The Lady from Zagreb

Five

I tugged on a brass bellpull as big as a butcher’s weight, heard the door spring open, and climbed a white marble staircase to the third floor, where, at the end of a well-polished landing, I found a frosted-glass door open and a smallish, thickly bearded man standing with his hand outstretched toward me. He was smiling broadly and there was a touch of the fairy king about him. We shook hands. He was wearing a tailored, cream-colored linen suit and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that were on a length of gold chain around his neck. In a waiting room behind him was a luscious-looking redhead who was draped in a beige, wraparound summer dress, and on her head was a wide-brimmed straw hat you could have used as a beach parasol. She was reading a magazine and smoking with a little amber holder that was the same incandescent shade as her hair. There was a full set of Malle Courier luggage with leather and brass trim by her chair, and I supposed she was traveling somewhere; she looked much too fresh to have come from somewhere else. The man was as friendly as a kitten but the redhead stayed put on the leather chesterfield and she was not introduced nor did she look at me. It was as if she didn’t exist. Perhaps she was another client for another lawyer. Either way, she was keeping herself to herself, which suited her a lot better than it suited me.

“I’m Gunther,” I said.

Heckholz brought his heels together silently and he bowed.

“Herr Gunther,” he said, “it’s good of you to come here at such short notice. I am Heinrich Heckholz.”

“There were five good reasons to come, Herr Doctor. Or perhaps a hundred, depending on how you look at it.”

“Surely you’re forgetting the pancakes. Will you join me?”

“I’ve been thinking about nothing else since midnight.”

We went along a corridor floored with white boards and lined with law books and box files, all of which carried the same little drawing of Justitia that appeared on his letterhead. He led me into a small kitchen where the mixture was already made, and immediately he put on a clean white apron and set about making the pancakes, but I felt him sizing me up out of the corner of his eye.

“Have you just finished your shift?”

“Yes. I came straight here.”

“Somehow I thought you’d be wearing your uniform,” he said.

“Only in the field,” I said, “or on ceremonial occasions.”

“In which case I wonder how you ever find the time to take it off. Berlin has more ceremonial occasions than imperial Rome, I fancy. The Nazis do like a good show.”

“You’ve got that right.”

He’d heated some cherry sauce in a small copper saucepan that he poured generously onto the finished pancakes and we carried Meissen plates into a meeting room. There was a round Biedermeier table and four matching chairs; on the yellow-papered wall was a portrait of Hitler, and on a sideboard in the window a large pot of white orchids. Through another open door on a white-wood floor was a partners desk, a large filing cabinet, and a safe. On the desk I spied a bronze head of the leader. Heckholz didn’t look like he was taking any chances with appearances. A third door was partly open, and I had half an idea that behind it was a room and that there was someone in that room; someone wearing the same perfume as the redhead in the waiting room.

Heckholz handed me a napkin and we ate the pancakes in silence. They were predictably delicious.

“I’d offer you an excellent schnapps with that but it’s a little early, even for me.”

I nodded, but it was just as well he didn’t twist my arm as it’s never too early for a glass of schnapps, especially when you’ve just finished work for the day.

He saw me looking at the picture on the wall and shrugged. “That’s good for business,” he said. “If not necessarily good for the digestion.” He shook his head. “Our leader has a very hungry look. Doubtless a result of his many years of struggle in my hometown of Vienna. Poor man. He almost looks as if he has been forbidden any pancakes and sent to bed early, don’t you think?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

“Still, his is an inspiring story. To come so far, from nothing. I’ve been to Braunau-on-the-Inn where he was born. It’s completely unremarkable. Which makes his story all the more remarkable when you think about it. Although, to be quite frank with you, as an Austrian I prefer not to think about it at all. It’s true that we Austrians will have to take the blame for giving the world Hitler. But I’m afraid it’s you Germans who must take the blame for giving him absolute power.”

I said nothing.

“Oh, come now,” said Heckholz, “there’s no need to be so coy, Herr Gunther. We both know you’re no more a Nazi than I am. Despite all the evidence to the contrary. I was a member of the Christian Social Party, but never a Nazi. The Nazis are all about show, and a show of loyalty to the leader is usually enough to deflect suspicion. How else can you explain the fact that so many Austrians and Germans who hate the Nazis give the Hitler salute with such alacrity?”

“I usually find that the safer explanation is to believe that they’re Nazis, too.”

Heckholz chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it is. Which probably explains why you’ve stayed alive for so long. You’ll remember Herr Gantner, who used to drive for Friedrich Minoux — he said that when you were working for Herr Minoux, as a private investigator, all those years ago, you told him you’d been a dedicated Social Democrat, right up until the moment that the Nazis gained power in 1933, when you had to leave the police.”

