The Thirty-One Kings Read online

  ‘I have very few men left to me,’ said Rogeron, spreading his hands apologetically, ‘and they are much occupied in keeping any possible looting at bay.’

  ‘What about another tack?’ I suggested. ‘It’s a good guess that Roland has fallen into the hands of a German agent code-named Klingsor.’

  ‘I have heard that name once or twice,’ said the prefect.

  ‘Me too,’ said Bullitt, ‘but I don’t know anybody who’s ever seen him. It’s like he’s some kind of phantom.’

  ‘To be perfectly frank with you, Monsieur Hannay,’ said Rogeron, ‘I’m not sure he exists at all.’

  ‘What have you heard about him?’ I pressed, desperate for any information whatsoever.

  ‘Only that he has been here for some considerable time.’ He shrugged. ‘Bear in mind that Paris has been a refuge for exiles for centuries: Bolsheviks, White Russians, impoverished aristocrats, and political dissidents of every stripe. It is not difficult for a new face to pass unnoticed.’

  I clenched my fists in frustration. ‘Can you not spare some men to investigate, to round up some suspected enemy agents?’

  Rogeron shook his head regretfully. ‘Half my men have taken their families and fled. The others have their hands full keeping order and guarding the abandoned homes of the rich and powerful. That is not my own priority but those are the orders left for me.’

  ‘But in a matter this vital. . .’

  Bullitt raised a hand to quieten me and let out a puff of smoke. ‘Hitler could be taking a stroll down the street right outside, Mr Hannay, and I doubt if we could find enough men to arrest him.’

  I made a further appeal to the Frenchman. ‘But your own intelligence services must have a file on this Klingsor. That would be something.’

  Rogeron beckoned me to the window and gestured at the sky.

  ‘Do you see the smoke rising over the city?’

  ‘Yes, I wondered about that.’

  ‘The clerks left behind by our fleeing rulers are busy burning all government documents. This they were ordered to do to keep them out of German hands. Any information concerning espionage activity in Paris is now flame and ash.’

  ‘What about your own police files?’ I suggested. ‘Surely you haven’t burned them too.’

  Rogeron gestured towards the river. ‘No, they have been loaded onto a pair of barges and are making their way down the Seine beyond the grasp of the Gestapo.’

  ‘And in case the Germans do catch up with them,’ added Bullitt, ‘both are packed with explosives and will be blown to smithereens.’

  ‘As well as information on criminals,’ said Rogeron, ‘there are also files on political dissidents and other radicals. I would not have them identified to our new masters.’

  I felt my heart sink. If these two men, who were all that remained of the French government, could not help me, then my cause might well be lost. In the square below I saw Parisians continuing to file into Notre-Dame.

  Following my eyes, Rogeron said, ‘They seek sanctuary, such as was granted in olden times. Those gargoyles on the roof were placed there to scare away devils.’

  Bullitt bit on his pipe and grunted. ‘They’ll have their work cut out for them tomorrow.’

  ‘Is there nothing you can offer me,’ I groaned, ‘some other source of information?’ In my ears my own voice sounded almost like an appeal for divine intervention.

  Bullitt removed his pipe from his mouth and gazed into the bowl, as though there were some omen to be found in the burnt embers of tobacco.

  ‘There is someone who may be able to help,’ he said. ‘Her name is Beata van Diemen, a Dutchwoman resident in Paris these past two years.’

  ‘A Dutchwoman? What is she doing here?’

  ‘Ostensibly she is a patron of the arts, a dealer in antiques, and a leading socialite. But behind the scenes she’s been instrumental in smuggling people out of Germany and getting them to safety.’

  ‘I have heard the name,’ said the prefect, ‘but I do not believe I have ever met the lady.’

  Bullitt gave a dry chuckle. ‘I expect the reason she hasn’t been cosying up to you, Prefect, is that some of her activities don’t exactly fall on your side of the law.’

  The policeman raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong - she’s no crook. But in order to smuggle dissidents of one sort or another out of Germany and get them to safety, she has to bend the more stubborn points of the law. That can necessitate a certain amount of bribery, forgery and other doubtful practices.’

