Though he continued to stare at Conroy he spoke to Lise.
“What do you know about this gentleman, Lise?”
His voice betrayed his looks. It was soft, almost cultured in a curious old-world way. It was that soft courtesy in the voice which reinforced Serafini’s aura of power. Here was someone who did not have to raise his voice nor bully to be obeyed.
Lise looked nervous.
“Know about him?”
“That is what I asked.” Serafini’s voice was gentle, its cadences were like a priest whispering before the high altar. “When did you meet him? Who is he?”
“I am…” Conroy began.
“Shuddup!” snapped Soriano, standing at his side. “We ain’t asking you.”
Serafini’s face was anguished. He turned an apologetic glance on Conroy. It was a movement of the facial muscles only.
“You will forgive my associate, sir. He has a blunt way with language.” He turned back to Lise and nodded encouragement.
Lise hesitated, troubled.
“I met him on the beach, ’Fredo. On Montagu Beach.”
“And?”
She told him the truth. Because it was the truth it sounded sincere. Nothing more than a pick-up on the beach.
Serafini glanced towards Magda at the bar. Conroy saw their eyes meet in the mirror behind the bar and saw the Cuban nightclub singer incline her head. So that was why she had spoken to him. She had been asked to seek information on his relationship with the girl.
“What’s all this about, mister…?” protested Conroy, trying to act the outraged innocent.
Serafini simply stared back at him for a moment before his eyes flickered to Soriano.
“Do you think our boys are dumb, mister?” It was Soriano who asked the question.
Conroy shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Serafini reached forward and picked up a card from the table and held it out before Conroy’s eyes.
Conroy did not have to examine it too closely to know it was Mrs Kedgeworth’s invitation card.
Lise was frowning, still not realising what the fuss was about.
“What made you want to attend this soiree, Carson?” asked Serafini softly. “Want to attend it so badly that you felt that you had to forge an invitation? Don’t tell me that the Signora Kedgeworth did it, because my associates have talked with her. She swore that you had your own invitation.”
Luis Soriano grunted at his elbow.
“But I checked the invite list, mister. Ain’t no Carson on it. So how come?”
Conroy’s mind was working rapidly. He could think of no excuse. Events were moving too rapidly to think up something plausible.
“Now, you could be one of several things,” Serafini continued reflectively. “You could be a British policeman, a security man, looking after the interests of His Royal Highness. But you are not. My people are well informed about the security staff at Government House. You could, of course, be in the British secret service. Perhaps. That is a possibility. You could be an American policeman attempting to investigate my business interests. Again, perhaps. So what are you? Why did you gate-crash here, sir?”
Serafini’s voice was now very low, sibilant and threatening.
Conroy’s mind was a blank. He could think of no adequate response.
“He did it because of me.”
The statement was so unexpected that Conroy swung round, his jaw dropping, to stare at Lise Fennell.
Serafini was equally surprised. His eyes narrowed.
“What’s this, Lise?”
Lise was nodding emphatically.
“Sure, we met on the beach and again at the Yacht Club reception. It was clear that Mister Carson was attracted to me. He…he asked me at the Yacht Club reception to get him an invitation for tonight so that he could see me again. When I refused, he said he would come anyway.”
Serafini pursed his lips as if to whistle but no sound came.
“I see. So you are saying that he is merely some English businessman who picked you up on the beach. That he has been attempting to better his acquaintance, is that right?”
“Can I help it if he’s attracted to me? I’m sorry, ’Fredo.”
“And what do you have to say, signore!”
Conroy seized his cue, wondering why the girl had offered it. Perhaps she did believe it and perhaps there was some truth in it.
“The girl’s right. I am attracted to her. I…”
Serafini’s face had paled. He held up a hand.
“Spare me the hearts and flowers, signore.” Still Serafini’s voice was a soft monotone. He surveyed Conroy with eyes like gimlets. They reminded Conroy of the black, fathomless eyes of a snake. “But it is true, what she says, no?”
Conroy nodded slowly.
“There’s no harm in that…” he began.
“Shuddup,” hissed Soriano at his side.
Serafini turned to Lise. “I don’t like such things going on behind my back, Lise. You better understand this. Your behaviour is not respectful to me. I require respect. Understand?”
“But, ‘Fredo…”
He motioned her to silence.
“You take your friend here and just ensure he leaves quietly. And leaves now. He can do so agreeably or I can get a couple of my associates to go along and throw him off the pierhead. However, I’d rather avoid any trouble, especially with His Royal Highness here. I hope I make myself clear?”
“There’s no need to take that tone,” blustered Conroy, attempting to keep in character. “I didn’t know she was your property.”
Luis Soriano was looking doubtfully at his boss.
“You think he’s clean? He might be a Fed for all we know.”
“I do not believe that the Feds are using Britishers to pull their chestnuts for them, Luis. Now get him out of here. Oh, and Lise…make sure that he doesn’t come back.”
Soriano opened the door and jerked his head towards it. Lise hesitated and then moved rapidly out. Conroy followed.
Soriano did not say a word but escorted them silently to the head of the gangway of the yacht.
