To Catch a King Read online

“Is that so?” the man said calmly. “Fräulein Winter, is that right? My name is Schellenberg. I heard the exchange sitting in my car over there. Are these men annoying you?”

  “She's a Yid, out on the street without her Star of David.”

  “And an American citizen, if I heard correctly. Is this not so, Fräulein?”

  His smile had a kind of ruthless charm that was accentuated by the dueling scar on one cheek, and her stomach was, for some unaccountable reason, hollow with excitement.

  “Yes,” she said.

  A hand grabbed Schellenberg's arm and shook him furiously. “Clear off—now. Unless you want your face kicked in.”

  Schellenberg wasn't in the least put out. “Oh dear, you are a nasty little boy, aren't you?”

  He waved his right hand casually. Two men in uniform as black as the Mercedes got out of the car and hurried across. Their cuff-titles carried the legend RFSS picked out in silver thread: Reichsführer der SS, the cuff-title of Himmler's personal staff.

  Schellenberg said, “A lesson is needed here, I think.” He took the girl by the arm. “Fräulein.”

  As he guided her firmly across the road toward the car, there was the sound of a blow, a cry of pain, but she did not look back.

  It was fifteen minutes later when the Mercedes pulled in to the curb in front of the Garden Room. Hans, the doorman, came forward hesitantly, a look of astonishment on his face when he saw who was inside. He opened the door and Schellenberg got out and turned to assist her.

  “So, this is where you work?” He examined the photographs in the glass case beneath the poster. “ 'Hannah Winter and the Connie Jones trio, direct from the Albany Club, New York.' Sounds interesting. I must come one night.”

  She said calmly, “I'm Jewish, as you very well know, and as you can see from the photo, Connie is a Negro. I hardly think we'd be of much interest to a member of the master race.”

  He smiled gently. “Shall we go in?”

  “I use the stage door.”

  “And I, on the contrary, always go in by the front.”

  He had her by the arm again and she went without protest. Hans hurriedly got the door open for them. Her uncle was at the front desk talking to the hat check girl. He was a shrewd, kindly-looking man, with a shock of gray hair and steel-rimmed glasses, who always managed to appear untidy in spite of his dinner jacket.

  At the sight of his niece and Schellenberg, the smile was wiped instantly from his face and he hurried forward.

  “Hannah, my love, what's happened? You are in trouble?”

  “I was, but not any more, thanks to Herr Schellenberg. This is my uncle, Max Winter.”

  “Herr Winter,” Schellenberg said amiably and turned back to Hannah.

  She was at that time just twenty-two, a small, rather hippy girl with good legs; a face that was handsome rather than beautiful, with high cheekbones, dark eyes, and black hair worn unfashionably long.

  He took her right hand, holding it for a moment. “And now, Fräulein, after seeing you in a better light, I am more determined than ever to catch your act—isn't that the American phrase? But not tonight, I regret to say.”

  He raised her hand to his lips, and again she was conscious of that unwanted hollow excitement.

  “Herr Winter.”

  He went out, and when Hannah glanced at her uncle she found that he had turned quite pale. “Uncle Max—what is it?”

  “That man,” he whispered. “Where did you meet him? Don't you know who he is? That is Walter Schellenberg, SS Brigadeführer and Major General of Police. Heydrich's right-hand man.”

  Hannah Winter had been born in November, 1918, two days before the Armistice was signed to end that most terrible of all wars. Her father, Simon, once a violinist with the Berlin Philharmonic, emigrated to New York in 1920 and opened a small restaurant on Forty-second Street in partnership with his wife's father. During the years of Prohibition, the establishment developed into a highly successful night club, but his health had never been good because of chest wounds received while serving as an infantryman on the Somme, and he died in July, 1929.

  The club, after Prohibition, once again became a restaurant and prospered under the shrewd direction of his wife. Hannah she had raised to be a nice Jewish girl who would one day make a good marriage, have kids, do all the right things.

