The Nazi Spy

by Alan Hardy

  It didn’t matter. Fiona just had to make sure she was on the winning side. And that Matthew knew his place. Which was by her side.

  Her heart jumped as a figure emerged from the house.

  She made a girlish hop and skip as she prepared to run forward to fling her arms around Matthew, and cover his face with kisses.

  But she hesitated, causing herself to shuffle unsteadily on the gravel, like a motor-car slamming on the brakes.

  It wasn’t Matthew.

  She strained to focus on the shape moving in her direction.

  It was Group Captain Jenkins.

  What on earth did he want?

  “Mrs MacIntosh,” he called out as he approached, “I do apologize calling round unannounced…”

  “How can I help you, Group Captain?”

  “My dear lady,” he said, putting on a concerned tone and expression, “I have bad news for you.”

  Her world imploded. She nearly collapsed. A knife had been thrust into her heart. Everything in her field of vision was tilted and blurred. She couldn’t focus.

  “Matthew…” she mumbled, the pain in her chest stifling her voice. “It’s Matthew? What…”

  “Matthew?” echoed the Group Captain, looking puzzled. “No, nothing to do with Flight Lieutenant Manfred. It’s your husband.”

  “Freddie?”

  She felt like screaming out with joy. With relief. She gasped. She sucked in air. She stared at the Group Captain. You stupid man, she thought. You thoughtless lump of asinine cruelty.

  “Yes. Your husband.”

  “Well?”

  “I’m afraid he’s gone missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Yes,” answered a baffled Group Captain Jenkins, quite aware that Fiona was finding it difficult to feign much interest in his words. “He absconded from his safe house yesterday evening, and hasn’t returned since. There has been no news from him. No contact at all.”

  “I see.”

  “I… I just thought you…you would like to hear… Well, I…”

  “Yes, of course, Group Captain. Most appreciated.”

  “Y’know, Mrs MacIntosh… Freddie, well, he should know better,” mumbled the Group Captain. “A chap can’t go AWOL like that, y’know, especially while still being debriefed… If you do hear anything, contact me any time.”

  “You think he might be heading here?” asked Fiona, a rush of unwelcome adrenaline perking up her interest in the conversation.

  “One doesn’t know,” he replied. “But… Any time of the day or night… Don’t hesitate to inform me.”

  What in God’s name did that mean, pondered Fiona, as she watched Group Captain Jenkins’s dwindling figure disappear into the house, hopefully to be vomited out the other side.

  She shifted the handbag-strap on her left arm further back to allow her to check her watch.

  Where was Matthew?

  Had Freddie been enticed out of the safe house by George Turnbill? And then dispatched to the flames of Hell, as Matthew had wanted to test? Or was Freddie on his way here? It didn’t bear thinking about. But why would he do a runner? Surely he wouldn’t come here? How would that affect her and Matthew?

  If Freddie did show up, she’d turn him in straight away.

  Complication after complication.

  The medical results had come in. Her pregnancy had been confirmed. She hadn’t said a word yet to Matthew.

  Her future was with Matthew, and their child. That was cast in stone. And common decency required them to be married.

  Then, first of all, Freddie comes back from the dead. That had been inconsiderate enough, and now here he was potentially on his way back to The Mansion to put a second cat amongst the pigeons.

  Hopefully, Matthew’s stratagem to give George Turnbill the chance to do away with Freddie if he so desired—although she couldn’t quite work out either Matthew’s or George’s motives—would be fulfilled. Maybe Freddie was already dead. Failing that, a quick divorce was required. In that scenario, she hoped Freddie would do the decent thing, and facilitate the whole business. If not, the only other alternative was for Freddie, once and for all, to bring up the daisies, without any chance of being replanted elsewhere. And if neither the Germans nor George Turnbill were up to doing the dirty deed, then somebody else would have to be found. She gave a nasty pat on her handbag.

