Berkeley actually put him in the picture as they drove the hired car up the winding road, the immense height of the Alps now clearly visible to their south. It was some seventy-odd miles from Munich to Berchtesgaden, which lay just south of Salzburg, in a little enclave of German territory surrounded by Austria on three sides.
“Couldn’t be better,” Berkeley remarked. “It appears that our target spends a lot of time up here.”
“On his own?”
“Now, that I doubt. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
The village itself lay in the shadow of the Watzmann Mountain, which rose some eight thousand feet; to the left of the mountain was a large lake, which Berkeley’s guidebook told him was the Konigssee, suggesting that Hitler was not the first ruler, or would-be ruler, of Germany – or certainly Bavaria – to have holidayed here. It was a place of picturesque houses set amidst a great deal of greenery, and dominated by a castle which had, again according to the book, once housed the Bavarian kings.
“People come here for their health,” he told Lockwood. “Saline baths, and that sort of thing.”
“Pretty spot,” Lockwood remarked. “Where does our lad hang out, when he’s here?”
He was looking up the hillside to some villas perched on the heights above, and reached by a cable car.
“I think those would be too pricy,” Berkeley said. “What we are looking for is a boarding house, called, prosaically enough, The Look Out.”
They stopped and asked directions of a friendly policeman, and a few minutes later were drawing up before the boarding house, as picturesque as the rest of the buildings, but obviously not, at this time of year, very busy.
Lockwood stayed with the car while Berkeley went in. There was a rather precise-looking man seated behind a desk in the hall; he wore a pince-nez.
“Good afternoon,” Berkeley said.
The man looked him up and down; Berkeley was clearly not a German, both from his clothes and his accent.
“You wish a room?”
“Perhaps. I am actually looking for a friend of mine. A Herr Hitler.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “You are a friend of Herr Hitler’s?”
“That’s what I said. Would he be here?”
“No.”
“Ah.” Berkeley kept his patience. “I went to call on him in Munich, but was told he was away, probably here.”
“He is not here now. I am expecting him . . .” he turned the pages of his ledger. “Perhaps this weekend.”
“I see.”
“Will you take a room?”
“Perhaps,” Berkeley said. “This weekend.”
“If you wish a room when Herr Hitler is here, you must book it now. He is generally accompanied by several people, and if you do not have a booking, you may not get in.”
“Right. So book me in. A double, for me and my friend.”
“There is a deposit. And I must see your passport.”
Berkeley opened the precious briefcase, which never left his side. “You’ll take English pounds?”
The man shrugged, and gave him a receipt.
Berkeley went outside to join Lockwood, who had remained seated behind the wheel.
“Looks better and better,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”
Lockwood locked the car, and they strolled along the pavement. As it was between seasons, the summer having ended and the weather not yet being cold enough to provide the snow for skiing, the little town was virtually deserted; those people who were about in the middle of the afternoon greeted them courteously enough.
“What a shame, to have to disrupt all this pretty peace,” Lockwood remarked.
“Hopefully, it will only be a nine-days’ wonder.” They reached the outskirts, and looked at the somewhat narrow road leading down into the valley and up the far side. And the border.
“That can easily be blocked,” Lockwood commented.
“We have to be across before a pursuit is mounted,” Berkeley said. “But that is where the Savoses can come in handy, holding the road open for us.”
“When are you going to tell them?”
“When we are ready to go into action.”
“And suppose they decide to drop out?”
“I don’t think they will, for several reasons. The principal one is that should they let us down, and one of us gets back to England, Alexandros’ residence is done. He’d be deported back to Serbia, to face everyone who is out for his blood. Principally his wife.”
“Point taken,” Lockwood said.
They strolled back to the car, and found it surrounded by three large young men.
“Don’t tell me you’re illegally parked,” Berkeley said. “We really don’t want any trouble with the police at this moment.”
“There’s no sign,” Lockwood pointed out. “Anyway, those aren’t policemen.”
The men wore the typical Bavarian costume of lederhosen, and their brown shirts bore the swastika badge.
Berkeley and Lockwood went up to them.
“Can we help you gentlemen?” Berkeley asked.
“You are the Englander who has been inquiring about Herr Hitler?” one of them replied.
“If it’s any business of yours, yes,” Berkeley said.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Herr Hitler happens to be an acquaintance of mine.”
The young man looked him up and down. “An Englander?”
“Takes all sorts. But as he isn’t here, we shall be returning to Munich. If you’d like to take your hand off of our car.”
“I think you need to be disciplined,” the man said. “Herr Hitler does not like people making inquiries about his whereabouts.”
“As I told you, I’m an acquaintance,” Berkeley said. “One might say, an old friend.”
“Everyone says that,” the man pointed out, and from his belt pulled a short truncheon.
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” Berkeley remarked. “Look, I really didn’t come here to cause any trouble.”
The man grinned. “We are the trouble.”
