To Catch a King Read Free Page A

Brigadeführer and Major General of Police. Heydrich's right-hand man.”
    Hannah Winter had been born in November, 1918, two days before the Armistice was signed to end that most terrible of all wars. Her father, Simon, once a violinist with the Berlin Philharmonic, emigrated to New York in 1920 and opened a small restaurant on Forty-second Street in partnership with his wife's father. During the years of Prohibition, the establishment developed into a highly successful night club, but his health had never been good because of chest wounds received while serving as an infantryman on the Somme, and he died in July, 1929.
    The club, after Prohibition, once again became a restaurant and prospered under the shrewd direction of his wife. Hannah she had raised to be a nice Jewish girl who would one day make a good marriage, have kids, do all the right things.
    It might have worked, except for one important point. Hannah Winter had been blessed with an extraordinary singing voice. She discovered her talent by chance, singing with a student jazz band at high school. From that time on, she had never seriously contemplated any other way of life.
    At seventeen, she had appeared at the Paloma Ballroom in Hollywood with Benny Goodman. As a straight band singer she had toured with Artie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey.
    But she was at her best always in the more enclosed world of club and cabaret, preferably backed by a good trio. It was then that she was able to bring an intensity to her performance of the average popular song that perhaps rivaled anything Bessie Smith had been able to do with the blues.
    And she could have been at the Paramount Studios in Hollywood now doing a film with Bing Crosby if it hadn't been for Uncle Max, her father's younger brother, who, in spite of the fact that he had been a naturalized American citizen for twenty-five years, had horrified them all by returning to the city of his birth in 1937 to open a night club.
    Which was why Hannah was here. To persuade him that it was time to get out. But events had overtaken her with frightening rapidity. The Phony War was over and the Nazis were poised on the Channel coast, with England next stop and nothing standing in the way.
    She was applying her make-up when there was a knock at the door and her uncle entered. He pulled a chair forward and lit one of the small cigars he favored, watching her in the mirror.
    “All right—what happened?”
    She told him quickly, continuing the work on her face, then went behind the screen to change.
    “Not good,” he said. “Perhaps it would be as well if I explained a few things to you. In Germany today the SS is all-powerful, but within the organization they have their own secret service department—the SD. Heydrich is Director General, although still under the authority of Himmler.”
    “And Schellenberg?”
    “He's in charge of the counterespionage section, but more important, he's Heydrich's favorite. His right-hand man.” She made no reply as she slid a long black dress over her head, taking care not to spoil her make-up. “Do you understand any of this?”
    “Not really,” she said, emerging from behind the screen and turning so that he could button up the back of the dress. “So many titles—so many names. It's all very confusing. And the uniforms—every second person you meet seems to have one.”
    He took her hand. “This isn't Forty-second Street, Hannah.”
    She sat down facing him. “All right, Uncle Max. Then let's go home.”
    “You are,” he said. “All arranged—tickets and everything.”
    “I don't understand?”
    “Connie and the boys leave Monday morning by train for Paris. The same night they've got berths on the sleeper to Madrid, and so have you.”
    “And when was all this decided?”
    “Today. The boys have got a week at the Flamenco Club in Madrid. You knew that.”
    “But I haven't.”
    “No, but you can carry straight on to Lisbon from there. Plenty of boats going to New York. You might