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David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Fifty-Three

Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. On their honeymoon they plan to derail a train.
David and Wallis sat finishing their lunch in a small intimate dining room in Schloss Wasserleonburg castle. The bay window exposed the Austrian Alps in its full August splendor. Wallis had been successful in extracting information from Ribbentrop about train activity. Regular deliveries were being made from Salzburg through Villach and across the Italian frontier to the port of Trieste on the extreme northeast border of Italy. Certain rail cars were sealed and marked as property of the Nazi government. David and Wallis relayed the information to MI6, and General Trotter arrived at the castle last week with their orders and preparation. They were to derail the engine and discover what was in the sealed cars. The train would be crossing the Gail River near Arnoldstein about 10 p.m. After a few moments of silent reverence, Wallis reached over to squeeze David’s hand.
“Are you sure we have to go through with this mission?” Her voice was real, for once, filled with apprehension. “Let me go out in the woods and pick the best poisonous vines. Give me a good sturdy hat pin. But carrying sticks of dynamite in a backpack across a mountain to a railroad track, well, it scares the hell out of me.”
David smiled. “Nonsense. Nothing could scare the hell out of you.”
Andreas, the majordomo, entered and bowed. “Was the luncheon to your satisfaction?”
“Of course.” David leaned back in his chair and puffed on a cigarette. His line of vision never left the view through the window. ”The duchess and I were just discussing the beauty of the Austrian Alps. We’ve decided we must be a part of this enchanting forest.”
“Well, not literally a part of the landscape,” Wallis added as she sucked on her own cigarette.
“We would like the kitchen to fix us a picnic supper. We plan to hike down to the Gail River, camp under the stars and return in the morning.”
“Ah,” Andreas exclaimed, “an excellent choice. Many of our guests say a hike to the Gail River is the highlight of their stay in Austria. May we organize your backpacks? Our maids are quite expert—“
“Oh no,” David interrupted. “The duchess loves to pack, don’t you, my dear?”
“Yes, I’m just dying for this adventure.” Wallis crushed her cigarette in what was left of her sunny-side up egg.
David and Wallis spent the afternoon packing. Each had German uniforms. David had an officer’s and Wallis a private’s.
“How come you get to be the colonel?”
“I speak fluent German. It’s my mutter’s tongue.”
“I speak German too.”
“Like what?”
“Scheitze. Nein. Weiner schnitzel.”
“That would be fine if we were going to a German beer hall.”
Wallis picked up a revolver.
“And when do I use this?”
“As the Boy Scouts say, be prepared.”
Then she clicked on her torch to make sure the batteries were working. Its light flashed on. “Good. Don‘t stumble through the Alps at night without one.”
Late afternoon they left the castle and entered the Austrian forest wearing fashionable yet jaunty hiking clothes, each shouldering a backpack. As the sun set, David and Wallis sat on a boulder outcrop to eat their supper. They turned on their torches as they returned to the well-worn mountain trail. They had only gone a couple of miles when a grizzled old man pulling along pack mule appeared coming the other way. David waved at him, and he nodded.
“Nothing as invigorating as an evening hike in the Alps,” the duke announced.
“Except for a plunge in the Adriatic,” the man replied.
“I’m starved,” Wallis added. “Do you have sandwiches on you?”
“No.” The old man went to a bag tied around his mule. “But I have something much more satisfying.” He pulled out two sticks of dynamite and handed one to each of them.
“Will that be enough?” she asked.
“You want to derail the train, not blow it to kingdom come. Happy hunting.” The stranger continued to pull his donkey into the darkness and soon disappeared.
“And what are we to do with these?” she asked.
David turned his back to her. “Ever so gently slide it into my pack. “
She followed his direction and then turned so he could put the other stick in her pack.
“Aren’t these things supposed to have fuses?” she asked.
“They’ll be given to us closer to the track.”
A couple of hours passed without much conversation. Soon they heard the sound of rapids from the river. Before they came upon the Gail they saw a portion of a flag hanging from a bush. It was the Union Jack.
“Hello,” David whispered as he took the cloth and stuffed it into his pocket.
“How dreadfully unpatriotic.” Wallis leaned over to look behind the bush where two rolls of fuse wire were nestled. “That’s a lot of wire.”
“Well, you don’t want to be too close when you light one of those things.”
Each took one roll and continued down to the river bank. When they arrived they looked up to see the railroad bridge silhouetted against a half-moon. David and Wallis climbed up to the track where they opened their packs and pulled out the two sticks of dynamite.
They laid the sticks between the two rails, attached the fuses and unrolled the wires back into the forest. Then they opened their packs, pulled out German uniforms and changed clothes. They sat on the ground and waited.
“So how are we going to light these things?” Wallis cracked.
“Don’t you remember the training General Trotter gave us when he visited the castle last week? How fast fuses run and how to calculate igniting the fuse so it explodes right before the engine rolls over it. He went over it several times.” He paused. “You brought your cigarettes, didn’t you? Light the fuse with the lit end.” David smiled at her.
“I could use one now.”
“Don’t you dare.” He looked into her eyes. “Now what can we do under the moonlight while we’re waiting for the train?”
Before Wallis answered, they heard the distant call of a train whistle. They turned off their torches.
“I hope we’re fast learners.” Wallis fumbled for her lighter.
The whistle blew louder. David put his hand on Wallis’s.
“Not yet.”
Soon they saw the engine light appear in the distance.
“Now.”
They lit their fuses and watch the sparkling line go toward the track. The train was now loud, the cars clearly visible.
“Dammit,” she hissed. “We didn’t light them too soon, did we?”
“No, no.” David’s voice did not convey confidence.
The explosion rocked the earth. The engineer threw on his brakes, causing them to squeal. David and Wallis covered their ears and grimaced at the sound. The train slowed a little but not enough to avoid the gaping hole in the track. It hit the broken rail with a heavy thud; the attached cars derailed and overturned. Nazi soldiers crawled out of the train windows and jumped from the doors. They scrambled about the wreckage like a bunch of disturbed cockroaches. David and Wallis put on their helmets, grabbed their revolvers and torches and joined the hysteria.
They had only gone past a couple of cars when they noticed one that had “Nazi government” emblazoned on the side and whose seal was broken. Wallis pointed her torch inside, lighting the contents. They saw piles of fifteen centimeter naval shells.
“They’re making sure their war ships have plenty of ammo when they move into the Mediterranean to fight the British and the French,” David muttered.
A voice behind them bellowed in German. When they turned around they saw a colonel with his revolver drawn. He spat something at them.
“I am Colonel von Seidleman!” David barked in perfect German. “How dare you leave this shipment of shells unprotected!”
“That was exactly what I was doing! How did you arrive here so fast?” the colonel asked.
“That is my job!” David retorted. “Why weren’t you here sooner?”
“Seig heil!” Wallis spat out.
The colonel spun toward her. “How dare you speak to me in such a tone!”
“Oh, to hell with it,” Wallis said in English as she pulled out her revolver and shot him in the chest.
In seconds, they were surrounded by other German soldiers.
“We recognized this man to be a British spy!” David pointed to the body on the ground. “Who is responsible for this?”
The colonel moaned. David’s eyes widened before he regained his composure.
“Good! He’s alive. Take him off and interrogate him immediately. Let me know what you find out.”
The soldiers picked up the colonel and carried him to the back of the train. David and Wallis turned and walked up to examine the damage to the engine, then disappeared into the darkness of the forest.
“I thought I told you to say nothing,” David asked in a hiss.
“Oh sheitze.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Seventy-Eight

