“As long as we’re not imposing intolerably.”
“Not at all,” she laughed. “Now this interview…I called and spoke with Mrs. Campbell. She promised to pass on my request—said Colonel Campbell was always happy to talk to the press.”
“That much is true,” Rowland replied. Eric Campbell had always courted the spotlight. “You’re still sure you want to do this, Nancy?”
She put her hand on his and smiled. “Don’t worry, Rowly. Nothing will go wrong. And who knows? I might just write a story about Colonel Campbell.”
Chapter Thirty
The psyche of the broad masses is accessible only to what is strong and uncompromising. Like a woman whose inner sensibilities are not so much under the sway of abstract reasoning but are always subject to the influence of a vague emotional longing for the strength that completes her being, and who would rather bow to the strong man than dominate the weakling—in like manner the masses of the people prefer the ruler to the suppliant and are filled with a stronger sense of mental security by a teaching that brooks no rival than by a teaching which offers them a liberal choice.
—Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf
The business district was lively when Milton and Rowland finally left the Bismarck. Munich’s hard-working citizens conducted last-minute business, and bought bread and sausage before returning to their homes for the evening. The spring air was tinged with the scent of limes and geraniums. Rowland was thoughtful. Anna Niemann had disappeared almost immediately after Bothwell and Richter had gone to see her. Bothwell was dead. It occurred to him that he should speak to Alois Richter. He couldn’t imagine that their kind host was involved, but he had been there.
“Missing her already?” Milton smiled, misinterpreting his mood.
“Who? Oh, Nancy. I was thinking about Richter, actually.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Rowly?”
Rowland ignored the reproof. “I might have to talk to him about Bothwell, and Anna Niemann.”
“How are you going to do that without giving the whole game away?”
“I’m not certain, but Richter’s the only avenue we haven’t yet exhausted. At the very least, he might be able to tell us what passed between Bothwell and Fräulein Niemann.”
Milton frowned. “Ed’s very fond of him and he’s completely wrapped around her little finger. Be careful, mate. He might feel a bit put upon if he suspects you’re not really Peter Bothwell’s grieving cousin…not to mention that he does business with the Reich, so he could be skittish about harbouring spies.”
Rowland turned up his collar as the wind rose briskly. “I’ll come up with something.”
The Brownshirts who’d been haunting Schellingstrasse outside the mansion when they’d left appeared to have departed. Rowland glanced at Milton. “Perhaps Richter’s got more clout with the Reich than we thought,” he murmured.
“Or perhaps they’ve just decided to be less obvious,” Milton countered sceptically.
Rowland let his eyes search the street. The light was fading and the shadows were deepening. The tall, closely set buildings with their decorative alcoves would make covert surveillance quite easy. “Let’s go in,” he said, feeling suddenly exposed.
Edna met them at the door, opening it before they could knock. She slipped out and shut the front door behind her. “I’ve been watching for you,” she whispered urgently. “I didn’t want Alois to overhear.”
“What’s the matter?” Rowland asked, noting the uneasiness in her voice, the largeness of her eyes.
“After you left today, some men from the SA called by.”
Rowland tensed. “Are you all right?” He studied her anxiously. “Where’s Clyde?”
Edna touched his arm. “He’s fine, we’re both fine.”
“What did the bastards want?” Milton asked angrily.
“I don’t know…they didn’t speak English. They asked us some questions, but of course Clyde and I had no idea what they were saying. We just showed them our passports.”
“What about Mrs. Schuler?”
“She spoke to them, but I don’t think she’s said anything to Alois about it…and we couldn’t speak to her to ask why.”
Rowland put his arm around the sculptress. He could see she was unsettled. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Schuler. I take it you haven’t said anything to Richter either?”
“We didn’t want him to go marching off to shout at Himmler…”
Rowland nodded. “Probably wise. Perhaps that’s what Mrs. Schuler is worried about.”
“We’d better go in,” Edna said, glancing back at the door.
As they stepped into the entrance foyer, they found Mrs. Schuler watching furtively as she wiped the balustrade of the winding staircase. Rowland glanced at his companions. The housekeeper was obviously waiting. “You both go keep Richter happy,” he said quietly. “I’ll speak with her now.”
He waited until Edna and Milton had disappeared into the formal parlour where it appeared were Richter and Clyde. “Entschuldigung sie mir, bitte, Frau Schuler,” he began. “My companions mentioned there was a visit today from the SA. What did they want?”
“They were looking for the girl, Herr Negus,” she replied sourly.
“Fräulein Greenway?”
“That is what I assumed, but when they saw her they lost interest. They said they had made a mistake.”
“You didn’t mention this to Herr Richter?”
“They insisted that I do not. I thought since it was just a mistake, then there was no purpose upsetting him.” She made a sound a little like a hiss. “He is already making a fool enough of himself over Fräulein Greenway.”
“He sees her as a daughter,” Rowland said carefully.
Again, the hiss-like sound. “He would not allow his own child to always be so shamelessly in the company of men! If he thought her a daughter, Herr Negus, he would not tolerate you!”