“So, it was him who recommended me to you.”

“Indeed it was. Only, now you’re in the SD.” Dr. Heckholz smiled. “How is that possible? I mean, how does someone who supported the SPD end up as a captain of SD?”

“People change,” I said. “Especially in Germany. If they know what’s good for them.”

“Some people. But not you, I think. Gantner told me what you said to him. In Wannsee. He told me that you virtually apologized for wearing the uniform. Like you were ashamed of it.”

“People see the scary SD badge on my sleeve and become alarmed. It’s a bad habit of mine, that’s all. Trying to put people at their ease.”

“That’s certainly unusual in Germany.”

Heckholz cleared away the plates, removed the apron, and then sat down; it was obvious he didn’t believe a word of what I’d said.

“All the same, Herr Gantner thought your remarks noteworthy enough to mention you to me in the hope that you might be able to provide us with some assistance.”

“What kind of assistance?”

“With a problem that results from what happened to Herr Minoux.”

“You mean the Berlin Gas Company fraud.”

“The Berlin Gas Company fraud. I do mean that, yes.”

“Thank you for the pancakes,” I said, standing up. I tossed the five Albrechts back onto his table. “But whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

“Please don’t go just yet,” he said. “You haven’t heard about my handsome proposition.”

“I’m beginning to believe your handsome proposition is about to turn into a rather ugly frog. Besides, I’m all out of kisses.”

“How would you like to make ten thousand reichsmarks?”

“I’d like it fine just as long as I was able to live to spend it. But if I’ve stayed alive for so long it’s because I’ve learned not to have conversations like this with strangers, especially when it’s next to an open door. If you want me to stay and hear you out, Herr Doctor Heckholz, then you’d better ask your friend wearing the Arabian Nights perfume to come in here and join us.”

Heckholz grinned and stood up. “I should have realized the difficulty of trying to trick a famous detective from the Alex.”

“No, that’s remarkably easy. You just send them a hundred marks in an envelope.”

“Lilly, darling, will you please come in here?”

A minute later the redhead was in the meeting room. She was taller than I had supposed, with larger breasts, and as Heckholz made the introductions she took my hand as if she’d been handing alms to Lazarus.

“Herr Gunther, this is Frau Minoux.”

“That’s a bad habit, Frau Minoux. Listening outside doors like that.”

“I wanted to see what kind of man you are before I made my mind up about you.”

“And what’s the conclusion?”

“I still haven’t decided.”

“You’re not alone there.”

“Anyway, it’s a bad habit I learned from you, Herr Gunther. It was you my husband paid to spy on me at my home in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, wasn’t it? When was that exactly?”

I nodded. “Nineteen thirty-five.”

“Nineteen thirty-five.” Frau Minoux rolled her eyes and sighed. “So much has happened since then.”

“Well, I guess he didn’t find anything,” Heckholz told her, “otherwise you’d hardly be here now, would you? Still married to Friedrich.”

“You’d have to ask Herr Gunther that,” said Frau Minoux.

“I didn’t find anything, no. But strictly speaking, Frau Minoux, I never actually listened outside your door. As it happens, I subcontracted the job in Garmisch to a local detective — an Austrian named Max Ahrweiler. He was the one who was looking through your keyhole, not me.”

Frau Minoux sat down, and as she crossed her legs the wraparound dress she was wearing fell from her thigh to reveal a lilac-colored garter; I turned politely away to give her time to fix this but when I looked again, I could still see the garter. I told myself that if she didn’t mind me looking then I didn’t mind, either. It was a nice garter. But the length of smooth, creamy white thigh over which it was stretched was better. She screwed a cigarette into her holder and allowed Heckholz to light her.

“Is it Arabian Nights?” he asked. “The perfume you’re wearing, Lilly? Just out of interest.”

“Yes,” she said.

Heckholz put away his lighter and looked at me. “I’m impressed. You have a good nose, Herr Gunther.”

“Don’t be. My nose for perfume is the same as the one I use for trouble. And right now I’m getting a strong scent of it from both of you.”

But I sat down anyway. It wasn’t like I had very much to do at home except stare at the walls and sleep, and I’d already done quite enough of that at work.

“Please,” she said. “Put the money back in your pocket and at least hear us out.”

I nodded and then did as she had asked.

“First,” said Heckholz, “I should explain that my main offices are in Austria, which is where Frau Minoux is still primarily a resident. However, she also rents a house here in Berlin-Dahlem. I act for both her and for Herr Minoux, who is of course currently languishing in Brandenburg Prison. I take it that you’re familiar with the basic facts of the Berlin Gas Company case.”