  Rogeron conceded the point with a shrug. ‘I suppose such transgressions are of little matter now. But she is about to fall under a much heavier brand of justice than any I have ever administered, one which forgives nothing.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Bullitt continued, ‘because of the many contacts she’s built up on every level of society, she’s privy to all kinds of information that never makes its way into the papers. If anyone can snag a lead on your missing friend, Hannay, she’s the one.’

  I leapt at the chance, my heart quickening at this sudden renewal of hope. ‘How can I meet her?’

  ‘Well, you can’t just charge in, asking a lot of questions. She’s wary of such intrusions, as you’d expect.’

  ‘I hardly have the time to wait for a formal introduction,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Bullitt, reaching into his pocket. ‘I have an in for you. She’s throwing a party at her house tonight.’

  ‘A curious time for frivolities,’ Rogeron noted with a frown.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said Bullitt, ‘I have an invite. As you can imagine, I have a lot of pressing business that keeps me from socialising, but there’s no reason you can’t go in my place.’

  He handed me a gilded card bearing an address and an invitation to join une soirée trés exceptionelle. ‘Who on earth would want to be at a party on the eve of anything so dreadful?’ I wondered.

  ‘Anyone who has chosen not to flee either welcomes what is coming or seeks a distraction from the horror of it,’ Rogeron suggested.

  ‘And since we can bet Klingsor will stick around for sure,’ said Bullitt, ‘there’s a better than even chance he’ll be there to toast the coming victory.’

  The possibility that the German agent himself might attend clinched the matter for me. I slipped the card into my pocket and thanked the ambassador for his help.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been one for parties. I prefer a few hands of poker or a ball game. But you be sure to have a good time.’

  I headed for the exit but stopped in the doorway to look back at the two befuddled mayors, the last guardians of Paris.

  ‘In case we don’t meet again, gentlemen, I wish you both the very best of luck.’

  ‘Paris will endure, Mr Hannay,’ said Rogeron, though his confidence was tinged with melancholy. ‘Whether by guile, prayer or blood, Paris will endure.’

  At the Louis Quinze hotel the Die-Hards had booked a suite of rooms on the third floor. Here I found Peter and Thomas, who had ordered a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. They informed me that Jaikie was scouting out any possible haunts of the old college acquaintance he had spoken of before. Dougal had accompanied him, declaring that ‘somebody has to look out for the lad’.

  The chaplain had spread a large map of Paris over the bed. It was dotted with salt cellars, sugar cubes and other objects, which he was moving carefully from place to place while making ruminatory noises in his throat.

  ‘He’s working out the most likely route the Germans will take when they come rolling into town,’ Peter explained, munching on a baguette filled with ham and Dijon mustard. ‘According to the gossip around here, they’re expected first thing in the morning.’

  ‘They’ll make a triumphal entry down one of the main boulevards,’ said Thomas, mostly to himself, ‘set up a command base in the centre, and from there spread out to occupy major junctions and government buildings. This will give us an
hour. Perhaps more if we’re lucky.’

  After a bite to eat I took a quick bath and smartened myself up. I explained to my companions what I was up to and gave them Beata van Diemen’s address.

  ‘It’s an awfy queer time for a party,’ Peter grumbled.

  ‘I’m hoping that Klingsor will be there to celebrate his victory,’ I said.

  ‘Are you going unarmed?’ Peter asked with a frown, noting that I had left my pistol and holster on the table.

  ‘I don’t want to arouse any sort of suspicion,’ I explained. ‘If I’m spotted with a gun, that might put my quarry to flight.’

  ‘Supposing he’s there at all,’ put in Thomas, looking up from his map.

  ‘It’s a long shot,’ I agreed, ‘but there’s also the chance that this woman with her contacts may be able to set me on the right track. I’ll try to get back in time to find out if Jaikie’s come up with anything.’

  ‘One of you had better strike it lucky pretty soon,’ said Peter. ‘In a few hours we’ll be playing hide and go keek with the Jerries.’

