The Windsor Protocol

by Peter MacAlan

  Conroy could have burst out laughing at how easy it had been. Mrs Kedgeworth had not realised the side-play at all. He tried to repress his broad smile of triumph.

  “Oh,” Mrs Kedgeworth had been peering round, seeking her prey, “there is Colonel Erskine-Lindop, our Police Commissioner, you know. I really must have a word with him.”

  “Go ahead,” invited Conroy, glad of an excuse to be rid of her now that she had served his purpose.

  “I’ll catch you later,” she smiled as she ploughed her way through the crowds towards the uniformed official. Conroy smiled as he saw the Colonel spy the resolute Mrs Kedgeworth bearing down on him and felt that he could almost hear the policeman groan.

  Conroy turned through the whirl of dancing couples to ascend the gangplank to the Lupo di Mare. A bored looking uniformed crewman stood at the top of the gangway.

  “The bar is for’ard, sir. The buffet is being served at the stern of the ship,” he said in parrot fashion, betraying the fact that he had had to repeat the formula too many times.

  “Thanks,” Conroy returned and moved for’ard.

  He passed down the side of the ship to a big cabin at deck level which was apparently the bar.

  He was about to pass through the door when a dapper man in immaculate evening dress beat him to it. Conroy stepped back.

  Recognition came into his eyes as he faced the rugged features of the Duke of Windsor.

  The Duke hesitated. Behind him came the Duchess and over her shoulder he saw the curious swarthy features of Alfredo Serafini. He gazed at Conroy with dark, unblinking eyes. Conroy found himself having difficulty in drawing his gaze back to the Duke who was smiling thoughtfully.

  “I never forget a face. We have been introduced, have we not?”

  Conroy bowed stiffly.

  “Yes sir. On Friday. My name is Oscar Carson.”

  “And you’ve just arrived in the Bahamas like my wife and I?” the Duke supplied. Conroy was astonished at the man’s memory for he must have been introduced to hundreds of people.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “I trust that you’re having a good time.” It was a comment not a question and he passed by with the Duchess. Serafini, expressionless, followed slightly behind them. Behind him came a tall athletic-looking man in his mid-fifties clad in the dress uniform of the Black Watch. Conroy recognised the distinctive regimental badges. The officer cast a searching glance at Conroy as he passed. Next to him was a well dressed man with short blond hair and a face that spoke of the outdoors. Conroy presumed him to be either the Duke’s private policeman or his Canadian bodyguard.

  After they had passed on, Conroy pushed into the crowded saloon and slid between the people clad in a myriad of dresses and uniforms. Finally he managed to reach the bar.

  As he pressed forward, a woman at the bar turned to make room for him. Then she stared with wide grey-green eyes.

  “I didn’t know you were invited,” Lise Fennell greeted him.

  Conroy grinned impishly.

  “I wasn’t,” he returned. He didn’t know why he said it, except that he felt an overpowering sense of mischief.

  “What?” She looked startled.

  “Doesn’t matter. How are you?”

  She shrugged expressively without replying.

  “I thought we might have been able to finish the dance that your friend, what’s his name — Roger? — interrupted the other night.”

  “I thought you left the dance early,” she said, ignoring his offer.

  “Well, I hadn’t realised that you were in such notable company.”

  “Company?”

  “I didn’t know you were a close friend of Mister Serafini.”

  “Oh.” The voice had a studied non-committal tone.

  “Has he introduced you to the Duke and Duchess?”

  “‘Fredo doesn’t…” she began and then broke off, biting her lip.

  “Mix business with pleasure?” supplied Conroy with a bland expression.

  “Damn you!” It was an unexpected venomous hiss.

  The girl had coloured, turned and swung quickly away through the crowds.

  Conroy hadn’t been prepared for such an angry reaction and stood staring after her for a moment, feeling a little foolish. Then he turned back, with resignation, to the bar and suddenly found someone examining him in amusement.

  He was face to face with the dark-haired woman who had been identified by Mrs Kedgeworth, on Friday evening, as the Cuban nightclub singer, Magda Montego. Her posture was languid but her eyes were sharp and quizzical as she examined him.

