Angel From Hell, page 12
part #1 of Anna Fehrbach Series Series
‘I have a feeling,’ he said, ‘that her looks are not even her most potent weapon.’
Baxter proceeded to fill his pipe, slowly and messily, as he always did when he wanted to think. ‘I have a feeling that you have something going for this woman.’
‘She’s a difficult woman to meet and not have a few lascivious thoughts about, I’ll grant you that.’
‘Even if you think she’s a tramp?’
‘I never said she was a tramp, Billy. I said she’s a fake.’
‘So she claims to be something she’s not. She also claims to be a damned beautiful woman, and there’s nothing fake about that. Come now, Clive, if Bordman had taken up with a chorus girl, would you be so agitated? It’s his bed, so he’s entitled to decide who he puts in it. It certainly isn’t our business. I understand that you feel maybe you failed in your job, by allowing him to sneak off and get married without your knowing anything about it and thus while you weren’t standing behind him. And maybe you’re right and she’s just after his money, but your business was to protect his person, not his pocket book. You can’t seriously suppose that a girl who looks like a cross between Greta Garbo and the Venus de Milo, and who has a face like an angel, is going to be physically dangerous to anyone, much less her husband.’
‘I sincerely hope you’re right. However, may I just point out that the Venus de Milo, Greta Garbo, and the most itinerant of chorus girls all have traceable backgrounds. This doll has no background at all. She just appeared out of the wall, like a wraith. A better analogy would be Athena, but I don’t think that Mrs Bordman sprang from the head of any god.’
Baxter slapped the papers on his desk. ‘But it says here that Bordman met with the Count von Widerstand to get his consent to the marriage. You met him too.’
‘We met a man who called himself Count von Widerstand. No such man exists. No such family exists or has ever existed. I checked with Gottfried Friedemann, who must know as much about German history as any man alive. As for being Mrs Bordman’s father, there is not the slightest resemblance between them in looks, speech or demeanour. He is about five foot six; she is pushing six feet. He looks and moves like a spiv; she looks and moves like a goddess. He speaks with a Bavarian accent. I can’t place hers, but it certainly isn’t Bavarian. I’m not even sure that it’s actually German. Her English comes across more naturally.’
Baxter at last lit his pipe. ‘All right,’ he conceded, ‘you’ve convinced me that there could be some gigantic confidence trick going on. But really, old boy, it isn’t our pigeon. We are responsible for the security of our people outside of the UK. And even if we tried to involve MI5, I imagine they’d laugh at us. I mean, if the Secret Service and Special Branch had to do something about every British aristocrat who makes an unwise marriage, we’d never have time to do anything else. And to interfere in this case, with a woman who is presently taking London society by storm . . . there could well be questions in the House, especially with the PM apparently so determined to play footsie with the Nazis no matter where Hitler puts his foot. Bordman is a grown man. If he’s picked up some pretty floozie who means to take him for everything she can get, well, it won’t be the first time that’s happened, and it won’t be the last. Maybe he’ll be a wiser man at the end of it. I’m sorry, Clive, but this file is closed. Take a week’s leave, and then Athens is expecting you.’
‘There is just one more point I would like to make.’
‘I said, the file is closed.’
‘You also said that I have convinced you that this woman is probably a fake. So tell me why she was introduced to us, as the Countess von Widerstand, by a colonel in the SS. Are you suggesting that she has managed to fool the SS as well? The SS?’
Baxter slowly laid down his pipe. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not believe that anyone, certainly any German citizen, could fool the SS for more than ten minutes. You know, of course, that Bordman has requested British citizenship for his wife? And that it will be granted as a matter of course?’
‘Isn’t that all to the good? Our good? It means that when she’s found out she will be subject to our laws, not merely a deportation order.’
