The Allies had penetrated the Normandy front at several new points. In a month’s time Paris would no longer be in German hands.
In the East, Russian armies were moving inexorably towards the frontiers of the Third Reich.
A briefcase containing a time-bomb was standing in a certain Colonel Stauffenberg’s room in Berlin.
Hitler was trying to sleep.
Hour by hour, thousands of soldiers and civilians were vanishing into the insatiable maw of total war. Thousands more were begetting new life.
Sergeant Engel of the Abwehr, who had just completed one of his nocturnal interrogations, was in a philosophical mood. “Why do human beings cling to life?” he mused. “Probably because they haven’t a clue what it’s all about.”
2.21 a.m.
Lance-Corporal Hartmann emerged from the house in the Rue de Londres. He stood forlornly in the darkness for a minute or two, then got into the Bentley and drove off in the direction of the Champs-Elysées.
Abandoning the car there, he made his way on foot to the street in which the Mocambo Bar stood. He stationed himself in a doorway opposite the establishment and waited. A glance at his watch told him that if all went well he would not have to wait much longer. He lit a cigarette, shielding it in the hollow of his hand. The chill night air made him shiver.
He began to count the trees in the street, then the houses, then the windows. He noted numbers and forgot them immediately. Then he started counting again, determined not to think about what had happened.
Shortly after three o’clock the last customers left the Mocambo Bar, gently prodded by the bouncer. Some slipped away like shadows, others loitered to discuss weighty matters in loud, drunken voices and one man began to sing, but they all eventually vanished into the darkness.
Except for one hulking figure standing alone in the middle of the street, swaying slightly but solid as a baulk of timber. Like Hartmann, Sergeant Stoss was waiting for Raymonde.
A quarter of an hour later Raymonde appeared, having made up her books for the night. Stoss bore down on her, cooing like a loftful of pigeons. When his blandishments had no effect he started making massive bids: a hundred marks —three hundred marks—five tins of canned food and a hundred marks—three tins and two hundred marks—seven tins and…
Raymonde shoved him in the chest. He staggered backwards and sat down hard on the cobbles. Still sitting there, he began to curse vehemently, pouring out a stream of unflattering epithets of which “dirty French tart” was one of the mildest.
Raymonde hurried off and Hartmann ran after her on tiptoe, hugging the walls. After three hundred yards he caught up with her. She flung her arms round his neck.
“Can I come with you?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Can I stay with you?”
“The whole night?” she asked hopefully.
“Maybe even longer.”
“What are we waiting for?” said Raymonde happily, tugging at his arm.
3.00 a.m.—7.00 a.m.
Death may be the great leveller, but sleep is not. If there is a sleep of the just it is only logical that there should be a sleep of the unjust. There are numerous other categories as well.
Frau Wilhelmine slept the sleep of the watchdog. Ulrike dozed uneasily, either because her conscience pricked her or because the thick duvet on her bed was too hot for her. General von Seydlitz-Gabler sweated profusely and dribbled into his pillow. Kahlenberge tossed and turned, dreaming of labyrinthine intrigues. Grau lay curled up like a worm. Prévert stared wearily into the darkness. General Tanz lay supine, deathly still and smiling faintly like a marble effigy on some medieval tomb. Hartmann clung to Raymonde with a desperation which Raymonde was only too glad to construe as passionate abandon. When they finally slept it was as though they were one body.
The summer night was warm and the sky clear as glass. It promised to be a hot and sultry day.
7.03 a.m.
General Tanz woke up as though roused by a mental alarm clock. He sprang out of bed with his brain refreshed, skin clear and movements supple and relaxed. He performed some callisthenics, surveying the radiance of the morning from his window as he did so. Then he telephoned the porter,
Question: where was Hartmann, his orderly?
Answer: the porter had gone to wake him at the normal time but found his room empty. There was no indication as to where else he could be. His bed had not been slept in.
Question: was the car—a Bentley—in the courtyard? Outside the hotel? In the garage? Parked in the Place Vendôme? In a side street?
