Famous Last Words (28 page)

There were two ways up from the beaches to the Villa. One led through the town, the other over rocks and through an olive grove. The olive grove gave way to meadows full of yellow grass and daisies where a goat was allowed to wander, wearing a bell. These meadows rose towards the Villa’s walls and the walls led round to the left towards the gate and to the right towards a Martello tower.

In the dark, through the rising storm, the goat had made its way down the hill towards the olive grove, seeking perhaps to get out of the wind in amongst the trees. Its bell

made a dull, hollow sound.

I’ll

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All at once, the bell sound stopped and the goat began to bleat. There was a scent down close against the ground of which it was afraid. For a moment, it stood stalk still and then it began to rummage in the daisies. What it found, though of course it did not know it, was the body of the Spanish chauffeur whose neck had been broken and whose

gun was missing.

Some men were walking up through the olive grove, veering as if by instinct to the left towards the Villa’s gates. The goat lay down as far away from these events as it could get.

In the morning, the goatherd would come. In the meantime, the storm would break; the darkness would thicken and the goat would sleep.

In the centre of the table, there was a low, brass bowl filled with late-blooming peonies. The Duchess was the.only woman present. She wore her favourite colour: blue. The men. of course, wore black. The room was lit with many candelabra—augmented, perhaps in honour of the Duchess, with

ruby shaded lamps—all of which cast a warm theatrical aura, flattering and intimate.

At nine o’clock, they paused before the sweet for cigarettes.

The Duke was a heavy smoker and demanded these

pauses between the courses at every meal. He called them “intercourse ciggies” and smiled like a wicked child who was passing a rude remark in the presence of adults. His elbow slipped from the edge of the table. He was drinking too much, smoking too much, talking too much. The Duchess was sitting back in her chair, watching him like a Chinese doll: expressionless. The conversation, ever since the trout, had veered in and out of danger zones, like a car being driven by a drunk through the dark.

“Wallis, dear…”

“Yes, darling?”

“Tell wha’ you said when you heard ‘bout Bermuda. …”

“Bermuda, darling?”

“Ba’mahs.”

“Yes. The Bahamas,” Doctor Ricardo interjected. He knew

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the Duke of Windsor meant the Bahamas and not Bermuda.

He wagged his finger at the steward and the steward motioned the footman forward with wine. Everyone’s glass was

refilled.

The Duke of Windsor turned to de Estella and shouted at him. “Wallis and I are being shunted off to some damned Island. Wins’on wants to be rid of us, I’m to be Gov’nor, can you believe it of some coral isle! Sand and stuff…‘s’ graceful!

But the Duchess said…she was so funny…when the

‘pointment came she said…well: teli’m, Wallis. Listen to this!”

Wallis toyed with her fork and looked at the tablecloth while she spoke. “His Royal Highness makes too much of

my wit,” she said to de Estella. “All I said was; “it’s not an appointment, David, it’s a disappointment.’ “

The laughter flared, then faded.

” ‘Course we’re not going!” said the Duke. “We’re fighting Wins’on every inch of the way. Aren’t we, darling…” He looked across at his wife, beyond the pink haze of the peonies.

The Duchess tried not to show her alarm that her husband was tipping his hand so openly. The negotiations

regarding the Bahamas appointment were delicate enough

as it was, without rumours of drunken recalcitrance being spread through the network of spies that must surround a man like de Estella. Royal recalcitrance—drunken and sober—

had been the historical seedbed of every beheading she could think of. Besides which, the Marques had not yet laid a single card on the table. And for all she knew, this evil, ochre-coloured little man might even somehow be an agent of Churchill’s—playing on David’s drunkenness to discover how deep his treason ran.