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive under guard in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Mary Lincoln talks Gabby into attacking Adam.
Adam hurried out the front door, past guard John Parker, catching a whiff of the whiskey on his breath, and deciding it smelled good. Kicking the dirt on Pennsylvania Avenue, he meandered several blocks before being drawn by the dim lights and noise of a small bar which he frequented. While acquiring a taste for alcohol, Adam had heard the rumors about Stanton’s malevolent arrogance. It was a good place for Adam to forget how stupid he was.
Inside, he sat on a stool, reached into his pockets for some change and threw some coins on the counter.
“Your usual ale, buddy?” the bartender asked.
“No, whiskey.”
“You got it.”
He wanted to stop the arguments in his brain. In his heart of hearts, he knew he loved Jessie Home. She knew who he was, because that was who she was too. Jessie had seen his dark side and did not care. She was going to save his soul. When this hell with Stanton and the Lincolns and the basement ended, she would be there to help him forget it. If he knew this so deeply, he asked himself, why was he drawn to Phebe? It was not like she was a temptress, actively seducing him away from his beloved. Adam did not know if she even liked him. It was not that she was more beautiful than Jessie. Jessie was a light that drew life to her. Any man would gladly want her, and Adam did want her more than he had ever wanted any woman. So why had he kissed Phebe?
“Here you go, general.”
Quickly downing the shot, Adam pushed the glass back toward the bartender.
“Another.”
Phebe smelled of soap, he thought. Adam could not recall what Jessie smelled of. He was too busy being engaged by her eyes, her smile, and her smart conversation. How stupid could one man be?
“Another.”
The pain was not going away. He had to forget. For just this one night, he wanted to drink himself into oblivion, forgetting how stupid he was, how he had almost thrown away the love of his life.
“Another.”
Cringing, he remembered how he had almost killed Gabby, the most innocent, defenseless man he had ever met. He did not want to remember that either.
“Isn’t it late for you to be out, soldier?”
Adam looked up to see Lamon, another person he did not want to think about. He gulped another shot.
“Take it easy,” Lamon said. “Most men sip their whiskey.”
“I can handle it.”
“Sure you can.”
Adam wanted to retort with something smart, but his mind was becoming numb. All sorts of thoughts to put Lamon in his place crowded his brain, and Adam felt he was strong enough to beat the bigger man in a fist-fight too.
“Feel like talking about Mr. Lincoln?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” He looked at the bartender. “Another.”
“You better not,” Lamon said. “Your face is as red as your hair.”
“So?”
“When liquor hits a man like that, he’d better go home and go to bed.”
“Mind your business.”
“I am.” Lamon smiled. “Tell me where Mr. Lincoln is.”
Adam stared at the last shot glass of whiskey and fought the impulse to throw it in Lamon’s face. His head swirled with all the anger he had kept trapped down inside his gut for the past two years. Life was not fair. He was a good boy. He had always done what his mother said, what his father said, what Stanton said, and he was still in the shit barrel.
“Well, when you get tired of being Mr. Stanton’s stooge, talk to me.” Lamon said. “I’m in the district marshal’s office.”
After Lamon walked away, Adam took the glass in his fist and squeezed it, finally throwing it across the room.
“Whoa, cowboy,” the bartender said. “No more for you.”
“Sorry,” he said in a mumble, dropping more coins on the counter as he left.
Stumbling along the street back to the Executive Mansion, Adam became angrier, because all that whiskey had not made him forget a thing. It just made him think about Jessie, Phebe, Gabby, and Lamon more. What the hell, his clouded mind thought, what difference did it make? What difference did anything make? Putting Lincoln in the basement did not make a difference. The war was still going on. Being in love with Jessie did not make a difference. He still longed for someone else. Being good did not matter. People still thought he was bad.

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Fifteen

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“Excuse me, sir,” the bent over man wearing the bad wig croaked.

“Yes, what do you want?” Tent had a time of it trying to control his exasperation.

“There’s a gentleman at the door to see you, sir.”

Tent’s eyes widened. “That might be my—what I’ve been expecting.” He turned, smiled and took Bedelia’s hand. “You’ll never know how much I value your intelligence.” He kissed her knuckles. “Your cooperation.” He kissed her wrist. “And your friendship.”

She withdrew her hand before he could kiss any further. Tent took the muted rebuff gracefully and retreated from the room. Bedelia wandered to the other side to stare out a window into the foggy London night. The man in the bad disguise ran behind the screen and began tossing items of his costume up, over and every which way. Bedelia was in the mood for another soliloquy.

Alas, my heart in torn in twain—or is it thrain?
Inspector Tent’s so suave and yet so old.
He’s everything a girl should want but let me be bold.
He’ll be stuck in a rocking chair while I’m still pretty young.
And then there’s my old sweetheart when love had just begun.
He’s handsome, kind and gentle too but one thing I must say.
Lord Andrew Taylor seems to have changed, oh hell I think he’s—

A voice bellowed from behind the screen, “Okay, who left the canapés on the damn floor?”

Bedelia furrowed her porcelain-like brow, shook her head and continued in iambic-pentameter.

I must admit there is a third I might could love.
The Man in Red is heaven from above.
He is so brave, exciting but a criminal.
And I have vowed to bring about his fall.
I need a way to take the best traits of all three.
But then again could one of them love me?

The Man in the Red Underwear made a grand entrance from behind the screen, looking dapper in his red tights and red blouse opened to his navel. It would be more than any girl could bear except for the fact the tray of Lady Snob-Johnson’s canapes were stuck to his left foot

You are fair! A gem so rare! True blue and square!
I love your hair! I am the Man in Red Underwear!

He tried valiantly to recite his themed poetry but the tray ruined the moment.

“It’s you! Bedelia ran to the door and opened it. “Oh chief inspector!”

The man in red underwear followed her, his left foot clanging on the hardwood flooring. “You don’t want to do that.” He wedged himself between her and the door, closing it carefully, not making a sound. “If Chief Inspector Tent came in here now I might have to leave—“ He tried to step toward the window but was stopped because Bedelia stood on the tray. They both looked down. She giggled and lifted her tiny foot.

“Oh, excuse me.”

“And then you’d never know if you could fall in love with a brave, dashing, exciting criminal.” He wore that irritating smile that a man wore when he knew the lady had the hots for him.

“It wasn’t very couth of you to eavesdrop on my private thoughts.”

“Do you expect a criminal to be couth?” He pressed his advantage.

Bedelia turned swiftly toward the liquor cabinet. “Would you care for a drink? No, I suppose it isn’t necessary to offer a drink to a criminal, is it? Then I don’t care if you want one or not.”

“Do you know you’re beautiful when you’re confused?” That retort would have been much more effective without the clanging of the tray on his foot.

“How did you get in here?” She looked around the room. “You didn’t hurt that old man, did you?”

“No, he’s just fine.” To prove his point, he spoke in the old man’s voice. “The Man in the Red Underwear is my friend.”

“You scoundrel!”

“A charming scoundrel—“ He looked down at his foot. “Excuse me for just a moment, will you?”