Answer, half an hour later: the said Bentley was not in any of the places mentioned nor anywhere else in the vicinity of the hotel.
There followed a lengthy telephone conversation with Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer. Tanz reported that Hartmann and the Bentley were nowhere to be found. Sandauer was thunderstruck. No one had yet uttered the word “deserter,” but Sandauer jotted it down on the pad lying in front of him.
Tanz told Sandauer that whatever lay at the bottom of it all he relied on him to make the necessary inquiries. He was feeling full of beans, he announced, and intended to cut short his leave at once. He asked for Stoss to be sent over with his staff car, adding that he greatly looked forward to getting down to work with his men again.
8.19 a.m.
A man named Jean Marceau entered the house in the Rue de Londres. Marceau acted as pimp to the woman on the third floor and had come to collect his cut, which usually amounted to fifty per cent. His women were selected for their efficiency and high return on capital, hence his appearance of solid prosperity. His official profession: commodity broker.
Marceau was aghast at the slaughter in the bedroom and would have beaten a hasty retreat, but since the concierge had seen him come in there was nothing for it but to do the right thing and call the police.
In less than half an hour Detective-Inspector Paul Magron of the Sûreté arrived with a small band of assistants. He recognized Marceau’s function without difficulty, examined the body and soon discovered a piece of paper under the commode by the bed.
This document, obviously a form of military permit, was written in German.
Magron pocketed it, happy in the knowledge that once routine inquiries were complete he would be able to hand the case over to Inspector Prévert, the connecting link between the French and German authorities. No one was better qualified to handle it.
9.02 a.m.
Kahlenberge called on von Seydlitz-Gabler.
“Something’s come up which could make things extremely awkward,” he reported. “Hartmann seems to have vanished into thin air. He didn’t turn up for duty this morning, and Tanz apparently sees this as a heaven-sent opportunity to cut short his leave. He’s planning to return to his division.”
“I knew it!” exclaimed von Seydlitz-Gabler. “My wife warned us that something like this would happen, if you’ll remember. I thoroughly distrusted Hartmann myself. Well, Kahlenberge, your little plan has landed us in a nice mess, I must say.”
“But the arrangement was made with your approval, sir.”
“Only because I saw no reason to doubt your usually excellent judgement. I take it for granted that you weigh your advice carefully before giving it. In this instance I appear to have been wrong.”
Kahlenberge was visibly annoyed. “I suggest we institute an official search for Hartmann.”
“Do as you think fit,” snapped von Seydlitz-Gabler. “But don’t forget: it’ll be your fault if General Tanz starts treading on our toes. My plan was a good one. With Tanz out of the way, reorganization could proceed according to plan. Now the ball’s in the air again. He’ll go on battering away at us until he’s squeezed us dry of reserves—and all because you, Kahlenberge, made a palpably ill-advised choice. God knows where it’ll lead to.”
9.59 a.m.
The battalion commanders of the Nibelungen Division had turned out in full force to hear General Tanz deliver his first situation report
since returning from leave.
They stood there like statues as General Tanz entered his temporary office, a studiously spartan room with whitewashed walls and bare wooden furniture, unrelieved by any splash of colour except the red and blue markings on the maps displayed for inspection.
General Tanz was a picture of masterful energy. He radiated enthusiasm. His eyes had a glint of newly whetted knife-points in a ray of sunlight and his voice filled the room like the middle register of an electronic organ.
“Headquarters gave us three weeks to patch up the Division. My G.S.O.1 estimated that it would take two weeks. I put the time at ten days. Well, we’re going to beat that. During the course of this afternoon I shall start inspecting units for combat readiness. Stand by for my arrival.”
10.10 a.m.
A telephone rang on a desk in an office building in the Rue de Surène. The desk belonged to Colonel Finckh, Chief of Staff to the Quartermaster-General, Western Command.
Picking up the receiver, Finckh heard the exchange announce a call from Zossen, near Berlin, headquarters of General Wagner, Quartermaster-General of the Army. Then an unfamiliar voice said: “Exercise.”
