Paving the New Road

by Sulari Gentill

  “A woman from the village keeps it clean and aired even when I am not there,” he said, when Rowland and Edna called in. “I’m sure you will be very comfortable.” The tailor pulled out a map and told them of the walks and sights which surrounded the lake. “You must have a look at Berg Castle,” he said, tapping the paper. “Built by Bavaria’s beloved mad king…a romantic vision which I am sure Miss Higgins will enjoy.”

  Rowland then broached the subject of the rust and moisture in Bothwell’s watch. Richter became visibly distressed. “This is terrible, Mr. Negus. You are saying that Peter’s death might not have been an accident? Oh, my poor friend…”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Richter, but it does seem odd that he would wear his watch swimming. Did the investigating police not find it unusual?”

  Richter removed his purple fez and stroked the half-dozen strands of hair that had been painstakingly grown to a length that would comb over the otherwise bare terrain on the top of his skull. “The police!” he spat. “Incompetent fools! Who knows who their masters are!” He paused to soothe Stasi, though the dog showed no signs of agitation—indeed, it showed no signs at all. “I thought that Peter might have been troubled, that he was keeping something from me.” He sat down and, passing Stasi to Edna, he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, if only I had pressed him, talked to him, instead of coming back to Munich to deal with orders!”

  “What makes you think he was troubled, Mr. Richter?”

  “Telephone calls and meetings late at night.” Richter hesitated and then whispered. “I thought perhaps money troubles…or a woman. I thought he would tell me, his old friend, in time, and so I didn’t ask. I did not suspect his problems were so great.”

  “Who found Peter Bothwell?” Rowland asked.

  “A patrol of boys from the Hitler Youth. They were hiking around the lake.”

  “I see.”

  “Your cousin, Mrs. Bothwell, will be made only more sad by this discovery, I think,” Richter said sombrely. “I am afraid, Mr. Negus, you will return to her not only her husband’s possessions, but more sorrow.”

  Rowland caught himself, remembering that he was supposed to be a distant relative, here only to collect Bothwell’s effects. It would not do to sound like an investigator. He changed the subject. “We are grateful for your hospitality, Mr. Richter. We are all looking forward to a few days at Starnberger See.”

  Richter smiled. “You will be enchanted by the lake, young people. If I can get away, I will come down myself to have a meal with you, provided you can tolerate the company of a poor old man.”

  Edna draped the flaccid Stasi over her lap. “We will look forward to it.” She smiled mischievously at Rowland. “But you must promise to bring Stasi…Robbie will teach him to fetch.”

  Richter beamed. “Of course, of course…Did you hear that, Stasi? Aren’t you excited, my love?”

  Rowland stroked the dog as it lay inert on Edna, primarily to check it was still breathing.

  “So, my friends,” Richter said, sitting back watching Stasi like a proud father, “when do you plan to leave?”

  “Soon,” Rowland replied. “I’ll have to check the trains.”

  “Trains…no, no. You must take one of my automobiles. Can you drive? Will you need a chauffeur?”

  “You’re very kind, Herr Richter, but we couldn’t—”

  “Nonsense!” Richter would not hear no. Apparently, he had a stable of motor cars, though he rarely drove himself. When Rowland saw the brand new Mercedes-Benz 380S roadster, he relented.

  Chapter Twelve

  ALL THE FUN OF THE FAIR

  The Surrealists’ Leg Pull

  BY M.J. MACNALLY

  ...Of course there are cults, societies, brotherhoods—call them what you will—such as Dadaists, Symbolists, Surrealists, Aesthetes, Parnassians, Symbolists, and a hundred and one other names, who on the European side are continually popping up, doing a stunt, and then fading out in a blaze of fireworks...the same old stunts, cigar bands, and matchboxes pasted on the canvas with girls covered with spots carrying cabbages, raving about ‘pattern’ ...dear old London ‘falls’ for it, just as it ‘falls’ for anything bizarre or freakish. It is truly the home of the chestnut.

