‘That is an accurate reading of my feelings,’ his colleague said tersely. ‘I’m not partial to any kind of waiting. As for risking my life —’
‘Shush! You’ll soon be on your way to Zurich.’ Schmidt adjusted the position of the folder tucked under his left arm, and glanced sharply towards the door. Those footsteps! Those shoes!
‘Good morning again, Herr Auditor!’
Dietrich loped into the chamber. Behind him, out of breath with keeping up, wheezed Otto.
The Nazi clapped his hands, setting up an ear-splitting reverberation in the vault. ‘Well, well. This is very satisfactory. The Party’s business is fairly humming along in the capable hands of Wertheims — and Herr Otto. All ready?’
Schmidt and Wagner had been converted to statues. Respectful, subservient statues. Otto assumed this as he swaggered towards the safe, a self-satisfied grin flickering on his face. Dietrich paused, sensing an atmosphere. He smiled at Schmidt, then frowned as his eyes alighted on Wagner. ‘Son-of-a-bitch, this place’s an ice box. Come on, let’s do it, and get out.’
Otto addressed the safe first. He encountered his usual problem. His grin disappeared. After the third failure, Dietrich came to peer curiously over his shoulder. ‘Are your fingers cold, Otto?’ He turned his head, grinned at Schmidt. Otto flushed, muttered something, squared himself up for the fourth attempt and was successful. Wagner quickly took off his.
‘Come on, Schmidt,’ Otto said impatiently, as though the auditor was the one holding them up.
‘You bankers love your little rituals, don’t you,’ Dietrich said.
‘Yes, we do,’ Schmidt agreed silently, ‘though “love” is hardly the word.’ He took off his combination, swung open the door, and reached for the unsealed packet. His heart was thumping. ‘What value should I mark out of the register, Herr Otto?’
‘One million, four hundred thousand.’
The auditor took the packet to the table, placed it beside the gilt-emblazoned register, laid his folder close to hand, sat down, put on a thumb-stall, and began to count off the certificates. Mentally he awarded Wagner an accolade: for his caution about the sum required. His throat felt tight and dry. His fingers numb.
Dietrich moved to stand behind him. It was the Nazi’s obsession to stand close to people, to breathe in every odour, absorb every nuance of their condition. Schmidt felt it like a poised dagger, but he kept his face impassive. Wagner would have to excel himself.
Otto, alongside Wagner, disdainfully ignored the deputy foreign manager. This was old history; their recent evening encounter in the corridor had left no record in his memory. The faint rhythmic riffling of the thick security paper, the young director’s breathing labouring in his over-ripe body, the squeak of Dietrich’s shining new shoes, were the sum of sounds in the vault. The uncounted bonds dwindled under Schmidt’s fingers.
‘Herr Otto, you’re a man of the world. Have you ever seen anything like this?’
Wagner spoke in a marginally respectful voice. He took two large photographs from his breast pocket; abruptly, he flourished one before the young director’s face with the gesture of an illusionist.
Suspiciously, Otto took it; he peered at it, became seriously engaged; a high-pitched laugh erupted from him, turned throaty. This timbre of laugh, normally only heard by his late-night companions, was like pressure being slowly released from a valve.
‘By God!’ he spluttered, ‘Look-at-the-size-of-it! And she’s going to get it all — right up to the balls!’
‘And this one?’ Wagner said.
Otto grabbed it. He roared with excited laughter. ’And by God she’s taken it! To the last centimetre! But look at her face!’
He turned impulsively, eagerly, to Dietrich, who was observing this side-play with irritation. ‘You must see this, Frederick,’ he gasped.
Reluctantly the Nazi left his position behind Schmidt. He examined each photograph for a long moment. He turned to Wagner and surveyed him with a threatening contempt. ‘Utter filth!’
‘It’s the size of a torpedo!’ Otto couldn’t help himself; he wiped his eyes.
‘Herr Otto!’ Dietrich snarled.
Deflated, Otto subsided into a few titters, wiped his eyes again, his wet lips with the back of his hand. ’You have to admit, Frederick —’ he began, but desisted at the Nazi’s furious glance.
As a signal to Wagner, Schmidt dropped the register with a thump on the table. He produced a Wertheim pouch from a drawer and laid it beside the pile of bonds.