Nothing more.
The Colonel was hearing the word for the third time in a fortnight. He had already heard it on the 6th and 11th of July, and he knew what it meant.
As an initiate into the inner circle of the conspiracy, Finckh realized that his one-eyed, one-armed friend Colonel Stauffenberg was already on his way by air to Wolfschanze, the so-called Leader’s “lair” in East Prussia.
Hitler’s end seemed imminent.
11.15 a.m.
Inspector Prévert began his regular daily conference at the Sûreté. Persons present: an inspector of the secret police, a municipal police officer, a detective-inspector from the criminal branch and two officers on special duties. Purpose of the meeting: a review of the general situation with special reference to any points which might have a bearing on Franco-German co-operation.
It was extremely rare for surprising or unusual matters to be raised at such meetings, and no one expected to hear anything very startling or sensational. The men round the table were familiar with every form of brutality, intrigue, vileness, perversion, violence and homicide.
“There’s been a murder in the Rue de Londres,” reported the detective-inspector on duty. “Inquiries are being pursued by Inspector Magron. The victim was a woman of about thirty—probably a prostitute. Preliminary findings indicate that the murderer was a sexual maniac. A number of prints have been found.”
“Anything special about it?” Prévert asked mechanically.
“A sort of identity card in German, giving the number of a car and the name of its driver. It’s stamped by the issuing authority, but I can’t identify the signature.”
Prévert said: “Let’s see it.”
The detective-inspector passed it across to him. Only one unusual feature caught Prévert’s eye, and that was the signature. It read: “Kahlenberge, Lieutenant-General, Chief of Staff.”
11.47 a.m.
Lance-Corporal Rainer Hartmann gazed at the sloping ceiling above his head. It was decorated with pictures cut from magazines. There were no illustrations of people or buildings, only woods and fields, flowers and animals.
He felt the warm body lying next to his. He knew every detail of it and he seldom tired of telling himself how enticingly lovely it was, but his blood was cold now, even though the sultry summer heat beat on the shuttered windows of the little room.
“What’s the matter?” Raymonde asked softly. “There’s something different about you—I can feel it.”
“Did I disappoint you?”
“No, no, it’s never been so good with us before.” She bent over him, nuzzling his ear with her lips, and whispered tenderly: “I could have died with happiness.”
Hartmann closed his eyes. “What has dying got to do with happiness?” he asked bitterly.
Raymonde sat up and looked at him. “There is something the matter. What is it?”
“I’m what they call a deserter.”
“What do I care?”
“You’re not worried?”
“Don’t be silly!” Raymonde said firmly. “You’re here with me—that’s all I care about.”
“Can I stay?”
“As long as you like—for the rest of your life, as far as I’m concerned.”
Hartmann’s expression did not alter, but his eyes flinched from her look of tender concern. “They’ll come looking for me.”
“They won’t find you.”
“What about the others in the house?”
“It doesn’t matter to them who I live with. They won’t snoop on us. When a man and a woman are together all the time it’s as good as being married—or it’s a start, anyway. They’ll all understand.”
“I’ve got to hide, Raymonde.”
“That’s all right with me,” she told him, smiling. “I’m not so keen to show you off in front of people, you know. More than half the world’s population are women! I’ll keep you all to myself for as long as possible.”
12.30 p.m.
In answer to an urgent summons, General von Seydlitz-Gabler went to see his wife at the Hotel Excelsior. He found her in the drawing-room of her suite with Ulrike. Both women looked resentful.
“I’m very disappointed, Herbert!” remonstrated Frau Wilhelmine. “General Tanz has left the hotel without saying good-bye to us. Has he been given a new command? If so, why didn’t you let me know in good time? It’s not that I want to pry into official matters, but I should have been glad of a chance to clear up a few things with General Tanz in private before he left. Now the ideal moment seems to have passed.”
“A combination of unfortunate circumstances,” said von Seydlitz-Gabler.