“Of course.” Bedelia made herself comfortable on the lounge as the man in red pulled the tray from his foot.
“Ah, that’s much better. Where was I? Oh yes. A charming scoundrel, you must admit.” He sat on the lounge, leaning forward to kiss Bedelia, but the tray got in the way. “Care for a canapé?”

“Not since you stepped in them.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with them?” Our hero was getting quite perturbed.

“Why don’t you put them under the chaise lounge?” she offered.

“Splendid idea!” He slid the tray under the lounge and again leaned into Bedelia’s cherubic face. “We were about to kiss, weren’t we?”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Fifty-Two

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and Leon declines to kill.
Wallis awoke in Chateau Cande the morning after the wedding to the sight of David wearing nothing but a winning smile as he stood over her.
“Well,” he asked, “what do we do now?”
She was taken aback because someone in MI6 always told them what to do next. It wasn’t up to them. “How the hell would I know? I’m only the simpering bride.”
“Why don’t we blow up a train?”
“Before lunch?”
“Oh no.” He sat on the bed and leaned into her. “We have three months of honeymooning in an Austrian castle to work out the details. General Trotter slipped a note into one of our wedding presents that I happened to open last night. The Germans are up to something and we have to derail a train before it reaches an Italian port.” He shifted his body. “Do you mind my being so close?”
“I didn’t know you cared.”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
That afternoon they packed their bags and boarded a train to Venice where they spent a couple of days doing the usual tourist things, like riding a gondola trough the Grand Canal, meandering through St. Mark’s Square and touring the Doge’s Palace. The next day they continued on to Venice where they connected to another train to the village of Villach in the Austrian Alps where they were to reside in Schloss Wasserleonburg for the rest of the summer.
As they stepped off the train at midnight, a local children’s choir serenaded them. An attendant handed Wallis a dozen white carnations.
“Oh dear. I didn’t think Joachim would be trailing us like a lost puppy.” She sighed.
“Ribbentrop. This might prove serendipitous. If he contacts you, agree to meet with him.”
Her eyebrow arched. “On our honeymoon?”
David guided her through the crowd to a waiting limousine. “Remember. We must learn what’s on that train. Remember? So do it for the King.”
“The King?” A smirk crossed her face.
“You know, my dippy brother. Bertie.”
That night a lone white carnation arrived at the dinner hour. The note attached was addressed to Wallis:
“Organ concert, 8 p.m. St. Jakob-Kirche.”
She showed the note to David who smiled.
“At least you know he won’t try seduce you in a church.”
“You don’t know Joachim very well, do you?”
When Wallis arrived at the ancient church in downtown Villach, the pipe organ concert had already begun, and classic religious music echoed through the vaulted ceiling. If Ribbentrop didn’t arrive soon, she decided as she settled into a pew in the shadows, she’d return to the castle.
“You know St. Jakob is the oldest Protestant church in Austria,” a voice whispered into her ear from behind her.
“For God’s sake, Joachim,” she muttered, “if you want to talk, at least sit on the same pew with me.”
Ribbentrop wasted no time scooting in next to Wallis. “Did you get my carnations?”
“Yes.” She paused. “The white roses the mayor gave me were beautiful. Your carnations were, after all, just carnations.”
“You drive me insane, my dear.”
“How thrilling, the organ master, I mean.”
“The Fuehrer was indignant the Parliament forced King Edward from the throne because of his support of the Nazi regime.”
She looked at him and furrowed her brow. “I thought David gave up the throne for the woman he loved, and I presumed he meant me. I don’t remember National Socialism coming up in any of our conversations during the abdication.”
“That was what the newspapers said, but the Fuehrer knew better.” Ribbentrop’s breathing was labored.
“Of course, he did.” Irony licked her every word.
“I understand it would be inappropriate for us to spend special time together while you’re here in Villach.”
“Yes, it is my honeymoon.”
“But this October, if you and your husband could visit Germany, perhaps we could carve out a few hours just for the two of us.”
His proposal caught her attention. An extended visit with Adolf Hitler. Wallis, with her extensive knowledge of poisons and long sharp hat pins, could make a valuable contributions to the cause of peace in Great Britain. Of course, she could not appear too interested.
“Germany. In October. All you’ve got to offer me is a month of drinking beer?”
“Yes!” He tried to control his exuberance. “Of course, we cannot make it too obvious. I could use our mutual friend Princess Stephanie to place the idea of inviting the duke and duchess of Windsor for a visit in the mind of her current lover Fritz Weidemann, Herr Hitler’s adjutant. Your husband and the Fuehrer could discuss world peace and the plight of the working man while we discuss us.”
“World peace? That’s the best you can come up with?” Wallis scoffed.
“Don’t dismiss world peace, my dear. War is on the horizon. Germany is preparing.” His tone turned serious. “Even as we listen to this angelic music, munitions are on trains to the furthest corners of Europe. And England and France don’t even know.”
Wallis’s mind immediately went to David’s conversation the day after the wedding about blowing up a train. This was information which MI6 must have. She looked Ribbentrop and fluttered her eye lashes.
“What were you saying? I was distracted by this marvelous concert. He’s playing Mozart, isn’t he?”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Seventy-Seven

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive under guard in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Alethia is plucked from prison to play Mary Lincoln. Mary talks Gabby into attacking Adam.
Bellowing, Gabby jumped on Adam’s back, causing the soldier’s knees to buckle.
“Good!” Mrs. Lincoln screamed. “Force him to the floor! You’ve got him now! You’ve got him down!”
Gabby bounced on Adam’s back, trying to break him and force him to his knees, and then prone on the ground.
“That’s it! Ride him down! Break him!”
With a groan from the pit of his stomach, Adam regained his balance and allowed himself to fall backwards. Gabby landed flat on his back on the cold hard floor, heard a noticeable crack in his spine, and whimpered. Adam rolled off him and pounced on Gabby’s chest, pinning his shoulders to the floor with his knees.
“What the hell are you doing?” Adam slapped Gabby’s face several times.
“Stop it!” Mrs. Lincoln screamed as she tried to pull Adam off Gabby. “It’s not his fault! I made him do it!”
“What the hell’s going on?” Lincoln, in his nightshirt, appeared through the lace curtains.
“Quick, Father!” Mrs. Lincoln stopped pulling on Adam and ran to her husband. “Kill him! Get us out of here!”
“Molly! Shut up!” Lincoln yelled. He charged Adam, who was still on Gabby. “Get the hell off him!”
Before Adam could do anything, Lincoln grabbed him by his armpits and threw him across the room. After gasping for air, he reached for Gabby, who cringed and pulled away.
“No, Mr. Gabby, you’re all right. Does anything hurt?”
“I don’t think so.” Gabby sat up carefully and reached around to feel his back. “I thought I heard something crack, but it must not have been important, because it doesn’t hurt now.”
“That’s good.”
“I guess it was bad to jump him like that.”
“Try to forget it.” Lincoln went down on his haunches to smile into Gabby’s face. “Don’t take seriously anything that Mrs. Lincoln says.”
“Then I’m not president?”
“No.”
“And you’re president?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Gabby said. “It works out better that way.”
Lincoln stood and walked to Adam, offering him a hand to help him up.
“This is Mrs. Lincoln’s fault. She’s not stable. It’s your responsibility as the military authority here to keep a handle on things.”
“Yes, sir.” Adam straightened his back.
“Good. Now go about your duties.”
Adam looked down, avoiding eye contact with Gabby and Mrs. Lincoln, and left the room.
“You fool!” Mrs. Lincoln snarled, rushing her husband. “You could have killed him, and no one would have cared! One word from you, and Mr. Stanton would be off to the Old Capitol Prison in chains!”
“And if the nation discovered someone had put the president in the White House basement for two years and no one knew, what confidence would the people have then to fight a war?”
“So you’re on Mr. Stanton’s side?”
“I’m on the Union’s side,” he replied. “Only the Union is important.”
“Yes, sir.” She pursed her lips.
“Don’t do this again, Molly.” Lincoln pointed at Gabby. “You could get him killed. You could get us all killed.” He sighed deeply. “I think it’s time to sleep.” He disappeared behind the French lace curtains.
“So you’re not my wife?” Gabby stared a long time into Mrs. Lincoln’s face, expecting to detect a trace of remorse.
“No.”
“I knew I kept having memories of New York and not Illinois.” He paused to compose his thoughts as well as he could. “Why did you do it?”
“Because I want to get out of here.”
“Well, that’s all right. I’d rather have Cordie as a sister than you as a wife, anyway.”