  It might have worked, except for one important point. Hannah Winter had been blessed with an extraordinary singing voice. She discovered her talent by chance, singing with a student jazz band at high school. From that time on, she had never seriously contemplated any other way of life.

  At seventeen, she had appeared at the Paloma Ballroom in Hollywood with Benny Goodman. As a straight band singer she had toured with Artie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey.

  But she was at her best always in the more enclosed world of club and cabaret, preferably backed by a good trio. It was then that she was able to bring an intensity to her performance of the average popular song that perhaps rivaled anything Bessie Smith had been able to do with the blues.

  And she could have been at the Paramount Studios in Hollywood now doing a film with Bing Crosby if it hadn't been for Uncle Max, her father's younger brother, who, in spite of the fact that he had been a naturalized American citizen for twenty-five years, had horrified them all by returning to the city of his birth in 1937 to open a night club.

  Which was why Hannah was here. To persuade him that it was time to get out. But events had overtaken her with frightening rapidity. The Phony War was over and the Nazis were poised on the Channel coast, with England next stop and nothing standing in the way.

  She was applying her make-up when there was a knock at the door and her uncle entered. He pulled a chair forward and lit one of the small cigars he favored, watching her in the mirror.

  “All right—what happened?”

  She told him quickly, continuing the work on her face, then went behind the screen to change.

  “Not good,” he said. “Perhaps it would be as well if I explained a few things to you. In Germany today the SS is all-powerful, but within the organization they have their own secret service department—the SD. Heydrich is Director General, although still under the authority of Himmler.”

  “And Schellenberg?”

  “He's in charge of the counterespionage section, but more important, he's Heydrich's favorite. His right-hand man.” She made no reply as she slid a long black dress over her head, taking care not to spoil her make-up. “Do you understand any of this?”

  “Not really,” she said, emerging from behind the screen and turning so that he could button up the back of the dress. “So many titles—so many names. It's all very confusing. And the uniforms—every second person you meet seems to have one.”

  He took her hand. “This isn't Forty-second Street, Hannah.”

  She sat down facing him. “All right, Uncle Max. Then let's go home.”

  “You are,” he said. “All arranged—tickets and everything.”

  “I don't understand?”

  “Connie and the boys leave Monday morning by train for Paris. The same night they've got berths on the sleeper to Madrid, and so have you.”

  “And when was all this decided?”

  “Today. The boys have got a week at the Flamenco Club in Madrid. You knew that.”

  “But I haven't.”

  “No, but you can carry straight on to Lisbon from there. Plenty of boats going to New York. You might even get a seat on the Clipper.”

  “And you?”

  “I've got things to do here.”

  “Then I'm not going.”

  “Oh, yes, you are, Liebchen.” She had never heard quite that tone in his voice before. He patted her hand and got up. “We've got a lot in tonight. I'd better go and see how the food's working out.”

  As he reached the door she said, “Uncle Max, you're mixed up in something, aren't you? Something serious?”

  He smiled gently. “I'll see you later. Slay the people, Liebchen.”
r />   The door closed softly behind him and she sat there, staring into the mirror, her mind in turmoil. A moment later, there was another knock and Connie Jones glanced in.

  “Are you ready?”

  She managed a smile. “As much as I ever will be.”

  Connie was a large, rugged-looking Negro of forty-five with close-cropped graying hair. Born and raised in New Orleans, he had been playing the piano like a dream since the age of seven and couldn't read a note of music.

  “Trouble?” he asked, sitting on the edge of her dressing table.

  “Uncle Max tells me I leave with you on Monday.”

  “That's it. Twelve hours to gay Paree, then the night express to Madrid from Austerlitz station, and I can't shake the dust of this town soon enough.” He lit a cigarette. “You're worried about the old man, aren't you?”

  “He says he isn't coming, Connie, but if he stays here …”

  “If ever a man knew what he was doing, it's your Uncle Max, kid. I'd leave it to him.” He took her hand. “You worry too much and that ain't good because we got a show to do, so let's get with it.”