Rowland stared at the old woman, shocked less by the fact that a servant was addressing him so, as by the resentment and vitriol in her voice. “I can assure you, Frau Schuler, there is nothing improper about my relationship with Fräulein Greenway.”
She turned her back on him. “I have duties to attend to. It is I who run his house while he laughs and carries on like a giddy girl. You can tell Herr Richter if you like…let him become the laughing stock of the Nazis, being led round by the nose by a foreigner!” The housekeeper stormed out.
Rowland paused for a moment, watching the bent figure walk away in undisguised disgust before he moved to find his friends.
“Mr. Negus…what kept you?” Richter asked when Rowland joined them in the parlour. “Did you stop to polish my doorhandle?”
Rowland smiled. “I see you have banished the SA from outside your home, Mr. Richter,” he said, opting to simply change the subject rather than come up with a reason for why he had loitered in the foyer.
Richter puffed up smugly and raised his forefinger. “Yes, Himmler tried to tell me there was nothing he could do, as the SA is Röhm’s, but clearly that is not the case and the wrath of Alois Richter is something to be feared!”
Edna laughed at him. “Steady on, Alois dear. You’re frightening poor Stasi.”
Rowland glanced at the completely inert dog, as it dozed on the couch. Perhaps it was frightened—who could tell? He sat down and stroked the unresponsive creature, missing Lenin. His one-eared greyhound would have by now climbed onto his lap and sent everything, including his master, flying with his exuberance.
Richter detailed his encounter with Himmler in extravagant and heroic detail until Mrs. Schuler called them in for dinner. The housekeeper was once again an unspeaking, impassive presence. Rowland noted that she did not look at Edna, even when she was serving her meal, but otherwise, there was nothing.
After dinner they returned to the parlour to play cards. It wa
s relatively early when Milton informed Edna that she looked tired and should have an early night. It was such an unusual suggestion coming from Milton that Edna agreed.
“I think I may turn in too,” Milton murmured, stifling a yawn.
“But I was just about to put Wagner on the gramophone,” Richter protested.
That was enough for Clyde, who yawned and made his excuses hastily.
Rowland stayed where he was with his glass of brandy. He had no particular love of Wagner either, but guessed that Milton was giving him the chance to speak with Richter alone.
He and the tailor simply sat for a while. Richter waved his hands occasionally, conducting some imaginary orchestra through the more dramatic movements, the tassel of his fez flinging from side to side.
Rowland waited until the record had finished. “Mr. Richter,” he said, before the other could change or restart it, “I’d like to show you something, if I may.”
“Of course, my dear Mr. Negus. Since we are alone, do you mind if we speak German? I am happy to speak English for Miss Greenway and the gentlemen, but occasionally I get sentimental for my native tongue…”
“Of course,” Rowland said, slipping easily into the Bavarian dialect. He pulled the photograph Nancy Wake had procured for him from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “Do you know this woman, by any chance, Herr Richter?” he asked, handing it to his host.
Richter rose to study the picture in the light. “Where did you get this, Herr Negus?”
“It was in Peter Bothwell’s trunk,” Rowland replied. “I was checking…in case there was something in it that Frau Bothwell should not see. I came across this photograph in a lining pocket, and of course I wondered if it might be of the woman whom she suspected had won her husband’s affections.”
Richter stared at the picture, his lower lip pressing against the upper in a tense curve.
“You found it in Peter’s trunk?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I did.”
“The woman in this picture is the actress we went to see perform Shakespeare. Peter took her flowers. I thought it was just an artistic admiration.”
“Did he speak to her?”
“For just a few moments after the performance…not longer,” Richter said, handing him back the picture. “I believe he called her Anna.”
Rowland placed the photograph back in his pocket. “You will tell us, Herr Richter, if our being here in your home becomes inconvenient or problematic for you, won’t you?”
Richter stared at him. “How could it be a problem? You are my guests…I have a big house…How could it be a problem?”
“I only meant that the government seems to frown on the Modernist movement at the moment and we are dealing in surrealist pieces, for the most part.”
“What do I care what the government thinks?” Richter was becoming agitated.
“You do business with the Reich, Herr Richter. You have been the epitome of generosity and hospitality…We don’t want to be the cause of trouble for you. We could always move back to—”
“No! I will not hear of it!” Richter slammed down his glass. Brandy splashed onto the polished surface of the low table.
Rowland sat forward. His voice was calm. “If you do not wish us to go, Herr Richter, then of course, we will not. I just wanted to make sure we had not outstayed our welcome.”
Richter stared at the spilled brandy. He pulled at the silk handkerchief which protruded jauntily from his breast pocket and used it to wipe his hands and then the table. “Oh…excuse me, I apologise,” he said quietly. “My dear young friend, I did not mean to be so abrupt.” He moved to sit opposite Rowland. “It is not a natural thing to bury your child,” he said. “Over the years I became rich, a man of influence…and yet I wondered what my beloved Helena’s laughter would have sounded like in this great house that I have bought with my lonely wealth.” Richter dabbed at his face with his brandy-soaked cloth, flinching as the alcohol stung his eyes. “Then Fräulein Greenway came into this cold place, with her beauty, her warmth, and while she is here, my loss is lessened.”