He swung the club. Berkeley stepped inside the arc, and slammed his rigid hand into the man’s throat, at the same time swinging the briefcase, held in his left hand, into the man’s groin. There was a choking gasp and the Nazi was on his hands and knees, the truncheon dropped.
On the other side of the car, Lockwood had pre-empted an assault by stepping up to the nearest man and hitting him on the side of the face with both hands clasped together. The blow was delivered with tremendous force; the man found himself hurled against the car and then collapsing on to the street, blood pouring from his split cheek.
The third man considered the situation, briefly, as Lockwood advanced on him, realised that even if the two Englishmen were at least twice their ages he and his friends had started something they couldn’t finish, and took to his heels.
“Just what I didn’t want to happen,” Berkeley commented, bending over his assailant, who was slowly recovering from the deadly blow on his adam’s apple, his complexion returning from blue to crimson and then white. “You may have trouble swallowing for a day or two,” Berkeley told him. “Stick to beer.” He picked up the truncheon and threw it on to the pavement. “You’d better move,” he suggested. “Or you may get run over.”
The man crawled away from him, following his truncheon, trying to clutch both his throat and his genitals at the same time.
“How’s your man?” Berkeley asked.
“Bleeding and crying.” Lockwood pulled the young man – he was hardly more than a boy – to his feet. “You really want to get that looked at,” he said. “You need stitches.”
The boy staggered on to the pavement, holding his face, blood seeping through his fingers.
“I think we’d better clear off,” Berkeley said.
They got into the car and drove through deserted streets.
“Now that is very odd,” Lockwood said. “Don’t you reckon?”
“Absolut
ely,” Berkeley said. “No one turned up. Not even our friendly bluebottle.”
“Would you agree that the Nazis have the town in their pockets, and when they pass the word to keep off the streets everyone obeys?”
“I would say you’re right.”
They were out of the town and taking the road to Munich.
“So what do you reckon?” Lockwood asked.
“I don’t think too much damage has been done,” Berkeley said. “If those thugs are really Hitler’s people, presumably they were only doing their job. But in defending ourselves, we were only doing our job. When we meet Hitler I am sure we can sort things out.”
“Are you planning to meet him?”
“I have to meet somebody,” Berkeley said. “To find out just when he is going up there. Perhaps this weekend isn’t really good enough. I’ll try our old friend Hess; I’m told he’s in the phone book.”
It was dark before they regained Munich.
“Shall I return the car?” Lockwood asked.
“The garage will be shut. Anyway, we may need it,” Berkeley said. “You can go along tomorrow and extend the hire.”
He went into the bar, where Savos and Martina were drinking beer.
“Berkeley, my old friend,” Savos said. “We were beginning to think you had got lost.”
“Just looking,” Berkeley said. “I’ll have one of those.”
“Have you found the brothel?” Martina asked, and giggled. “Perhaps that is where you have been, all afternoon.”
“Sadly, no,” Berkeley said. He drank deeply, then went off to use the hotel telephone. Hess was indeed in the book, but not Hitler, he observed.
The operator made the connection.
“Herr Hess?”
“I am he.”
“Rudolf! Berkeley Townsend.”
There was a brief silence.
“Don’t you remember me? We shared a riot a few years ago.”
“Ah!” Hess said. “Frederika’s friend.”
“That’s right. And yours, too. As I happened to be in Munich, I thought I’d give you a call.”
“That is very kind of you,” Hess said. And waited.
“Perhaps we could get together for a drink,” Berkeley suggested.
“I do not think this would be possible,” Hess said.
This was no great welcome. Presumably the Nazis had long memories, and despite Hitler’s appeal they had received no help or recognition from the British Government.
“Just an idea,” Berkeley said. “Nice to have spoken with you.”
He hung up. Now he really was reduced to Frederika. He returned to the lounge, and stopped in the doorway in surprise; seated in a corner was the woman herself.
The Savoses were also in the room, but of course they did not know each other. And Lockwood was still attending to the car.
He went towards her. “Frederika?”
She stood up. “Berkeley. At last. The paper told me you were here. I could hardly believe my ears, after all this time! What have you been doing?”
“This and that,” Berkeley said. “I’m sorry I was away when you visited us.”
She drew him into her arms for a kiss. “I left a message for you to contact me.”
“Again, I apologise. I was terribly busy about that time.”
“Ah, well. Perhaps it does not matter, although it was two years ago. But I happen to know that she is still there.”
Berkeley frowned at her. “I’m not with you.”
“Buy me a drink. A whiskey.”
He signalled the waiter, ordered two scotches and water. Frederika waited for them to arrive, then drank deeply. “The girl. Your daughter. I know where she is.”
The Return
Berkeley nearly dropped his glass. “You have seen my daughter? Anna? That is not possible. How could you have known?”
“I saw the photograph in the newspaper. Oh, more than two years ago.”
“There was no name.”