  Mind you, George Turnbill had always seemed under Matthew’s thumb. Even scared of him. He’d actually warned Fiona about him, and said that he, Matthew, was probably out to do her harm. Turnbill must have been aware of what happened to Wentworth, and maybe was even part of the operation, if only as another plane in the sky to keep a watch on things. He was certainly hands in glove with Paula, and Paula had conspired with Matthew to do away with Wentworth.

  So, when Matthew had made it sound as if he were testing out the possibility of Turnbill killing Freddie, what he really meant, perhaps, was that he, Matthew, had ordered Turnbill to murder him.

  And the reason? Well, one reason would be that it would open up a clear path for her and Matthew, which would, eventually, lead to the sound of wedding-bells and confetti being thrown over the rapturous couple.

  Maybe Matthew already had everything well in hand.

  She looked up at the sound of the side-entrance door being opened, and then pushed shut.

  Another figure had emerged into the steadily strengthening rays of the late-morning sun.

  She sighed. It wasn’t Matthew.

  But what on earth was that one doing here? What did she want?

  Fiona put on a forced smile to greet her.

  “Hello, Mrs Wentworth,” said Fiona. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Paula flashed her a cheeky, earthy smile. Even dressed in her WAAF uniform, which was in a slightly worn state, she exuded an itchy sexuality, which Fiona found distasteful. Put her in sackcloth and ashes, and her body, from its sinewy twists and turns, and smelly heat, would still hint of other things.

  “What a beautiful house you have, Mrs MacIntosh,” said Paula, with an irritating glimmer in her eyes, as she glanced back at The Mansion.

  Her skin had an unnatural tone about it, thought Fiona. Swarthy. Foreign-looking.

  “So kind…” she murmured.

  This was the sort of tart Freddie had gone with, as had many others, no doubt. This was the sort of tart women like Fiona had to guard against. Especially now that she had found her dream man. Matthew had to be protected from the filthy clutches of a woman like Paula. Such a woman would make it her sport to entice a man like Matthew. She was depraved. Totally beyond the pale.

  “Would you like some tea?” offered Fiona, with a half-smile, slightly discomfited by Paula’s silence.

  “No, no…” she replied, with a laugh. “I’m not a great tea-drinker.”

  “How can I help you, Mrs Wentworth?” asked Fiona, cupping her hands on her chest in her coy way.

  “It’s more a question of how I can help you, Mrs MacIntosh,” responded Paula slyly, still with that contemptuous grin on her shameless face.

  “Really?”

  “The war has made life difficult for a lot of people, Mrs MacIntosh,” said Paula. “Things are difficult to get hold of. Things we easily found before the war. Y’know, like silk stockings, and certain foods, as well as clothing… Those with the money have no problems, of course…”

  Once more she knowingly gave another glance back at The Mansion, and then a cursory sweep of the eye encompassing its vast gardens and grounds.

  “Mrs Wentworth, I’m pressed for time, I…”

  “Specially with the loss of my husband…” continued Paula, undeterred by Fiona’s nervous impatience. “I know there’s my Widows’ Pension, but still… It’s difficult to make ends meet, specially when you’ve got certain tastes…”

  These last words were accompanied by a sickening curl of her snake-like tongue as it popped out to lick around her lips.

  “Are—Are you asking me for money?” queried
Fiona, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth.

  “Well…one doesn’t like to be so direct,” continued Paula, almost sniggering, “but it’s more a question of whether you want to keep certain things secret…”

  Fiona felt scared. Threatened. There was an ache in the pit of her stomach.

  “What are you on about?” demanded Fiona, feigning an affronted, disgusted disdain.

  “I think you know…” answered Paula enigmatically, smirking all over her primitive, cosmetic-smeared face. “I’ve been told certain things…”

  “Like what?” snapped Fiona, fiddling manically with her left wrist, and so aware of her trembling lips.

  “Oh, I think you already know I’ve been, and still am in… How shall I say? In the centre of things? Certain investigations? Suspicions?”

  She sniggered horribly. Fiona felt there was something of a grunt there too. Fiona tried to stop herself rubbing her left wrist—at which she noticed Paula staring with wry amusement—and found her left hand automatically edging towards her left cheek.