“He and two others defrauded the company of seven and a half million reichsmarks and now he’s doing five years.” I shrugged. “But before that he helped steal a company — the Okriftel Paper Company — from a family of Jews in Frankfurt.”

“That company had already been Aryanized by the Frankfurt Chamber of Commerce,” said Frau Minoux. “All Friedrich did was buy a company the owners were legally obliged to sell.”

“Maybe. But if you ask me, he had it coming. That’s what I know about Herr Friedrich Minoux.”

Frau Minoux didn’t flinch. Clearly she was made of stronger stuff than her husband. For a minute I let my imagination play around in her pants; maybe they smell something in the air, but it’s surprising how often women guess what I’m up to; it’s a technique I use sometimes to let them know that I’m a man. But she finally woke up to the fact that she was showing a garter and tugged the dress back over her thigh.

“The rights and wrongs of the Berlin Gas Company case are not in dispute,” said Heckholz. “And it might interest you to know that several million reichsmarks have already been repaid by the three convicted men. No, it’s what happened afterwards that is a matter of some concern to the Minouxes. Are you perhaps acquainted with a Berlin private detective by the name of Arthur Müller?”

“I know him.”

“Tell me about him, if you would.”

“He’s efficient. A little lacking in imagination. Used to be a cop at the Police Praesidium here in Charlottenburg, but he’s from Bremen, I think. He got stabbed in the neck by an SA man once, so he has no great love for the Nazis. Getting stabbed — sometimes it just works that way. Why?”

“Herr Müller’s currently engaged by the Berlin Gas Company to find out if Herr Minoux has any hidden assets in the hope that even more money can be recovered from him. And more pertinently, Frau Minoux also. To this end he and his own operatives have been keeping Frau Minoux and her daughter Monika under surveillance at her home here in Berlin and at Frau Minoux’s home in Garmisch. And very likely this office, as well.”

“There’s a man watching your front door. But it’s certainly not Arthur Müller. This fellow looks like he learned the job from reading Emil and the Detectives. My guess is that he’s keeping a mark on you while Arthur gets some sleep.”

“We assumed the Gestapo might also be involved until you explained the position with regard to telephone tapping. So then. The plain fact of the matter is that Frau Minoux has substantial works of art and furnishings of her own that were in the matrimonial home in Wannsee that she has been obliged to hide at a warehouse in Lichtenberg, for fear that these would also be confiscated by the government.”

“I begin to see your problem.”

“Would you say that Herr Müller was honest?”

“I know what it used to mean. To be honest. But I’ve got no idea what it means today. At least not in Germany.”

“Could he be bribed, perhaps?”

“Maybe. I guess it would depend on the bribe. If it was ten thousand reichsmarks then the answer would almost certainly be yes, possibly. Who wouldn’t? But it makes me wonder why it’s my nose you’re riffling these bills in front of and not his.”

“Because he’s only half the problem, Herr Gunther. Have you heard of a company called Stiftung Nordhav?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t hang around the Börse Berlin. I was never much interested in the financial pages. And the only figures I’m interested in are wearing swimsuits right now. Or not. Depending on which end of the beach they like.”

Heckholz lit a small cigar and, smiling, puffed it lightly, as if he liked the taste more than the sensation it delivered.

“This isn’t the kind of company that has a listing. It’s a so-called charitable foundation that was set up by your old boss, Reinhard Heydrich, in 1939, ostensibly to build rest-and-recreation centers for members of the RSHA. In fact, it’s a very powerful company that makes all kinds of business deals designed to profit the directors, of whom Heydrich was the chairman. Since his death there are five directors left: Walter Schellenberg, Werner Best, Herbert Mehlhorn, Karl Wilhelm Albert, and Kurt Pomme. It was the Stiftung Nordhav that bought Herr Minoux’s Wannsee villa in November 1940 for 1.95 million reichsmarks, which was a great deal less than what it was worth. Most of that money was used by Herr Minoux to pay fines, compensation, and legal fees. Since then the Nordhav Foundation has bought several properties including Heydrich’s own summer home, in Fehmarn, using money stolen from disenfranchised and murdered Jews. It’s our strong suspicion that none of this money goes to the government and that all of it is used to benefit the remaining five directors.”

“In other words,” said Frau Minoux, “these men are guilty of the very same crime for which my husband is now doing five years in prison.”

“We believe the Wannsee villa was earmarked to become Heydrich’s new home here in Berlin,” explained Heckholz. “It isn’t so very far away from his old home, on Augustastrasse, in Schlachtensee. Of course, now that he’s dead it has little real use to the Foundation other than as a venue for the IKPK conference that’s about to take place. Which is the day after tomorrow, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “You’re well informed.”