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Fourteen

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“Who wants some fish and chips?” Bedelia called out.

Men abandoned their dance to dash for the bags of food. A minor brawl broke out and half of them ended up rolling on the ballroom floor trying to grab fried fish fillets from each other’s hands. Curiously, Lady Snob-Johnson grinned and leaned in to speak to Millicent.

“Remind me next year to order fish and chips.”

Before Millicent could reply, Bedelia grabbed her around the shoulders. “So was that actually the Man in the Red Underwear?”

Millicent glanced about the room and directed Bedelia to the library. Eddie followed like the faithful puppy that he was. She carefully shut the door behind them.
“Yes, that was the Man in the Red Underwear.”

“How exciting!” Bedelia beamed with bobbysoxer glee until she remembered she should maintain a modicum of civility. “I mean, how terrible that such a criminal should invade the sanctity of your home!”

Millicent nodded knowingly. “You can’t judge a criminal by his appearance. Speaking of appearances, you know Andy may be different than he appears.”

“In my deepest heart of hearts I still love Andy.” She shook her head and took a few steps away. “But after seeing him tonight, I don’t know.”

Eddie loped up and put his arm around her shoulder. “Why not? He’s a prince of a fella. Uh no. I’m the prince, ain’t I? I keep fergittin’ that.”

“Eddie, shut up.” Millicent pushed him toward the lounge. “Bedelia dear, what’s wrong?”

“If only I could fall in love with someone brave and dashing.” Her eyes softened in wistfulness. “You know, the way Andy used to be.”

“You mean, like the Man in the Red Underwear?” Millicent asked teasingly.

Before Bedelia could answer, Inspector Tent opened the door. In the background, the orchestra was playing a rodeo hoedown. Eddie jumped from the sofa, grabbed Millicent and began a muscular polka. Then he broke into rhapsodic verse.

Hey, that’s my kind of music! I love that sound! Let’s go to town!
We git low down! Go round and round! Do si do rodeo hoe down!

And with that Eddie and Millicent polkaed into the ballroom. Tent carefully shut the door, leaving the library ominously quiet. He approached Bedelia with a smile that was more menacing than endearing.

“My dear Miss Smart-Astin, I must apologize you had to be upset by the appearance of that terrible criminal.”

As he came closer Bedelia eased away toward the liquor cabinet. “Oh no. That’s quite all right.”

“No, it’s not all right.” Tent chose to ignore her attempts to escape. “It’s my duty as chief inspector of Scotland Yard to protect young ladies from the likes of him. Especially beautiful young ladies.”

Just as he was going in to grab her hand so he could kiss it, Bedelia picked up a bottle of brandy, using it as a sort of barricade to his advances. “Would you care for a drink, chief inspector?”

“No, thank you.” Tent took the bottle from her hand and returned it to the cabinet. “But I would care for something else.”

What better time for a torrid verse of seduction and resistance? Bedelia began with a palm in Tent’s face, but with eyes filled with ardor.

Nyet. Not yet. Before we lust, at first we must begin the dance of hot romance, the Russian tango!

Tent accepted the invitation and placed his arm around her slender waist.

Not one for fussin’ but the Russian? Don’t you mean the Argentine?

She adjusted her stance and stared straight ahead.

The Argentine is so routine. Don’t bore me with the Argentine.
I want it vulgar from the Volga, so stop your fussin’, it’s time to Russian!

They began to glide across the library floor, reciting in unison.

Let’s do the Russian tango! Let’s go as far as we can go!
Oh go, girl, go! Oh go man, go! Let’s do the Russian tango!

Being the chief inspector, Tent never strayed far from his intentions of yearning and then interrogation.

And while we’re dancing cheek to cheek let’s drink some booze
And I’ll suggest while we’re chest to chest, that we go on a cruise.

Bedelia stopped in the middle of this pas de deux to glow with excitement.

Oh how divine! Yet I draw the line, no marriage talk—

This entirely broke the spell for Tent, sending him back into prose. “What?”

“You said go on a cruise.” She crinkled her cute little nose. “That sounds like matrimony.”

“It’s just a little cruise. Don’t stand on sanctimony.”

Bedelia put her hands on her tiny little waist. “Then what do you mean?”

Now this did put Tent into a bind. An immodest proposition loses all of its luster if the gentleman has to spell it out in minute detail. Instead, he punted and returned to his previous dance position. “Let’s tango!”

Before they knew it, they were slithering across the floor again.

Let’s do the Russian tango! Let’s go as far as we can go!
Oh go girl go! Oh go man go! Let’s do the Russian tango!

For practical purposes Tent decided to forgo pursuing his dalliance and practice his interrogation skills.

Let’s talk instead about the man in red, who do you think this cad could be?
He must have friends to meet his ends. He must have two, or maybe three.

I know you’re right, it’s such a frightening thought but they are here tonight.
It’s Millicent, her mom Cecelia, and her hot steady, dumb Prince Eddie.

Tonight, you see, is coming for me a packet of some great import.
I’m sure the man in red will want to steal this serious report.

You have my word I’ll watch this world of gaiety and vice.
I’ll tell you when they make their move. The man in red will pay the price.

All this criminal investigation talk made them amorous again.

Let’s tango!
Let’s do the Russian tango! Let’s go as far as we can go!
Oh go girl go! Oh go man go! Let’s do the Russian tango!

Before they could go any further, Bedelia snapped her fingers and looked into the inspector’s eyes. “Should I keep an eye on Andy, too? Do you think he’s a member of the conspiracy?”