‘When she’s found out. There can’t be any slip-ups, Clive. Everything we have got so far is circumstantial. When we prick her balloon we have to have facts. So, first thing, go back to Friedemann and ask him to reconsider his attitude. Do it by letter, and we’ll send it in the diplomatic bag. That way there is no risk of the SS getting hold of it. Tell him to reply by letter to me, again using the diplomatic bag; we’ll square it with the ambassador.’
‘I’m not sure he’ll go for it. He was pretty definite when I saw him.’
‘So you may have to be heavy. That’s a good job he has there, isn’t it? Well paid?’
‘Very well paid.’
‘And he has a wife and family, and also, I believe, supports his parents.’
‘Ye-s,’ Clive said hesitantly.
‘Well, tell him that if he cannot do this little job for us we will have to advise the ambassador that he is a security risk and will have to be let go.’
‘That is very nasty. He’s a decent fellow.’
‘Anything to do with the SS is, by definition, nasty. Do it. Meanwhile, I will take what you have told me to the boss and see if he will let us put Mrs Bordman under twenty-four-hour surveillance. There is no possibility of getting a phone tap, and I’m not at all sure he’ll go for surveillance on what we presently have. That’s where whatever you can get out of Friedemann will come in handy.’
Clive sighed, but nodded. And then snapped his fingers. ‘The maid!’
‘What maid?’
‘Mrs Bordman has a German maid, who she brought with her to England. Her name is Elsa. I don’t know her last name. But she certainly knows who and what her mistress actually is, and who she is working for.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting we pick her up and beat the truth out of her.’
Clive grinned. ‘I’d rather have a go at her mistress. But I have an idea: Belinda.’
‘Oh, come now, Clive.’
‘Hear me out. I’m damned sure these people are smart enough to spot one of our females a mile off. But they can’t spot anything about Belinda, because she isn’t one of us. On the other hand, she’s a natural for this job. She’s fashion editor of the Pictorial. And here we have a glamorous newcomer on the social scene, who wears her hair differently from anyone else save Veronica Lake, whose clothes are out of this world, who is, at this moment, the talk of London . . . Any fashion editor would give her eyeteeth for an interview either with her or about her, maybe get a peek into her wardrobe, talk about her likes and dislikes . . .’
‘I’m sure you’re right. But the word is that she doesn’t give interviews.’
‘That’s where our friend Elsa comes in. Butter her up instead of beat her up.’
‘You think Belinda would go for it?’
‘Belinda will go for anything I ask her to. Certainly if there’s a fashion story at the end of it.’
‘You’d have to tell her what we’re after.’
‘Just enough.’
Baxter considered for a moment. Then he said, ‘Give it a whirl. But get that letter off to Friedemann. And enjoy Athens.’
*
‘What’s it like out there?’ Belinda Hoskin asked as she opened the door of her flat.
‘It’s snowing.’ Clive said, reaching for her.
Belinda was always someone worth reaching for. She was a small woman, only just over five feet tall, with a slender figure, and straight black hair which she wore short, cut just above her shoulders. Her features were piquant, in keeping with the rest of her. No stronger contrast with Anna Bordman could be imagined. But while Anna, at least from Clive’s point of view – and looked at as a female object rather than a potential enemy – remained the ultimate unattainable and unapproachable love goddess, Belinda was a woman one wanted to hold and protect and cherish, even if he knew that she would deeply resent any suggestion that she needed protecting from anything.
Now she skipped away from his grasp. ‘You’ll have to take something off. You’re sopping.’
Clive removed his coat and soft hat and hung them on the stand while taking her in: she was wearing a house robe and slippers, and he estimated that she had just got out of her bath.
‘And the shoes,’ she insisted. ‘And socks,’ she added, going into the bedroom to fetch the slippers he left there.
‘Shouldn’t I go the whole way?’ he asked.
‘After dinner. Eating with naked men gives me indigestion.’ She knelt before him to fit the slippers on his feet. ‘There we go. What are you drinking?’
‘I think scotch on a night like this.’
