The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

  He reached the first floor hall, shoes silent on the deep carpet. This was presently deserted, although he heard laughter from behind one of the closed doors. The second staircase was smaller and less ornate than the first. This too was deserted, but as he reached the top, and entered a world of scents, he was accosted by a tall, thin, middle-aged woman, wearing an ankle-length black dress, her blonde hair caught up in a bun. Her face was quite attractive, but both eyes and mouth were hard.

  “Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

  “Just looking,” Berkeley said pleasantly. “Herr Grippenheimer told me to help myself.”

  He continued up the last two steps to reach the hall.

  The woman stood in front of him. “I am sure he did not intend you to come this high,” she said. “These are Herr Grippenheimer’s private apartments.”

  “And you are?”

  “I am Fraulein Holzen. I am the housekeeper.”

  “Well, Fraulein, I do mean to have a look around this floor, so I’d be obliged if you’d step aside.”

  “I am sorry, sir, I cannot permit it, without instructions from Herr Grippenheimer.”

  Berkeley looked past her, along the corridor, as a door opened. For a moment his heart pounded quite heavily, but this girl was not Anna, although she was extremely good-looking and wearing evening dress. She glanced from the housekeeper to Berkeley, eyebrows raised, then sidled past them and went down the stairs.

  “The upstairs maid, I presume,” Berkeley said.

  Fraulein Holzen gave a wintry smile. “If it pleases you to think so, sir. Now, will you kindly return to the lower floor?”

  “Not until I have found what I want,” Berkeley said, stepping right up to her and wrapping his fingers round her throat. “I really don’t like hurting women,” he said. “But I have done it before, and no doubt I will have to do it again.”

  She goggled at him and kicked him on the shin, but was hampered by her long skirt, while her breathing was becoming heavy.

  “We need an empty room,” Berkeley said. “Just to ourselves. Show me.”

  Panting, she pointed at one of the doors.

  “That’s my girl. Do remember that if there is anyone in there I will break your neck.”

  He half carried, half pushed her along the corridor, opened the door and switched on the light. There was a bed and dressing table, an en suite bathroom, but the room was empty.

  “I do appreciate co-operation,” he said, and released her.

  Fraulein Holzen sat on the bed, massaging her neck.

  “Please do not scream,” Berkeley told her. “That would irritate me no end.”

  She gulped for air. “Are you mad?” she asked. “Do you know who Herr Grippenheimer is?”

  “I told you, we’re old friends. Now tell me about the girls.”

  “If you want one of them so badly, and you are a friend of the master, why do you not ask him?”

  “Because he may not give me the one I want,” Berkeley pointed out.

  “They are all good.”

  “I’m sure. Tell me about the one named Anna.”

  She frowned at him. “You know Anna?”

  “Quite well. Or I did. Is she here?”

  “She is here.”

  “Then why is she not downstairs with the other girls?”

  “She is being disciplined.”

  “Ah,” Berkeley said. “Why?”

  Fraulein Holzen shrugged. “If you know Anna, then you know she is a difficult child. She often has to be disciplined.”

  “Absolutely,” Berkeley agreed. “And who does this disciplining?”

  “Well . . . it is usually my job. But Herr Grippenheimer sometimes does it himself. When he is in the mood.”

  “Of course,” Berkeley said jovially. “What else? So where would she be now?”

  “You cannot see her, without Herr Grippenheimer’s permission.”

  “I do wish you’d let me be the judge of that,” Berkeley said, and sat beside her. “Are you going to tell me, or are we going to go through this tiresome throttling process again?”

  Fraulein Holzen drew a sharp breath. “She is in the cellars, below the house.”

  “Take me to her.”

  “I cannot possibly do that.”

  “Fraulein, you are becoming a bore. Please get it into your head that when I wish to do something, I do it. But first, show me her room.”

  He held her arm to take her into the corridor.

  “It is along here,” she said.

  “Just be sure it is. I’m still in a neck-breaking mood.”