The hotel was partway up the hill. Major Schellenberg had chosen it with all his usual fastidious care for detail and had registered under the name of “fritzi Schaemmel”. Some

years past its prime, the hotel had garnered just the right tone of degenerate decline. The awning was frayed; the stones were chipped; the marble cracked. The glass had not been

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cleaned for a month and the doorman’s uniform was hitched and pinched and pinned. The price was right and some

judicious winking and underhanded tipping let the desk

clerk know that Schaemmel’s “holiday” was a private mardi gras—a week of risque days and naughty nights. His collection of nudist magazines was carefully exposed to the

prying eyes of maids and bellhops. Here, they would smile, is the perfect amateur of vice, as eager and unsophisticated as any they’d ever bilked. Throughout his stay—exactly as he’d hoped—he was offered a plump and pleasing selection of “sisters” and “cousins” who would help him spend his money and giggle their way through sessions of sexual exploration that always ended up with quite well acted “indignation”

that “the gentleman should have thought he could

take such liberties!” Consequently, by the time he was engaged in the depths of his espionage, Schellenberg had successfully established for Schaemmel a reputation for freeflowing

cash and boundless sexual naivete. He was just another

harmless German tourist and a happy financial fool

into the bargain.

On the morning of July 27th, Schaemmel had made the

acquaintance of Maria da Gama. It had taken days to discover the girl’s existence and relationship to the guard at the Villa Cascais. There had been a few little hints of monies and pleasures to follow—but first, would the child take part that afternoon in a “game” Uncle Fritzi’s playing with the guests at the pink villa? Oh yes. So the flowers had been delivered.

And history took its course.

Now, at nightfall, he watched from his window as the

storm collected its forces to batter the town. But the storm did not disturb him. It would be his ally. In fact, he could not have asked for better circumstances in which to achieve his ends. Storms, he was well aware, provoke their own

psychological atmosphere and serve as the perfect foil for operations such as the one taking place at the Villa Cascais that night.

Schellenberg had been out in the early rain. He had watched from the cliffs above the beaches as the men came ashore in their dinghy; he had seen them land; he had taken note

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the Duke of Windsor meant the Bahamas and not Bermuda.

He wagged his finger at the steward and the steward motioned the footman forward with wine. Everyone’s glass was

refilled.

The Duke of Windsor turned to de Estella and shouted at him. “Wallis and I are being shunted off to some damned Island. Wins’on wants to be rid of us. I’m to be Gov’nor. can you believe it of some coral isle! Sand and stuff…‘s’ graceful!

But the Duchess said…she was so funny…when the

‘pointment came she said…well: teli’m, Wallis. Listen to this!”

Wallis toyed with her fork and looked at the tablecloth while she spoke. “His Royal Highness makes too much of

my wit,” she said to de Estella. “All 1 said was; ‘it’s not an appointment, David, it’s a disappointment.’ “

The laughter flared, then faded.

” ‘Course we’re not going!” said the Duke. “We’re fighting Wins’on every inch of the way. Aren’t we, darling…” He looked across at his wife, beyond the pink haze of the peonies.

The Duchess tried not to show her alarm that her husband was tipping his hand so openly. The negotiations

regarding the Bahamas appointment were delicate enough

as it was, without rumours of drunken recalcitrance being spread through the network of spies that must surround a man like de Estella. Royal recalcitrance—drunken and sober—

had been the historical seedbed of every beheading she could think of. Besides which, the Marques had not yet laid a single card on the table. And for all she knew, this evil, ochre-coloured little man might even somehow be an agent of Churchill’s—playing on David’s drunkenness to discover how deep his treason ran.

The hotel was partway up the hill. Major Schellenberg had chosen it with all his usual fastidious care for detail and had registered under the name of “Fritxi Schaemmel”. Some

years past its prime, the hotel had garnered just the right tone of degenerate decline. The awning was frayed; the stones were chipped; the marble cracked. The glass had not been

199

cleaned for a month and the doorman’s uniform was hitched and pinched and pinned. The price was right and some

judicious winking and underhanded tipping let the desk

clerk know that Schaemmel’s “holiday” was a private mardi gras—a week of risque days and naughty nights. His collection of nudist magazines was carefully exposed to the

prying eyes of maids and bellhops. Here, they would smile, is the perfect amateur of vice, as eager and unsophisticated as any they’d ever bilked. Throughout his stay—exactly as he’d hoped—he was offered a plump and pleasing selection of “sisters” and “cousins” who would help him spend his money and giggle their way through sessions of sexual exploration that always ended up with quite well acted “indignation”

that “the gentleman should have thought he could

take such liberties!” Consequently, by the time he was engaged in the depths of his espionage, Schellenberg had successfully established for Schaemmel a reputation for freeflowing

cash and boundless sexual naivete. He was just another

harmless German tourist and a happy financial fool

into the bargain.