  I had the hotel summon a taxi for the Rue Vaneau where the party was taking place. I was headed straight into the lion’s den with no idea which of my fellow guests was the lion.

  14

  THE CONJURER

  The cab carried me through the quiet twilit streets until we arrived at the Rue Vaneau in the fashionable seventh arrondissement. Stepping out, I saw against the deep red of the western sky a single, solitary light flashing from the summit of the Eiffel Tower - a distress signal that no one would answer.

  Beata van Diemen’s house was separated from the street by a white wall. The servant at the door gave my invitation a cursory glance and waved me into the courtyard garden. Here a girl in ballet costume was performing an unsteady pas de deux beneath the lantern-lit branches of an elm tree. Seated on a bench, a sleepy, unshaven fellow was strumming his guitar in accompaniment to her efforts. Beside a bed of japonica a couple in dishevelled evening wear lay on the grass staring wanly up at the distant uncaring stars while humming a childhood nursery song.

  The building was of cream stone with tall rectangular windows from which light spilled onto the pathway below. I climbed the steps to the front door and walked in on one of the most extraordinary scenes I have ever encountered.

  Swing music played on a phonograph but Benny Goodman’s clarinet was almost drowned out by the chatter and laughter of the many guests who filled the spacious hallway. A dozen couples danced across a floor of Italian marble, some in evening wear, others in fancy dress. There were harlequins, musketeers and clowns, while a number of the more avant-garde women were dressed defiantly in Palazzo pants and striped tops. They gesticulated languidly with their Russian cigarettes while arguing about abstract art. Overhead a trio of chandeliers gleamed brilliantly, sparking flashes of light from the huge mirrors that lined the gold-painted walls.

  A waiter immediately presented me with a glass of Champagne which I sipped distractedly as I ascended a wide stairway carpeted in rich burgundy. The upper floor consisted of a series of interconnecting salons each of which was fully supplied with hors d’oeuvres, more Champagne, and a brittle sense of desperate gaiety. Incongruous paintings from the Low Countries hung on the walls and the practical, plainly dressed Dutch householders glowered disapprovingly at the antics of the guests.

  After the Champagne I restricted myself to soda water so as to be fully alert. I had a suspicion that Klingsor would also be keeping a sober, watchful eye on those around him. An instinct I had learned to trust many years ago told me he was certainly here, like a beast of prey lurking in the foliage of a tropical jungle.

  To anyone who bothered to ask, I was Cornelius Brand, a South African mining engineer returning from a visit to the Loire coal fields. Fortunately nobody took much note of me, for I must have cut a very dull figure in the midst of such exotic company. When I enquired after our hostess I was informed that she had yet to make an appearance.

  In the next room unashamed nudes painted by some of Rubens’ less talented imitators capered through sunlit forests, outdoing in innocent gaiety the intense selfindulgence of this party. In one corner a languid youth was regaling his companions with the news that existence had no meaning. In another was a card table where a party of overly rouged women were squealing excitedly over a game of bouillotte.

  The adjacent room was hung with French tapestries and dominated by a bronze copy of the Winged Victory. Here, a tall angular man with a golden beard was making coins pass invisibly from one clenched fist to another. He greeted the applause of his inebriated audience with a broad grin then proceeded to draw a string of coloured kerchiefs from the mouth of an astonished woman.

  Turning away from his feats of conjuring, I spotted a familiar face coming towards me through the revellers. It was the young lady I had encountered in Montmartre this morning, now dressed in canary-coloured satin beaded with pearls and with a spray of gauze and feathers perched above her brow like a butterfly. Against this background of boredom and excess, she seemed younger than ever, in spite of her make-up and elegant evening wear. She had the look of a girl who has mischievously slipped into her mother’s party gown.

  ‘Well,’ I declared, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘Surely not unexpected, Mr Brand,’ she responded with a smile. ‘This is my house after all.’

  ‘Your house? You mean . . .’

  ‘Yes, I am Beata van Diemen.’

  ‘Pardon my surprise - I expected someone older.’