“Naw,” they said in perfection harmony.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Fifty-One

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. MI6 to test him to see if he can be both king and spy.
On the morning of her divorce hearing, a crisp October day in 1936, Wallis could not see anything but the haughty contempt in the eyes of the judge, Sir John Hawke. Crimson and ermine robes and a white judicial wig obscured the rest of his shrunken elderly body. She was not sure he had a mouth or nose except when he sneezed and coughed up nasty clumps of phlegm.
The ordeal began several weeks earlier when news of the divorce broke in newspapers around the world. William Randolph Hearst in particular was interested in any photographs of her hair blown astray, her fingernail disentangling a bit of roast beef in her teeth or of her getting out of an automobile in such a clumsy manner that her dress rose up to her thigh. Wallis, fortunately, had spent years practicing the finer arts of good manners so no pictures of that nature would ever appear in print.
A week before the hearing she took a small cottage in Felixstowe in Suffolk. All the London divorce dockets were filled so she had to look to a country court to finish this business as quickly and as efficiently as possible. David told her the smaller setting would make it easier to control the crowds. Screaming fans tossed flowers at her and newsmen flashed their cameras as Wallis walked out of the cottage that morning. She thought it couldn’t have been worse if she had been in Piccadilly Circus.
Her lawyer, Norman Birkett, tried to guide her through the proceedings as gently as possible. He produced a letter from Mary Raffray declaring her love for Ernest Simpson. Mary, of course, wrote the note at the urging of Ernest, who had conveniently left it on Wallis’ dressing table. Birkett handed it to the judge who blew his nose before reading it.
“I can’t make heads or tails of this,” Judge Hawke grumbled in the style of an irritable old English squire. “I can’t even vouch that this is a woman’s handwriting.”
Birkett quickly presented a typed transcription to the judge who just then had a coughing fit. It was all that Wallis could do not to gag a bit herself. She watched the judge squint at the document.
“What kind of evidence is this?” he demanded. “It’s not even romantic. Why anyone would get excited over this bunch of puffery is beyond me.”
Wallis knew she should have insisted MI6 send an emissary to the judge’s home last night to impress on him the importance to national security to approve the divorce decree. Hell, she muttered to herself, they should have threatened to kill the old bastard.
“After finding that letter,” Birkett continued, “Mrs. Simpson employed a detective agency to follow her husband on a weekend trip to the Hotel de Paris at Bray on the Thames during Ascot week. They observed Mr. Ernest Simpson accepting a breakfast tray from a hotel employee at his room which he shared with a woman who was registered as Buttercup Kennedy but was almost certainly Mary Raffray.“
“You mean to tell me you don’t know if the woman sharing Mr. Simpson’s room was indeed Mary Raffray rather than this Buttercup person?” the judge bellowed.
“Whether the woman was Mary Raffray or Buttercup Kennedy makes no difference,” Birkett countered. “It was not Mrs. Simpson. Mr. Simpson was consorting with a woman who was not his wife.”
Judge Hawke blustered for several minutes without saying much of anything of consequence until Birkett interjected all that was left for the judge to do was issue a decree nisi, divorce with final adjudication in six months.
The old man blew his nose again. “I suppose I must under these unusual circumstances. So you may have it.”
Several reporters accosted Wallis on her way out of court.
“Do you plan on returning to the United States?’
“Why should I? The press there has been atrocious to me.”
“Did you know your first husband Win Spencer was divorced from his second wife?”
“No, and why should I care?”
“He released a statement that he hoped you were happy. He was sorry he could not provide the social life that you wanted. He particularly stressed he wished you all the happiness in the world.”
***
David relaxed in his favorite chair in front of the fire at Fort Belvedere awaiting the arrival of Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin. It was the first week of December, and snow was on the ground. Nursing a glass of brandy he thought of the many happy times he had spent at the old place—fixing it up, creating the garden, hosting parties. He tried to remember how many women he had bedded in his boudoir but he couldn’t quite come up with an accurate number.
Baldwin had spent the day with members of Parliament and with David’s mother, brother Bertie and the tweedy types that hovered around them. They were going to make a list of demands and consequences for David if he followed through with his threat to resign and marry Wallis—or, as his mother called her, that adventuress.
He wouldn’t miss the official duties at all. As long as he could have an occasional dinner with his mother Queen Mary and go riding with his brothers, George, Bertie and Harry, all would be fine. He could do without the Duchess of York Elizabeth. He was rather fond of Lillibet and Margaret Rose. David looked around the wood-paneled parlor of Fort Belvedere and smiled. Yes, he had been willing to risk his life on missions for the empire, then enjoyed coming home to the Fort to recuperate.
He heard a knock at the door, and the butler allowed Prime Minister Baldwin to enter and guided him into the parlor. David could not tell by the look on Baldwin’s face how the negotiations had gone. He knew for certain that the prime minister himself was against it. David didn’t care what the old prune-faced gent thought about the situation.
“Would you care for a brandy, Prime Minister?” David asked, as most congenial hosts would have offered.
“No, thank you.”
“Then please have a seat.” He pointed to a comfortable padded armchair across the fireplace from his own.
Baldwin took his time settling in before looking directly into the King’s eyes. “I would be remiss if I did not make one last plea that your majesty to relent in your pursuit of Mrs. Simpson and continue in your duties as our monarch.”
“There are more reasons than I am willing to elucidate at this time why that position is untenable,” David replied, returning eye contact with the prime minister.
“Well then, let us get down to the details. The abdication news will be released tomorrow to all outlets, which are expected to comment editorially. Read them or not, that is your privilege. Your majesty shall prepare a statement to be read on the public airwaves sometime in the next few days. Shortly after that you will sign six copies of the Act of Abdication.”
What the prime minister was saying blurred in his mind. He had no problem with the procedure. He wanted to get back to his life of espionage.
“Now we have the financial situation to consider. You and your brother the Duke of York own Sandringham and Balmoral. Arrangements have been made for the duke to buy them from you. You have considerable income coming from the Duchy of Cornwall which has been invested. However, you have never paid income tax. As a private citizen your tax rate would be seventy-five per cent. The alternative is,” the prime minister hesitated before stating, “that you never live in England again.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad.” David paused to consider the consequences. “Wait a minute. What about Fort Belvedere?”
“Of course, it would go back to being part of the Royal preserve. What the trustees do with it is anyone’s guess.”
David stood and walked around the room. This place had been his refuge for many years. After the abdication, the fort would no longer be his. David took pride in his existential views of life, that nothing much matter, people, castles, friendship, love. But he did love this home. He felt a lump in his throat.
“Very good.” He smiled at Baldwin. “One place is as good as another.” He lied.
***
The news from England spread to the Bahamas quickly. All the passengers on the ferry from Freeport to Nassau talked about the abdication of King Edward VIII and his move to France to be near his lover Wallis Simpson. Her divorce was finalized in the spring, so everyone expected the couple to marry sometime in the summer of 1937.
Leon sat by himself, puffing on a cigarette of Egyptian tobacco, and listened to but not engaging in the conversation. He wanted to give the impression that he cared nothing about the private lives of the former king of England; but in reality, he was deeply involved with the newly created Duke of Windsor and his lady. He knew for certain the duke was an international spy and his fiancé Mrs. Simpson was surely his accomplice. He spared their lives once on a dock in Corsica, and he wondered how many other times he would compromise his own orders to repay the duke for sparing his life many years ago in Canterbury.
The sun set by the time the ferry arrived in Nassau. Leon looked forward to seeing the blonde card dealer in the casino at the Rialto. When he returned from his walk that morning, Leon took a note from the disheveled plant pot in front of his Eleuthura house. The organization had a new assignment for him. He hoped it was on the other side of the world from the duke and his paramour.
Leon was about to hail a carriage to the Rialto when two men grabbed him and rushed him into a warehouse on the docks. They pushed a burlap sack over his head, shoved him down onto a chair and tied him to it. So this is my end, he thought. So be it. Leon wished he could have lasted another couple of years so his son Sidney would have completed his training and taken his place with the organization. But this was the way of life.
“The organization is not pleased with you.”
Leon recognized the accent to be from the American South although he could not ascertain the exact region from which it came. It was not the earthy drawl of Texas. It did not have the sweet lilt of Mississippi. Nor the soft glide of the Georgian tongue.
“You didn’t complete your mission in Corsica. Are you able to explain why?”
“They moved too fast. I couldn’t get a shot off.” Leon was pleased with himself with his justification, although it was blatantly a lie.
“You would have already been dead, but the organization’s commandant has a high regard for your previous work.”
“I am flattered.”
“You have been given one last chance to vindicate yourself.”
“How generous.”
“The former King of England Edward VIII now known as the Duke of Windsor will marry Wallis Simpson at Chateau de Cande near Tours. A large wooded park surrounds it, so there’s maximum security. However, we have contacts within the staff of Cande’s owner, industrialist Charles Bedaux. We can supply you identification papers to infiltrate the wedding party. Once inside you will assassinate the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.”
Leon gathered his thoughts before he spoke. “Very good. My congratulations to the operative who originated the plan. I have only a few observations.”
“Continue.”
“Why kill the couple? Once he abdicated he was of no use to anyone.”
“You know why.” The voice turned sinister. “We know you deliberately chose to spare his life and that of Mrs. Simpson on Corsica. You must prove your loyalty by killing them now.”
“Hmm.” Leon cocked his head. His mind raced. Pooka must have told someone. If he survived this night, he would take pleasure in killing her. But his captors did not need to know his plans. “And why do you think they would allow a black man into the wedding party?”
“You will be dressed as a servant, of course.”
“Does Monsieur Bedaux have other black servants?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“My guess would be no.” Leon hurried on to his last point. “Finally, why put me to a test of loyalty since this is obviously a suicide mission. Simply put a bullet in my head now and let the Duke and Duchess lead their merry, meaningless lives. I mean, you truly don’t believe MI6 will continue to use them as agents now that their cover has been exposed?”
A long silence ensued. Leon had made his point.
“They told me you were smart, very smart it seems.”
“I know.”
“Untie him. Send him on his way. I have to confer with the commandant on how to proceed.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Seventy-Six