‘Please count off the amount, Herr Otto, sign where I’ve bracketed the releases in the register.’
Trying to hold down his mirth, Otto scrawled his signature a couple of times. Wagner replaced the photographs in his breast pocket.
A few minutes later, crestfallen Otto, carrying the pouch, went up the stairs with a silent Dietrich. He’d aggressively twirled his combination: a rearguard act attempting to regain his dignity, reimpose his authority over that dumb steel box, and his subordinates. On the way out he whispered back to Wagner ‘Copies?’, then pushed on ahead.
‘That’s that,’ Schmidt said quietly as they followed. ‘Thank you, Heinrich.’
Wagner let his breath out in a rush. ‘That Nazi might feel cold, I’m wet through. Thank God our fat director didn’t check the numbers against the register.’
‘Herr Otto’s not a man for detail,’ Schmidt repeated.
Wagner laughed tensely. ‘No? Would you like to see those photographs?’
30
WAGNER WATCHED the outer suburbs slide past as the train began its journey to the south. Alone in a first-class compartment he sat quite still, recovering. The nerves which had locked up his throat as he’d walked past the Gestapo at the barrier were loosening their grip. He shifted his shoulders, and felt a drench of perspiration in his armpits. The dark world beyond the carriage seemed to be mocking his discomfiture. He gazed back at it, and sucked a jube to ease his throat.
Franz’s objectives were becoming more devious, more complex, by the day; Wagner sensed that they were continuously expanding. He sucked away, and continued to gaze at the night. In an eye-blink, apartment buildings patchworked with lighted windows quick-marched out of the darkness, then, like battalions on parade falling out by numbers, wheeled one by one back into blackness. Flick-flick-flick. Gone. Like his life … The chance of marriage, children, had passed him by. Once he’d been hopeful about that; no longer.
He lit a cigarette and settled back, controlling his tension. The second movement of Mozart’s Piano Concerto 23 came drifting into his head, to his aid. But insistently, the image of the Nazi, von Streck, at the beerhall, shadowed it. At that meeting, it’d seemed that von Streck knew both his past and his present. If it was so, why hadn’t the Nazi had him arrested?
The music had faded away; Wagner mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
Six fifteen pm. They were burrowing into the darkness, well set for the Swiss frontier, a diligent engineer hooting away to dispel unseen perils. Grits whirled in, though the window was closed. He brushed them off his overcoat.
Six twenty pm. In the corridor, two men in black leather coats swayed past like drunks; he didn’t turn his head, but from the corner of his eye caught the blur of faces peering at him. His pulse raced. He’d company. Foolish to have thought otherwise. But why hadn’t they stopped him at the station? Were they planning to trail him all the way to Zurich? ‘Keep calm, Wagner.’ He was perspiring even more but the coat, with its special pockets, stayed on. He glanced at his watch again: one hour to the frontier.
Schmidt’s thoughts were with Wagner as the taxi drove into the new estate. Now – he shook his head, took a deep breath, preparing himself. The Nazi was pacing the foyer. ‘Franz! There you are!’ Exuberantly, with a seeming relief, he smacked his hands together. ‘I didn’t know whether you could find your way to the outskirts. You’re such an inner-city dweller! But, as reliable as ever.’
Schmidt bowed slightly. The taxi driver’d
had no trouble. Dietrich wore a white smoking jacket which harmonised brilliantly with the blond-wooded, white-walled entrance hall into which he led the auditor. With his blond hair, his milky face – in this blondish ambience – the Nazi, tonight, plainly had stepped out of his on-duty character.
Swaying tulips etched upon double doors of frosted glass greeted Schmidt. He stepped through these. The Nazi threw his big hand expansively at it all, and beamed his yellow grin. ‘Different from the Wertheim morgue, eh?’ Ablaze with electric light, the flat was more Schmidt’s idea of a morgue than the Wertheim building. ‘Come, take off your coat, sit down on this lounge. Real comfort. You must have champagne!’
His energy had a sharply nervous edge; that pacing of the foyer, the fumbling as he uncorked the bottle, the nervy grin at the significant pop. Yes, a different Dietrich. In the lounge, feeling suspended rather than seated, Schmidt watched the new version as carefully as the old. Many times he’d asked himself why the Nazi had interceded to save him from the Gestapo. His pragmatic mind couldn’t quite accept it. And why was he invited here tonight? He took the foaming glass. The Nazi raised his own high, and, narrowing his eyes, fixed it with a searching blue gaze.