“You heard the boss, Lise,” he said roughly. “Get rid of him and for Chrissake remember who pays your dressmaker. The boss don’t like his women acting like cheap tramps, picking up bums from the beach. ‘Kay?”
Conroy saw the blood colour her cheeks. She bit down on her lip — hard, but said nothing. He turned towards the smirking Soriano but saw one of his sallow faced acolytes ease a hand towards his inside jacket pocket and let it rest there.
“No trouble, eh?” Soriano grinned wickedly.
Lise took his arm and pushed him quickly down the gangway to the quay and through those dancers who were still not weary of the raucous music of the band.
Once among the dancers, and out of earshot of Soriano and his men, Lise turned furiously on him. He saw her face was white and near hysterical with anxiety.
“Who the hell are you, Carson? And what are you playing at? I thought you were joking when you said you weren’t invited tonight.”
Her voice was tremulous. To his surprise he saw that she was actually shaking.
“Why did you lie for me?” he countered. “You could have disclaimed all knowledge of me.”
She bit her lip.
“Because I presumed your reason for coming here was to see me. And you don’t know what Serafini would do if he thought there was any other reason.” She paused and examined him closely. “There isn’t, is there? The reason why you gate crashed was simply…”
Conroy smiled reassurance.
“Yes. Of course I wanted to see you again. I didn’t realise that Serafini was your boyfriend. I would have come in an armoured car.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” the response came quickly, too quickly, and her face coloured hotly. She seemed more controlled now.
“But he pays your dressmaker?”
“A girl has to live,” she stuck out her chin pugnaciously. “I’m a si
nger and ’Fredo has promised to get me work in some night clubs which he owns here and in Florida.”
“What is he, then, Santa Claus?”
She had been propelling him across the dance floor and through the gate. Now she halted, staring angrily at him.
“You’d better go.” Her voice was tight.
“Serafini asked you to see me off the premises. The least you can do is walk me across the parking lot.”
She paused, cast a nervous glance back to the yacht and began to walk reluctantly with him into the parking lot.
“Well now,” Conroy prompted once they had passed beyond earshot of those at the gate, “what is Serafini to you?”
She did not reply for a moment or two. She seemed to consider whether she should respond. Then she relented, her voice too controlled to be telling the truth.
“He’s been very good to me. He’s promised to help me with my singing career. That’s all there is to it.”
Conroy raised an eyebrow.
“Like he helped Magda Montego?”
“You know her?”
“We met at the party.”
She raised a slender shoulder and let it fall.
“Yes, I suppose he will help me like he did Magda. He has helped her become a popular singer in Cuba and Florida.”
There seemed little conviction in her voice.
Conroy impulsively reached out to take hold of her forearms, facing her squarely.
“I think you are in trouble, Lise. And if you are not in trouble now then you soon will be, that is if you continue running around with someone with Serafini’s reputation. I’d advise you to go home. Marry the boy next door. Anything but get involved with a man like Serafini.”
The eyes that stared back were full of some curious mixture of emotions.
“What do you know of his reputation?” she asked quietly.
“It’s common talk in Nassau society.”
“Common talk is just gossip and it’s not necessarily true,” she replied defensively. But again he did not feel that she showed any conviction.
“How much trouble are you going to get into now?”
“‘Fredo can be very forgiving when he wants to.”
“Will he want to?”
“None of your damned business.” There was hostility in the voice again.
“Lise,” he kept his tone soft and serious, “I think you are playing with fire. You should get out of the Serafini set-up while you can.”
“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise some bad things could happen to you.”
“Are you appealing to my youthful innocence? I lost that years ago.”
The words sounded wrong in her mouth.
“Lise…”
“Look,” her voice became very angry. “Don’t do me any favours, Carson. I saved your hide in there because you might have wound up with Soriano letting his boys practice tap-dancing on you. I felt sorry for you. I thought you were just a little boy lost and out of his depth. I was flattered by your attentions. But leave it at that. You don’t have any right to start telling me how I should live my life.”
She made to turn but he caught her wrist.
“I still think we ought to talk. I’ll be at the Bar Montagu tomorrow morning.”
“Stay out of my life, Carson. I don’t need this,” she replied as she twisted away from his grip.
“If you change your mind, I’ll still be in the Bar Montagu tomorrow morning,” he shouted after her.
She did not reply.
He stood watching her as she made her way back to the lights of the party. Then he sighed, turned and was halted abruptly.
Two sour-faced men had emerged from the shadow of a parked car and stood in the semi-gloom within a few feet of him.
CHAPTER XVII
Sunday — Monday, August 25/26, 1940
Oberfuhrer Walter Schellenberg felt a curious sensation of disbelief as he turned his Mercedes by the entrance to the Berlin Zoo and accelerated along Budapesterstrasse towards the Landwehr Canal. His disbelief was shared by most of the citizens of Berlin that morning. The city had been bombed by the English! Bombed for the first time. It was an unpleasant shock. Especially as only a few days before Goring had been repeating on the radio his oft stated belief that the skies of Germany were so well defended that there was no way any foreign bombers could penetrate them. Berlin was entirely safe from enemy air attack.