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive under guard in the White House basement.Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Alethia is plucked from prison to play Mary Lincoln. Christy kisses the cook Phebe. Neal the butler becomes jealous.
Gabby’s head turned sharply when he thought he heard the crash of a plate. Something was happening out there, he could sense it, and his body shook with fear. Since that morning in August when he had been able to think again, Gabby had become increasingly nervous, never knowing when his mind would clear and when it would cloud, when the people in the basement with him would be nice and when they would be mean, and when would he ever see Cordie again.
Mrs. Lincoln came to the edge of Gabby’s crates and barrels. He shuddered, wondering if he had done something wrong again.
“Mr. Gabby,” she said, “may I come in for a visit?”
“That’s all right, ma’am.” He stood. “I’ll come out.”
“No, I don’t mind.” She swept around the corner and stood just inside his curtain and smiled. “Sit, so we can chat.”
Chatting with her husband, that is what she should be doing, Gabby thought. It was not right for her to be chatting with him. Cordie should be chatting with him, but she could not, because he had to be in the basement and she had to be at the hospital tending sick soldiers.
“Please sit.”
“All right.” Gabby sat on the far end of his pallet.
“Mr. Gabby, do you remember the things you told me?”
“What things?”
“Sweet things.” She sat on his pallet.
“Did you hear a crash or something?”
“No. You’re right about Mr. Stanton.”
“I thought I heard a crash. I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
“He’s evil.”
“I don’t even know what month this is.” He looked at her. “What month is this?”
“It’s the middle of October.” She clenched her jaw. “Pay attention to me. You’re right about Mr. Stanton being evil.”
“Then it’s been two months since…”
“Only an evil man would put good people in an awful place like this.”
“There were rats here.”
“Yes, you told me.”
“I think I caught them all.”
“Thank you.” She sighed deeply and closed her eyes.
“You’re welcome.”
“Mr. Stanton’s calling people by the wrong names. There’s people upstairs he’s calling Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln.”
“I know.”
“He’s calling you Mr. Gabby…”
“He doesn’t call me Mr. Gabby,” he interrupted. “He doesn’t call me anything.”
“But you’re Mr. Lincoln, my husband and president of the United States.”
“What?” Could those thoughts lingering in the back of his mind be true?
“For reasons known only to himself, Mr. Stanton calls the White House janitor Mr. Lincoln, and you the janitor.”
“Oh.”
“But this has gone on too long. It can’t continue. When Private Christy comes in with the clean chamber pots, jump him, wrestle him down, and get the keys so we can escape. You can do it.”
“All right.” Gabby knew he was strong. He remembered how he could wrestle Joe into submission every time they wrestled on Long Island beach. But if he were Lincoln, how would he know Joe? Maybe Joe had been Lincoln’s friend, but that meant they had to be from Illinois. How could they have wrestled on Long Island beach? Gabby fretted. Maybe it had been on the shores of the Ohio River.
“So when Private Christy comes in,” Mrs. Lincoln was saying, “I’ll distract him, and you jump him and get the keys.”
“You don’t want me to kill him, do you?”
“No.” A shadow crossed her face. “I don’t want him dead. I just want to be free.”
“Should we take Mr. Zook with us?” Gabby asked. “After all, he might have a sister or somebody waiting for him.”
“Yes, we’ll take Mr. Zook with us.” Mrs. Lincoln smiled. “I wouldn’t want to leave him behind.”
“Good,” he replied. “He needs to see his sister.”
Adam unlocked the door, fumbling with the pots. Both Gabby and Mrs. Lincoln jerked their heads to the door.
“I’ve got to go.” She stood. With a flourish of her billowing skirt, she disappeared through the curtains.
Gabby went to the edge of the crates and barrels to listen.
“Mrs. Lincoln,” Adam said, “are you busy right now? I mean, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Of course,” she replied. Looking at him closely, she added, “Private Christy, you’ve a touch of blood at your temple.”
“I know. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“Come over here, and I’ll straighten everything out for you.”
Gabby stepped out around the corner to see that Adam had left all three chamber pots by the door. He stood next to Mrs. Lincoln by the billiards table, his back to Gabby. Looking down at the chamber pots, he wondered if he should use one to bash Adam’s head. No, that would kill him, and they just wanted to be free.
“I did a bad thing tonight,” Adam said.
“Tell me what you did, and I’ll tell you whether it was bad or not.” Mrs. Lincoln looked over Adam’s shoulder to make eye contact with Gabby. Get it over with, she seemed to be saying.
“I kissed Phebe.”
“The colored cook?” Her eyebrow rose.
“Yes. I know it was wrong. She hit me with a plate.”
Gabby knew he had heard something. He frowned. He liked Phebe. She was one of the few people he ever knew who treated him nice. Adam was right. He did a bad thing.
“Was it one of the good plates?” Mrs. Lincoln asked, holding her breath.
“No.”
“That’s good,” she said in a murmur. “Did the girl do anything to provoke you, make you think she wanted you to kiss her?”
Gabby did not like that question. Phebe was a good girl. She would not do anything like that. She was too honest. Gabby was ready to hit somebody.
“No, not really, I guess,” Adam replied.