  Fraulein Holzen opened a door, and they entered a bed-sitting room. It looked quite comfortable, yet was still clearly a prison. If there were various make-up jars and tubes on the dressing-table, and some quite expensive-looking clothes in the wardrobe, there was an absence of books or cuddly toys as he would have expected in a teenage girl’s bedroom.

  He was more interested in practicalities. There was a desk. He gestured the housekeeper to stand against the wall while he checked this out, and found what he wanted: Anna’s passport. It was four years old, and had almost certainly been forged in the first place, as it designated her as Anna Antonova, a Bulgarian national. But it would do to get her out of Germany and into England.

  He pocketed it. “Let’s go.”

  Fraulein Holzen was attempting to do something with her hair, which was starting to come down.

  “Herr Grippenheimer will be very angry.”

  “You mean he will discipline you as well?”

  She licked her lips.

  “I see,” he said. “I’m sure you enjoy it. Now Fraulein, I wish you to listen to me very carefully. Look at this.”

  He drew his Browning, and she gaped at it.

  “If you do, or say, anything I do not like,” Berkeley said. “I shall shoot you. I may say that this place is filled with my agents, who are also armed and prepared to shoot, so if you do not wish to provoke a massacre, of which you will be the first, you will behave yourself.”

  Fraulein Holzen swallowed.

  “So, let’s go. The gun, you see, is in my side jacket pocket, here, and can be fired through the material. I am quite prepared to ruin a good suit if I have to.”

  “You are mad,” she said. “You will be killed. I shall be killed.”

  “Then you won’t have anything else to worry about,” he said, and opened the door.

  She hesitated, then stepped out into the deserted corridor. Berkeley nodded towards the stairs, and she went down them, slowly. They reached the first floor, and he gestured towards the grand staircase. She went down this as well, holding the bannister, Berkeley immediately behind her. Below them the throng had increased in size; the orchestra continued to play soft music.

  “We must go through the kitchens,” Fraulein Holzen said.

  “Show me.”

  They reached the foot of the stairs. Several people looked at them, but incuriously; Grippenheimer was not to be seen.

  “Keep going,” Berkeley said.

  Lockwood joined them just before they reached the double doors.

  “Are we in action?”

  “Just about. Round up the Savoses and hang about these doors. I may need you when I come back up. Five minutes.”

  Lockwood nodded, and hurried off. Berkeley waited for the double doors to swing open and allow two waiters to leave, then pushed Fraulein Holzen into the pantry. This was a bustle of people, amongst them David Cohn.

  “Sir,” he said. “My wife is waiting to see you.” He looked at Fraulein Holzen. “This gentleman once saved my life.”

  Fraulein Holzen looked astonished; she clearly had not considered Berkeley in the role of a lifesaver.

  Cohn hurried in front of them into the kitchen, a vast place, equally full of enthusiastic people.

  “Judith!” he called. “Judith! Our friend.”

  Judith Cohn hurried towards them. “Sir,” she said. “It is so good to see you.”

  �
�And you,” Berkeley said. “I will try to speak with you later, but right now we’re in a hurry. Where?” he asked Fraulein Holzen.

  She pointed to a door on the far side of the room.

  “That is the way to the cellars,” Cohn said.

  “So I understand.”

  “But we are specifically forbidden to go down there,” Cohn said. “The door is locked.”

  “And I don’t suppose you have a key,” Berkeley remarked to Fraulein Holzen.

  “Only the master has the key.”

  “Stand clear.” Berkeley drew his pistol, and fired two shots into the lock. Sparks flew, and pieces of wood and iron as well, while the cooking staff screamed and backed against the walls. “Go first,” Berkeley told Fraulein Holzen.

  The housekeeper went down the steps. “You will have alarmed the entire household,” she said.

  “Had to happen some time. Where?”

  They had reached the cellar floor, illuminated by a single naked bulb. To left and right were full wine racks, while from the ceiling there hung various large joints of meat. But at the end of the centre aisle there was another door.

  “In there,” Fraulein Holzen said.

  This door was unlocked. Berkeley threw it open, and gazed at his daughter.