“Herr Gantner lives with Katrin, a maid who still works at the villa.”

“Yes, I think he mentioned her.”

“After that’s over it’s hard to see what they can do with it, the Berlin property market being what it is.”

“Our aim is simple,” said Frau Minoux. “To find evidence of malfeasance and wrongdoing against any of the five remaining directors of the Nordhav Foundation. Once we have that we shall attempt to recover the house, at a fraction of what we paid for it. But if the existing directors fail to cooperate, we shall have no alternative but to put what we know before State Secretary Wilhelm Stuckart at the Ministry of the Interior. And if that fails, to get the story into the international press.”

“This is where you come in,” said Heckholz. “As a captain in the SD, with access to the villa, and the higher echelons of the SS, it’s possible you will perhaps overhear some information pertinent to the sale of the villa and by extension our case. Perhaps you could even be persuaded to conduct a search of the place while you’re staying there. At the very least we are asking only that you keep your ears and eyes open. We would put you on a cash retainer; say, a hundred marks a week. However, there is a ten-thousand-reichsmark bonus if you do find something significant.”

“Something that can get us justice,” she added.

I lit one of my own cigarettes and smiled sadly. I almost pitied them for thinking that they still lived in a world where ideas like justice were even possible. I thought there was probably less chance of him bringing prosecutions against the directors of the Nordhav Foundation than there was of him winning the Nobel Peace Prize and then donating all of the prize money to the World Jewish Congress.

“We should also very much welcome your assistance in handling Arthur Müller,” added Frau Minoux.

“Now that you’ve told me what you’ve got in mind I think it even less likely I could live to spend that bonus. These people you’re up against — they’re dangerous. Albert is currently the chief of police in Litzmannstadt, in Poland. There’s a ghetto in Litzmannstadt with more than a hundred thousand Jews in it. Have you any idea what happens in a place like that?”

When I saw them look at each other and look blank I wanted to bang their heads together.

“No, I thought not. Best and Schellenberg aren’t exactly shy flowers, either. Most of their friends are dangerous, too: Himmler, Gestapo Müller, Kaltenbrunner. Not to mention extremely powerful. Maybe the directors of this Nordhav Foundation do have some sort of racket going but then so does everyone else in the RSHA. Everyone except me, that is. My advice is that you should give this up. Forget this idea of taking on Nordhav. It’s much too dangerous. If you’re not careful you’ll end up in the cement alongside Herr Minoux. Or worse.”

Frau Minoux took out a tiny square of cotton that was laughingly called a handkerchief and dabbed either side of her perfect nose. “Please, Herr Gunther,” she said with a sniff. “You simply have to help us. I don’t know what else to do. Who else to turn to.”

Heckholz sat beside her for a moment and put his arm around her in an attempt to stop her from crying any more. It was a job I wouldn’t have minded having myself.

“At least say you’ll keep your ears and eyes open while you’re at the conference,” said Frau Minoux. “My hundred reichsmarks ought to buy me that much. And there’s another two hundred in it if you just come back here and tell Dr. Heckholz about anything you’ve learned about the sale of the villa. Anything at all. I won’t be here, myself. I’m going back to Austria this afternoon.”

It was the tears, I suppose. A woman cries and it cracks something open inside me, like Rapunzel’s tears, only they were supposed to restore her handsome prince’s sight, not blind him to the risks of snooping around a villa owned by the SS. I should have laughed and told them both to go to hell and walked straight out the door. Instead I thought about it for a moment, which was a mistake; you should always trust your first instincts in these matters. Anyway, I told myself there seemed little risk involved in just poking around a bit when I was at Wannsee and that was all I intended to do. Besides, Frau Minoux looked like she could afford to lose another hundred marks. So what did it matter? I’d make my speech, drink my coffee, steal a few cigarettes, and then leave and neither Frau Minoux nor Dr. Heckholz would be any the wiser.

“All right. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you,” she said.

I stood up and walked to the door.

“And Arthur Müller?” asked Heckholz. “The private detective? What about him?”

“You want him to lay off, right?”

They nodded.

“Just long enough for me to get my property out of the country,” she said. “Across the border into Switzerland.”

“Let me take care of it.” I shrugged. “But I get ten percent of whatever payoff I can negotiate.”

“That’s fair,” said Heckholz.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” asked Heckholz.

“Because fair’s got nothing to do with it,” I said. “That’s a word for children. When are people going to wake up and realize what’s happening in Germany? People like you. Worse than that, what’s happening in the east. In the so-called swamps. In places like Litzmannstadt. Believe me, fair’s got absolutely nothing to do with anything. Not anymore.”