  Here in Australia we are very lucky. We get very little of this Continental hysteria. Occasionally an artistic ‘con. man’ will come to light with a freakish landscape of the ‘pattern’ and ‘design’ he has seen in reproductions and, getting hold of a group of moneyed people, will hypnotise them into the belief that he is something new and a modern John preaching in the wilderness. ...There was a group of young men some years ago in Sydney who called themselves “Dada-melodists,” or some such name, and who set out to produce pictures that were tone melodies. A colour would represent a note and they had a scale of pigments, each with its corresponding noise. While obvious notoriety seekers, there was a certain amount of sincerity about them. One was the son of a distinguished musician, and he it was who really started the affair and lectured on the system.

  One day he arrived at the office of a newspaper and wanted some publicity. “Well,” said the materialistic chief of staff, “what is it all about?” “It’s like this,” replied the artist. “You see this picture?” (producing an oil painting from under his coat). “Well, this is the light house at Kiama,” which was red (it was really white). “This is the sea,” which was pink. “This is the cliff, and this is the grass,” which was blue, and the sky was magenta. “What does it all mean?” said the journalist. “Well, it is a tone melody,” said the artist, “and it goes like this.” He stood up, held out the picture, and actually whistled the landscape. When we had simmered down from uncontrollable laughter, we bowed him out. He got publicity, all right, but not in the way he expected.

  —The Mail, 1936

  And so Edna and Rowland returned to the Vier Jahreszeiten in Alois Richter’s Mercedes. Although Rowland noticed a similarity in style and handling, it was a later model than his beloved 1927 S-Class. And, unlike that flamboyant yellow tourer which waited for Rowland in Sydney, Richter’s motor was a discreet black hardtop, with a full swing axle—the very latest in modern engineering. Rowland enjoyed driving the 380S, though it did leave him feeling vaguely adulterous.

  Milton and Clyde were, of course, able to be entirely enthusiastic about Richter’s automobile without the burden of loyalty. Very soon, Clyde had disappeared beneath the lifted hood to examine the engine. Edna went up to the hotel suite to ensure the porters brought down the correct bags, which Rowland and Milton then packed into the trunk themselves, much to the disapproval of the concierge. The biggest bag was stuffed with canvasses, paints, and brushes.

  “Where did these come from?” Rowland rummaged eagerly through the painting supplies.

  “Von Eidelsöhn,” Milton replied. “Thought you and Clyde might like to dip a brush while we’re here. He was rather grateful that we purchased his work. Apparently, he hasn’t been selling much since the Nazis took over.”

  Rowland still hadn’t seen von Eidelsöhn’s work. “These pieces you bought,” he asked, “what are they like?”

  Clyde snorted. “Mona Lisa with her hair bobbed, painted on the wrong side of a stretched canvas,” he said tersely.

  “The boy’s a genius,” Milton grinned. “He’s created an insightful and laconic challenge to artistic traditionalism and idolatry. We also bought his sculpture of drought.”

  “Drought?”

  “It’s an empty bucket, Rowly,” Clyde sighed. “A very expensive tin bucket.”

  Milton chuckled. “I’m sure Hardy and the Old Guard will be delighted with their new acquisitions.”

  The expenses of Robert Negus, and his party of art dealers were being met by an expense account funded by the New South Wales Graziers’ Association.

  “Von Eidelsöhn also paints some quite sane landscapes,” Clyde muttered, “but Mi
lt thought Hardy would relate to backwards-Mona Lisa.”

  The poet was unrepentant. “Just what the Australian Club needs to brighten up its panelled walls, I imagine. Never been in there, of course.”

  Rowland looked at Milton, laughing now. “You’re trying to bankrupt the Graziers’ Association with ridiculous artwork?”

  “Bankrupt? No, Rowly, that’s too ambitious. I’m just striking a blow for the worker.”

  Rowland leaned back on the Mercedes. “So where are they…von Eidelsöhn’s pieces?”

  “We shipped them directly to Hardy.”

