Famous Last Words (46 page)

show them. Harry forbade them certain company. Of course this led to problems. Children grow up and want their own lives.

Oakes himself, although a Canadian citizen, was an

American by birth—from the state of Maine. (The Duchess called him “the Baronet Boor from Bar Harbour!”) His wealth

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was in gold, not a nugget of which was inherited. Oakes had strewn the world with his diggings, from the Klondike to the Congo, from the outback of Australia to the Laurentian Shield. He was a self-made man in every sense and had

searched the globe with pick and shovel for fifteen years before he made his famous strike at Kirkland Lake, Ontario in 1912. Consequently, Lakeshore Mines became the second largest yielder of gold in the world. Oakes was made a millionaire two hundred times and more. And it seemed he was

determined that for every dollar he would have an enemy.

His manner was appalling. His rudeness and meanness

were legendary.

He was also enormously ambitious. In Canada he had

decided his wealth was worth at least a seat in the Senate.

But his enemies blocked him. No deal. No matter what he paid, or who he paid it to, nothing was forthcoming. The seats in the great red Chamber were not for sale. At least, they were not for sale to Harry Oakes.

In a rage, he went to England and there his money was

respected. He was able to purchase a baronetcy with large contributions to St. George’s Hospital. And when he returned to Canada, now Sir Harry Oakes, Bart., he threw his

title into the ring with his millions. “What about now I get to be the Governor General?” he said. But laughter was all he got for this and Harry Oakes had finally had enough. If Canada had slighted him, Canada would be sorry.

He was already paying something close to four million

dollars every year in taxes. And what if he died? Death duties alone might cut his enormous estate in half. All for a country that wouldn’t even allow him to sit in the Senate. All that power—and nothing he could move. Except himself. And

with himself—his gold.

He began this manoeuvre in the accepted ways of business traditions: forming various corporations; scattering his assets abroad in anonymous bank accounts; disbursing his

profits amongst a number of specially created agencies. Still he was victimized and overtaxed.

In 1934 he met a man on the cote d’avarice of Florida—

and this man, whose name was Harold Christie, looked

out across the Straits and said: “there are some islands there…” whispering in Oakes’ ear. “Weather adorable

.. .taxes next to nothing…death duties nil.”

“Are they for sale?” Oakes asked. “These islands?”

Yes.

And so it was that Harold Christie, promising death duties nil, sold Harry Oakes a good place to die and—all unwitting—his death.

The relationship between the Duke of Windsor and Sir Harry Oakes was difficult to classify. On the face of things, they should have been enemies: one the epitome of all that is civilized, genteel and respected, the other a walking summary of all that is crude, contemptible and mean. But they

had become—for a while—the best of friends and to some degree, cohorts.

There was talk between them of business deals, something to do with gambling concessions. Oakes wanted the concessions more than he could say. He had a great vision of stone

white casinos set amidst flowered gardens and amusement parks. They would guarantee post-war tourism. They would save the Bahamian economy. He would lend his name to a

number of great hotels. It would all be for charity, bounty and posterity. The Duke might even have a hotel named after him.

The Duke’s part in this was to be historical. He would

change the gambling laws. Or rather, he would arrange to have them changed. He would pester here and pamper there and in the long run, being Royal, he would have his way.

Oakes knew a certain amount of money would have to be

made available—here and there. He knew the Duke of Windsor had expenses. He knew the Duchess had intransigent

tastes in what sort of table she set and what sort of rooms she could live in and what sort of clothes she would wear.

And he knew the British Government was not inclined—if indeed it was able—to send large drafts of monies hither

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and yon wherever it was the Duke and Duchess might want to spend it. So, in order to gain concessions, Harry Oakes made concessions. In a word—he provided.

But my mission was not with Oakes. He was merely the host arranged for me by Wallis, who thought he would provide the perfect cover.

My first encounters with Wallis were tentative and formal.

