The Heart of the Ritz Read online

  Zita pulled the trigger and the explosion was shockingly loud. The bullet flew past Hans’ shoulder to smash into the boudoir wall. A puff of pulverised plaster merged with the smoking gunpowder. Hans nearly messed himself.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Zita, coolly, as if nothing had occurred. ‘I can’t believe you. You’ve hurt her in some way, Hans, when you promised me you would not.’

  He managed to control his panicking bowel. His manhood was only engorged by the violence. ‘I’m sure you will ask her,’ he began again. ‘And perhaps she will ask you where it is that you go so late at night?’ He enjoyed what he imagined was shame he exposed in her face. ‘Ah. I can see that both of you will choose an untruthful answer.’

  Zita pulled the trigger again. This time her bullet pierced the incongruously placed armoire, sending splinters in the air.

  ‘I am an excellent shot,’ Zita told him. ‘And next time I will prove it to you.’

  She was half crazy, unhinged – and Hans wanted only to enter her. ‘When you hear what the Comtesse tells you, Liebchen, I encourage you to favour my account,’ he said. ‘Mine will be unemotional and accurate . . .’ He waited, stroking himself, to see what she would do next.

  When Zita did nothing, Hans moved slowly to the bed, holding her eyes with his own. With Zita’s finger still on the trigger, he gently took the end of the gun in his hand and brought it up under her chin. ‘Pull it,’ he whispered. ‘You could end it all now. Our great love could be over forever. Why don’t you just pull it, Liebchen?’

  She wouldn’t, of course, and he knew it. There was Lotti.

  ‘Good.’ He took the French gun from her hands and rested it next to her head on the pillow. He liked the picture it made: the weapon side by side with the ringleted girl and his lover.

  ‘Please let me see our daughter . . .’

  ‘When you are better behaved,’ he told her. He was ready to go inside her now, he was ready to start thrusting.

  ‘But I’ve been so good – you know I’ve been good.’

  ‘Shhh.’

  ‘Please let me, Hans . . .’

  Sex lost its appeal.

  He sprawled beside her and shoved the Renoir to the floor. After a moment he said, ‘I have two more bottles of that vintage. There is one to give to von Hofacker – he needs buttering up. And who for the other one, do you think? Speidel perhaps?’

  Zita said nothing.

  He released a sigh, giving in. ‘All right then. When you see Lotti, we will do so together – as mother and father. Won’t that be better, Liebchen?’

  He watched as Zita read the implications of this, beginning a new navigation of his ever-evolving rules. ‘All right then.’ She nodded. ‘We will go there together.’

  He stretched his great arms behind his head and gazed at her fondly on the pillow beside him. Hans felt nostalgic. ‘You remember how we found each other in Berlin again, Liebchen – all those years after we met here at the Ritz?’

  ‘Here at the Ritz,’ she whispered in echo, ‘when you held the Vendôme door for me . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When you gave me my lip rouge, which had fallen from my hand . . .’

  ‘The sweetest night of my life.’

  ‘Our life . . .’ said Zita.

  Not for the first time he wondered if she really did remember it, or whether it was only the story which had become the memory to her now.

  ‘And then we met again in Berlin,’ Zita finished, as if by rote. ‘Five years after, in ’27. On the film set.’

  He scooped her in his arm, let her nuzzle at his massive chest. ‘What a beautiful script that was.’

  ‘The film?’

  He chuckled. ‘You and I.’ He wondered if he had the energy to grow hard for her again. ‘Perhaps it is time to re-make it. And even better. After all, our setting is the Ritz now . . .’

  She propped on her elbow to look at him. ‘What is it with you and this hotel, Hans?’

  He closed his eyes, tired suddenly. The Comte’s looted champagne was relaxing him.

  ‘Hans?’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘What is it with you and the Ritz? Tell me. I want to understand it. Do you love it here – or do you hate it?’

  He opened his eyes again. ‘You really feel the need to ask me that, Liebchen?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I don’t know the answer anymore . . .’

  A smile played at his lips again. ‘What does your heart tell you?’ he wondered.

  She looked in vain for the truth of him. ‘That’s just it, Hans,’ she said, ‘my heart won’t tell me anything about you . . .’