  Rowland was still laughing when the doorman came out to advise that there was a telephone call for Robert Negus. He took the call in the foyer rather than return to his suite. It was, as he expected, Eva. He told her what had been planned, and arranged to collect her on their way through. Although she had phoned much earlier than expected, Eva seemed anxious that they depart as soon as possible.

  The address she gave them was for an apartment in an older part of Munich.

  Rowland pulled up at the building.

  “I’ll only be a minute,” he said, as he opened the door.

  “Just hope she doesn’t want you to meet her parents first,” Milton called after him.

  Eva opened the door as soon as he knocked. The apartment behind her was a tastefully furnished family home. The walls were adorned with framed photographs of Eva and other young women who Rowland presumed were her sisters. The largest frame, however, held the brooding likeness of Germany’s Chancellor. Eva was apparently the only one home. She had on her hat and gloves, and a small suitcase waited by the door. She didn’t invite him in. “Shall we go? I do not want to make you late.”

  “Don’t you have to let anyone know where you’ll be?”

  “They shall think I am with Herr Wolf,” she said. “I do not want them to know he has no time for me.”

  Rowland hesitated. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want your…anyone to be worried about you.”

  “You are kind, Herr Negus, but you must not worry. I often go away with friends. My parents are in Berlin right now, but they would be happy to know that I am enjoying myself, for once, instead of waiting by the telephone.” She looked at him anxiously. “Please do not say you have changed your mind.”

  Rowland reached in and picked up her bag. “Of course not, Fräulein Eva.”

  Her face relaxed and, beaming, she took the arm he offered.

  It took a little over an hour to find Richter’s villa near the town of Berg, by the Starnberger See. They approached through a screen of natural woodland; the light of late afternoon speared through pillars of grey-barked birch to give the leaves a gentle incandescence. The building was, if anything, more impressive than the one in which Richter lived in Munich. Classically Bavarian, its walls were white, and seamed with dark external timbers. Its steeply pitched roof was shingled. Every window sat above a window box which hosted a mass of spring blooms, and looked out upon the crystal waters of the lake. A fat horse with a braided tail was tethered to a tree.

  Edna was delighted. “It’s magical,” she said stepping out of the car. She turned slowly, putting out her hand as if she was trying to catch one of the thin shafts of light.

  “There’s a castle in Berg, isn’t there? Can you see it from here?” Rowland asked Eva.

  She shook her head and pointed. “It’s in that direction, but it’s hidden by trees.”

  Rowland translated, though Edna seemed to have inferred the gist of it. She was disappointed.

  “I love castles. It’s a shame we don’t have one or two at home.”

  Clyde rolled his eyes. “Just what New South Wales needs…”

  Though Rowland did have a key, the door was opened by a taut-haired woman who introduced herself as Frau Engels. She explained that she lived in the village, where her husband worked in the post office, and so Herr Richter had been able to telephone and get a message to her. Of course, she came to the house immediately to light the fires and air the bedrooms, making sure she put extra blankets on the beds because the nights could still be very cold. She’d stocked the pantry, and cooked a hot meal, and she hoped they would be comfortable. And then she took a breath.

  Rowland seized the pause to thank her and translate quickly before she started talking again. Which she did.

  Frau Engels bustled them into the living room, directed the men to take their bags upstairs and explained that the cat was deaf, so there was no point shouting at it.

  Rowland was not entirely sure why any of them would want to shout at the cat, but he translated faithfully. When they had finally been settled to her satisfaction, she began a verbose farewell, assuring them she would return to prepare breakfast the next day. Eventually she mounted the fat horse, and chattering to it now, rode off towards Berg.

  “Bet the horse wishes it was deaf too,” Milton said, as Edna picked up a small white cat. “Did she say what its name was?”

  Rowland shook his head.

  Edna held the feline up and looked into its eyes. “What are we going to call you, then, sweetheart?”

  “It’s deaf,” Clyde murmured. “I don’t suppose it matters.”