“Except for Anna, or Margo. But you forget that before you came to Germany the first time I had a file made up on you. It included a photograph of you and your children. I needed the photograph then to be sure of recognising you when we met. But the children, so good-looking . . . and when I saw that photograph in the newspapers, I compared it with the one in my possession, and realised it was the same girl and indeed that it had been taken from the same original print.”
“You’re sure you’re not a detective in your spare time?”
She made a moue. “I was so upset to think that your daughter had been kidnapped into white slavery.”
“You could not have known that.”
“When a pretty girl goes missing that is nearly always what has happened. Certainly in central Europe. Anyway, there was nothing I could do about it. But then I saw her, in the flesh.”
“You? In a brothel?”
He remembered that she had suggested she might be a lesbian in the café in Berlin.
Frederika smiled. “I do not go to brothels. I saw her at the house of a friend of mine. Hans von Grippenheimer. You must remember him.”
Berkeley shook his head. “Can’t say I do.”
His head was in a spin. Anna was, after all, alive . . . and within reach.
“You met him, at Carin Goering’s house, here in Munich, on that night in 1920 after the riot.”
“Ah . . .” memory stirred. “A rather unpleasant lecher.”
Frederika giggled. “Of course. He offered you the use of one of his harem. But you refused.”
“And you say you saw Anna at his house?”
The penny was slowly beginning to drop, just as the anger which had lain dormant for so long was beginning to grow.
“I am sure of it. I could not ask her, of course, but the face . . . I would never forget her face.”
“Anna would be sixteen now.”
“I know. But this was two years ago.”
“What was she doing?”
“It was a party. She was serving drinks. Along with the other girls. Berkeley . . .”
“I understand. You mean she was a part of Grippenheimer’s harem.”
“I’m afraid so. I don’t know how it happened.”
“I do,” Berkeley said. “She was purchased from a Budapest brothel.”
“I am so terribly sorry.”
“How did she look?”
“Well . . . she looked very well. A little sombre, perhaps. But then, most of Grippenheimer’s women look sombre. He . . .” she bit her lip.
“Yes?”
“Well, let me say that he is known to be a hard taskmaster, who believes in corporal punishment.”
“I see. Now this was two years ago. Have you seen Anna since?”
“Several times.”
“At Grippenheimer’s establishment.”
“That’s right.”
“But you have never spoken with her?”
“Guests are not encouraged to speak with the girls, unless they have been offered one for the night.”
Now his blood was really beginning to boil. He wondered why? If Anna had spent a couple of years as a prostitute, being offered on a casual basis to Grippenheimer’s guests could hardly be any worse. And the thought that one of those guests might have been Hitler himself removed the very last vestige of conscience or regret at what he was going to do.
But why had she never attempted to escape? That was a mystery which would be solved when he had regained her. And that had to take priority over anything, and everything else.
“Right,” he said. “You will take my associates and myself to Grippenheimer’s house.”
“Your associates?”
She looked around the room. Both the Savoses were watching them, although they could not hear what was being said. And at this moment, Lockwood came in.
“Ah,” she said. “The famous Harry.”
“Frau Lipschuetz.” Lockwood shook hands. “All well?”
“I don’t know,” Frederika said.
>
She looked at Berkeley, as did Lockwood.
“Frederika knows where Anna is,” Berkeley said. “So we are going to go and get her. Now.”
Lockwood opened his mouth, and then closed it again.
“That is not possible,” Frederika said.
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“You do not understand. When you met Herr Grippenheimer he was in Munich on a visit. He lives in Berlin.”
“Shit,” Berkeley muttered. Not that it made the slightest difference as to his intentions: Hitler would have to wait. “All right,” he said. “Berlin. We leave tonight.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to call on Mr Grippenheimer and collect Anna. As to what I do to him will depends on what she tells me.”
“Berkeley, that is not possible!”
“Again, you will have to let me be the judge of that.”
“You do not understand. Hans von Grippenheimer is a very important man. A very powerful man. He is a very rich man, a financier. He supplies the Party with funds.”
“Then they may be out of pocket.”
“He has bodyguards!”
She was almost shouting, and the heads of other people in the room were turning.
“Hush,” Berkeley said. “I don’t care what he has, Frederika. I am going to get Anna. And anyone who gets in my way is in deep trouble.”
She stared at him. “You will be beaten up. At the very least. You may even be killed.”
“That’s my worry.” He beckoned Savos and Martina, and they hurried across. “We have discovered where Anna is,” he said. “Berlin.”
Savos frowned. “That is a long way from any border. Save the Polish.”
“We’ll decide about that when we get there. It may be possible to return here. Harry, go to the desk and arrange with them for the extension on the hire car, for . . . three days. Leave them sufficient money to pay the garage.”
Lockwood nodded and hurried off.
Frederika was peering at Savos and Martina. “Who are these people?”
“The associates I mentioned. They have come to help me find Anna.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Savos said.
Frederika stared at him, and then at Martina.
“They are professionals,” Berkeley assured her.
The Quest Page 25
