A page approached discreetly. “Herr Kahlenberge?” he murmured. “There’s a call for you, sir—Herr Prévert on the line.”
Kahlenberge followed the boy to the phone booth and picked up the receiver.
“I’ve been detained, mon vieux,” Prévert said. “So I must ask you to wait for me. I hope you won’t be bored— in fact, I’m quite certain you won’t.”
“No?” drawled Kahlenberge.
“It’s quite possible you may run into an old friend of yours.”
“Good God, Prévert, you haven’t billeted von Seydlitz-Gabler here, too, have you?”
“But, of course. Why should we disperse our forces? Besides, my dear fellow, you might bear in mind that an invitation to Tanz will carry more weight if it comes from von Seydlitz-Gabler.”
Returning to the lobby, Kahlenberge sat down again and resumed his vigil, this time concentrating his attention on the stairs leading to the first floor. Before many minutes had passed he saw a figure descending with stately tread, an elderly gentleman with silver-streaked hair, patrician features and the erect carriage of a regimental sergeant-major. He moved with a regal dignity that would have put a Shakespearean actor to shame.
Von Seydlitz-Gabler gave a momentary start when he caught sight of Kahlenberge, and for a brief few seconds his sublime composure deserted him. Then he stretched out both hands and summoned up a smile.
“Kahlenberge! What an unexpected surprise! The age of miracles isn’t past, after all. What brings you here, my dear chap?”
“I’m supposed to be giving a lecture here.”
“And I’m bringing out my memoirs,” von Seydlitz-Gabler explained with a hint of pride. “It seems to have got around. I’ve had publishers literally battering at my door. They scent the truth, I expect, and truth’s a saleable commodity these days. We’re thinking in terms of three volumes and an illustrated prospectus. There’s a possibility of selling the film rights to Hollywood. I’ve already had a number of offers from abroad.”
“Splendid! And how’s your lady wife?”
“In great form, all things considered.”
At length, Frau Wilhelmine appeared—like her husband, the acme of timeless self-assurance. She thrust her bony hand confidently into Kahlenberge’s and shook it with apparent warmth.
The next half hour belonged to her ladyship. Kahlenberge listened with good grace, answering questions and receiving a detailed account of the von Seydlitz-Gabler saga in return. He waited patiently for a chance to implement Prévert’s plan. Eventually Frau Wilhelmine paused for breath and Kahlenberge leapt into the breach.
“How pleasant to have this opportunity for a quiet chat with old friends. It makes one want to resurrect the past. Do you know what would complete our little gathering? General Tanz.”
“General Tanz?” Frau Wilhelmine exclaimed spontaneously, as though overwhelmed by a sudden flood of memories. “What a man!”
“A first-rate general, too,” von Seydlitz-Gabler declared firmly. “At least, during his time with me.”
“And now he’s in the service of the East.” Kahlenberge’s tone was cool. “He virtually draws his pay from the Russians.”
“You never were a friend of his,” said Frau Wilhelmine.
“If I had given him half a chance,” von Seydlitz-Gabler said quietly, “our celebrated friend Tanz would have signed my death warrant because of the 20th of July.”
Frau Wilhelmine laughed harshly. “I imagine he felt he was only doing his duty, Herbert.”
“It was a tragic business, there’s no denying it,” mused von Seydlitz-Gabler. “Still, one ingredient of tragedy is greatness.”
Kahlenberge returned to his earlier theme. “What a pity Tanz isn’t here, though. I’d be so interested to see him again. Don’t you think we ought to try and invite him here? An opportunity like this doesn’t come twice.”
“A splendid idea,” announced Frau Wilhelmine. “Don’t you agree, Herbert?”
Von Seydlitz-Gabler nodded. “The bonds of comradeship which exist between brother officers,” he said, as though reading from his memoirs, “have nothing whatsoever to do with the flags or frontiers of the moment. With us, even opponents are treated chivalrously. When I found myself compelled to sign the armistice documents on behalf of my army—on orders from above, I may say—even a Russian general saluted me.”