  They sat down to the meal of roast pork and dumplings which Frau Engels had prepared and set out, and talked easily of inconsequential matters. Rowland, necessarily, didn’t say a great deal on his own account as he translated between Eva and the others. Edna and Milton had picked up a few German words, but Clyde could not yet tell one word from another, let alone remember what they meant.

  With dinner over, they retired to the sitting room. Clyde and Rowland rearranged the furniture to place the large card table closer to the fire, and Milton set a record on the gramophone. Eva ran upstairs to fetch the photographs she had developed for Edna.

  For a time they examined the pictures: images of the Southern Cross and its crew, Maugham and Haxton at Raffles, and Karachi. And Eva was understandably curious about their travels.

  “It must have been an old film,” Rowland said, as she exclaimed over the pictures. “We did this trip some time ago.” It was a minor and probably unnecessary deception, but Rowland opted for caution.

  Milton produced a pack of cards and, armed with sherry, they taught Eva to play poker. She took to the game and the sherry enthusiastically, although Rowland remained unable to impart the art of bluffing, and her cards were apparent in the rise and fall of her face. He advised her in German as they played, which might have been unfair if it had had any impact whatsoever on the way she played.

  She sang along when the recording took her fancy, imitating the low husky tones of Dietrich and standing to act out the words.

  All this time, over the chatter and the music, Rowland was vigilant for the phone. By now, Albert Göring would have met with Campbell, and Blanshard might have been able to glean how that meeting had gone. They would not be in the clear for another day, but if Göring had called the police, Blanshard might have heard by now. Rowland was acutely aware that now Edna was as implicated as he. If worst came to worst, he would not even be able to claim she had no idea of his purpose in coming to Germany.

  “Come on, Robbie, dance with me,” Edna said, dragging him to his feet as Marlene Dietrich crooned a German version of “Falling in Love Again” from the gramophone.

  “You mustn’t worry,” she whispered, in the privacy of his arms. “Even if Mr. Göring calls the police, it will take them a while to figure out where we’ve gone. Only Mr. Richter knows, and they have no reason to ask him.”

  He smiled at her. “Did I look worried?”

  She laughed. “Not really. You’re too good a card player for that…I just know you.”

  Rowland changed direction so that they didn’t dance into the sofa.

  Edna pressed into him. “If Mr. Göring goes to the police, we’ll simply say that he misunderstood us. After
all, we were speaking in languages that were not our own.” She looked up at Rowland, her manner so sincere and innocent that he was tempted to believe that she could talk them both out of arrest.

  Rowland assumed he was the only one awake. Certainly there was no sign of life from the other rooms. He could, however, hear singing from the kitchen downstairs. Frau Engels had returned, as she had promised. He elected to slip unannounced into the small sunroom. It was too early in the morning for the sheer volume of the housekeeper’s conversation.

  He had been there only a few minutes when Eva came in on tiptoe. Startled, she clasped one hand over her mouth when she saw him. He put a finger on his lips and shut the door behind her.

  “Good morning,” he said quietly.

  She giggled. “You’re hiding, too, Herr Negus?”

  Rowland smiled. “I thought I’d wait for the others before I went in to breakfast.”

  “Of course.” She sat and picked up the notebook he’d put down. “You’re an artist,” she said studying the sketch of Edna. “Herr Wolf, too, is an artist. I must show you some of the paintings he has made for me.”

  “He’s an artist? Does he exhibit?”

  “No…not anymore. He is too busy.”

  Her eyes darkened and Rowland suspected that Herr Wolf was often “too busy.”

  “It’s difficult to make a living from painting alone,” he said, more out of sympathy than any real knowledge of what it took to make a living.

  “Oh, Herr Wolf could make a living—I am sure of it,” Eva said fervently. “He is an extraordinary artist…I’m sure everybody would buy his works if he chose to sell them. Why, I sometimes feel like I could walk into his pictures and swim in his lakes.”

  Rowland’s left brow arched. So this chap Wolf painted landscapes. Rowland tried not to hold that against him.

  “I shall show you one day,” she said. “I’m sure you will agree that he is a very talented man.”