The Lady from Zagreb

Nine

I caught the S-Bahn north to Grunewald Station and walked southwest, along Fontanestrasse onto Hohenzollerndamm. Department Six of the RSHA was located in a modern, four-story building on Berkaerstrasse that looked more like apartments than the headquarters of the Foreign Intelligence Service, with only a flagpole on the flat roof and a few official cars parked in front of the curving façade to suggest that it was any different from the sleepy residential bricks-and-mortar surrounding it. Short of having the SD’s Foreign Intelligence conducted from a back room in a small suburban theater, number 22 couldn’t have been more anonymous and out of the way, and was quite a contrast to the kinds of grand, intimidating buildings that Schellenberg’s sinister masters preferred. Just looking at it now told me a lot about Schellenberg. A German who cares nothing for show is someone with a lot to hide, and as I approached the modest, unguarded entrance I wondered just how it was that Schellenberg had also avoided service in one of Heydrich’s murderous operation groups. That was clever, too. I had to hand it to Walter Schellenberg; it seemed that he’d made a much better job of pretending to be a Nazi than I had.

An SD captain called Horst Janssen came down to the reception area to hand me a set of keys for one of the cars parked outside.

“Nice place you have here,” I observed as I followed him outside.

“It used to be a Jewish old people’s home,” he said without a trace of embarrassment; then again he was just back from Kiev, where he’d probably done something even more dreadful than kick a few old people onto the streets — you could see it in his blue eyes — the kind of thing that people like me and Schellenberg had so neatly sidestepped. An international crime conference can sharpen up your instincts like that.

“That explains why it’s so quiet around here,” I said.

“It is now they’re all in the Lublin Ghetto,” Janssen said, and tossed me the keys. “That one there,” he said, pointing to a Mercedes 170.

“Has it got petrol?”

“Sure we’ve got petrol. That’s why we invaded the Caucasus.”

“Comedian. What’s he like to work for? Schellenberg.”

“He’s all right.”

“Where does he live? Round here, I suppose. In some fancy big villa. Like Heydrich’s place in Schlachtensee.”

“Not at all. He’s a very modest man, our general. Listen, can you give me a lift as far as the West End?”

“Sure. Where in particular?”

“The military court in Charlottenburg,” he said. “I’m a witness in a trial.”

“Oh?”

“An SS man accused of cowardice.”

“That shouldn’t take long.”

But Janssen wasn’t the talkative type. He said nothing on the way to the court and short of asking him a question directly about Schellenberg and the Stiftung Nordhav, I figured that was it with him.

I dropped Janssen off outside the court on Witzlebenstrasse, just a couple of blocks south of the German Opera House, and spent the rest of the morning and the larger part of the afternoon just driving in Berlin. It had been a while since I’d had a chance to motor around the city with no particular place to go, even though I did have somewhere I was supposed to be; then again that’s the best way to see any city — I mean when you should be doing something else. Stolen pleasure beats anything.

Around five I drove back to the villa. In the main hall they were busy listening to someone else performing a long solo about modern policing and I took advantage of this diversion to go upstairs again to check out the Stiftung Nordhav office. The door was still locked, of course, but a quick glance outside revealed that if I stepped out onto the curving balcony that occupied the space above the Greek Revival entrance I might get in there through the third-floor window. A couple of minutes later I was sitting at a little wooden desk and going through the drawers looking for some useful tasty mouthful concerning the sale of the Villa Minoux I might feed to Dr. Heckholz and his charming client, Frau Minoux.

There were lots of files about the IKPK, which mostly I ignored, except to note that the International Criminal Police Commission[2] was now an active part of the Gestapo. And there was plenty of correspondence between Export Drives GMBH — which turned out to be owned by Major Eggen — and a Zurich-based company called the Swiss Wood Syndicate, some of which had been signed by Paul Meyer. There were also lots of documents about a deal, brokered by the Ministry of Economic Affairs, between a government-owned company called German War and Munitions AG and the Luchsinger Company of Zurich to supply the Swiss with 275 submachine guns and two hundred thousand rounds of ammunition. But there was no sign of any documents regarding the sale of the Villa Minoux to Stiftung Nordhav. Not even a mildewed title deed.

Looking back on it now it seems incredible that I had so much important information in my hands but that I didn’t think to do anything with it because none of it was about the villa. But that was my brief from Heckholz and Frau Minoux, after all. How was I to know that, much later on, the Swiss Wood Syndicate would turn out to be important? Of course, that’s detective work for you. If I had to give that stupid lecture again I might add that sometimes the work is a bit like dealing with a beautiful woman you’re in love with: you never know what you’ve got until she’s gone.

