In the Saturday morning quiet of the relatively empty headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst, the security service of the SS and the Nazi Party, Colonel Derrick Albrecht finished reading the report of Veronique Colbert’s real identity. The information had come from a German-born naturalized American citizen transmitting to the Sicherheitsdienst on a secret shortwave radio on Long Island in New York. Not a single fact in the report surprised him. Having spent only a short time in Mademoiselle Colbert’s company and without a shred of information about her true background, he could have written the dossier himself. Victoria Grayson came from a line of titled paternal and maternal English ancestors stretching back to the barons who forced King John of England to sign the Magna Carta, and as American aristocracy went, both sides could claim a seat. Victoria Grayson’s family tree seated a number of important political figures, high-placed judges, eminent physicians, inventors, educators, and Wall Street financiers from both branches who had done their part to do their progenitors proud. There wasn’t a black sheep among the generations apparently.
He ran his eye down the page. Education: William and Mary, Phi Beta Kappa, with a degree in Franco studies. And her fencing instructor had been none other than the college’s acclaimed master of foil, Tucker Jones.
Well, well, well. Colonel Albrecht reached forward on his desk and lifted the lid of a humidor that bore his family’s heraldic crest. He removed a Montecristo #2, withdrew a cigar cutter and butane lighter from a drawer, and sat back to perform the ritual required to enjoy the finest “smoke”—as the Americans would call it—in the world while he contemplated what to think about Victoria Grayson. To prepare a Cuban cigar properly for smoking required patience and tranquility, the perfect occupation to induce clear thinking.
Once the smoke of woody, leathery flavors were afloat in the air, and he felt the light, pleasant burn at the back of his palate, he reached a conclusion about the deceptive Victoria Grayson. His first assumption, that she’d been too late to leave Paris after Germany declared war against the United States, had been almost correct. The report stated that in late September of this year, Victoria Grayson had disappeared from her country. Her parents were under the impression that she was doing some secret government work for the U.S. State Department. Rubbish! After reading in the dossier of her engagement to an American RAF pilot feared dead after his plane went down near Paris during a bombing raid, Derrick Albrecht had no trouble believing their daughter had somehow found a way to smuggle herself into France to learn what had happened to him. It was something a girl of her spunk would do.
He was almost certain she’d discovered that the pilot had not survived. The previous Sunday, he’d had her followed to a boardinghouse in the Latin Quarter, owned by a Madame Dupree. His trusted wolfhound had reported that Mademoiselle Colbert had entered, then left a half hour later to walk to a church park several blocks away, where she had been joined not long afterward by a middle-aged woman who handed the girl something. After a brief conversation, she bent her head as if she were crying. Then the woman returned to the boardinghouse, and mademoiselle walked to the train station. His man reported that Mademoiselle Colbert had looked out the window of her metro seat the entire way to L’Ecole d’Escrime Français, and in the light of the passing trains he could see tears on her face.
The report explained her distress when she’d walked into the fencing hall later that same Sunday. She had insisted that nothing was wrong, but her play had been so distracted that he’d called a halt minutes into the bout. She’d been grateful and confessed, “I am not well today.” He had expressed his concern—genuine, as it happened—and offered to drive her home, but she’d refused. He had not insisted, but he’d had her followed to make sure she arrived at her hotel safely. The next day, he’d sent her flowers that probably ended up in a wastebasket. He could have Madame Dupree brought in for questioning, but he did not want Victoria Grayson alerted to his inquiries nor did he want to risk alienating her until he learned all about her. But he would keep the name of the proprietress of the boardinghouse in his files. He had become…taken with Mademoiselle Veronique Colbert. Thinking of her beauty shone a light in the darkest corners of his life, and she was among the most challenging bout partners he’d ever met on the piste.
“Herr Colonel?” Karl, his aide-de-camp and man-of-all-purposes, interrupted his thoughts from the doorway of his office. “There is a Monsieur Beaumont Fournier to see you.”
“The author?”
“Yes. He says it’s urgent.”
“It must be for him to appear at Sicherheitsdienst headquarters on a Saturday morning. I would think he’d be sleeping off last night’s coitus activities with his latest paramour.”
His aide smirked. “I don’t like his writing.”
“Neither do I, almost as much as I don’t like him. Send him in, Karl.”