“Then why not drop our old friend a line?” Kahlenberge suggested. “Invite him to pay us a visit.”
“Gladly.” Vos Seydlitz-Gabler agreed with alacrity, prompted by the glances of approval which Frau Wilhelmine was flashing him like signals in Morse. “But if I do ask Tanz to join us, what guarantee is there that my invitation will ever reach him?”
“As a business man,” said Kahlenberge, “I have to operate on as wide an international basis as possible. Don’t worry, I’ll see that the letter reaches its destination safely.”
Von Seydlitz-Gabler fished a correspondence card and matching envelope from his breast pocket, both of them die-stamped “von Seydlitz-Gabler” in Gothic script. Then he took out a pen and wrote:
My dear and esteemed friend,
We—Kahlenberge and yours truly—would be more than delighted to see you again after all this time. We look forward to swapping experiences with you and discussing future plans, though it goes without saying that we fully appreciate your special position. We shall he here for some days, so please look us up at the above address.
Your old friend,
von Seydlitz-Gabler
Within an hour the note was in Prévert’s hands. Kahlenberge described its contents and the circumstances under which it had been written. The two men smiled at each other gleefully.
“I hope you’re pleased with my performance so far,” Kahlenberge said with a hint of irony.
They drove to a Weinstube near the Schiller Theatre run by a character called Mother Neuhaus. It was a long narrow cellar like a stretch of underground railway, lit discreetly and furnished with a large number of separate tables, heavy affairs of polished oak. The chairs were comfortable and the clientele quiet. The sound of their voices never drowned the agreeable clink of bottle against glass.
Mother Neuhaus waddled up in person as soon as she caught sight of Prévert. She greeted him with blunt good humour, treating him like a Berliner born and bred. Although she had only seen him a handful of times in the past ten years, it had not taken her long to realize that the little man with the pudgy face and sharp eyes was an excellent judge of wine.
“I’ll get the letter forwarded to General Tanz tonight,” Prévert said, when a bottle and two glasses had been set before them. “It may be in his hands tomorrow, so with a bit of luck he’ll be here the next day. I’m certain he’ll come.”
“I hope you’re not overestimating his readiness to accept the invitation.”
“He’ll be overjoyed to get it, believe me. Unless I’m much mistaken, he’ll snatch at it like a drowning man.”
“It’s always been one of Frau Wilhelmine’s pet ambitions to see her daughter married to a general—Tanz, for choice. I’m sure the idea’s still lurking at the back of her mind. Lucky the girl never married, isn’t it?”
“We’ll have to protect her from her mother’s ambitions.”
“Of course, though from what I remember of her she’ll be quite capable of protecting herself.” Kahlenberge smiled.
“You enjoy playing around with people’s lives, don’t you?”
Prévert gave a shrug of distaste. “You know, mon cher, sometimes I get the depressing feeling that we policemen hunt down the sick and abnormal and let the real criminals of this world get away—the people who play with death and destruction like a child playing marbles.”
“Don’t lose too much sleep over it,” said Kahlenberge, and his sarcasm was as mild as the gentle rain from heaven.
Prévert spent the next morning sitting by the telephone in his room in the Hotel am Steinplatz, poring over a thick bundle of Sûreté files. They d
ated from 1944 and contained all available information about the murder which occurred in the Rue de Londres during the night of 19th-20th July.
While he was engaged in this absorbing pastime, news reached him from Antibes. His local representative there confirmed that Edouard Manessier had contacted Rainer Hartmann as requested and that Hartmann had reacted favourably on receipt of the spurious telegram from his mother. He had booked a seat on a flight from Nice to Berlin via Geneva and Munich and would be arriving at Templehof at 7.47 p.m.
After that, Prévert put a call through to Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler. A series of veiled hints captured her interest so effectively that, after a brief hesitation, she agreed to meet him when she finished work that evening. They made an appointment for 6 p.m. in the Restaurant Kopenhagen.