  ‘Grey-haired and serious, you mean. I am so sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘No disappointment at all. Quite the contrary.’

  She offered me her hand, which I took and kissed, feeling as though I were being granted an audience with royalty. As I straightened up I noticed pinned to her breast an antique lacquered brooch decorated with the figure of a winged horse.

  ‘I hope you won’t think me rude,’ she said as our eyes met again, ‘but I don’t recall inviting you.’

  ‘Ambassador Bullitt sends his regrets. He’s unable to attend, and sent me along in his place.’ I cast an appraising glance about the room. ‘This is quite the party.’

  ‘Yes, it’s all rather ghastly, isn’t it?’ said Beata with an impish gleam in her eye. ‘I can’t imagine that you feel very at home here. Which means you have some reason other than entertainment for attending.’

  Discreetly she drew me into an alcove where, by some miracle of acoustic science, we were buffered against the worst of the party noise.

  ‘Really, you mustn’t judge them too harshly,’ she said of her guests. ‘This is like the final party on a sinking ship. Tomorrow we all drown - or we learn to swim.’

  Though I had come here to seek her help, I was still wary of revealing too much to this elegant young woman. ‘So what is it that’s keeping you here? You’re obviously wealthy enough to escape to some far-off place.’

  ‘You mean like Portugal? Or America even? No, Mr Brand, I fled my own country to escape the horror I foresaw’ - she fingered the brooch with its winged horse, as though it symbolised her own flight - ‘but I am done with running. I will make my stand here, whatever comes of it.’

  ‘You are a very brave woman.’

  ‘No, I am a frightful coward. My mind is filled with fearful imaginings, but I will not give in to them. I learned this lesson long ago. When I was a child of five, Mr Brand, I had an older friend named Elisa who used to frighten me with awful stories about how goblins would break into my room at night to carry me off and how the strange old man down the street had a long sharp knife he kept to chop up any children who walked too close to his house.’

  ‘She doesn’t sound like much of a friend,’ I commented.

  ‘Children can be cruel when all they think they are doing is teasing,’ said Beata. ‘Anyway, she used to frighten me terribly but eventually I dared the goblins to come and they did not. And I walked right up to that old man’s door and nothing ha
ppened. I overcame my fears. But recently I allowed myself to become a frightened child again. I fled my country to escape the scary man I was afraid was going to come for me. But he is coming here anyway. So it is no use being afraid. I will stand my ground and do what I can.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any childhood stories to explain why I’m here.’

  ‘No, but I’m sure there is a very good reason.’

  ‘To be honest, the matter is a delicate one.’

  ‘Mr Brand, in the morning there will be tanks rolling down that street outside. There is hardly time for delicacy.’

  She was right, and I was all too aware of how closely time was pressing on me. ‘I need to find a certain man. He’s an agent of the German government.’

  ‘If you wait a few hours, you can have your pick of those.’

  ‘I believe he is here now - in this house.’

  Beata glanced across the room as she took a sip from her drink. ‘I’ve invited all sorts of people, many on only the briefest acquaintance, and many of them have brought friends I’ve never seen before. I’m afraid I couldn’t vouch for any of them.’

  ‘But I’ve been told that you are in the business of helping people escape from such men. You have confidential information, contacts.’

  She paused in mid-drink, fixing her eye keenly upon me. I understood that in a life such as hers she had to be wary, even of wandering knights.

  ‘Even if that were so,’ she began slowly, ‘is there nothing more that you can tell me about this man you are so eager to meet?’

  ‘Only that he is referred to by the name Klingsor.’

  ‘Klingsor? I take it then that he is an admirer of Wagner.’

  ‘I should think that’s certainly true.’

  Beata set her glass aside and her pale blue eyes grew serious. ‘You will appreciate that in my line of work, I do my best to avoid contact with agents of Nazi Germany. And yet you have reason to believe he is here.’

  ‘It’s more a hunch than any sort of logic. Tomorrow will be his day of triumph. Where else could he safely celebrate out in the open.’ I gave her a few seconds to digest this then asked, ‘Can you help?’