  * * *

  When Hans left to luxuriate in the bathroom, Zita ran her fingers across the bullet hole in the side of the polished armoire. Even with the hotel blueprints she had stolen for Hans, he had not noticed the boudoir’s apparent lack of built-in. Dazzled by the Imperial Suite as a whole, he had simply hung his uniforms inside the armoire, unrealising.

  Zita tried to guess how weighty the armoire was. Could one tiny woman shift it, she wondered, just enough to crack the built-in door open to slip something inside? Perhaps it was possible.

  Of course, Zita knew what Lana Mae had hidden in there: her seventeen furs. Zita decided she would hide other precious things from Hans, before Reichsmarschall Göring began his occupancy.

  The ringleted girl, for example. Hans had no right to it, whatever he might claim.

  And the Modèle 1935.

  Zita had been shocked when she’d found the gun inside Polly’s Hermès handbag – shocked because she had thought it long gone. It had been Alexandrine who had snatched it from Zita when she’d found it in her possession on that fatal day aboard the Riviera train. Alexandrine had not done as she’d claimed, which was hurl it out of the window. Instead, she had given it to Marjorie to hold, which was no doubt when she’d told Marjorie why they had come to her, and Marjorie had, in turn, for reasons that were perhaps understandable in the circumstances, given it to Polly.

  Well, Polly had three guardians to protect her, and no need of a gun.

  Zita had made a habit of telling people she loved that she wanted to kill herself. It was what she had told Alexandrine on the train. Only with the gun in her hand did anyone believe her. The weapon was Zita’s again.

  And if it all grew too much, Zita could make good on her promises.

  9

  11 November 1940

  The sharp rap on the doors to the Imperial Suite by the Wehrmacht soldier who had accompanied Lana Mae brought an instant response. Her enemy opened the door to her personally.

  ‘Darling Herr Metzingen!’ she gushed as she saw him, willing away disgust from her face.

  ‘Why, it’s dear Frau Huckstepp,’ said the Oberstleutnant. He was dishevelled and bleary-eyed. ‘What an unexpected joy. Won’t you come in?’

  Lana Mae caught a whiff of the stale slick of sweat that lay beneath his dress shirt. He was still in his white evening trousers. ‘Yes, I will,’ she said, with apparent warmth. ‘And you know the joy’s all mine, honey.’ The lying words stuck in her throat, but she was nothing if not pragmatic these days. She was prepared to say anything to gain what she wanted from him.

  Lana Mae guessed that the guards had telephoned Metzingen from the Vendôme lobby while she was ascending the stairs with her escort. They had wanted to let him know she was keen to make another business call. Deliberately extravagantly dressed for what was only ten in the morning, she made a show of wiggling through the door Metzingen had opened for her, bouncing into the suite that once had been her own.

  The Ritz, Lana Mae had come to learn, was the one Paris hotel that hadn’t been completely requisitioned by the Germans. The Crillon, the Meurice, and every other famed establishment was now home to men of the Wehrmacht, the Luftwaffe, the Kriegsmarine, the Gestapo. Only the Ritz still had rooms for civilians, and among the newest guests were art dealers, eager to make sales.

  The sight inside the first salo
n was startling. There were more paintings and sculptures and objets d’art than the late César Ritz would have conceived could be crammed in the room. Lana Mae peered into the dining room and the other salons beyond, and saw it was the same throughout. There was so much random art it was like being in the Louvre storeroom, she thought, before she had the sickening feeling that this could well be the storeroom’s contents. Old masters rested casually on the floor in vertical stacks, arranged against every wall and chair back; classical statuary stood massed at the windows forming unlikely family groups. Lana Mae recognised a piece she had once admired in the entrance hall of the Comte’s home on the Boulevard de Courcelles. She forced away thoughts of his death.

  ‘Well, someone has had fun shopping lately, haven’t they?’ She winked to Metzingen. ‘I guess that’s a good omen for me today.’

  High-ranking officers of the German command were slumped about bored and half-dressed in the chairs and divans. She recognised faces: von Stülpnagel, von Hofacker, Speidel. Some were playing cards; all of them were drinking. The stench of old cigar smoke was hideous.

  ‘Good morning, fellas,’ Lana Mae waved and wiggled some more. ‘Is the party starting early?’ Under her breath she added, for Metzingen’s benefit, ‘Someone should open a window.’