Schellenberg smiled grimly as he recalled the words. Before midnight on Sunday, the sirens had started to wail across the city. The citizens were not concerned. It was true that in the early part of the war some RAF aircraft had appeared over the city and dropped leaflets. But Goring had assured everyone that the RAF was virtually destroyed and a few more days of concentrated attack by his Luftwaffe would see the English opening negotiations for peace. The sirens, and stabbing searchlights, were probably part of some exercise. Most citizens did not even bother to go to their shelters.
The roar of high explosives in the outer suburb of Spandau, and then in the districts of Reinickendorf and Pankow, to the north of the city, brought most Berliners into a shocked reality. Schellenberg had been awakened by the noise of the exploding bombs, no more than muffled roars in the distance, from where he was staying in the southern suburb Zehlendorf. But he had leapt from the bed of the young lady he was sharing it with to cross to the window and stare across the rooftops towards the distant leaping sheets of flames.
Now, as he turned through Potsdamer Platz and made his way towards Prinz Albrechtstrasse, he realised that a new turning point in the war had been reached. There had been several killed and injured during the attacks, according to the special edition of the Party newspaper Volkischer Beobachter. The attacks had apparently been aimed at residential areas of Berlin. Schellenberg knew, from his colleagues in Luftwaffe intelligence, that Hitler and Goring had actually forbidden any attacks on London for fear of retaliatory strikes against German cities. Now it seemed that the English were provoking the Luftwaffe. Peaceful settlement with England was surely out of the question after this.
As he made his way up the ornate marble staircase, with the high cathedral-like arches, to his office at No 8 Prinz Albrechtstrasse, headquarters of Department 4 of the RHSA, more popularly known as the Gestapo, he found that everyone was talking in shocked tones about the RAF raid on Berlin and its implications. His aide, an Untersturmfuhrer, greeted him at the door of his office with a request that he immediately attend on the Reichsminister for Foreign Affairs. Immediately!
Schellenberg glanced at his watch with a frown. Either the Reichsminister had risen very early that morning or he had not been to bed at all.
With a sigh, Schellenberg turned back down the stairway and decided to walk from his offices into the Wilhelmstrasse to the Foreign Ministry building. He needed the exercise as a means of relaxation before encountering Von Ribbentrop. He could see that there was already a marked degree of activity along the Wilhelmstrasse, especially at the entrance of the Air Ministry building to the north of Prinz Albrechtstrasse. And at Hohenzollern Palace, at 102 Wilhelmstrasse, which backed on to the Gestapo headquarters, he saw a green Mercedes convertible shriek to a halt and the tall figure of Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, the head of the RHSA, clambering out. Heydrich looked pale and grim.
Schellenberg compressed his lips in a grim smile. After last night, there would be a number of worried people in high places in the offices of the grey buildings of the Wilhelmstrasse.
The Reichsminister was not in the best of humours. He looked pale. There were dark shadows under his eyes. So he had been up all night, Schellenberg concluded as he stood at attention, waiting politely while the Reichsminister gathered his thoughts. The Fuhrer must have been giving everyone hell in the wake of the bombing. Schellenberg would not like to be Goring at this moment in time.
Von Ribbentrop was gazing through the windows of his office to where a pall of grey-black smoke was still rising against the northern sky. His mouth was s
et in a firm thin line.
“Unbelievable,” he murmured at last.
Schellenberg frowned. Had he been called simply to discuss the raid?
“It’s all a mistake,” Von Ribbentrop turned tired eyes to the intelligence officer. “The Luftwaffe had strict orders not to bomb London. On Saturday night a flight of Heinkel Ills lost their way to their targets…they were to bomb the oil refineries at Thames Haven and the aircraft factories at Rochester and Kingston. Instead, they dropped their bombs in London by mistake. Heads will roll among the staff of Luftflotte 2. Mark my words.
The Fuhrer has already sent for General Felmy to answer for the conduct of his pilots.”
Schellenberg knew that Felmy’s Luftflotte 2 were the spearhead of the Luftwaffe offensive on England. But the Reichsminister’s remarks caused him to raise his eyebrows in surprise.
“So last night was a retaliation raid by the English?” It made sense now. England was surely in no position to escalate the war.
Von Ribbentrop nodded grimly. “The Fuhrer is fuming. Goring had assured us such an attack was impossible. He even now claims that his air defences turned back half of the RAF force but, nevertheless, half of them penetrated to Berlin. Half of them! It is just unthinkable!”
Schellenberg smiled cynically.
“Wirfliegen gegen England…” he quoted softly from the popular Luftwaffe song.
“We fly against England, blow red the roses bloom.
We fly against England,
And with us flies doom!”
Von Ribbentrop scowled.
“I did not request your presence simply to criticise the Luftwaffe,” he grunted.
Schellenberg’s cynical smile was more marked.
“Why, then, Herr Reichsminister?”
Von Ribbentrop must have realised that he had been responsible for the rambling digression and drew himself up stiffly, coldly.
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