“Created by you, Herbert?”
Herbert repudiated the suggestion indignantly. “It’s that frightful fellow Hartmann. He’s simply vanished—deserted, without a doubt. Tanz has obviously cut short his leave because Hartmann’s left him in the lurch.”
“Hartmann a deserter?” Frau Wilhelmine regarded her daughter’s waxen face with unabashed triumph. “You see! That’s the sort of man you’ve been consorting with! A thoroughly untrustworthy specimen—a deserter!”
1.25 p.m.
Prévert and Grau had left their respective offices and gone to meet each other—half way, so to speak—at the Relais Bisson, a restaurant on the Quai. Their pretext for this meeting, a plausible one, was a consignment of fresh lobsters and a bottle of Chablis. Grau had recently exploited every available opportunity to profit from Prévert’s extensive knowledge of cuisine, cellar and criminal procedure.
They set to with a will, and while they were doing so Prévert asked casually: “Are you interested in murders, too, Colonel?”
“Only unusual ones.”
“In our daily report, which you don’t normally receive until late afternoon, as you know, you’ll find a reference to a rather unusual murder. I would ask you to take special note of the case. In fact, it might even be advisable for you to take it over before the S.D. or the Gestapo get their hands on it. You see, judging by the evidence before me, I’d say that one of our mutual friends may find himself facing some awkward questions. I refer to Kahlenberge.”
Grau looked up from his lobster with an expression of amazement. “General Kahlenberge?”
“A military permit was found near the body. It was made out to a Lance-Corporal Hartmann and signed by Lieutenant-General Kahlenberge. Murder complete with visiting card—rather curious, don’t you agree?”
Grau sat up, his eyes alert. “It wasn’t a sex murder, was it?”
It was now Prévert’s turn to interrupt his intense preoccupation with his lobster. He looked genuinely surprised. “It was, but how did you know?”
“The victim was a woman,” Grau said excitedly. “She was murdered and then riddled with knife-wounds like a sieve— from throat to thigh.”
“T
hat’s what it says in the report. How did you get hold of it?”
Grau’s voice had gone harsh. “I haven’t seen the report, but I know what the body looks like.”
“How on earth…”
“I’ll tell you later, Prévert.” Grau pushed the remains of his lobster to one side and got up. “For the moment, take it from me that this is a most important case. The man who did it slipped through my hands once, but he won’t get away a second time. It’s lucky I’ve got you to help me, Prévert.”
“It’s a pleasure,” said Prévert with a mixture of indulgence and curiosity. “I’ll put some of my best men on to it, if you like.”
“The best man!” Grau insisted with the stubborn determination of someone who will stop at nothing to gain his objective. “The best possible man—and that’s you, Monsieur Prévert, you personally, backed by all the resources at our joint command. If you solve this case and bring me the man responsible you can name your own price.”
“Anything?”
“Absolutely anything. A whole wagonload of French patriots, if you like.”
1.50—2.07 p.m.
A telephone conversation between Inspector Prévert and General Kahlenberge, conducted from the porter’s lodge of the hotel attached to the Relais Bisson. The house exchange was cut off and Lieutenant-Colonel Grau listened in. After a few preliminary courtesies, the following dialogue took place:
Prévert: “Do you have a Lance-Corporal Hartmann under your command—Rainer Hartmann?”
Kahlenberge: “I do.”
Prévert: “Where is he now?”
Kahlenberge: “Not a clue. It’s possible that he’s deserted. He was given the job of escorting General Tanz, on the G.O.C.’s orders. Hartmann and Tanz were both staying at the Hotel Excelsior, but Hartmann disappeared some time last night.”
Prévert: “Am I right in thinking that you issued him with a permit?”
Kahlenberge: “That’s right—a permit for a requisitioned car, a Bentley. Why do you ask? Have you run him to earth somewhere?”
Prévert: “Has the car been found?”
Kahlenberge: “Not yet.”
Prévert: “Where is General Tanz now?”
The Night of the Generals Page 22
