Famous Last Words (30 page)

was the note? She fell to her knees and searched under all the shelves, over all the surfaces, inside all the cupboards.

Gone. Oh God. She raised her arms against her face. The card. Where was the card?

The Duchess of Windsor turned and stared at all the open closets. There were her shoes, dozens of them, bagged like dead birds hanging from the doors. There were her tea dresses,

evening gowns, peignoirs, wraps and robes and coats and capes. Blue. Blue. All blue. And there were the suitcases—

packed.

In the other room, she heard the door being opened; shut; relocked.

The Duchess watched the mirrors.

There was Estrade: dressed in a mackintosh and wearing

a beret.

“Duquesa?”

The Duchess did not answer.

“Duquesa?”

The Duchess placed both hands, like the hands of a corpse, on her breast.

“Duquesa?” Estrade came to the doorway, still in the

mirror, but their eyes met. The Duchess remained silent.

Estrade’s hand was in her pocket. She removed it. There was a gun. A Luger automatic.

The Duchess of Windsor turned and walked, her hands

still folded, out of the dressing-room into the bedroom. Her jewel cases—three of them—sat on the bed. She sat down beside them.

“Where are we going?” she said, not looking at Estrade.

“Into Esparto,” Estrade said.

“At gunpoint…?” The Duchess looked at Estrade. not

only alarmed but confused.

“But of course, Duquesa.”

Estrade smiled. Her teeth, the Duchess noted, were rotted and black with decay. The Duchess of Windsor went into

the bathroom and took half a down pills. But nothing happened.

They did not help. Where, where, where was von

Ribbentrop? What had gone wrong? Who was Estrade working for?

But before she could even begin to think, her window was broken. Stones were being thrown, glass was being shattered.

Servants and soldiers were rushing to the terraces. A figure could be seen running back and forth, but then the darkness hid him, mixing with the trees. Long brass arms of light leapt out and flooded across the lawns from opened doors. Both Estrade and the Duchess ran to the windows. One of the

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Doctor’s houseboys was standing near the balustrade above the steps. He was pointing down at the trees and he was shouting, “vai ele? vai ele!” And then; “o assassino!”

The Duchess heard Estrade mutter “bueno” and caught

her looking at her watch.

“This has to do with you,” the Duchess said, withdrawing from the lighted windows. “Hasn’t it? Tell me.”

“I do not know what the Duquesa means.”

The Duchess pointed at the windows and shouted at Estrade.

“He is saying there is an assassin!”

“Si, Duquesa.”

The shouting out of doors continued. “Vai ele! Voi ele.’”

and there was the sound of much running…more glass

breaking…and then a gunshot.

The Duchess ran across the room to the bureau and,taking up the bottle, flung a great deal of gin in Estrade’s eyes, meaning to blind her.

She succeeded. Estrade dropped the gun and groped for

her eyes.

The Duchess ran to the gun, took it up, and ran lor the door. She was still in her slip. She fumbled with the key which Estrade had left in the lock…and flung the door nearly off its hinges. In the hallway, she fled towards the stairs.

“Vai ele.’ Vai ele.’” The voices were everywhere.

And then the lights went out.

The Duchess decided to make for the dining-room. She was certain to find some candles there, and it was central. She was glad of Estrade’s Luger. Squeeze the trigger, she remembered Ernest, her second husband, telling her. Squeeze the

(rigger, WaJJis. Don’t ever snap at it ivilh your lingers.

When she got to the dining-room, she discovered the cloth and all the dishes were still on the floor and she had to walk very carefully, finally crawling on her hands and knees in order to find the candelabra. Once she had found them, she set them carefully in place on the table and lighted them with matches also found on the floor. She then sat down

!i?“sae

with a large chipped glass of port to await whatever horrors would unfold. She wrapped the tablecloth around her

shoulders, not unlike a robe of state, and, huddled inside it, she proceeded to get quite drunk. She even smoked some soggy cigarettes. To hell with it. Whenever they were ready.

whoever was out there would come and find her. Her

candlelight would tell them she was there. In the meantime, she composed a whole new correspondence in her mind.