  Anna’s back was to him, as she was suspended from a hook in the ceiling, both arms above her head. But he would have recognised her hair anywhere.

  She was naked, and there were weals across her back and buttocks.

  “Who did this?” Berkeley asked in a low voice.

  “Well . . . he made me do it. He did it too. We both did it.” She was gabbling in her fear.

  Berkeley went round in front. Anna’s eyes were closed, but she opened them at the movement, blinking at him. Her eyes were as dead as those of the girl upstairs. Of course, he realised, he keeps them drugged, or at least sedated.

  But not that drugged or sedated. Anna’s eyes came into focus, and she blinked at him. “Father?” she asked. “Oh, my God, Father!”

  Berkeley untied her wrists, and she collapsed into his arms. Now she was sobbing. “Oh, Father!”

  Fraulein Holzen ran for the door, and Berkeley drew his pistol, finger curled round the trigger. But even if this woman deserved to die at least as much as any of the others he had executed, there had been too many subsidiary deaths, as it were. And he had Anna. He let the girl slip to the floor, reached the door before the housekeeper, and slashed her across the head with his gun. Anna turned on her knees to watch Fraulein Holzen crash to the floor.

  “Isn’t she the one who whipped you?” Berkeley asked, stooping beside the woman to make sure she was still alive.

  “She and . . .” she bit her lip.

  Berkeley nodded. “We’re going to deal with him, now. This one will have to make do with a headache.” He looked around him, but there were no clothes; Anna had been brought down here, naked. “Give me a hand.” He knelt beside Fraulein Holzen, unbuttoned her gown and pulled it over her head. The housekeeper groaned but was still unconscious. “Put it on.”

  Anna dropped the black gown over her head, smoothed it on her body. She was still obviously in a state of shock, as well as being drugged, but she was trying to think rationally. “There are guards . . .”

  “I have some of my own. Stay right behind me.”

  He went up the stairs, his pistol thrust forward, but to his amazement the kitchen was empty. He led Anna into the pantry, and they found themselves standing behind what appeared to be the entire domestic staff. But no one was paying any attention to them. The shooting out of the lock had apparently for the moment been forgotten; they were all looking into the ballroom, where the music had stopped, and Grippenheimer was standing on the rostrum.

  He appeared to be weeping, even as he spoke. “It is true,” he shouted. “The explosion was vast. The entire cellar has been wrecked. Everyone inside was killed. Our beloved Fuehrer . . .” he broke down in tears.

  Berkeley pushed his way through the waiters and found Lockwood standing beside him.

  “What the hell has happened? Hitler . . .?”

  “Appears to be dead. Somebody got to him before us,” Lockwood said. “And did a thorough job. He blew the entire beer hall up.” He looked at Anna. “My dear girl!”

  “Oh, Mr Lockwood. But . . .”

  As the party was obviously over, people were beginning to drift towards the staircase leading to the foyer There was still hardly a sound above hushed whispers.

  Julia Hudson made her way towards them. “Berkeley? What shocking news.” She frowned at Anna. “Aren’t you . . .”

  “This is my daughter, yes,” Berkeley said. “Now we must be going as well. Alexandros . . .” the Savoses had also appeared. “Let’s get out while we can.”

  There were shouts of alarm from behind him. Someone had found Fraulein Holzen.

  And now . . . “Damnation,” Berkeley muttered.

  Grippenheimer had left the rostrum and was striding towards them. “What are you doing with that girl?” he shouted.

  He had stopped crying.

  “Taking her home,” Berkeley said. “Tell your goons to stay out of my way.”

  For several large men had appeared from the crowd.

  “Berkeley?” Julia asked. “Oh, my God, Berkeley! Stay away,” she shouted at her husband, who was coming towards them.

  “Stop them,” Grippenheimer shouted. “Teach them a lesson they won’t forget.”

  The bodyguards ran forward, and Martina drew her pistol and fired. One of the men fell to his knees and then on to his face.

  “Oh, shit,” Berkeley muttered; so much for his hopes of a peaceful exit.

