system revealed itself. After the inital meeting with Romford, in the Café Odeon, his contacts moved into the Bar au Lac, for one night only. They never met Romford again. The cash was collected from them, in their room at the Bar au Lac, by von Maltzen. He took it to Romford, to be verified and counted, and then trolleyed it back, hidden in the great silver tureen, to his room. There he changed into his banker’s outfit and carried the money to Haller & Kuhn.
“Why,” said Rebecca at one point, “does Romford need von Maltzen?”
“Because no money is actually leaving the country,” I replied. “That would attract attention and create a paper trail. Smuggling so much cash regularly across borders, in wartime, is much too risky. Scholz-King is a big, multinational company. They receive payment here in Zurich. Romford confirms to the U.K. that the money has been paid, and von Maltzen confirms to his bosses. Then the Swiss in London pay Hood and others like them. There’ll be a paper invoice created, for transporting their steel, and so on. A hollow transaction.”
“How do you know all this?” said Rebecca.
“I don’t. I’m working it out as I go along.” I turned to Greg. “What do you think?”
“As you do. It must operate something like that. And I’m now going to wire the brigadier. You and I need to work out exactly how we get a look at the money—to be doubly, triply certain we have our man. But, once we do, I want his authorization to act immediately.”
“Are you really going to have to kill him?” I asked.
“Hal! Think what he’s doing! He’s helping fund the German war effort. Not indirectly, but very, very directly. He deserves to die.”
I looked at Rebecca.
She took a deep breath. “Can’t come soon enough for me.”
That evening I had promised myself I would write to Sam one more time but, with the denouement of our plan so close and its resolution so … so terrible, I was on edge and unable to concentrate. Greg had gone off to draft and encode his wire for the brigadier, so I asked Rebecca out for dinner.
She shook her head. “I’m having supper with Liesl.” But then, seeing how cast down I was, she said, “Why don’t you come too? Though I warn you: it’s a Dada club and quite shocking. Be prepared to be shocked.” She added with a smile, “I’m smiling but I’m not joking.”
I told her about my prewar days in Munich.
“Not bad as a warm-up sort of place, Munich. But this is the real thing. Dress casually—corduroys if you have them, no tie, be ready for a late night. We’ll meet in the Venner at nine. Bring money.”
I did as I was told. I had one pair of corduroy trousers with me, as it happened, but that was as bohemian as I got. For the rest, my ensemble was a blue shirt and a blazer.
Rebecca and Liesl were already at the bar when I arrived. They were both wearing trousers, both smoking, and both had on lots of makeup. I didn’t know Liesl but these were all innovations so far as Rebecca was concerned.
We had two drinks at the Venner, then caught a taxi to the club. It was in the Zäune part of town and called the Club Pantagruel. Inside, it was crowded, the air thick with the reek of tobacco, and a saxophone was playing slow, sad, reedy music. Despite the crowd, Rebecca and Liesl seemed to be known to the management, and a table was found. It was very dark but as my eyes became adjusted to the gloom I began to make out some very unusual ways of dressing.
The next thing I noticed, after registering that the quality of musicianship in the band was extremely high (a virtuoso pianist was now ripping through a much faster tune), were the pictures on the walls. They were very modern—collages of sorts—and appeared to be made of wood and paper. They were very assured and I immediately liked them.
“They’re by a painter called Kurt Schwitters,” murmured Rebecca. “He’s a friend of Liesl’s.”
A waitress appeared. Or was it a waiter? He/she was very slim, very good-looking, wore lots of makeup, and spoke German
with what I could swear was a Munich accent.
“Red or white, whisky or gin?”
“Champagne—and a bottle of Scotch,” replied Rebecca with a laugh. “We are going to get very steamed.”
He/she disappeared.
I looked around again. This was definitely what you would call a bohemian club. There were some very beautiful women and some very beautiful men. Almost all were dressed casually, exotically even— low-cut dresses, high-cut skirts, very high-heeled shoes, long cigarette holders, feather boas, makeup by the mile. Dark glasses. Military jackets together with tight leggings. They were arguing, canoodling, kissing, dancing, stroking. One or two, I saw, were sprinkling powder on the backs of their hands and sniffing it.