She went to the sideboard, poured, then held out one of the glasses. Clive had followed her across the room. Now he placed his glass beside hers and took her in his arms for a long, slow kiss, while he slid his hands across her shoulder blades and down the curve of her back to find her buttocks. As he had surmised, she was wearing nothing under the robe.
‘Hello,’ she remarked. ‘Have you spent the day torturing some beautiful female spy?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing. Come and sit down.’ He picked up the drinks and led her to the settee.
‘But something has turned you on,’ she insisted. ‘The weather out there would freeze the balls off a brass monkey, and certainly keep them in their proper place.’
‘You don’t think it could be the sight of a lovely woman in extreme deshabille welcoming me in from the cold?’
‘If it were the first time, I might say possibly. But I consider myself, as regards you, worn goods.’
‘Now who’s the one in a funny mood? Why don’t you just say yes and marry me?’
‘Our lifestyles would clash too much. Certainly our work styles. Now tell me what’s up, apart from your principal attribute.’
‘I sometimes think that you should be the spy catcher and me the one who wanders around peering at beautiful women.’
‘You would spend your life falling in love with your subjects. And your business would be their clothes. Not what might be in them. I’m waiting.’
‘What do you think of Mrs Bordman?’
‘Aha! As you were in Germany with the ghastly Ballantine, I assume you have met the countess.’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘And, like everyone else, fell madly in love with her?’
‘I did not fall madly in love with her,’ Clive snapped, his vehemence giving him away. ‘And has everyone fallen madly in love with her?’
‘I would say so, yes. Ballantine is both the most popular and the most envied man in London at this moment.’
‘So what is your opinion?’
‘I haven’t actually met her yet, worse luck. But she is certainly stunning. And her clothes are out of this world.’
‘I would like you to interview her, at her home.’
‘Pffft!’
‘I’m serious.’
‘So am I. Don’t you think we – and every editor of a glossy in London, not to mention most of the dailies – have been after an exclusive, or even some kind of press conference, ever since she arrived? The answer is “nein”. Mrs Bordman does not give interviews to the press. Anyway, what’s your interest? I mean, apart from her hair and her eyes and her mouth and her tits and her bum and her legs and everything else?’
‘We need to know more about her.’
‘We? You mean the department? But she’s not your field.’
‘She was when she started out.’
‘You mean she could be a spy?’
‘We prefer not to speculate. And we would prefer you not to, either. What we know is that she is not what she pretends to be – that is, a German aristocrat. So we need to find out just what she is.’
‘For Bordman’s sake?’
‘Partly.’
‘Working for MI6! That’s exciting. But I don’t see what I can do if she won’t give me an interview.’
‘Can’t you be a very pushy, aggressive reporter? Foot in the door type thing?’
‘They’d very likely throw me out.’
‘If they do, I’ll make it up to you.’
‘I don’t see how you will be able to do that, if my special assets are covered in bruises. All right, I’ll give it a whirl. On one condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘That you won’t be thinking of her when you’re shagging me, after dinner.’
‘You have my word.’
‘And how long have I got you for?’
‘All night, tonight.’
‘I meant, when are you off again?’
‘Well, actually, next week.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Seems there’s something going on in Athens. I shouldn’t be too long, maybe a couple of months.’
‘Months!’ she shouted. ‘Well in that case, we’ll skip dinner.’
*
Anna took off her gloves, threw her sable on to a chair, and kicked off her shoes.
‘Your bath is ready,’ Elsa said, helping to remove the rest of her clothes. When they were alone together they spoke German. ‘It has not been a good day?’ She piled Anna’s hair on the top of her head and secured it with a ribbon.
Anna sank into the hot foam. ‘Every time I have to attend one of these tea parties I think I am going to go mad. The inanity of these people! And do you know what Bally told me at lunch? Next month we have to go to some place called Cheltenham to watch some horse racing. Apparently it is absolutely de rigueur. Horse racing! What can possibly be interesting about that?’