  “I don’t know what you’re on about,” shouted Fiona. “I’m not used to dealing with women of your sort, and if you don’t—”

  “Women of my sort?” interrupted Paula, hurling Fiona’s words back at her. “Your husband certainly had no problem dealing with women of my sort!”

  “How dare…” mumbled Fiona, for a moment unable to speak.

  “Let alone Lover Boy,” added Paula, with a cruel sneer. “He has no problems, either…darling Fiona…”

  Fiona was beyond herself. She was in a fury. She felt as if she were about to collapse. She wanted to spit in the ghastly woman’s brown, dirty face.

  She took a step towards Paula.

  Paula sniggered, and herself advanced within inches of Fiona, staring into the pit of her soul.

  As Paula stood there in sweaty proximity, her body heaving, her stale breath curling on to Fiona’s face, Fiona had the impression that Paula was about to thrust herself upon her, press her hot skin and wet, hungry lips on to her.

  Fiona shuddered.

  Paula almost shrieked in triumph.

  Fiona stepped back.

  “If you want it kept quiet that you’re a German spy, Mrs MacIntosh, with your big, big mansion, and even bigger gardens and grounds,” said Paula, with a mocking snarl, “then I’ll expect a very generous donation of one thousand pounds.”

  “You’re insane!” said Fiona, confused, troubled, and shaking all over her body. “Who says—”

  “Someone who knows these things,” she interrupted mysteriously, and cockily. “Someone who reports back to London, and is trusted by London. Someone who’s kept informed by London. I know, without any doubt, that you’re a spy. I’ve been told.”

  “It’s nonsense! Nobody would believe you! Who do you think you—"

  “I’m not talking about your snooty circle of privileged good-for-nothings,” Paula brutally cut in. “I’m sure your lot will have a way of closing ranks, and keeping things quiet. And that good-looking boyfriend of yours, well, he has a way about him, he’s got connections, he’ll see you all right, no doubt… He made useful contacts when he was at Oxford University, I guess, that’s the way it is for the lucky few…”

  Fiona felt even more exasperated and humiliated as she imagined a whimsical look enter the rough-faced witch’s eyes as she spoke of Matthew. What did that mean? And how dare she talk so familiarly about him? Fiona stumbled for a moment as a plethora of images and fears swept into her mind, until it seemed her head would burst.

  “But,” continued Paula, with a merciless, even flippant smile, “I know quite a few people locally, as you might guess… A few words here, a few words there, a word or two in that ear, one in this ear… The rumours and hearsay would ruin your reputation. Your name would be mud. All your money wouldn’t save you.”

  Fiona wanted to tear Paula’s eyes out. Nobody could threaten her position. Her social standing. Her father had worked all his life to build up the family’s power and influence, and Fiona was not going to let this bitch destroy his legacy.

  “Who is this person who’s telling lies about me?” she demanded. “Give me the name!”

  Paula laughed as Fiona’s voice croaked.

  Fiona could hardly breathe. She couldn’t bear the pain in her head.

  “That’ll be another thousand pounds, if you want that information,” Paula said, spitting out her contempt for Fiona, a bead or two of saliva hanging on her bottom lip. The sight made Fiona nauseous. Paula’s greasy, scabby, roughened face irritated her enormously. Her smell made her retch. The presence of her filthy, wanton body pressing up on her made her want to scream.

  “For another thousand, I’ll tell you what Freddie used to get up to,” Paula added, unrelenting in her nastiness. “And if you want to hear what your pretty boy gets up to, I’ll tell you all about him. I’ll tell what he’s up—”

  Fiona stepped back, and, with the force of all the frenzied hatred burning inside her head, she smashed Paula across her face with an opened palm.

  Paula cried out. She almost fell—from mental as well as physical shock—her eyes staring with disbelief at Fiona.

  Her shock ebbed. Her disbelief subsided. Her long-held view of Fiona re-asserted itself. It couldn’t be… Confidence restored, Paula moved towards Fiona, ready to teach her a lesson.