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Thirteen

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws her annual society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. Tent threatens Cecelia’s daughter Millicent.
A tapping at the window interrupted this terribly tense encounter between Tent and Millicent. Tent walked over, opened it only to find an excruciatingly plain woman wearing what looked like a costume from an American Civil War melodrama. He could not see her face because she kept flapping a fan across it.
“Is this the party with the man in the tight red underwear?” she said in a high squeaky voice.
Tent looked over his shoulder at Millicent. “I think it might be.”
She scrambled over the window sill into the library, almost knocking Tent over as she began to flounce about the room. “So bring that hunky stud! I hope his chest is bare!”
“Who invited you?” he demanded.
“You’re so rude! I know. You’re a Yankee dude!”
“English!”
“Just as bad.” Molasses dripped from her Southern tongue. “You oughter watch your mouth ‘cause no one tells the Colonel’s daughter what she oughter do!
“Excuse me, ma’am, your behind is obscene. I do believe your problem is too many sweet pralines.”
(Author’s note: Yes, yes. They’ve broken into rhyme. There’s no reason for it.)
“And don’t you dare imply I’m fat, you mean old so and so,” she spit back. “You’ll find your skinny ass in boiling hot water. Don’t piss off the Colonel’s daughter!”
“Excuse me, ma’am, I don’t give a damn!”
She walked over to Millicent shaking her head. “Ooh! What he said!”

“Excuse me, lass, remove your ass!”
“Daddy’s goin’ to be so mad!”
Tent put his hands on his hips in exasperation. “Don’t you know who I am?” He put his right hand over his heart. “I am Malcom Tent, chief inspector of Scotland Yard! And I intend on arresting the Man in the Red Underwear tonight!
“So you want to see the red-hot man as eagerly as me?”
“Yes!”
With extreme dexterity and adroitness, the person threw off the dress and wig, revealing that it was not a woman at all but indeed the Man in the Red Underwear.
Millicent pointed at Tent, tattling on him just like he were a mean little boy in school who had just pulled her pigtails. “He’s trying to blackmail me with a letter I wrote to Eddie into revealing your identity!”
“That’s not very nice.” The Man in the Red Underwear apparently was from England, as evidenced by his talent for understatement.
“So what are you going to do about it?” Tent retorted, sounding more and more like a mean little school boy.
The Man in the Red Underwear glanced to the mantle of the fireplace, noticing two crossed swords. “This!” He grabbed one of them and took a proper fencing position. “En garde!”
Tent rushed to the mantle, grabbed the other sword and took his own intimidating stance. (Please remember that these swords belonged to Sir JohnBob Snob so the worst either could inflict upon the other is maybe a little booboo which would turn black and blue the next morning.)
Millicent clapped. “Ooh, this is going to be good!” She ran to the door and swung it open. “Hey, everybody! Look here! Fight!”
“Finally! Some real entertainment!” Cecelia exclaimed.
“Quick, mother! Get our pom pons!”

Right! “Cecelia clambered up the grand staircase.
Bedelia almost spilled her rum punch. “A fight? But that’s against the law! I’m going to get Scotland Yard!”
As she ran out the front door, a lone male voice, possibly the same person who pleaded for some real food earlier, called out, “Bring back a couple bags of fish and chips!”
Tent and the Man in the Red Underwear lunged and parried their way from the library to the center of the ballroom. The orchestra broke into a rousing rendition of “When the World Was Turned Upside Down.” (This is a really obscure historical joke. Look it up and then you’ll laugh.)
“Look! Tent dramatically pointed into the crowd. Is that someone actually eating one of Lady Snob-Johnson’s canapes?”
The Man in the Red Underwear turned his head in that direction. “No! You’ll throw up!”
Tent kicked him in the rear, knocking him to the floor. “Ha ha. Fooled you.” He aimed his sword at the red-clad chest. “So ends the brief career of the Man in the Red Underwear.”

As the crowd let out a collective gasp, Millicent jumped on Tent’s back.
“Quick! To your feet!” she yelled.
In a single, graceful bolt, he was up and grabbed his sword.
“Get off my back, you silly woman!” Tent growled.
“Yes, our side must play fair even if he doesn’t,” the man in red announced.
The guests applauded politely and whispers of “Good show, very proper” made their way around the room. Millicent dismounted the inspector’s back as charmingly as possible, considering the circumstances.
Cecelia broke the brief atmosphere of civility as she slid down the bannister, her arms filled with pom pons. She tossed pairs to Millicent and Eddie. All three gathered in front of the orchestra which switched tunes and began playing the Iowa Fight Song. After all, she said they could play any song in the world, even ones that hadn’t been written yet.
Tent and the Man in the Red Underwear resumed their fencing match, while Cecelia, Millicent and Eddie went into their cheerleading routine.

We love our pretty pom pons as much as we love chocolate bon bons!
Let’s make it loud, show we’re proud by beating on our tom toms!
Gimme a red!
The crowd roared, “Red!”
Gimme a Under!
“Under!” they loudly repeated.
Gimme a Wear!
“Wear!” They almost took the roof off with that response
Put it all together and what have you got?
Red Underwear! Red Underwear! Red Underwear!
The Man in the Red Underwear shows up everywhere!
So if you’re bad and are a cad, you better beware!
Two bits!
Four bits!
Six bits a dollar!
All for red underwear
Stand up and holler!
Since they were already standing, Cecelia’s party guests jumped up and down, waving their arms in the air and grabbing each other in inappropriate places.

You got to be a dashing hero and don red underwear
If you want us to cheer for you and shake our bouffant hair!

The Man in the Red Underwear finally flipped Tent’s foil from his hand which landed at Cecelia’s feet. She quickly picked it up and investigated it to make sure no harm had befallen her family heirloom. In the meantime, the man in red held his sword at Tent’s throat and motioned for him to turn over the letter.

“Curses! Foiled again!” Reluctantly Tent pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Millicent who quickly ripped it to shreds.

“Millicent, what was in that letter?” Cecelia asked.

“Nothing, Mother.”

“It must have been something or else why all the bother?”

Millicent turned to the crowd and threw up her arms. “Come on, everybody! One more time!”

The guests joined in.

The Man in the Red Underwear shows up everywhere!
So if you’re bad and are cad, you better be aware!”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Fifty