I went downstairs, helped myself to some more cigarettes and a large schnapps from a bottle on a silver tray in the library — the best kind, made from the best fruit, which in this case was pears, and probably Austrian, as the finest schnapps usually is, and like eating the most delicious pear you’ve ever eaten only to discover that it was a wonderful, magic pear and that the effect extends far beyond the mouth into every corner of the human body like a benign witch’s spell. I quickly poured another and felt a smile spread on my face like a cloud shifting away from the sun. The bottle was too good to leave lying around in a place like that. If ever anything needed rescuing from the Nazis, it was that bottle.

The last lecture of the day was now over and the delegates were starting to drift out of the main hall. I swallowed the schnapps and, after a certain amount of talk was splashed about, I ushered Captain Meyer and his somber companion out to the car.

“I’m afraid it was all downhill after you left,” declared Meyer. “Very dull indeed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind telling you that I’ve been looking forward to meeting you again all day.”

I’d been working on my smile and quickly deployed it as I opened the car door.

“But it’s always nice to be back in Berlin,” he added politely.

“How about you, Lieutenant—?”

“Leuthard,” said the man dully.

“Are you enjoying Berlin?”

“No,” he said. “I never liked it here much before. And I like it even less now.”

Captain Meyer laughed. “Ueli says what’s on his mind, generally.”

“That’s not recommended in Berlin.”

We drove north, straight up the old AVUS speedway and then east onto Bismarckstrasse where, outside the Grand Hotel am Knie, I parked the car and gestured the two Swiss inside.

“Shall we?”

Lieutenant Leuthard stared sourly up at the hotel’s tall façade with its twin bell towers and steep Dutch gable, lit a cigarette, and then checked his watch. I made a mental note of the size of his hands and his shoulders and resolved not to have any kind of disagreement with him. He might have been Swiss but he didn’t look like the kind of man whose neutrality you could depend on.

“Is this a better hotel than the Adlon?” he asked.

“No. Not in my opinion.”

“What makes you say so?”

“Before the war, I worked at the Adlon,” I said.

“My father’s in the hotel business,” he said. “I thought I might go into that myself. After the war.”

“With your skill for diplomacy, it’s a sure thing you’d be successful.”

Leuthard smiled a patient sort of smile.

“If you’ll forgive me,” he said, “I’ve heard enough waffle for one day. I’m going for a walk. To stretch my legs. I’ll see you in the opera house foyer in one hour, Captain. Sir.” Then he fixed his kepi on his head and walked east on Berliner Strasse, in the direction of the Tiergarten.

“Sorry about that,” said Meyer. “Ueli is a difficult character, at the best of times. A bit hotheaded, frankly. But I think he’s a good policeman.”

We sat down outside the hotel entrance under the large awning that covered the open-air bar and ordered some beers, for which I felt obliged to apologize in advance.

“The best beer is in short supply,” I said.

“Believe me, things are just as bad in Switzerland. We’re a landlocked country, as you know, and totally dependent on Germany’s goodwill for our survival. Which isn’t easy to maintain, given certain recent events.”

I shrugged, unaware of what recent events he might have been referring to.

“I’m talking about Maurice Bavaud,” explained Meyer. “The Swiss theology student who tried to shoot Hitler in 1938. He was executed last year.”

I shrugged. “Speaking for myself, I’m not about to hold a little thing like that against you all.”

Meyer chuckled. “Schellenberg was right. You are an excellent detective, but a very poor Nazi. I wonder how you’ve stayed alive for so long.”

“This is Berlin. Most of the time people don’t notice when you call a child nasty names. It’s not just Lieutenant Leuthard who hates us. It’s our masters, too. Been that way since Bismarck’s time. We’re constitutionally ungovernable. A bit like the Paris mob, but with uglier women.”

He laughed. “You’re a most amusing man. I’m sure my wife, Patrizia, would love to meet you. If you’re ever in Switzerland, you must look us up.”

He gave me a stiff little card that had more names and more addresses than a Maltese confidence man.

“Sure. I’m often in your neck of the woods. Actually, my bankers in Zurich think I should move there permanently. But I like it here. There’s our famous air, for one thing. I’d miss that. Not to mention all our hard-won freedoms.”

“Seriously, though,” he said. “There’s an old murder case I’ve long been fascinated with. Happened in a place called Rapperswil. A woman was found dead in a boat. The local detective is a friend of mine. I’m sure he’d love to have the benefit of your insight. We both would.”

“The only insight I can offer you at the present moment is that hosting an international crime conference in Germany is like the Goths and the Vandals offering suggestions on new ways of tackling crimes against property during the sack of Rome. But it would certainly seem like a shame to go to Switzerland just to tell you this.”

The beers came and they were better than I had expected. But very expensive.

“Are you really a writer?” I asked.

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“I never met a writer before. Especially one who was a policeman.”

Meyer shrugged. “I’m more on the intelligence side of things,” he explained.

