The Hunt

Two German SS officers in their formal black uniforms were stalking the crowd, dope sheets in hand. They stopped to talk to a well-dressed couple.

“That tall one?” Rudman said bitterly. “That’s Reinhard von Meister. Believe it or not, he’s a bloody Rhodes scholar.”

He nodded toward the taller of the two, a captain, who was lean to the point of being emaciated, with intimidating, vulture-like features and blue eyes so pale they were almost cobalt, all of which seemed appropriate with the uniform.

“He’s the military attache to the German ambassador here. Actually he’s nothing but a damn Spion and everybody knows it.”

“Who’s the old fud with the young ‘wife talking to him?” Keegan asked, nodding toward a couple on the far side of the paddock.

“She’s not his wife, she’s his daughter. That’s Colin Willoughby, Sir Colin Willoughby, used to ‘write a society gossip column for the Manchester Guardian called ‘Will o’ the Wisp.’”

Sir Colin Willoughby was a somewhat stuffy Britisher, trim, handsome in a dull sort of way, his mustache trimmed and waxed, his fingers manicured. He held himself painfully erect, his posture military, his attitude full of arched-eyebrow superiority. He was elegantly dressed in the blue double-breasted suit and red tie that seemed to be the uniform of proper Englishmen that spring and his silver hair was trimmed perfectly.

His daughter, Lady Penelope Traynor the widow, was equally as stunning. Her posture painfully correct, her features classic from the perfect, straight nose and pale-blue eyes to petulant mouth, she was almost a gendered reflection of her father. Like him, she had a cool, tailored, untouchable air that detracted from her natural beauty. Only her red hair, which was longer than the fashion and tied in the back with a bright, red bow, was a concession to femininity.

“So that’s old ‘Will o’ the Wisp,’ “ Keegan said. “I’ve been reading his trash for years.”

“He’s given up trash. He’s become a political soothsayer. ‘Will o’ the Wisp’ is now ‘The Willow Report.’ Old Willoughby’s been through it. His wife died two years ago and the daughter’s husband was killed last year.”

“I remember that,” said Keegan. “He got killed at the Cleveland air races.”

“Right. Tony Traynor, he was an ace in the war, knocked down twelve or thirteen kites. She’s Willoughby’s assistant now, goes everywhere with him.”

“And he’s covering politics at Longchamp race track?”

Rudman shrugged. “Maybe they’re on holiday like me.”

“Maybe she’s your type,” Keegan said. “Why don’t you give her a fling.”

“Not that one. She’s all iceberg,” said Bert.

“Well, you know what they say, only the tip shows,” Keegan said with a wink. “Eighty percent is under the surface.”

“Believe me, this one is ice to the core,” Rudman said.

“The ultimate English snob. Come on, I’ll introduce you. Let’s see if he acknowledges my appointment.”

Rudman led Keegan through the crowd toward them.

“Bonjour, Sir Colin, good to see you again,” he said.

“Well, Rudman, good to see you. Been a while,” Willoughby said with a condescending smile.

“These are my friends, Jennifer Gould and Francis Keegan,” Rudman said. “Sir Colin Willoughby and his daughter, Lady Penelope Traynor.”

“A pleasure,” Keegan said, shaking Willoughby’s hand. Lady Traynor regarded Keegan with aloof contempt, as she might regard a train porter or restaurant waitress. At another time, Keegan might have been attracted by her aura of inaccessibility but now it annoyed him, as did Sir Colin. As in Bert Rudman’s case, events had altered Willoughby’s career, elevating him from a kind of society gossip to a political observer. But whereas Rudman dealt with the reality of Hitler, Willoughby pontificated, his rampant editorializing devoid of even a semblance of objectivity.

“1 see you’ve been to Africa and Spain,” Willoughby said, “Very enterprising. Is it true you’re to take over the Times bureau in Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Hitler is simply full of himself right now,” Willoughby said dourly. “He’s full of his success. In a few months he will realize he must conform to a more moral world viewpoint. I think the man thirsts for recognition and acceptance. I’ve met him, y’know. Did one of the first English interviews with him.”

“And we expect to interview Mister Roosevelt this fall when we’re in the States,” Lady Penelope said.

“Well, you know what they say,” Willoughby remarked. “In America, you elect someone to office and then sit back and wait for him to fulfill all the lies he told to get elected. In Europe, we elect a man and Sit back and wait for him to make mistakes.”

“I’m really sick of politics, it’s all anyone talks about,” said Jenny. “This is Paris, not Berlin. Why don’t we change the subject. Francis has a big race coming up today.”

“Right,” Keegan agreed. “Anyone care to discuss horses?” Lady Penelope glared at him with a look of pure contempt. “I’ve heard your interests run to the mundane,” she said.

Jenny bristled. “That is ill-mannered and untrue,” she said suddenly. “And I should think someone with your privileges would know better than to speak that way”

The British woman recoiled in surprise. Jenny had surprised even herself with the outburst and her cheeks flushed.