‘It is the betting.’ Elsa knelt beside her to soap her back. ‘The English are a nation of gamblers. Now, I have something to tell you.’
‘Yes?’
‘That woman was here again today.’
‘What woman?’
‘That fashion editor. I told you she came twice before Christmas, and she has been back every couple of weeks since. She wishes to interview you. She is very pushy.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember. Is she genuine?’
‘Every time she comes she leaves her card.’ Elsa held it out; Anna flicked foam from her hand and studied it.
‘Belinda Hoskin, Fashion Editor, the Pictorial,’ she read aloud. ‘Isn’t that one of the magazines that has been telephoning us all winter?’
‘Yes it is,’ Elsa said.
‘Well, they are persistent.’
‘Very persistent. She actually tried to force her way in today. But when I called Bowen she desisted.’
‘But she will presumably call again.’ Anna laid the card on the table beside the bath.
‘Do you not think it strange that an editor, having been turned down when she made a formal approach, should attempt to push her way in? Is fashion that important?’
‘It is to some people, I suppose.’ Anna soaped her breasts and stomach, slowly and sensuously. If she continued to find Ballantine an utterly unattractive man, his constant desire to hold her and stroke her and fondle her had awakened sensations and desires she had not known she possessed, and kept her in a constantly aroused state, which he naturally assumed was because of her adoration of him. ‘You think she is suspicious?’
‘I think anyone who shows too much interest in you is suspicious.’
Anna smiled. ‘That covers half the male population of London. I do not see what this woman can know about me to make her so interested. But, if it bothers you, when next do you see Schmidt?’
‘The day after tomorrow. Do you wish her eliminated?’
The SD’s answer to everything, Anna thought. If the memory of the desperately running convict at the training camp was just beginning to fade, she could still feel Gottfried Friedemann against her. He had so enjoyed that lunch – had, like all her victims, living or dead, been unable to believe that so beautiful, sophisticated, and obviously wealthy a woman should be attracted to a humble librarian. He had accompanied her back to her flat in a state of euphoria, and when she had sat beside him on the settee and put her arm round his shoulders, she had thought he might be about to burst into song.
She had been kissing him when Elsa had entered the room. Elsa had walked behind the settee, her feet making no sound on the carpet, and had placed the pistol on the table, again noiselessly. Friedemann had only realized she was in the room when she had emerged in front of him to ask him if he would like something to drink. He had released Anna, turned away from her, and looked up in dismay at having his idyll interrupted. In that moment, her arm still round his shoulders, Anna had extended her hand, picked up the pistol, placed the muzzle against the nape of his neck, pointing upwards in line with his head, and squeezed the trigger.
How easy it was to kill a man. But when he is actually in your arms . . . She had been unable to suppress a shriek as blood had spurted over her hand and on to the cushions. She had fled to the bathroom while Elsa had laid the body flat, still on the cushions, so that not a trace of blood had fallen on the carpet. By the time Anna had returned, Elsa had wrapped the dead man’s head in a towel, by no means to conceal the features but to sop up the blood. ‘I think he died happy,’ she had remarked.
Anna wondered how many more people were going to have to die happy before her blood-stained course was done. But she certainly did not want the number to include some innocent woman who was only doing her job, if perhaps a little over-zealously.
‘I think that would be a mistake at this time,’ she said. ‘We do not have Scotland Yard working for us as the SD had the police in Germany. Get Schmidt to find out something about her.’
‘You do understand the consequences if anyone discovers the truth about you?’
‘No one can possibly do that as long as Bally is protecting me. But if this woman is in any way likely to be a problem, then we will deal with it.’
‘Very well. But Schmidt is also getting anxious about something to show Berlin. At present all they are getting is photographs in the newspapers of you living the high life.’
‘That’s what they sent me here to do, isn’t it? Don’t worry, I am working on it. I should have something for him within a fortnight.’