  Close to, though still attractive, her looks were rather gross. Her figure was inclined to heaviness, her face was coarse and the lips were full. She carried herself with a self-assurance, a voluptuous poise that was outwardly almost seductive. He was not attracted to her particular aura of lasciviousness but he could understand how many men would be desirous of her flaunted femininity.

  Her heavy lids drew down over her eyes so that she gazed at him from under the hooded lids.

  “You seem to have quarrelled with your friend, no?”

  Her voice was a rich, velvety drawl, edged with a heavy Spanish accent.

  “So it seems,” he shrugged noncommittally.

  She reached forward and laid a hand on his arm.

  “Dispenseme. I am Magda Montego. Buy me a drink and tell me about it.”

  He hesitated and then wondered whether he could trawl any further knowledge about Serafini from the woman.

  “I am Oscar Carson.” He had a suspicion that she knew the name he was giving was a false one. “What would you like?”

  “Champagne, please.”

  He caught the barman’s attention and ordered two glasses of champagne. When he turned from the bar Magda Montego was already leading the way through the crowds to the deck outside.

  “Venga conmigo, por favor,” she smiled over her shoulder. “We go away from the boring crowds, no?”

  She led the way to the upper deck and found two deck seats near the stern of the vessel and seemed to drape herself on one, patting the seat at her side for him to sit by her. He did so and handed her one of the glasses of champagne.

  She raised it in silent salute before sipping at the edge of the glass.

  “Habla usted espanol?” she asked.

  He shook his head. Better to pretend that he had no understanding of Spanish, although he had a passable knowledge.

  “Ah well. It is not important. But you have heard of Magda Montego? You have heard of me, no?”

  He restrained a smile and shook his head again. “I am a newcomer to this part of the world.”

  A furrow of annoyance creased her brow.

  “I am from La Habana. Everybody knows Magda Montego. I sing in all the best clubs in Cuba.”

  “I’ve never been to Cuba.”

  “I also sing in Miami.”

  “I’ve missed something then,” he said to mollify her injured ego. “I’m from England. I’m only here on a vacation.”

  “Ah?” It was a long, sighing sound. “You are Ingles’? You are long in Nassau, no?”

  “No. I am just here a few days.”

  “And what is it you do?”

  “I am in business. Import and export.”

  “That is exciting, no?”

  “Rather boring, actually. I am in farming machinery.”

  “You make much money, no?”

  “I make some money, yes,” he agreed.

  Her eyes were hooded again.

  “You mock my English, no.”

  He shook his head, smiling.

  “Not at all,” he said gravely.

  “You know Lise for long, no?”

  The abruptness of the question caused him to hesitate. It was asked with studied casualness.

  “Not long. I met her on the beach the other day.”

  “So? They say only old friends and lovers quarrel so…como esto se dice en ingles…ah, quarrel so intensely.” She
leant forward and tapped his arm as if in reproval. “You argue intensely with Lise just now.”

  He shrugged.

  “I hadn’t realised that she had another boyfriend. That’s all.”

  “Ah, she rejects your advance? You are attracted to Lise, no?”

  He smiled and grimaced as if embarrassed.

  She pouted in mock annoyance.

  “Ese no se hace,” she rebuked. “So, you don’t like Magda? But you like Lise, no?

  He shook his head as if chagrined by his apparent discourtesy.

  “On the contrary,” he averred.

  “Flatterer,” she rejoined but was clearly pleased at the answer. “But who is this boyfriend of which you speak? The one Lise rejects you for?”

  “No idea.”

  “Magda!” They both turned their heads at the sound of the voice. It was the short, fleshy-faced man who had been identified as Luis Soriano by Mrs Kedgeworth. He had emerged from the rear cabin door. “‘Fredo wants you, subito.”

  Magda rose, stretching herself languorously. She reminded Conroy of a panther awakening from a sleep.