‘Superb! We’re quite alone tonight, Franz. My servant’s prepared an excellent meal which requires only a little heating. You will enjoy! To our partnership at Bankhaus Wertheim & Co AG!’
Politely, Schmidt raised his glass and they clinked. The walls of the flat had no artwork. Dietrich, intent on his every expression, interpreted the look.
‘Aha! No decadent Eye on these walls, Franz. Uncluttered — like my mind.’ He grinned in mock self-effacement. ‘When I can afford it, a single, fine painting. Something to the Fuehrer’s taste.’ Another grin. He perched on the edge of a chair, swung his thick leg to and fro. With utmost gravity, he said suddenly, ‘My friend, you have your problems, I read it in your face.’
Schmidt sipped champagne. Which direction was the Nazi’s mind going in now? Dietrich’s mood had turned around completely. Here was seriousness and concern. That anything was apparent on his face was alarming.
‘Divorce must be painful for a person of your sensitivity.’
‘It is, Herr Dietrich. May I ask how you know of it?’
‘Never mind, my friend. Nonetheless, a new start, isn’t it?’
Schmidt admitted the possibility.
‘And Franz, when we’re off duty you must call me Frederick.’
‘Thank you.’
Dietrich leapt from the chair, and hurried out. ‘Now, dinner will be served.’
They ate Steak Diane with duchess potatoes and sauerkraut. The Nazi was attentive with the wine from a special estate on the Rhine — a gift, he said, from the city’s Gauleiter, with whom he claimed intimacy. In another quicksilver change, he’d become fascinated by his guest’s adolescence. Solemnly Schmidt parted with an edited version of his youthful life.
Dietrich stretched his athletic body back in his chair and gazed intently at the small, handsome man. He felt his emotions rising, nearing the surface. The cautionary restraint in him was less oppressive. He’d still not determined whether, primarily, he was confronting a puzzle with dangerous undertones, or an enchanting interlude with the promise of memorability. He felt himself languishing in a heady atmosphere, less and less concerned about the answer to the conundrum. One had the power to tidy up a mistake.
‘Wasn’t it good? You’re a very quiet man, Franz, and that’s what I like.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘And, as I said, sensitive. We share this, my friend.’
Schmidt sipped the brilliant Rhine wine, visualising Wagner racing through the night towards Switzerland.
‘Wagner! You and I are a world away from that vulgarian. You didn’t see those photographs?’
Schmidt shook his head.
‘I thought not. I’m glad you weren’t exposed to that filth. Wagner’s days are numbered, you might like to know that.’ He raised his finger warningly at the auditor. ‘And we must have no sentiment there, Franz! But forget the traitorous bastard. I’ll put on an Offenbach record, and we’ll have more champagne with our dessert.’
Traitorous! Schmidt was staggered. What was going on with Wagner – and, was it in danger of short-circuiting the plan? He was still active in the outlawed Social Democrats. It must be that. But doing what? The foreign manager’s instructions about the box hidden under Bernstein’s stairs slipped into his mind.
He glanced at Dietrich. Fortunately the Nazi was smiling and gazing into space. Schmidt felt his face must have showed everything in the past moments. Smoothly the Nazi rose and crossed the room to a cabinet. He put a record on a turntable. As the music began Schmidt, in his mind, was back at the Wertheim concert, walking to Lilli’s flat, hearing her restrained breathing in the darkness.
‘Offenbach was born in Berlin, you know,’ the Nazi announced. ’Some people, incorrectly, consider him French. Of course he was a Jew, but about some things we should be broad-minded. I got that from Herr Wertheim.’ He grinned.
Dietrich ate his dessert and watched his guest. He felt his heart thudding, his breathing becoming constricted. Steadying his voice he said slowly: ‘You’ll have a free hand now in joining the Party. However, we must wait for things to cool down. Timing in all our endeavours is critical.’ He smiled, and stood up. ‘You’ll have noticed the wonderful central heating. I’m going to take off my jacket, and you will too. Then we will sit down, and relax. Absolutely!’