  Fiona automatically slapped her across the face again. More a punch than a slap.

  Paula fell back again.

  She looked scared, even traumatized.

  She looked up—out of her excruciating pain—at Fiona’s maddened, blazing eyes.

  “Well, well…” she murmured.

  The uncontrolled force and passion of Fiona’s movements had flung her handbag—its strap dislodged from her shoulder—over on the ground to her left. Fiona knelt down to pick it up, and retrieve some keys and notes which had been thrown out of it.

  When she stood up, still angry, and visibly shaking, the unbearable tension in her head had eased. She could breathe again. She could think dispassionately. She could plan. She could decide what to do with this wretched whore standing before her.

  Paula warily retreated a step or two.

  Fiona extended her hand out to her. There were some pound notes in its grasp.

  “A few pounds won’t do it,” snapped Paula, though not in too loud a voice. “If you want my silence, and you want information on who told me about you, and information on your husband, and your piece of…well, I mean, Matthew Manfred… I’ll want two thousand pounds.”

  “Five hundred,” said Fiona.

  “One thousand,” countered Paula, looking with continuing disbelief at Fiona.

  “Seven hundred and fifty,” said Fiona, and Paula nodded. “I don’t keep that amount of money under the bed. I’ll need time to get it. It’s tied up. Stocks and shares. Bank accounts.”

  “I’ll meet you in two days.”

  “What time?”

  “Two o’ clock.”

  “Where?”

  “The Red Lion, it’s a pub down in—”

  “I know where it is,” Fiona cut in. “I own the lease on it.”

  “Yes, you own a fair bit of what’s around here, I know,” Paula remarked with a rueful smile, putting a hand instinctively to her swollen, bleeding face.

  “And don’t you forget it,” said Fiona.

  19

  “Where have you been all day, Matthew?” Fiona snapped angrily, fiddling exasperatedly with her left wrist.

  “Fiona, it’s been a hectic day, you must realize that…” murmured Matthew, relaxing back thankfully on to the sofa in the study.

  “I thought you were on leave?”

  “That’s just from my day-job, darling.”

  She laughed, moving over to the cocktail-cabinet to prepare them each a whisky and soda.

  “Light me up a cigarette, darling,” she said.

  Once they were sitting side-by-side, drowning their drinks, and already puffi
ng away on their second fags, Fiona turned to look him square in the face.

  “Well? What about Freddie? Where is the silly man?”

  “He’s either dead. Or—”

  “Killed by George?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Or?”

  “Or not dead.”

  Fiona sighed wearily.

  “And that would mean?”

  “Either he’s coming here, or he’s lying senseless, and the sorest he’s ever been, in some Soho brothel in London.”

  “So, the three alternatives are he’s dead, he’s here, or he’s up to his dirty tricks in a whorehouse?”

  “Yes.”

  “My money’s on the third one. It’s the best fit for Freddie.”

  Matthew smiled.

  “Why would George kill Freddie?” asked Fiona.

  “If George is the third spy, or Paula is, or they are the third cell together, it would be logical to bump Freddie off before it was definitely accepted Freddie wasn’t a German agent. You know, if Freddie was murdered, it would seem to place him in the midst of the secret goings-on, he wouldn’t seem anymore just the harmless idiot. Then British Intelligence might well consider the three spies to be Wentworth, Freddie and, probably, you. That would let Turnbill and Paula, or the one of them who was the spy, off the hook.”

  “So, if Freddie is alive and well, however regrettable from our point of view, that would mean George is innocent? He’s not the third spy?”

  “So it would suggest… And also that Paula is not involved, either, seeing they’re so close…”

  “Does that follow?” queried Fiona, looking up sharply. “She wouldn’t be the first spy to keep their double life secret from their lover…”

  She appeared a little worried, giving Matthew a hard look.

  “Who are you referring to, Fiona?” he asked, returning her severe look. “Yourself?”

  “Maybe you?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  She looked down, her hands on her lap.

  “Have you been speaking to somebody?” he asked roughly, as if this conversation had suddenly turned into an interrogation.