I have to say I was glad I had come. I wasn’t part of this scene— no way, not yet, and probably never would be—but at least it was alive. After all I had been through, in here the war seemed a long way away.
What would Sam make of all this, I wondered. There had been no nightclubs in Middle Hill or Stratford, and in London, mainly because of Will, I suppose, we had hardly sampled the clubs the capital had to offer.
I’m sure my sister would have loved this club, I told myself. She and her flatmates would be right at home here—how did she put it?—dancing, flirting, drinking, and even, as she had said, trying drugs.
I turned back to Liesl and Rebecca. Under the table, Liesl had her hand on Rebecca’s leg, stroking the inside of her thigh. They were kissing ferociously.
They sensed me watching and broke apart. Rebecca laid her head on Liesl’s breast. “Now do you see why what I did for you was so hard?”
We stayed until after three. The champagne went quickly but the whisky lasted longer and our supper (truite au bleu with frites) was wonderful. We got gloriously drunk, all danced with each other, and all danced together. I got to know Liesl, who was Rebecca’s flatmate (of course) and, I discovered, a painter of no small repute herself. One of her collages was on the walls of the club.
Rebecca and Liesl made me think of Sam and our living arrangements. Back home, people—those like my father who knew the truth, that Sam and I weren’t married—disapproved of how we were living. Had more people known, they would certainly have told us we were “living in sin”—that was the phrase used so often, and still is. What, then, would they have thought of Rebecca and Liesl? Yet here in Zurich, in the Club Pantagruel, a safe, nonjudgmental habitat, they were happy, content, free. What could be wrong with that? Who made these rules, anyway? I thought of my mother. If she thought I was happy with Sam, she wouldn’t object. It really was time I took Sam home.
The only shadow on our horizon—for me, at any rate—was Wilhelm. Was he still alive?
Later in the evening, by which time we were all very affectionate with one another, leaning on each other, kissing each other, and breathing alcoholic fumes over each other, when I was enjoying the smell of Rebecca and Liesl, and when our speech was just beginning to be a little less clear than it had been, Rebecca said, “We should go shoon. I need Hal to be sober tomorrow. He’sh going to kill Romford.” She gave me a big wet kiss on the ear. “Don’t let me down, Hal. Romford hash to die.” She made a pistol shape out of her fingers.
“Boom! Boom!”
“Not here, Rebecca, please.”
She placed a finger on my chest. “You’d be easier to fuck than George Romford, Hal. Why wasn’t it you? Why do I prefer women, anyway? Liesl, take me home.”
Then she threw up in my lap.
The next day I could have felt better. My headache had my full attention for most of the morning.
Greg looked at me with sympathy. “I deliberately didn’t tell you about the Pantagruel because I know the damage it can do. Did Rebecca take you?”
I nodded.
“And?”
“And what?” What did he know?
“Did you get lucky?”
He didn’t know “I can’t remember the last time I had any luck. Unless you count the time that I was shot and not killed.” I changed the subject. “Have you heard from the brigadier?”
“I have.”
“The verdict?”
He pushed a telegram across the desk.
I looked, down. It said: +VPMGOTQSMFYRTOMSYR • OPMSI 173+
“Meaning?”
“Confirm and terminate.”
“And the rest—the digits?”
“Office of the Prime Minister, Secret Instruction Number 173. That will protect us after the war.”
I said nothing.
“Are you sure you are up for this?” Greg murmured.
I took a deep breath. “Oh yes. I don’t like it, I feel ill just thinking about it—but, yes, I won’t let you down. I’ve come this far; I’ll see it through.”
“Good man. Well, the plan is simple. You and I spend the next however many days it takes on the fourth floor of the Bar au Lac, posing as staff members, carrying towels, sheets, and so forth. Whatever it takes until we see von Maltzen arriving at room 411. Then, when he leaves, we intercept him. The minute we clap eyes on the money, the cash, we overpower him. We can’t shoot von Maltzen first—that risks alerting Romford and he might escape. Holding von Maltzen is the tricky bit, but we’ve got to make it work. Just think of the damage they’re doing.” He looked at me from head to toe. “Now, I’m fitter and stronger than you—yes?”