“We will have to go, eventually,” Rowland reminded him, as gently as he could.
“Of course.” Richter smiled. “And when it is necessary, I will say good-bye sadly and always I will have a memory of this time.”
“Your business…”
“My business will not suffer, I will make sure of that.” Richter reached over and patted Rowland’s shoulder. “Hugo Boss is underhanded and clever, but I am wily like the old fox…He will not get the best of me, no matter what tricks he tries!”
Chapter Thirty-one
GERMANY
Monarchist Tendencies
BAVARIA’S RELATIONS
WITH THE REICH
LONDON, February 22
Commenting on recent statements by the Bavarian Premier (Dr. Held), to the effect that if Germany secures a new monarch Bavaria will not submit to the Hohenzollerns, and “if Berlin makes further attempts to deprive Bavaria of her rights, we shall know what to do,” the Daily Telegraph says: “The ex-Crown Prince Rupprecht has for long lived in his palace at Munich in much the same style as the last crowned King of Bavaria. He has always enjoyed popularity, and has never renounced his dynastic claims. He maintains his court and is treated with royal honours wherever he goes.
“There can be little doubt that the leader of the Bavarian monarchists was justified in saying recently that the accession of the Prince would be the most popular event imaginable. It would be a strange turn if Germany was suddenly required to adjust itself to a restored monarchy within the Reich. The Bavarians are quite likely to establish their king before Hitler’s monarchist allies are ready to bring back the Hohenzollerns.”
—The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933
Alois Richter walked into the dining room, waving the invitation.
“What is this, Alois?” Edna asked, as he handed her the gilt-edged card.
“This, young people, is an invitation to the social occasion of the year. A royal ball in the Hall of Antiquities at the residence of the Bavarian Kings!”
“Royal?” Rowland looked up. “Bavaria is part of the Weimar Republic, isn’t it?”
Richter snorted. “The Prussians and their Republic! We Bavarians remember who our King is, even now.” He pointed to one of the paintings in the opulent dining room—a formal portrait of an elderly man with a long, white beard. “Behold, Ludwig III, the last King of Bavaria—Rupprecht is his eldest son. He may yet be recognised as King. If the Nazis hadn’t come to power they say the Bavarian Government would have restored the monarchy.”
“And has this almost-King given the Chancellor his support?” Milton asked.
“No, my friends. King Rupprecht has little time for Hitler. Even during the Beer Hall Putsch, Rupprecht refused to join him, but that is not of any consequence…Rupprecht is giving a ball at the Leuchtenberg Palace! It will be a simply magnificent, elegant affair.”
“And we’re invited?” Edna said surprised. “All of us?”
“Of course…the guest list is prepared by a man called Kraus. Five-foot eight, narrow shoulders, thirty-six-inch waist. Years ago, I made his wedding suit…velvet lapels, tortoiseshell buttons…very smart. He remembers this and when I ask for a small favour, he happily obliges!” Richter sat down, beaming triumphantly.
Edna handed the invitation to Rowland. It was printed on heavy card, its edges scalloped and gilded. Embossed at the top of the page were the arms of the House of Wittelsbach.
“Finally, an occasion fit for the gown I have made for you. And when they ask who dressed the most beautiful woman in the room, it shall be Alois Richter!”
“Alois, surely you don’t propose to use me as an advertisement?” Edna said with mock horror.
“There will be no greater testament to my work, dandschig Deandl…Munich will know
without a doubt that Alois Richter is the premier tailor in Germany.”
“Will there be many people there, do you think?” Milton asked, carefully casual.
“Of course…every person of substance—or who aspires to be of substance— in Munich will attend in their finest garments!”
“I suppose the Nazi hierarchy will be there in their Sunday best too,” Milton said warily.
Richter shrugged. “Perhaps not. Rupprecht refuses to join the Nazis. I suspect he does not like them. I would be surprised if he invited them to the palace. Göring, possibly, and von Ribbentrop if he is in Munich, but they are unlikely to attend. The Nazis wish Hitler to be the only king in Germany.”
Rowland glanced at Edna. It would be difficult to refuse without offending their host, and yet to attend such a function would be insanely risky.
“I have already taken the liberty of sending word, accepting for us all,” Richter announced, before Rowland could raise an objection. “Now, gentlemen, if you require attire, remember you are living with a tailor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Richter, but I’m not sure—”
“Of what are you not sure?” Richter asked immediately.
Rowland struggled for some plausible reason they could not attend. There was nothing.
“We have a very important meeting at the Kunst Haus the following morning,” Edna said, peering over Rowland’s shoulder to look again at the invitation. “Dealers from England and America.” She smiled reassuringly at Richter. “We cannot dance all night, as much as I would love to do so.”
Richter nodded emphatically. “I understand mein Kind, business must be done. I am not a wealthy man because I neglected my business to dance. We will return to our beds by midnight and Herr Negus shall be refreshed for his meeting.”
Rowland glanced helplessly at his companions. It did not seem they would be allowed to recuse themselves…not yet, anyway. Rowland noted the date on the invitation. They had a week to find some excuse.
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