On the morning of July 27th, Schaemmel had made the

acquaintance of Maria da Gama. It had taken days to discover the girl’s existence and relationship to the guard at the Villa Cascais. There had been a few little hints of monies and pleasures to follow—but first, would the child take part that afternoon in a “game” Uncle Fritzi’s playing with the guests at the pink villa? Oh yes. So the flowers had been delivered.

And history took its course.

Now, at nightfall, he watched from his window as the

storm collected its forces to batter the town. But the storm did not disturb him. It would be his ally. In fact, he could not have asked for better circumstances in which to achieve his ends. Storms, he was well aware, provoke their own

psychological atmosphere and serve as the perfect foil for operations such as the one taking place at the Villa Cascais that night.

Schellenberg had been out in the early rain. He had watched from the cliffs above the beaches as the men came ashore in their dinghy; he had seen them land; he had taken note

200

of their number; he had watched as they deflated and buried their craft and had seen them disappear in the gathering squalls of darkness to perform their task. After this, he had waited only long enough to ascertain that the military flying-Ill! boat had taxied further out to sea where, doubtless, it would mask its noisy departure in the sounds of the storm. Disgruntled by the fact that the soldiers had arrived at all, he

was nonetheless satisfied that he had already undercut their effectiveness. He returned to the warmth of his room where he changed into pajamas and awaited the arrival of Maria da Gama. The girl’s return, with whatever news she would bring of the flowers’ reception, was to be the high point of his evening. If that went well, then all would go well. The flowers; the note; the flying boat; the seven men on the path, even now going up the hill—all these must fall precisely into place. Only then could the final ingredients be added to make the whole operation a success: the Marques and his other agents inside the Villa must then take over and bring it to a close.

The Duchess laid her arm along the table. Her sleeves were buttoned at the wrist. Tight against her skin, she could feel the card that had come with the flowers’ She had kept it with her, telling no one of its contents—not even David, for which she now thanked God as she saw how very drunk he

was becoming. Death beware/rom British friends. She could feel the words against her pulse. What British friends? She thought. As if we had any British friends at all….

The doorbell clattered.

The sound was quite far away, but made more apparent

by the fact that it rang again and again and again, not unlike an alarm.

Doctor Ricardo motioned to the steward. Something must

have gone wrong. The house was overrun with servants.

Surely one of them should have responded by now. The

steward left the room.

The Duchess of Windsor had her back to the door, a po

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sition she did not enjoy. As the bell continued to ring, she looked at the other faces around the table, hoping one of them would speak. None of them did. Everyone sat stony

still in his place, while the smoke from the Duke’s cigarette curled upward through the candlelight above the peonies.

The ringing now became a banging.

The only two remaining servants, both of them footmen,

sifted through the shadows making for the kitchens.

The Duchess looked at Doctor Ricardo. There was something wrong with his reactions. He should have been on his

feet. After all—it was his house; but he didn’t budge.

de Estella, too, was reacting strangely. He dabbed at his lips with his serviette and then, very carefully, laid it across his lap. When he had done this, his hands did not reappear on the table but remained out of sight below the cloth.

The banging stopped.

There was a dreadful silence.

From a distance they could hear at first voices; then footsteps.

The voices were raised in protest and complaint but

soon died out. The footsteps quickly followed. Not running, but walking briskly with a military gait.

de Estella suddenly became extremely nervous, as if the footsteps told him something. His hands were under the