“Dear Ameh’a Earhart …” it began. I know how you feel …”

The Duke made his escape from Major Gerrard quite easily the moment the lights went out. Gerrard had pushed him

against the wall when the first stones were thrown and in the confusion of all the coming and going and breaking glass, the Duke had simply crawled beneath a table. When Gerrard had reached, in the blackout, for the Duke of Windsor’s arm it had been Lieutenant Dennison he had captured. By which time the Duke of Windsor was halfway down the hall.

The Duke’s first thought was of Wallis and he made for

the stairs. In the dark he missed her entirely—being unaware she was already feeling her way along the walls towards the dining-room.

The Duke heard the words and the whispers: “tenho

medo…da escuridao…espalhar-se.” Three people—four, perhaps—fumbled their way down the stairs against the

opposite bannister and while they passed, he paused, afraid to breathe. Slowly their whispers faded around the corners and were gone. He was suddenly alone.

Instead of climbing, however, he sagged on the steps. Way, way off in the gardens someone was calling; “vai ele. vai ele.’” He runs. But the Duke could not have cared less. He looked up into the dome of darkness.

For one brief moment he was entirely in charge of his own life. No one could see his expression—he didn’t have to act, perform, equivocate. In the darkness all his dissembling lay unravelled at his feet and he knew that for months he had worn his face like a garment. A woollen mask in which he had begun to suffocate. The image came to him of skeins

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and skeins and yards and yards of wool on the stairs at his feet and’he found himself laughing: Thank God mother

taught me how to knit’

He wiped his tears away with his knuckles. Be serious,

he thought. There’s a man out there who’s trying to kill you.

He sniffed. He desperately wanted to blow his nose. Be

serious, he told himself again; there really is a man.

Seconds later the Duke of Windsor had completely disappeared.

Some time afterwards there was a series of gun shots on the second floor. Almost at once. Lieutenant Mudde appeared on the staircase. He was bloodied and dazed and fell the last ten steps into the hall.

The Duchess hurried from the dining-room to help him.

Dennison stumbled out of the dark, attracted by the Duchess’

candles. Mudde was not all that badly hurt, but he was

raving, his speech weaving in and out of sense. “Up—up,”

he kept saying, “go up.” And when the two of them started up the stairs he shouted after them, like a man convicted of a crime he did not commit, “It is impossible!” he cried.

“It is impossible! He can’t—he can’t have meant it.”

Dennison had to restrain the Duchess, she was so eager

to reach wherever their destination might be. But she wrenched herself free and spun away from him, rushing past all the doors, throwing this one and that one open until at last she came to the end of the hall where the doors gave way to the Martello Tower. And then, all at once, she experienced fear—

came to her senses and fell back.

Therefore it was Lieutenant Dennison who first confronted the scene.

There was a table, several chairs and a tapestry. A half dozen mirrors and stacks of empty picture frames, each one with glass, were lined up along the walls.

Candles burned. Six of them. Seven.

One of the commandos was standing, with his rifle at the ready, off to one side of the doors. Another was crouching on the floor unarmed. His hands were on top of his head

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and he looked like a man who was waiting out a bombardment.

He had apparently lost his powers of speech, though

noises issued from his mouth and tears from his eyes. The reason lay on the floor beside him.

Dennison snatched up a candlestick and stepped forward.

Underneath his feet there was a flood of broken glass and he almost fell.

The commando by the door stopped him with a hand on

his arm. “You’d best not look, sir.” he said. “You’d best not. I think. There’s an awful bloodv mess.”

“I can see that,” said Dennison. “Thank roll. Is he dead?”

“I think so.”

Major Gerrard then stepped out of the shadows, putting

his automatic pistol back in its holster. Dennison was somewhat surprised, not having knou’n Gerrard was there.

“All right, Lieutenant,” said the Major. “Yon stand off.

I’ll do this.” And, Dennison having fallen uack. Gerrard stepped all the way forward and looked a; the Duke of Windsor’s body on the floor. Its face was turned awav from the

light. There were shards and slivers of glass all around it.

Gerrard crouched down, giving half a look at the kneeling soldier who was directly opposite. “Somebody come and

take that man away.”