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. MI6 to test him to see if he can be both king and spy.
Wallis and Ernest sat across from each other at a table covered in white lace in the gardens at Buckingham Palace one humid afternoon in July 1936. David invited them to his first garden party as king in honor of the season’s debutantes. However, he preferred that the Simpsons sit in the back so as to not attract too much attention.
The couple sipped their tea and ate biscuits but did not speak to speak to each other. Wallis thought if she heard Ernest crunch into one more biscuit she would scream. She was about to issue an icy retort but then she noticed the merry glint in his eyes as young ladies passed by in their frilly dresses and flowery hats, and her heart melted. He was such a child at royal events like this. Rather sweet, Wallis conceded.
What a shame she was about to ask for a divorce. It might break his heart; on the other hand, Ernest was involved in a long-distance affair with their friend Mary Raffray in New York. David, who had been king for almost six months, issued an invitation to the both of them to join him on holiday in August along the Dalmatian Coast on the Adriatic Sea. Wallis had visited the western coast in Italy but had never seen the eastern side, which consisted of tiny fishing villages of Croatia. Ernest immediately informed her he could not go because of important business pending in New York. Wallis knew the only pending business he had in New York was to continue his affair with Mary. That thought convinced Wallis that she didn’t care if she broke his heart or not.
“I keep remembering how much fun we had last fall when Mary came back from New York with you,” she said. “It was great seeing her after all this time. She was the one who introduced us. You remember that, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t you just love her?”
“Um, I suppose.” He crunched into his biscuit again.
“Ernest darling, we need to tell the truth.” Wallis smiled. “Well, you tell the truth. I’m incapable of telling the truth.” She paused. “I’ll make it easy for you. You just yes or no. Mary Raffray is a beautiful woman, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“You see her frequently when you’re in New York, which you are, frequently.”
“Yes.”
“You two have been copulating like rabbits, right?”
Ernest hesitated before replying, “Yes.”
“Well, do you love her?”
“Yes.”
“If you had your way, you’d marry her and live happily ever after.”
“Yes.”
“But you won’t stop being my friend, will you?”
“No.”
“Good.” She sipped her tea. “Now do something I can use as proof of adultery so we can start this divorce going.”
“Anything you say, darling.”
“Pass the biscuits, please.”
By the first week of August at the port of Calais, Wallis boarded the Orient Express train with David and a host of their most intimate friends—Herman and Katherine Rogers, Duff and Lady Diana Cooper, Mrs. Joseph Gwynne, Archie Compston, John Aird, Godfrey Thomas and Tommy Lascelles. Some were old friends of Wallis, like the Rogers and Mrs. Gwynne. Others were friends of David, the Coopers and Compston who was his favorite golfing companion. Aird was David’s new equerry, and Thomas and Lascelles were his private secretaries. The boon companions began drinking as their private car on the Orient Express pulled out of the station so the all the picturesque scenery of Austria and Yugoslavia was a blur to them. They finally arrived at the port of Sibenik, Croatia, where Lady Cunard and Lord and Lady Brownlow joined the party. How the hell were they going to pull off even a minor spy mission baffled Wallis, but she put on a brave smile and played the perfect hostess.
They boarded the large sparkling yacht Nahlin to proceed down the Dalmatian Coast. Most of the time, David toured the Mediterranean on the royal yacht Victoria and Albert but he decided it was too moldy and cramped for this occasion. He chartered the Nahlin which was practically brand new and shinier than the family boat with large awnings, teak decks and wicker tables and chairs.
Local peasants, dressed in their finest native garb, gathered on the pier to wave good-bye. Everyone leaned against the railing to wave back.
“What if one of them was supposed to be our contact?” Wallis whispered to David.
“Too late now, isn’t it? Anyway, Sibenik isn’t officially part of the Dalmation Coast, is it? Frankly, I’m hoping to miss the connection altogether. Being king is beastly, all these people around.” David pointed out to the bay to the Adriatic Sea. “See those two navy ships? They’re the destroyers HMS Grafton and Glowworm, assigned to protect us all the way to Istanbul.”
“How dreadfully unromantic.”
Most of the cruise down the Dalmatian Coast was dreadfully unromantic to Wallis. At this point the rumor mill ground away, wondering if or when the royal lovers would ever announce to the world they planned to marry—to hell with the quaint customs of the English monarchy.
The first morning of the cruise, the Nahlin docked in one of the many sun-drenched coves in the Balkans, and everyone enjoyed breakfast on deck. As was her custom, Wallis never sat during a holiday meal like this. She was too busy making sure everyone was happy.
“Where is that dear sweet husband of yours, Mrs. Simpson?” Compston asked, a wicked smile lurking in the corners of his mouth.
“He’s off tending to his shipping line in New York.” Her tone was light and airy, and she didn’t break stride as she focused on her closest friends, Herman and Katherine Rogers. She slipped into a chair next to Katherine.
“Archie can be such an ass,” her friend whispered. “You know his wife has moved permanently to their seaside cottage in Brighton.”
“Yes. Well.” Wallis exhaled cigarette smoke. “At least he still has his balls to play with.” Across the table Mrs. Joseph Gwynne tittered. Wallis widened her eyes. “His golf balls. He loves to play golf with David. You know, he had to give up soccer because of his health. So his golf balls are the only balls he has left.”
Mrs. Gwynne snickered as Wallis left the table to inquire of Duff, Lady Diana Cooper and Lady Cunard if they were enjoying their breakfast. Before they could reply, David appeared on the deck wearing comfortable sandals, beige shorts and a hairless bronzed chest.
“I don’t think I shall ever become accustomed to seeing an English king sans shirt,” Lady Cunard announced before taking a sip of her Earl Grey tea.
“My dear, if you had seen King Edward or David’s father King George, stripped to the waist, you wouldn’t mind David so much,” Wallis replied and turned to hug David.
Each day began with the same ritual. The entire party strolled down the gangplank and waved to the natives who gathered to greet them. David always led the way, enveloping himself into the crowds, much to the chagrin of his equerry and private secretaries.
“The King must be mad, pressing flesh in such an aggressive manner,” Aird muttered to Wallis.
Wallis sucked in cigarette smoke and exhaled through her nose. “Well, I think he’s more like Hamlet than Richard II. There’s a method to his madness.”
“Huh?” Aird was befuddled.
Wallis walked away and caught up with David to shake as many hands also. Soon both of them disappeared into the crowd. To no avail, she decided, because no peasant-clad native shoved a note or anything else into their hands.
In the afternoons David and Wallis slipped off with Tommy Lascelles to secluded beaches where they could swim and fish without enduring the usual courtier chinwag. But they were never approached by a wandering peasant with a note.
When they reached their final stop on the Dalmatian Coast at the fishing village Cetinje in Croatia, they decided they had missed their contact which was fine with them. They found it inconvenient to be shadowed by two large naval destroyers. After supper with the whole gang, David and Wallis strolled down the plank one last time. They found the village mystical and ethereal after sunset.
“Please remind me never to travel with such an entourage on holiday again,” David announced with a sigh.
“Oh shut up.” She elbowed him. “You grew up around people like this. You enjoy it and don’t deny it.”
David laughed. Wallis surprisingly found herself pleased with his laughter, as though they actually did love each other.
“And what did you grow up around?”
Wallis flicked the cigarette into the dark waters of the Adriatic. “Drunks and hillbillies.”
David laughed again. The streets of Centinje lit up with hundreds of torches. The entourage walked down to the pier where they saw local citizens dressed in their finest attire approaching as they sang their favorite local folk songs. Wallis couldn’t help but put her head on David’s shoulder. It was the first time she had ever shown that much affection towards him, and she didn’t know why.
A peasant man ran toward them, waving a note. By his side was a Catholic cleric. David’s equerry and two secretaries appeared from behind the couple to thwart the oncoming strangers.
“No, no, that’s fine,” David ordered. He smiled and motioned him forward, thinking that this was the message they had been awaiting.
The humble minister spoke. “My parishioner speaks no English so he asked me to write the note for him. I hope you understand.”
David took it from the man who just stood there, as though anticipating a reply. David read it, looked at the man, shook his head and said, “Thank you, but no.”
The peasant walked away, slumped in disappointment against the minister who put his arm around him. David handed the note to Wallis. She read it in the lights from the yacht.
“Don’t marry the skinny old woman. My daughter is young and fully rounded. She can give you many children.”