“I see.” He turned his face a few inches to the left, as if to regard the tables and chairs, which had begun to populate, mostly men in pale, pressed linen suits, like de Marigny, only shorter and pudgier, your commonplace middle-aged merchant, Bahamicus mercantilis vulgarii. A couple of conspicuous American tourists. “I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do for you in this regard, Mrs. Randolph. I am not a favorite of His Royal Highness.”

“Goodness me. Why ever not? I thought it was part of His Highness’s duty to make himself agreeable to his allies.”

“Allies?”

“I couldn’t help noticing your accent, Monsieur de Marigny.”

“Mrs. Randolph, I am a British subject by birth. I was born in Mauritius, which is a British colony, somewhat to the right of Africa.”

“I see,” I said. “How awfully exotic. Then it’s Mister de Marigny?”

He made a small smile. “My friends call me Freddie.”

“Well then, Freddie. How did a nice chap like you end up on the wrong side of the Duke of Windsor?”

“Do you ask me as a journalist, Mrs. Randolph, or as a friend?”

“Both. I’m a desperate woman, you know. Any little old tidbit might save my career.”

“Then I don’t mind telling you that the duke is a terrible bigot, a vain, weak, effeminate man, entirely ruled by his wife and his own greed.”

He still wore the smile, but his voice was serious, and not at all hushed as you might expect, saying a thing like that in a place like this. I tapped my cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, taking care to keep my fingers steady despite the buzz along my nerves. “Golly. Say what you really think, Freddie.”

“I beg your pardon. Mine is an outspoken nature.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a bit, believe me. Is he a traitor?”

“No,” de Marigny said, “but he is the fool of the Nazis. I knew him a little before the war, you know, when I lived in London. It’s no secret he admired Hitler very much in those days. His wife, I think, is of the same mind. You will remember, I think, their visit to Germany, shortly after they married?”

“I remember, all right. That was some show. Parades and factory tours and what have you. Wearing their best clothes and their best smiles.”

“He is an idiot.” De Marigny sucked on his cigarette. His gaze, which had been trained amicably on me, lost a little focus, lost a little amity, and slipped to some point past my left ear. “I had a friend in those days, a good chap, handsome fellow, clever, a Jew. He traveled back to Berlin to persuade his family to leave. This was in 1936, I believe, after they passed these terrible laws. That was the last I ever saw of him.”