  “We have had a good talk, no?” she smiled at Conroy. “Never mind about Lise. In Cuba we have a saying. For a handsome man there is…” she screwed up her face in an effort to translate but when the English would not come readily she went on “Mira, en Vuelta Abajo hay muchas hojas de tabaco…Como este se dice en Ingles…? Ah, I have it, there are many more tobacco plants in Vuelta Abajo. It makes sense, no?”

  “It sounds about right,” replied Conroy. “But we would say, in English, there are plenty more fish in the sea.”

  “Tenga cuidado,” she smiled and, with a wave of her hand, she turned and left. Luis Soriano hesitated a moment, examining Conroy, as if making up his mind whether to say something. Then he turned to follow her.

  Conroy sat, wondering what Magda Moreno was up to. It was clear that the woman had been pumping him for information, perhaps to see who he was, perhaps to discover what his relationship was with Lise Fennell. Whether from her personal curiosity or for some other reason, he was not sure.

  He finished his champagne and looked around. The band was playing ragtime and a few couples, more adventurous than the rest, were jiving on the quayside in the new American dance craze fashion.

  Conroy rose and looked round. He was alone. It was the ideal opportunity to make an investigation of the Lupo di Mare below decks. The first thing he wanted to check out was the radio room. He glanced up at the tall mast with its powerful aerial complex. Serafini had a pretty wide range of communication with that. If he were behind an operation to get the Duke and Duchess out of the Bahamas he could be in easy contact with a wide range of neutral and enemy territories.

  Conroy glanced about him and, ensuring he was unobserved, opened a door marked “crew only”. He moved down an iron-runged ladder towards the lower decks. It did not take him long to reach the location of the radio room. It was situated in the crew’s quarters on the lower deck.

  Conroy moved quietly along the darkened corridor. It seemed that most of Serafini’s crew were on duty that evening at the party as security guards.

  At the far end of the passage a door stood slightly ajar, causing a beam of light to fall across the passageway. Back to the wall, he pressed silently along until he could peer through the crack.

  It was the ship’s radio room. It looked empty. From the little which he could see, he realised that he was right about the radio. Serafini’s yacht was fitted with a very powerful radio transmitter. He was about to ease open the door when a puff of smoke filtered into his vision. He froze, hand outstretched.

  Someone was sitting behind the door, smoking.

  The radio began to issue a loud static at that moment and the radio operator, a burly man, his tanned muscles sweating even in the white singlet that he was wearing, moved forward, laying down a cheap paperback which he had been reading, and flicking a switch.

  Conroy felt cold perspiration on his forehead.

  He was slipping. He should have known from the angle of the door that there could have been a man seated behind it.

  He was turning back when another sound came to his ears, above the gentle whine which was now being emitted from the radio.

  Someone was coming down the companion-way.

  He looked round desperately for cover and chose the first cabin door that he could reach.

  It was not locked. To his relief, the cabin was in darkness. He slipped in and closed the door, standing behind it and listening intently.

  “Hey, Giorgio!” cried a loud Italian voice from beyond. “Che ore sono!”‘

  A muffled voice replied.

  There was a soft thump against the cabin door as the first speaker appeared to brush against it.

  “Ho perduto il mio orologio…” the first voice began again, “I’ha veduto Lei!”

  Conroy felt the cabin door tremble as the man leant against it. It seemed as if the speaker was about to enter. He pressed back behind the door, there was nowhere else to hide.

  Then the voice, still speaking, moved on into the radio cabin.

  Conroy heaved a sigh of relief.

  He turned and glanced round. Though a small curtain was drawn across the porthole, there was a faint light emanating from the outside to give the softest of illuminations; enough for him to see that he was in a small cabin for the crewmen with a couple of bunks to one side.

  For the second time in the last ten minutes Conroy found his body growing suddenly cold.

  Someone was stretched out on the bottom bunk.

  He listened but could not detect any sound of the regular rise and fall of the breath of a sleeping person. He stood frowning, head to one side.