To avert a French greeting, the colonel stood when his guest entered, but did not move from behind his desk. The author took the hint and, ever his unctuous, effusive self, approached Derrick with a large smile and outstretched hand. “Your Grace,” he said with a dip of his head. Inwardly, Derrick winced. “Your Grace” applied to ducal lords of England. “So good to see you.”
“Yes, well, this is where I am most usually seen,” the colonel said, shaking his visitor’s hand.
“Ah, yes, most, but not always, no? Your manservant told me I’d find you here this Saturday morning.” He shivered in his overcoat. “Let us hope this last day of October is not a precursor of the winter to come. May I?” He gestured toward a chair before the desk.
Warily, Derrick nodded. “By all means. What can I do for you?”
“Oh no, no—not what you can do for me, Duke, but what I can do for you. Is that a Montecristo I smell?” The author’s glance skewed toward the humidor.
“It is,” Derrick said, ignoring his visitor’s hint to be offered one of the treasures in the box. “How may you be of help to me?”
The author settled for fitting a Gauloises into a slender cigarette holder. “I’ve information about a young woman that I know to be an American living in Paris under an assumed name and pretending to be French. She goes by the name Veronique Colbert, but her name is really Victoria Grayson, and she is employed as a fencing instructor at L’Ecole d’Escrime Français here in Paris. I believe you fence there?”
Derrick felt his shoulder muscles tighten. Casually, he drew on the Montecristo. “That is so. How do you know her?”
“I met her in New York. She was working as a French translator at the publishing house that acquired the rights to my international best seller, Cathédrale de Silence. Perhaps you’ve read it?” Beaumont held a lighter to the tip of his cigarette.
The colonel inclined his head. “I have.” With all due haste, he thought. “Do you fence?”
“Not at all.”
“Then how did you come across Mademoiselle Colbert?”
The author blew out a stream of smoke and chuckled. “Oh, come now, Your Grace. You can’t pretend you don’t know her. Your association with her, whatever it is, is safe with me. I know the importance of discretion. I saw Victoria Grayson dining with you at the Ritz one Sunday not a month ago. It did not take much checking to learn of her employment and your association at the fencing school. That’s why I am here. I wanted to warn you to be careful of what you say around her. I believe she could have been sent here to spy. I can’t imagine any other reason for her to be in Paris in a time of war with her country, can you?”
“For the moment I can’t think of any, no.”
Beaumont turned his head to one side to expel another casual stream of smoke. “I hope the colonel can appreciate that I am sensitive to his embarrassment should the Gestapo learn that the head of its brother organization was unaware of the danger Mademoiselle Colbert poses to the security service of the Reichsführer.”
The colonel’s brow rose a fraction. “You plan to take this information to the Gestapo?”
“That is my plan, yes. Again, my reason is plain. I wish to spare the duke the…unpleasantness of interrogating a beautiful woman in whom it would be understandable if he had more than a casual interest. She has a distinctive regal manner. I wouldn’t doubt but that there is royal blood from somewhere back in her lineage. It takes a European to see it.”
“It does indeed. You seem to know a lot about…this young woman. Did you spend time with her in New York?”
“Only a brief few hours. There wasn’t much time to…get to know her. My visa was soon to expire.”
“An annoying interference to the objective you had in mind and most certainly would have achieved, I’ve no doubt.”
A flicker in the author’s eyes confirmed to Derrick that all the time in the world would not have achieved what he had in mind for Victoria Grayson. Beaumont Fournier had come to betray her for her rejection of him. “Yes, most annoying,” he said smoothly.
“Well then, Monsieur Fournier, it is most kind of you to be concerned for my welfare,” Derrick said. “You must tell me how I can express my gratitude.” He glanced at the wall clock. “But before you do, it is my habit to have a cup of coffee this time of morning. Perhaps you’d care to join me?” He nodded toward a sideboard. “There are fresh croissants, as well.”
“No croissants, s’il vous plaît, but I would very much appreciate a cup of coffee. I am recovering from…an arduous night.”
The colonel returned his visitor’s man-to-man smile. “But none too stressful to be enjoyed, I hope.” He punched a button on his desk. “Karl,” he said into the intercom, “bring us two cups of coffee, the kind we serve to special visitors.”
“Yes, Herr Colonel,” came the reply.
Ten minutes later, the author of Cathédrale de Silence lay sprawled in his chair awaiting disposal by the usual means. His eyes were staring and mouth gawping in horrified realization of his immediate death, and the duke was not disposed to close them. The author had died of cyanide poisoning.