The pressure was building to a crescendo. He must have that tight, beautiful arse tonight — or die.
Suddenly Schmidt understood. Good God! Abruptly, he picked up his adolescent reminiscences: ‘In ’28, I went on a camping trip to Weisenbaden …’
‘Uhuh.’
The Nazi stretched again, exuding his physical power. Schmidt felt he was treading water against a strong current, waiting for the turn of the tide. Dietrich, now beside him on the lounge, relishing the last of his champagne, the music, emitted gusty sighs of lustful anticipation. Schmidt was now receiving that as clear as a bell on midnight air. He doubted if the man selected targets at random, so what mysterious signals had he been giving out? Whatever they were, the Nazi’s passion was about to erupt like a volcano.
He sipped the wine, inwardly amazed. Never in his life had he been in this situation, even imagined it. What else could he throw in to delay the issue? A tasty piece of information from the bank? But he knew the Nazi was no longer listening. Dietrich seized the champagne bottle, and emptied the last of it into their glasses. He insisted on them clinking. What a bizarre mixture the Nazi was, and how ridiculous he seemed at this moment. Roehm and half the SA leadership had been homosexuals, as reported in 1934 after their murders. Nothing much had been made of it, publicly at least, before that. But these days he was running a big risk. If Wagner got through, much bigger than he could ever have imagined.
A chill entered Schmidt. The Nazi was far from naive. It was hard to take this at face value. Could it be he was playing a game of deception which matched his own; running deep and silent. He was indisputably the tormenting type; was he paying out rope? Grimly, Schmidt stared across the room at the cavorting tulips. Should he get up and walk around?
Dietrich put down his champagne glass with deliberation. As fast as a snake striking, his fingers went to Schmidt’s face, and lightly traced across his cheek.
‘You have beautiful skin, Franz.’
His hand dropped abruptly to the auditor’s chest, dexterously opened his shirt-front and began to caress his breast, tease at his nipple. Schmidt had turned to stone. Dietrich began to emit steady gasps; his eyes had dilated, the scent of champagne suffused the air. He moved his heavy body emphatically closer on the lounge. The weight, heat, of his thigh was overbearing to Schmidt.
‘By God!’The Nazi groaned.
Schmidt felt paralysed. If this was a subterfuge, some plan of entrapment, the Nazi was the best actor in the Reich.
The thick lips came at Schmidt’s mout
h. Simultaneously the muscular arms clamped an unbreakable encirclement around his body. The speed and force engulfed Schmidt. The yellow teeth clashed with his, a vigorous tongue came forcing its way into his mouth. He was driven back in the lounge. Beyond his shock he was aware that the Nazi was tearing at his own flies. Schmidt pulled his mouth away, and struggled with sudden desperate energy in the powerful arms. The Nazi’s head whipped back as though he’d touched hot metal, his grip loosened.
‘Franz! What’s wrong?’
Schmidt found himself free, staggered to his feet. He had to gasp out his breath. He reeled a few paces, his mind racing. ‘A shock … Frederick. Total shock! The first time.’
The Nazi stared at him in amazement, then, visibly reassembling his composure, straightened his position on the revered lounge, and regarded the small man searchingly. As though a button had been pushed, the hard planes of his face softened. He became magisterial. He devoured the auditor with an expression of proprietorship.
‘Oh my God! Of course! My dear friend. I’ve been far too impetuous. I do understand. Your sensitivity! How delightful! The first time is such an experience for us all. I could feel your heart beating!’
He stood up, too, adjusting his clothing, brushing down his hair with his broad hand, while Schmidt marvelled. He was back under control, the mocking smile again moulded on his features.
‘Never mind! The virgin shouldn’t be pressed on the first occasion, must be humoured. On the second, such a dispensation can’t be granted – but then neither is it wished!’
Dazedly Schmidt thought: Who’s he picked up that piece of wisdom from?
The Nazi’s eyes had narrowed. ’But remember Franz, you’re under my protection. That’s something I could take back like this. ‘The snap of his big fingers sounded in the room.
Fifteen minutes later Schmidt drove away. He’d been ordered to return for drinks at the weekend. By then, one way or the other, his and Dietrich’s worlds would have rotated into other orbits.
The Eye of the Abyss Page 20