  She took a deep breath, stood up, and followed him out, immediately aware of the club noises. People talking, the laughter, the hustle. It had an electricity to it that never failed in its effect on her.

  Two other Negroes waited in the shadows beside the small stage, both younger than Connie: Billy Joe Hale, the bass player, and Harry Gray, the drummer. They dumped their cigarettes and moved onstage with Connie.

  Hannah waited, and then the spots bathed the stage in white light and Uncle Max's voice boomed from somewhere at the rear of the room. “And now, the Garden Room proudly presents, direct from New York, the one and only Hannah Winter!”

  And as Connie and the boys moved into a solid driving arrangement of “St. Louis Blues,” she walked onstage to thunderous applause and started to sing her heart out.

  Reinhard Heydrich, unlike most Nazi party members, had been born a gentleman. Cashiered from the Navy, he had joined the SS and had been quickly chosen by Himmler as his deputy. His rise to the position of Head of the Reich Main Security Office, one of the most powerful positions in the state, was a tribute as much to his total lack of any kind of humanity as to his qualities of leadership and superior intelligence.

  When Schellenberg entered he was seated at his desk in his Prinz Albrechtstrasse office and was wearing the full dress uniform of an SS Obergruppenführer, for he had just returned from dining with Hitler at the Reich Chancellery.

  “Ah, there you are, Walter,” he said amiably. “You've been having a busy evening, I hear, playing Galahad to the Winter girl.”

  “Is there anything you don't know?” Schellenberg said. “It's only just happened, for God's sake.”

  “One survives, Walter, in this wicked old world of ours by knowing everything there is to know about everything and everybody.”

  “Which in this case would seem to mean that the people who work for me report to you first.”

  “Of course,” Heydrich smiled. “Tell me about her. How long has she been under surveillance?”

  “Since she arrived. Two months now.”

  “And she really fell for this little drama of yours tonight?”

  “I think so.”

  “What exactly do you hope to achieve? Access to her bed or information?”

  “It's her uncle we're after, remember,” Schellenberg said. “The fact that he's an American citizen makes things difficult.”

  “But he was born a German,” Heydrich said impatiently. “I've seen his file, and the Führer has stated often enough that citizens of the Reich do not have the right to change nationality.”

  “The Americans might have a different viewpoint on that one,” Schellenberg pointed out. “And this is hardly the moment to antagonize Washington.”

  “So—are we any further forward with this Winter affair?”

  “Not really. As you can see from his file, he attended the University of Berlin as a youth and was a member of the Communist Party. It is my belief that he still is.”

  “A Soviet agent possibly?”

  “Perhaps. Certainly involved with the Socialist Underground and probably also the illegal transfer of Jews from the Reich.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? Arrest him.”

  “Not just yet,” Schellenberg said. “If we wait a little longer we get not only Winter, but his entire organization. And he is under surveillance at all hours.”

  Heydrich sat there frowning, then nodded. “Very well, Walter. You can have another week. Seven days and then …” He stood up. “What are you going to do now?”

  Schellenberg knew what was coming. “Go home to bed.”

  “Nonsense,” Heydrich grinned. “The night's still young. We'll make the rounds of a few nightclubs. Help yourself to a drink while I change.”

  He went out and Schellenberg sighed, moved to the drinks cabinet, and poured himself a Scotch.

  He had been born in Saarbrucken in 1910, the son of a piano maker. Cultured and intelligent by nature and with a gift for languages, he had entered the University of Bonn at the age of nineteen in the faculty of medicine, but changed to the study of law after two years.

  Well qualified, but penniless, he saw opportunity in the rise of the Nazi Party in 1933 and accepted the suggestion of one of his professors that he join the SS. His gift for languages brought him to the attention of Heydrich, who had recruited him at once into the SD, where his rise had been rapid.