  There was a chorus of screams from the guests at the top of the stairs as they threw themselves down. The bodyguards were producing weapons themselves, as did Grippenheimer, waving a Luger pistol.

  “The pantry,” Berkeley snapped, pushing Anna back through the doors. The staff had largely scattered, but the Cohns were still there.

  “You must get out the back,” David Cohn said.

  Savos and Lockwood were holding the door, while Martina had come into the pantry with Berkeley and Anna, and, to his astonishment, Julia.

  “Blast them,” Grippenheimer was shouting, “Shoot the scum.”

  The firing was general, while the screaming was louder than ever, as the guests crawled or tumbled down the stairs to escape. The orchestra had abandoned their instruments and were also running for the stairs.

  Lockwood and Savos were keeping their heads down, but now they both fired as the bodyguards approached the doors, and there was another scream of pain.

  “Martina,” Berkeley said. “Follow Mr and Mrs Cohn. Take Anna to the car, and wait there.”

  “I cannot desert Alexandros,” she protested.

  “I’m going to get him now,” Berkeley told her, and looked at Julia. “You’d better go with her.”

  “What about my husband?”

  “If he’s got any sense he’ll have gone out the front,” Berkeley said, and ran back into the pantry.

  The shooting had for the moment stopped, and he looked out at a scene of devastation. The guests had all evacuated now, and in the distance he could hear a police siren. There was a body sprawled half in and half out of the fountain, which continued to spray water in various directions; the cupid had been struck by several bullets. There were broken glasses and abandoned trays everywhere, their contents scattered. The piano and double base were splintered pieces of wood. The cabinets of porcelain had also been hit and were scattered ruins; more than one of the paintings had holes in them. But Grippenheimer and his bodyguards had disappeared.

  “There’s a couple of them behind those sofas,” Lockwood muttered. “Just to keep us pinned down until the police get here, I’d say.”

  “They are close,” Savos remarked.

  “Then let’s get out,” Berkeley said.

  They retreated across the now empty pantry and into the equally empty kitchen. H
e wondered what had happened to Fraulein Holzen, but there was no time to find out. A door at the rear opened to a flight of steps, leading down to the back yard.

  “How do we get out of there?” Berkeley asked.

  “There is a gate,” Cohn said.

  Berkeley surveyed the yard, and was joined by Judith Cohn, emerging from the darkness and running up the steps.

  “They are through the gate,” she panted. “The dark-haired woman said she knew where to go.”

  Now the sound of the sirens were very close; the police were at the front of the house; they could hear the raised voices. As for Grippenheimer . . .

  “Stop there, Colonel Townsend,” Grippenheimer called. “Throw down your weapons and raise your arms, then come down the steps one at a time. There is no way out. We have you covered here, and the police are at the front. You are going to go to prison for a very long time, my friend.” He chuckled. “At hard labour.”

  “Shit,” Lockwood muttered. “We should’ve guessed he’d come round the back.”

  “So we charge it,” Berkeley said. “David, you and your wife stay here.”

  “I would like to help you, sir.”

  “But you have no weapon, and you have your wife to think of. Just sit tight. There is no reason for Grippenheimer to suspect you helped us.”

  Cohn bit his lip, but he knew Berkeley was talking sense.

  “Just tell us where they’ll be situated.”

  “There is an outside staircase,” Judith said. “It is part of the fire escape. They will have come down that, and will be in the corner of the yard by the gate.”

  “How many, do you suppose?”

  “There are six bodyguards.”

  “Of whom one is dead, and two are holding the ball room, at the moment. That leaves three.”

  “And Grippenheimer,” Savos pointed out.

  “And Grippenheimer,” Berkeley agreed, feeling the old killing exultation beginning to grow. “Right. We know where to shoot.”

  “Are you coming?” Grippenheimer shouted. “I do not wish to kill you.”

  “Let’s go,” Berkeley said.

  “God speed,” David and Judith said together.

  They ran down the steps, weapons drawn, firing at the corner by the gate. As that was their way out it had to be a direct charge. But again, Berkeley reminded himself, they were professionals, all three of them; Grippenheimer and his men were essentially roughnecks.