Shortly before midday, Prévert received the call which he had been awaiting so impatiently. Commissioner Karpfen announced that Detective-Inspector Liebig had arrived from Dresden with the requisite particulars and would be at Prévert’s service from 2. p.m. onwards.
Prévert arrived at Friedrichstrasse punctually and was greeted by Karpfen, who introduced him to Liebig and then left the two men alone together. For some minutes they conversed in general terms and exchanged a few compliments on the efficiency of their respective police forces, skilfully avoiding any excursions into politics. Then they got down to business.
Detective-Inspector Liebig of Dresden was a stolid, heavily built man resembling a football with arms and legs. He looked as though he would survive a kick in any portion of his anatomy with complete impunity, and his smile was as deceptively mild as the moon on a Romanticist’s canvas.
“If my information is correct,” he began, “you believe you know of a case similar to the one I’ve been working on in Dresden.”
“It’s not entirely out of the question,” Prévert said cautiously.
Detective-Inspector Liebig opened his briefcase, which was as capacious as a small trunk, to reveal a mass of documents. “Perhaps the simplest thing would be to exchange files.”
Prévert warmed to Liebig’s straightforward approach. He seemed to be a typical representative of his profession. A crime was a crime, and the only pertinent question was: who committed it? Tracking down the criminal was all that mattered; any other considerations were unimportant.
They swapped files, each aware that the other’s documents were not entirely complete. Certain facts and certain aspects of police procedure had to be kept secret, but both took this for granted, especially as they had no choice in the matter.
So Prévert and Liebig sat opposite each other in two hard and unyielding chairs which had once belonged to the Prussian civil service. They had probably been used by generations of public servants—officers of the Imperial police, security officials of the Weimar Republic and members of the Gestapo and S.S. Their latter-day equivalents leafed through each other’s files in silence. Years of practice had taught them to take in essentials at a single glance. Detective-Inspector Liebig was the first to speak.
“Well, it really does seem to be a parallel case.” He sounded genuinely impressed.
“I’m inclined to think so, too,” said Prévert.
“A lot of it could be coincidence, of course.”
“Let’s try to establish the exact points of similarity,” Prévert said placidly. “I suggest we simply jot down which factors are common to both cases.”
“Comparative analysis would undoubtedly be the most appropriate method,” replied Liebig. “However, I suggest that we postpone further examination for the time being. It may be premature.”
“Why?” Prévert leant forward attentively.
“Just before I left Dresden this morning I received a wire from the homicide branch of the Warsaw police. It was signed by a man called Liesowski. Do you know what it said? According to Liesowski, a parallel case occurred in Warsaw some years back.”
“When?” Prévert asked, his expression tense.
“In nineteen forty-two.”
“Then we must get Liesowski here at once. Can you arrange it?”
“I can,” said Liebig, “and I will.”
Prévert took up his station in the Restaurant Kopenhagen a quarter of an hour early. He had never seen Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler before, but he recognized her immediately from her photographs.
The young woman who entered the restaurant on the stroke of six o’clock fitted his mental picture of her almost exactly. She had an athletic and wiry figure, but there was something lithe and graceful about the way she moved. Her blonde hair was short and wavy, and her expression would have seemed almost defiantly casual if it had not been for her eyes, which were coolly alert.
Prévert felt satisfied that he knew exactly how to proceed. There would be no suspect compliments, no devious manoeuvres, no paternal condescension. From the look of her, Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler would respond to candour alone.
“To begin with,” said Prévert, after preliminary introductions were over, “I should make it clear that I know you, or parts of your life, better than you probably imagine.”
“When you spoke to me on the ‘phone you mentioned the name Hartmann. That’s why I came. What do you know about him?”
“A great deal. My friendship with Herr Hartmann dates from July nineteen forty-four.”
“That was when my friendship with him ended,” said Ulrike. “Or, rather, that was when we lost touch with each other.”