Neither one of us knew how to play the game. It was impossible to get away from everyone else for any decent length

of time, but this was only because of our nervousness at what we were doing. If we were left alone we would no more dare to close the door than dare to flourish a gun.

But there were things one had to tell and things one had to know, and we had to find a comfortable way in which

to talk without arousing suspicion. Suddenly I got a call one afternoon, about the second week in June. It was from “Her Grace’s secretary”—a certain Mister Howard—and would

I be good enough to meet the Duchess and her party at the Porcupine Club, Hog Island, that evening at ten?

This meant I would have to brave my way through the

dark above the sharks. But Sir Harry said he would send me in his motorlaunch, which he did, but not before he had reminded me at length I was his guest and I was not to

mingle with “the younger crowd. They’re ‘an immoral lot—

white-feather boys and boobs.” His eyes made a shift to the right and to the left and back to me. “I’ve a son-in-law there—

and all his friends. And I don’t want you near him. Understand?”

“Yes…” (Sir, I almost said.)

The son-in-law was Count Alfred de Marigny—married

to Oakes’ eldest daughter, Nancy. “But now I’ve got Nancy up in Boston. Sick with a minor operation. Only way to get her away from him. And you are not to mention her name

to anyone. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want her talked about,” said Oakes. “I don’t want any of them to even breathe on her name.”

But her name was practically all I heard—though not at the Porcupine Club. It was from Sir Harry’s driver, the man who drove me down to the wharf and, having switched

vehicles, over the sharks to the levee on the other side. His whole conversation—a monologue—was based on the news

regarding Miss Nancy. She had left her husband, Alfred de Marigny, and was seeking a divorce. This, then, was the “sickness” she suffered from. And the “minor operation”

mentioned by Sir Harry was severance. It was all too familiar—and I thought of Wallis in Paris, 1936, denying every

rumour while she was setting all the wheels in motion.

Nonetheless, the story of Miss Nancy and her Count provided me with some explanation, at least, of Sir Harry Oakes’

bad temper and his subsequent behaviour.

At the Porcupine Club there was Wallis, plus a party of twenty. Wallis was beaming and gleaming in a silver gown.

I have rarely seen her give a better performance. Goodness, she was gay.

“Come on, Maubie,” she said. “Let’s dance.”

I could not, of course, say no—but I dreaded the very

thought of dancing. I had not even dreamed of dancing for years and it seemed unfair that my first appearance on a public dance-floor, after so much time, should be with the Duchess of Windsor. Obviously, I was out of practice with celebrity. When a hundred faces turned in our direction, I cringed. And when Wallis said to me, “Now we can chit

chat…” I turned beet red. I thought the chit-chat was a form of dance and asked her how it was done.

Wallis threw back her head and laughed out loud. Every

eye in the room was on us still, and would be till we were seated again. “I mean,” she said “we. can talk while we dance. And if the music is loud enough, no one will hear what we say.”

She told me then to put my arm around her waist and take her hand. As soon as I had done the latter, she straightened her arm—and mine—and said, “You remember Dmitri teaching us the Castle Walk?”

I did—and we began.

At once the whole room gasped, since no one there had

danced the Castle Walk since 1917. And some had never

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seen it done at all. Round and round the floor we went, with Wallis staring at me, smiling, and me staring back quite blank.

“Smile,” she said. “Smile…”—through her teeth. “Play it up, Maubie. Act.”

Slowly, more and more aware of what she was doing, I

relaxed and even began to enjoy myself.

I too began to smile.

And all the people watched us—mesmerized, because we

stood so straight and held our arms so straight, first down against our thighs then out towards one side, then upward in salute. And we turned and turned and turned.

“You are going away by submarine,” I said.

“And how will we know the submarine is here?”

“A ship will come.”

“A ship?”

“A silver ship—or white.”

“A ship?”

“Not large. And it will sit offshore. And someone on the ship will get in touch with me.”

We turned.

“And what am I to tell the Duke?”

“Just tell him: now the word has come and we are going

back.”

We turned.