“Ye-e-e-s, I suppose so.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a yes or a maybe.”
“Not good enough. Yes or no?”
“Very well. Yes.”
“Right. That’s settled. And it means that the logic of the situation dictates that I take on von Maltzen. You knock on the door to 411 and when Romford appears, you shoot him.”
I said nothing.
“I repeat: Think you can do it?”
“Yes.”
“Sure? You’re not too familiar with him?”
That might once have been true. But not since last night. Not since I had discovered quite what a sacrifice Rebecca had made.
“I’m sure.”
Dear Hal,
I don’t know if you’ll get this, or if you are on your way home already. So I’ll keep it short. Will, poor thing, has mumps. The doctor has been and confirmed the diagnosis. He was miserable anyway, with you being gone, and now he’s even more out of sorts. He won’t sit still to be read to, he torments Whisky, and, in short, life in the flat isn’t what it was before you left for
I’ve started sleeping on your side of the bed— it makes me feel closer to you and sometimes, just sometimes, I talk to you as though you are still here. Is that an odd thing to do, do you think? Am I going a little bit mad? I don’t feel as if I’m mad; in fact, it feels natural.
When am I going to meet your parents, Hal? You don’t know how lucky you are, to have both your parents still alive. I know that my own mother, if she were still here, wouldn’t speak to me, because of Will. Even so, I miss her, more so with you being away.
Oh, for proper letters, proper conversation, not these emaciated exchanges we are being forced into. I want some real contact, like our last night together.
Come home soon.
Xx
S
A hotel the size of the Bar au Lac must have hundreds of people on staff This can be the only explanation for the fact that, the next day, Greg and I prowled the fourth floor of the hotel, dressed in short white coats and black bow ties and carrying towels or sheets or bottles of disinfectant, for hours on end without anyone questioning who we were. Between the two of us, we managed to keep the door to room 411 under surveillance at all times. I maintained a good distance, how ever, in case Romford himself appeared.
Nothing happened that first day, or the next.
At about eleven on the following morning a man pushed a trolley out of the lift and turned toward room 411. He was wearing a white coat like we were, but there could be no doubt: he was bald, small, bespectacled. That fitted Rebecca’s description
of von Maltzen.
He knocked on the door and was admitted.
Greg and I, suddenly on edge, stood near the lifts. Greg leaned against the wall, chatting easily to me, giving the appearance of a gossip, while I made a show of folding the towels I had been holding. Standing helped Greg’s back. We conversed in German. It seemed to work; a couple of guests passed by without giving us a second look. A maid—genuine, I supposed—also went by. She did give us a doubtful look but still went about her business.
Ten minutes passed, twelve, fifteen. Von Maltzen was still in there. Seventeen minutes.
“Must be a big stash of money,” Greg whispered with a grim smile.
I was halfway through smiling back when I heard the door to 411 open.
The trolley appeared, then von Maltzen.
Then Romford!
They were talking, obviously feeling secure.
When they saw us, they stopped. Romford stared at me. Then, without a word, he turned and bolted down the corridor.
This wasn’t in the script. I dropped the towels—in fact, I threw them at von Maltzen to stop him from reaching for his gun, assuming he had one.
I edged around the trolley and ran after Romford. Not easy: my leg still ached from time to time. At the end of the long corridor he turned left into a smaller one. I knew, from my previous reconnaissance, pretending to be part of the staff, that the emergency exit lay that way.
I reached the turn and peered round the corner. Romford was just disappearing down the back stairs, shiny stone steps that led to the emergency exit.
I followed.
As I reached the back staircase I could hear his footsteps below me. I went after him. I couldn’t see him but I could hear him and I assumed he could hear me. We descended one flight, two flights; he would soon be on the ground floor. Was I gaining on him or losing him?
Suddenly I heard him gasp, then a rattling/clattering noise, followed by a groan. I slowed and looked down, over the stair railing. He had fallen. His body was in a heap two landings below.
As quickly as I could, I skipped down the rest of the way. As I passed the intervening landing I again peered over the railing. Romford was bent in two, clutching his ankle. He must have broken it; he was clearly in a lot of pain.
Gifts of War Page 30