  The figure lay still. Too still.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Sunday, August 25, 1940

  Conroy moved forward to the side of the bunk and peered at the shadowy figure. It was obviously a man by the outline of the features and Conroy could see that the man was dead, even before he reached out and felt the flaccid cold flesh of the man’s neck, searching with his fingertips for a pulse.

  He felt in his pocket and took out a box of matches, striking one and shading it in his cupped hands.

  He swallowed hard as the flickering light played over the pale dead face.

  The waxy pallid features of Roger Albright were recognisable in the strange repose of death.

  They were discernible in spite of the dark mess that had once been his left eye, now pulped and just an unclean offensiveness of coagulating blood.

  Conroy was no medical man but he had seen enough violent deaths to understand that Albright had been shot at close range through the left eye. Death would have been instantaneous.

  He forced himself to feel, with one hand, through the pockets of the dead man. The match extinguished itself before he could finish, scorching his finger tips. Conroy dropped it, emitting a sharp intake of breath. He continued his search in the darkness. But someone had searched the man before him for there was nothing left in any of the pockets.

  Conroy stood up with a feeling of bafflement.

  If his deduction that Roger Albright was Rudi Olbricht was right then who had killed him? Certainly not his own side. So who else was in the game?

  He moved slowly back to the cabin door, his mind working rapidly as he strove to put order to the chaos of his thoughts.

  Opening it slightly, he could hear an animated conversation in Italian coming from the radio room.

  He slipped out into the corridor and moved quietly back to the companion-way, reaching the upper deck with his heart beating fast.

  “What were you doing down there? That’s for the crew only.”

  The querulous feminine voice brought him to a startled halt.

  He turned slowly to meet his questioner, having already recognised the voice.

  Lise Fennell was regarding him with some suspicion.

  Conroy forced a smile.

  “I was looking for t
he little boy’s room, if you must know,” he lied.

  “Come off it…” she began.

  A hollow cough interrupted her.

  Luis Soriano was standing in the shadows by the rail.

  “Ah, Lise and Mister Carson…it is Mister Carson, isn’t it?”

  Conroy nodded curtly, wondering at the sneering emphasis in his voice.

  “The boss wants to see you.”

  “‘Fredo wants to see me?” queried Lise.

  “Both of you. Mister Carson as well,” Soriano replied. “And right away. He’s in the private saloon.”

  Conroy frowned slightly and opened his mouth to question Soriano. But the stocky Italian-American patted his pocket with significance and his lips thinned.

  “I mean now, Mister Carson.”

  Conroy saw that Lise’s features had paled. She threw back her head, lips compressed, and led the way for’ard to a cabin door on the top deck, just below what was evidently the bridge. Outside the door, acting as a guard, stood the tall, muscular black in the Hawaiian shirt and white trousers. His face was impassive as he opened the door and jerked his head to indicate that they should enter.

  Lise went in first, Soriano followed Conroy and closed the door behind him.

  In the spacious and luxuriously furnished saloon, Serafini was sitting in an arm chair by the windows which gave him a wide view over the quayside. He was sipping from a small espresso coffee cup which he now placed with deliberate carefulness in front of him on a low table. His dark eyes gazed through the windows at the party taking place below on the quay. He did not turn his head as they entered.

  Conroy noticed that Magda Montego was lounging on a stool at a bar which ran the breadth of the back of the saloon. She did not look at them as they entered but sat concentrating on twirling an olive stick in her longstemmed glass.

  Though Serafini must have heard them come in, he continued to sit staring out of the windows. For several moments, nothing was said.

  It was Soriano who broke the silence, coughing nervously.

  “Here they are, boss.”

  Serafini gave a long sigh and turned.

  His dark eyes, which seemed without pupils, stared at Conroy for a long time. His face was swarthy and pock-marked. He had a faint white line across the left eye which was the trace of a scar from a healed wound of some sort. His lips were thin, cruel and without humour. His dark hair was sleeked back with oil. Conroy felt an immediate revulsion. It was the dark, emotionless eyes which caused his repugnance. The eyes were unblinking, basilisk-like, as if their very glance could deal out death to those they looked on with disfavour.