  Von Stülpnagel nodded to her, Speidel as well; men she’d met and dined with at l’Espadon. The Vendôme salons and bars, initially forbidden to civilians, were now open again. The Germans wanted their fellow Ritz guests to know that they were here to enjoy themselves.

  ‘It is still last night’s party,’ said Metzingen, strained. ‘We have not yet retired.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Lana Mae, sympathetically. ‘Well, they say war is hell.’

  Metzingen gave into a yawn. ‘Perhaps we will be luckier within the next few hours.’

  ‘Well, I hope so,’ said Lana Mae, ‘for your sake, honey. You look dead on your feet.’

  There was a little pause while she waited. Metzingen did indeed seem to be nodding off standing up. She rolled her eyes, privately loathing him and every other man in the room. ‘Herr Metzingen?’

  ‘What? Forgive me.’ He rubbed at his cheeks.

  ‘Will the charming Reichsmarschall see me today?’ She smiled. ‘Or has he already gone to bed?’

  ‘He has not gone to bed,’ said Metzingen, ‘which is why our party has not ended.’

  ‘That’s lucky then,’ said Lana Mae. ‘Because I’ve got something real pretty for him this morning.’

  He looked at her meaningfully. ‘The Reichsmarschall is in the bath . . .’

  Lana Mae swallowed, by now familiar with what this meant. ‘Well, you Germans are so clean.’

  Metzingen smiled grimly. ‘Will you come this way, Frau Huckstepp? He will be pleased to see you.’

  She steeled herself. ‘I hope so.’

  Metzingen took her through the grand boudoir. She barely let herself glance at the rosewood armoire, now scarred by a bullet hole, yet still placed exactly where she and Tommy had positioned it, hiding the built-in doors. The armoire itself was open. Inside she glimpsed vibrant, garden-like colours: lavender and pink; a yellow silk kimono; a scarlet woollen cape. Lana Mae tried not to think of what they might look like upon the person who reputedly wore them.

  The bathroom door was closed. She could hear male voices from within.

  The look Metzingen gave her was deeply ironic. ‘And so, the show begins, Frau Huckstepp.’

  She looked back at him levelly. ‘Lucky it ain’t my debut, honey. I know all the cues.’

  Metzingen knocked.

  ‘Come,’ said a throaty German voice from inside.

  Lana Mae took a deep breath and Metzingen opened the door.

  The master bathroom was no longer as Lana Mae had enjoyed it. Sodden towels lay in piles everywhere. The steam was so thick the mirror was useless. The original bath, which was by no means small, had been torn out and replaced by a tub of colossal dimensions, deemed suitably spacious for the fleshy proportions of Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, who spent hours upon end submerged. Lana Mae had been apprised of his habits before her first visit, and while not every meeting with the Luftwaffe Chief had been conducted in this way, enough of them had for Lana Mae to have learned how to cover her revulsion.

  Metzingen’s manner when dealing with his superior was like a nanny’s bright cheer with a child. ‘Look, Herr Reichsmarschall! Here is a comely visitor for you.’

  ‘Who is it, Hans?’

  Lana Mae displayed herself. ‘Am I interrupting you, Herr Göring? I can come back another time.’

  Göring was wallowing, but he was not in the nude. He wore purple silk pyjamas which billowed about his bulk like flags in the bathwater. ‘Frau Huckstepp!’ he cried, seeing her emerge through the steam.

  Metzingen at once abandoned her, leaving the room.

  ‘You are always welcome. Come in, come in,’ said Göring, waving her forward. In one fleshy fist he held a flute of champagne; in the other he clutched caviar on toast.

  Lana Mae gave a longing look to the mountain of caviar heaped in a bowl on a table beside the bath, trying to recall the last time she had enjoyed any.

  Göring recognised her weakness for fine food. ‘Perhaps you would like some of this delicacy?’ he wondered, indicating the bowl.

  Claude Auzello was the bathroom’s second occupant, sweating inside his pinstriped suit, his monocle as useless as the bathroom mirror in the fog. With sodden gloved hands, he scooped more caviar onto a tiny square of toast, placing it on a plate for Lana Mae. She and Claude exchanged brief but sympathetic looks as she accepted it.