  A number of successful intelligence operations had combined to consolidate his position, culminating in the Venlo incident in 1939, during which he had posed as a resistance agent to gain the confidence of three British MI-5 agents in Holland. This had led to their kidnapping by SS troops on neutral territory.

  Decorated by the Führer himself, he had been promoted SS Brigadeführer and Major General of Police and was still only thirty years of age.

  Of course, he had his enemies, but Heydrich and his wife liked him, so that he moved socially in the very best circles in Berlin. But there was a price to pay, including the occasional night out with Heydrich, whose sexual appetite was insatiable and who was never happier than roaming the cabarets and clubs of the Kurfurstendamm and Alexanderplatz.

  Greatest irony of all, of course, was that Walter Schellenberg did not consider himself a Nazi. Heydrich, Himmler, even the Führer, all came to trust his judgment implicitly on intelligence matters, and yet always in his mind he stood on one side, a spectator of the whole sorry charade, contemptuous as much of himself as of them.

  The rain beat against the window and he raised his glass to his reflection, in mock salute.

  3

  On thursday morning just before noon, Schellenberg was working in his Prinz Albrechtstrasse office when the phone rang. He recognized the voice at once—von Ribbentrop.

  “Schellenberg, are you free? I'd like you to come over to see me at once.”

  “Anything special?” Schellenberg asked the Foreign Minister.

  “A matter of the utmost importance to the Reich. I can't discuss it on the phone.”

  Schellenberg called Heydrich at once and reported the situation, always aware of Heydrich's rage at even the slightest suggestion of his personal authority being usurped. For once, Heydrich was more intrigued than anything else and told him to get on with it—with the promise of a detailed report later.

  Ribbentrop received Schellenberg in his private office at the Reich Chancellery.

  “Good of you to come, my dear fellow. Sit down and I'll get straight to the point. I am speaking to you on behalf of the Führer himself on this matter, by the way, so we are talking of something with the highest security rating.”

  Schellenberg was immediately intrigued. “I see. Please continue.”

  “Did you by any chance meet the Duke of Windsor during his German tour in nineteen thirty-seven?”

  “No, I didn't have that pleasure.”

  “What is your p
ersonal opinion about the way in which the English dealt with the crisis surrounding his abdication?”

  “It seems to me they handled the whole problem very sensibly. Tradition and responsibility had to take precedence over personal emotions.” Schellenberg shrugged. “I don't really see how the British government could have acted any differently.”

  Ribbentrop looked extremely put out. “I can see this is one matter about which you have been completely misinformed. The real reasons behind the pressure for the Duke to abdicate were political. He was too socially aware; too determined to change the decadent English society into something forceful and forward-looking. Something more suited to modern needs.”

  “I see,” Schellenberg said dryly. “He told you this?”

  Ribbentrop didn't seem to hear him. “He was much impressed with everything he saw in Germany. The Führer received him at Berchtesgaden. They talked together for an hour.”

  He paused at the window. “At the moment the Führer is totally immersed in the planning of Operation Sea Lion—the invasion of England—which is why he asked me to handle this most important matter for him.”

  “I see.”

  “The Duke, as you know, was serving as a major general with Allied forces in France. During the debacle that followed our magnificent victory, he and the Duchess, with a few friends, managed to cross into Spain. They were in Madrid until recently. In fact the attitude of the Spaniards in the matter may be best summed up by this telegram I received from our Madrid ambassador, Von Stohrer. I have a copy here.”

  He passed it across and Schellenberg scanned it quickly.

  The Spanish Foreign Minister requests advice with regard to the treatment of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor who were to arrive in Madrid today, apparently in order to return to England by way of Lisbon. They assume we may be interested in detaining the Duke here and possibly in establishing contact with him.

  Schellenberg handed the paper back. “I don't understand?”

  “It's really very simple. The English are racially a part of our Germanic brotherhood. The Führer has no wish to destroy them. They could have an important part to play in the greater European ideal. He is convinced that any day now, the British Government will see this and will sue for peace. After all, they don't have much choice. They're finished.”