“But he’s afraid. They told us: death to Fascists everywhere.”

“Then tell him we are going where it is safe.”

We turned.

“This ship—will they be Germans? What?”

“The submarine is coming from von Ribbentrop. The ship—

I cannot tell what he’s arranged,”

“And when?”

We turned.

“I cannot say, but soon. And when I tell you: now—then we must leave within the hour. That’s all I know.”

“But how can I prepare? How can I pack? What can I take?

My things? The minute I open a suitcase lid, someone will guess I’m going away.”

We turned.

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“Make up a story. Tell them you’re going to New York.

A diplomatic mission. Of course the news must not be broadcast.”

We turned.

“I think on a submarine I will not be allowed to take very much. It is not an ocean liner.”

“No.”

Hiit’J’J “But never mind.”

We turned.

“If it comes to that,” she said, “we only need ourselves.”

We turned.

“And my jewel case, of course…”

We turned.

“And the make-up tables.”

Then—we turned—“But what if he will not come?” she

said. “He is so afraid. You have no idea.”

“Tell him if he does not come, he will be more afraid,”

I heard myself saying. “I am afraid,” I said. “Tell him that, if it will help.”

“You men,” said Wallis. “Isn’t it strange? I’m not afraid at all.”

The dance was over. Some of the “audience” even applauded.

By the spring of 1943, the war had grown so large it was impossible to gain a comprehensive view of who was winning, who was losing. Everyone seemed to be in the throes

|| BHL ‘flIIIIJIJIIIIII o^ simultaneous victory and defeat. Only one thing was clear: so far as the Penelope cabal was concerned, the war had begun to move too fast. Events were clouding the whereabouts of the players. For us, it was not the sort of war where you could afford to lose battalions in a forest or a convoy of troops in a mountain pass. We had no troops. We had no army. All we had was us; and every figure had to be accounted for.

Chess is the best analogy: a stately game, a courtly game

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where the moves are never blurred by haste. In such a game there is no indecisive movement. The fingers are never seen to hover above the board. It is only the mind that hovers there. The eyes tell nothing, yet they see it all. And when the moment comes, the hand goes out decisively, unwavering—plays and makes its statement all in one gesture. The

figures rise and fall according to their shapes and everything that happens must be inevitable.

Now we had lost Hess. And Bedaux too, whom the French

had arrested in Algiers late in 1942. He was charged with treason against France and America, but no one knew where he was being held. One moment, rumour told us he was

imprisoned in Africa. Algiers. Next, he was being held in France and would face an Underground tribunal. Some rumours even placed him in Florida—talking, making deals,

and bargaining for his life.

In Rome, Isabella’s cousin, the Count Ciano, was fretting that unless he was allowed to knock down Mussolini now, the Allies would arrive from their victories in Africa. Nothing then could be done to set a member of the cabal—himself perhaps—in il Duce’s place. All the gains and benefits of years of Fascist control would be crushed beneath the heel of democracy.

The cabal was still poised on the verge of its coup. But a grand success was needed and the best would be the recovery of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Nothing, now,

must be allowed to prevent their being returned to Europe.

Poste speciaJe.

In my room at Westbourne, night after night, I could not sleep—or thought I did not sleep. The geckoes mingled with my dreams and I watched them struggling up the walls and creeping out across the ceiling—shadows only, beyond the netting—and every time one made it to the centre, I would count the seconds till it finally let go and fell. The lucky ones might only fall into the net, or be so young and small they had not weight enough to harm themselves or die. But every morning after my single hour of sleep I would push

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the corpses into a box with the toe of my shoe, and take them down into the service room, handing them over to

Mavis Boodle, the only servant in Sir Harry’s house who, it seemed, was not afraid to take compassion on the dead.

And Mavis Boodle would lift the lid and peek inside and say what pretty colours and wasn’t life a trial? Later, I think she would burn them, out in the oil-drum incinerator. Certainly I saw her there, standing in (he mid-morning sun,