  The bathroom’s third occupant was Göring’s doctor, an obsequious quack from Cologne called Kahle, whose ‘wonder cure’ for morphine addiction was the reason for his patient’s long baths – and insatiable appetite. Lana Mae paid him no mind whatsoever as he cleared away syringes and pills.

  She perched at the bath edge, enjoying the caviar. ‘And how is your progress today, Herr Göring?’

  ‘Ah, it ebbs and flows,’ he said. ‘Kahle continues to work at his treatments but do you think I crave the dope any less?’

  Lana Mae nodded compassionately.

  ‘Not so – the Reichsmarschall’s cravings are much reduced!’ said the servile Kahle, his hands buried deep in his doctor’s bag. ‘They are a fraction of what they were.’

  ‘Whose cravings are they, fool?’ said Göring, kicking water at the doctor from the bath. ‘He speaks out of his arse.’ He stuffed the toast in his mouth. ‘I rue the day I started on this tormented path, Frau Huckstepp,’ he confided, dripping little black eggs.

  Lana Mae adjusted herself to advantage so that more cleavage showed. ‘Taking morphine for your pain?’ Claude presented her with a second scoop of caviar on toast. ‘But you can’t be blamed for that. I’m sure the injuries you suffered in the last war must have been awful.’

  ‘What are broken bones?’ said Göring, dismissive. ‘No, it was wrong to hide from the agony. I should have faced it manfully back in ’17.’

  Lana Mae knew better than to try equating ‘manliness’ with the creature before her in the bathwater. She stuck to her lies. ‘You were so very young,’ she said. ‘You must forgive yourself for it.’

  Göring shrugged and took a gulp of champagne to wash down the toast. ‘I denounced the doctors who prescribed it to me, did you know that?’

  Lana Mae now felt the caviar sitting heavy in her stomach. ‘No. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Filthy frauds,’ said Göring. Then he added pointedly: ‘Communists.’

  ‘Oh heavens,’ said Lana Mae, reacting appropriately.

  ‘Well, they’re not anymore,’ said Göring, ominous.

  Claude cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps if Herr Göring has finished with me now?’

  The Reichsmarschall threw a cold look at him. ‘You’re not going anywhere, man.’

  Claude was too professional to sag. ‘But of course, Herr Göring.’

  ‘If ther
e’s a more important guest than me inside this hotel then I want you to show him to me,’ said Göring.

  ‘No one enjoys a higher rank than your own, Herr Reichsmarschall,’ said Claude.

  Lana Mae saw the doctor throw a look of disgust. Claude’s effortless servility outshone his own.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Göring. ‘If I’d wanted to be served by low-level flunkies I would have asked for them. But I didn’t ask.’

  Claude refilled the champagne flute. ‘No, Herr Göring.’

  Lana Mae wondered how long he’d been trapped here. The corpulent Nazi returned to her. ‘So then, Frau Huckstepp, how might I help you today?’

  ‘Oh, well, it’s just a little thing . . .’ said Lana Mae. She placed her hands at the clasp of her purse but didn’t open it, having become practised at drawing the ritual out. ‘You know how badly I feel the suffering of those hurt in battle,’ she told him. ‘It’s why I understand your pain.’

  ‘We have talked of it often,’ said Göring. His eyes were fixed at her bag.

  ‘And the French, well –’ she sighed, ‘disorganised would be the kinder word for them.’

  ‘And incompetent would be the truth.’

  ‘We understand each other,’ said Lana Mae. She avoided looking at Claude for her next words. ‘The useless French simply cannot be depended upon to take care of their own boys – and so it’s fallen to me to do so. It’s the cross I bear, Herr Göring. But willingly.’

  He chuckled at her theatre. ‘I hear we should be calling you “the American Angel” these days?’

  Lana Mae had the good grace to blush. ‘If those poor French boys are ever to be useful to the Fatherland, then shouldn’t they get well first?’

  ‘The Führer is in your debt,’ said Göring.

  ‘But of course, it all costs money,’ said Lana Mae, sadly, ‘money I no longer have. Roosevelt froze my funds, you know.’

  Göring did know.

  She opened the clasp of her purse now but didn’t yet show its contents.

  Flatulence bubbles popped at the surface of the bath.