There was enormous quantities of blood—more than Dennison had ever seen.

Gerrard turned the face quite gently with his fingers the way he might disturb a sleeper. And then, without a word, he pushed the face away so as not to see it any more. Finally he stood up.

The Duchess, who all this while had been silent, spoke

from the doorway.

“Please,” she said, drawing the tablecloth tight around her shoulders. “Tell me.”

Major Gerrard took a deep breath and turned to face her.

“I beg of you not to look, Your Royal Highness. Please, Ma’am,” he said, “he isn’t dead; but you mustn’t look.”

The Duchess was helped from the room and put in a chair outside the door with her back to the wall.

Dennison was kneeling by the Duke of Windsor. “Who

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the hell did this?” he whispered. “Who the hell shot him?”

“I did,” said Major Gerrard.

Not quite dawn—but the rain had ended and the stars, at last, had emerged. Estrade made her way down through the olive grove to the town, where she had a rendezvous. With her she carried all her possessions in a single suitcase. Her Portuguese sojourn was nearly over. One more thing to do.

Which brings me to the end of Maria de Gama’s story.

Having delivered the flowers the girl returned as instructed to Fritzi Schaemmel. Schaemmel then paid the child the

escudos still owed her and invited her into his seedy little hotel room to share some chocolate and wine.

All Portuguese children drink wine and children everywhere love chocolate. The wine was local, but the chocolate

came from Switzerland and tasted very good. It was the last of anything Maria was to eat. Once she was finished, Schellenberg”Schaemmel”

struck the little girl behind the ear

and while she was unconscious, he gagged her and tied her to a chair.

When Estrade arrived in the morning, there was light

enough in Schellenberg’s room to see the child in the corner; see her—and see her eyes light up with the brief, bright hope that all would be well, now a woman was present.

But Schellenberg simply said, “The child must be killed,”

and Estrade, pausing only to remove her skirt in order to have more freedom of movement, crossed without a word

to Maria.

Maria’s death was made more difficult by the fact that she wanted so much to live. She fought against Estrade with all her strength and kicked her several times in the stomach.

But Estrade barely felt the kicks and carried the child across the room and drowned her in the sink. She did this very quickly, pressing down with her thumbs behind Maria’s

ears.

It was done and over in five minutes.

wfv ^- m!v”s^sf

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Estrade sat down and lighted a cigarette and accepted a small glass of Schnapps.

ScheIIenberg said to her, “I presume because you have

come alone, our friend the Marques has relieved us of our royal guests?”

No. Estrade had to admit they had failed in their mission.

She told him the English had arrived as anticipated, but the Duchess of Windsor had kept the contents of the note to herself, which had caused Major Schellenberg’s plans to backfire. On the other hand the houseboy and the gardener had played their roles extremely well—shooting off the gun; throwing stones and breaking windows; crying “assassin?”

And the lights had all gone off precisely on cue. But…Now Estrade had to tell him she had been bested by the Duquesa.

“With gin she blinded me,” she said. “So I lost vital moments in the dark.” Still she was able to report there had been an extraordinary occurrence.

“Oh?”

Estrade told him Major Gerrard had shot the Duke of

Windsor.

ScheIIenberg fell silent. If the Duke of Windsor died, they would all be out of pocket. On the other hand…

ScheIIenberg sat down.

Ten minutes later, Estrade had to remind him of the body in the corner.

Maria da Gama’s body was found a day later by her sister Alida where it lay enmeshed in kelp on the sand. It was presumed she had been drowned in the sea. The bruises

shaped like thumb prints just behind her ears could be explained by rocks. There was no investigation. She was buried

on the hillside, halfway up to the Villa Cascais. In the graveyard there were roses, lilies, delphiniums. Flares para as

mortos.

By chance, Maria’s funeral was taking place at the very moment when the Duchess and her party made their dash

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for the ship. The mourners kneeling in the grass lifted their heads to see the passing motorcade through a veil of red dust—the Buick, the Mercedes, the Renault all laden with luggage, much of it tied to the roof. Inside the cars, the bandaged and sedated Duke, the Duchess, Major Gerrard