“I’m a police official from Paris. Perhaps that will make things a little clearer.”
“And yet you talk of Rainer Hartmann like a close friend. I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
Ulrike looked disconcerted. An expression of pain and helplessness crossed her face, but she quickly recovered her composure. “What do you expect me to say to that?”
“Nothing,” Prévert answered simply. “At least, nothing you don’t want to say.”
“Are you really on good terms with Rainer?”
“I’m more than that—I’m his friend. He may not realize it, but it might be a good thing if you did.”
“I believe you—I don’t know why.”
Ulrike took a sip of the Danish lager which a waiter had brought her. She studied Prévert’s face attentively as she did so, and the longer she looked at him the greater her confidence in him became. She began to tell him all she knew. It was not much, but it was informative.
“In Paris, back in July nineteen forty-four, they said Rainer had deserted—that he was involved in some frightful crime or other.”
“But you never believed he was capable of such a thing?”
“I regarded the charges as utterly ridiculous.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. It may make things easier.”
“What things?” asked Ulrike, her eyes again filled with sudden alarm. “Have you got something unpleasant to tell me?”
“You can relax. What I’ve got to tell you isn’t unpleasant, but what I propose to ask you to do may well be anything but pleasant.”
“Tell me one thing first: how is he?”
“Quite well, all things considered.”
“When did you see him last?”
“Last summer. I regularly spend my leave at the place where he’s living now. We have supper together at least once a week—we share the same taste in rosé.”
“Please go on.”
“If you’re interested in details,” Prévert said politely, “I can tell you that he’s still unmarried. I don’t know if he’s ever contemplated marriage, but I know one thing: it would have been virtually impossible for him to marry. He couldn’t have got hold of the necessary papers without endangering his existence. Perhaps I should explain that in nineteen forty-four I left Hartmann with some reliable friends of mine in the South of France, and he’s been there ever since. My friends had a certain amount of influence, so they managed to get him a French identity card, but he’s only had a French passport since yesterday.”
“Why
did you help him? If you still look on him as a friend, it must mean that you’re convinced of his innocence.”
“Shall we say—I had no good and sufficient proof of his guilt. Quite apart from that, I was indebted to him for telling me the strangest story I had heard in the course of a not uneventful career, a story, incidentally, which still lacks an ending—and if there’s one thing which worries me, mademoiselle, it’s a story without an ending.”
The restaurant was slowly beginning to fill up, and the rush-hour traffic flowing past the windows outside in the Kurfürstendamm was growing denser. The cramped city hummed with life. Prévert glanced at his wrist-watch.
“Am I keeping you?” Ulrike asked quickly.
“Forgive me,” Prévert said. “It was I who should have asked you that. I gather your parents are in Berlin at the moment.”
“Don’t worry, I had dinner with them yesterday evening and I’m due to see them again tomorrow for lunch—but how did you know they were here?”
“An old friend of mine called Kahlenberge is staying in the same hotel. But, of course, you know him. Herr Kahlenberge is due to give a lecture here, and I’m hoping to be able to supply him with a little worth-while material.”
“Please tell me something more about Rainer Hartmann.”
“Well, he’s hardly changed at all, outwardly. He’s still got that gentle, melancholy angel-face of his, but inwardly it’s a different story. The business in Paris seems to have left him with what our psychologist friends would call a trauma. A little while ago his chances of recovery seemed slender, but things could always change.”
“Hasn’t he ever been back to Germany in the meantime?”
“He couldn’t do so without risking arrest. To begin with, he was officially posted as a deserter. The end of the war disposed of that charge, but he’s still under suspicion of murder, even now. A man called Grau, a member of German counter-espionage in Paris, was probably the only person who knew the whole truth, but he was killed. That’s how the Hartmann case got into the hands of your police. There’s no statute of limitations governing murder, so his name is still on their files. Hartmann knows that these records exist and that they contain enough circumstantial evidence to put him away for life.”
The Night of the Generals Page 27