“That explains why you know Schellenberg. He’s got a lot of intelligence. Maybe just enough to survive the war. We’ll see.”

“I like him. And he seems to like me.”

“How did you two meet?”

“In Bucharest. At the 1938 IKPK General Assembly, where it was proposed the IKPK headquarters be moved from Vienna to Geneva. Schellenberg was all for it. At least he was until your General Heydrich changed his mind for him.”

“He could be a very persuasive man when he wanted.”

“According to Schellenberg, it was Heydrich who brought you back into Kripo, wasn’t it? After five years in the cold.”

“Yes. But it wasn’t so cold. At least I didn’t think it was.”

“Schelli says there were some more murders he wanted you to solve. In 1938. Of some Jewish girls.”

“A lot of Jews have been murdered in this city.”

“But you know the ones I’m talking about. These were just before the infamous night of broken glass, weren’t they?”

I nodded.

“Would you tell me about them?”

“All right.”

From the pocket of his tunic Meyer now produced a notepad and a pencil. “Do you mind?”

“No, go right ahead. Only, you’d better wait until I’m dead before you write about this. Or better still, you’d better wait until another theology student comes along with a gun in his hand.”

We talked for about forty minutes and then I walked him along Bismarckstrasse to the German Opera House, where Leuthard was already waiting outside, looking more thuggish than before. You wouldn’t have been surprised to have seen him in an opera — Wagner’s, full of thugs with swords and wings on their helmets — but attending one was something else again. There was grass on the back of his tunic, as if he’d been lying in the Tiergarten. He walked toward me with a sort of smile on his face and a program in his hand, but I might just as easily have expected him to have been carrying a gun.

“What did you do?” Meyer asked him.

“Nothing much,” said Leuthard. “Lay in the sun and slept for a little.”

“I’ll meet you back at the hotel after the show,” I said. “And then we can go to dinner. Or I’ll drive you back to the Adlon. Both, if you prefer.”

“I’m sure we could get you a ticket,” said Meyer.

“One thing you can’t knock about the opera is the music; it’s just a pity that they take so long to play it.”

“What will you do?”

“Don’t worry about me. I live not very far from here.”

“You know? I’d like to see the home of a real Berlin detective.”

“No, you wouldn’t. There’s no chemistry set, and no Persian slipper where I keep my tobacco. There’s not even a violin. The ordinariness of it would horrify a writer. You might never write another word again because of the disappointment. Besides, right now we’re not receiving visitors, on account of the fact that we’re waiting for a new guest book from Liebmann’s.”

“Well then. The Alex. I should like to see around the famous Alex.”

“Schellenberg will fix that for you. And now I’m going home. I’ll see you back here at ten o’clock.”

I walked back toward the Grand; but I didn’t go home. I had no intention of going home. Just around the corner was the municipal bathhouse where, two nights a week, Kirsten Handlöser — the schoolteacher I’d met in a boat on the Wannsee — went swimming. At least that was what she had told me. You never know with women. What they tell you and what they don’t tell you is a very long bridge across a very wide river with all kinds of fish.

The bathhouse was a big redbrick building with ceramic dolphins on the wall. Inside there was a handsome glass roof over a pool about thirty or forty meters long, and above the clock at the north end was a handsome-looking mural of some lakeside idyll: a couple of herons were watching a bearded man in a red toga trying to get the attention of a naked girl who was seated on a little grassy knoll. She looked like she was of two minds about whatever it was he was suggesting, but from where I was sitting it already looked too late for her to change her mind about anything very much except perhaps which bus she caught home.

I took a quick walk around the poolside but Kirsten wasn’t there and I certainly didn’t have the inclination to swim myself. Getting wet inside seemed like a better bet. I remembered that Dr. Heckholz had boasted of having an excellent schnapps. His office wasn’t so far away, on Bedeuten Strasse, and it was still early enough to find a hardworking lawyer in his office. Besides, I had news for him about Stiftung Nordhav, which was that I’d pushed an investigation about as far as it could go without getting myself into trouble.

I walked along Wallstrasse and instinctively looked to see if Heckholz’s office lights were on. Not that they needed to be: it was still light; and not that they would have been; if it had been dark there would have been a blackout, but old habits die hard. So I rang the bell and waited, and when nothing happened I rang all of them, which seldom works, only this time it did.

There was an elevator but as before I took the white marble stairs to the third floor and walked along the well-polished landing to the frosted-glass door, which, as before, was slightly ajar, only this time Dr. Heckholz wasn’t expecting me. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Not anymore. He was lying on the floor as if eavesdropping on the people in the office immediately below. But he wouldn’t have heard anyone or anything because he was quite dead. He couldn’t have looked more dead if he’d been lying on the side of a trench at Verdun with a bullet through his head.