Paving the New Road

by Sulari Gentill

  Von Eidelsöhn came over to where Rowland stood by the mantel. He spoke German. “Your friend Herr Richter is very kind,” he said. “Many Germans these days have forgotten what it is to be kind.”

  Rowland nodded. “He’s a good man.”

  “I have asked Millicent to be my wife.”

  Rowland nearly choked on his brandy. “I see.”

  “She has refused me.”

  The silence stretched awkwardly. Rowland wasn’t sure if the man was looking to him for some kind of commiseration. It really wasn’t something he could give with any sincerity. He tried. “Fräulein Greenway has always known what she wants.”

  “Sadly, it is not me.”

  Rowland smiled faintly. “In that you are not alone, Herr von Eidelsöhn.”

  Von Eidelsöhn seemed to find some camaraderie in that. He remained at the mantel with Rowland, looking idly at the framed photographs which stood upon it. He stopped, staring closely and long at the picture of Richter’s wife and child. “You know,” he said, “I’m sure I know this lady…I just cannot remember from where.”

  “That was Frau Richter.”

  “Was?”

  “She’s passed away, I believe.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. I do wish I could place her…it’ll come to me…”

  “Du liebe Zeit! It is nearly midnight!” Richter exclaimed. “Herr von Eidelsöhn and the boy have an early train to catch in the morning. Good fortune does not wait for those who lie abed!”

  Rowland agreed. “We should probably turn in.”

  And so they said their goodnights. Milton and Edna took von Eidelsöhn to the studio, where a bed had been made up, and Clyde, who had always had a way with children, hoisted Sasha onto his shoulder to carry him upstairs. Rowland followed them but, remembering that he had left his notebook in the drawing room, returned to retrieve it.

  He stopped at the doorway, seeing that Richter was still there, holding the picture of his wife and daughter on which von Eidelsöhn had commented. Richter pressed the frame to his breast, shuddering slightly as he wept. Rowland hesitated, reluctant to intrude. He turned and retreated without a word, allowing the tailor privacy in a grief that was obviously still raw.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  HEARD THIS ONE?

  “I’m sorry, madam,” said the passport official, “but there is a mistake in your application form.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “You are described as a brunette instead of a blonde.”

  “Dear me. Well,” with an obliging smile, “will you alter it—or shall I?”

  —The Advocate, 1933

  Rowland kept his eyes on the bobbing tassel atop Alois Richter’s purple fez, in the press of milling travellers before him. The tailor led the way to the platform from which the Orient Express would soon embark, cleaving apart the crowd with determined swipes of his walking stick. Von Eidelsöhn walked behind him with Edna. Clyde carried Sasha on his shoulders above the crush as they made their way to the first-class carriages.

  The SA was a visible presence at the station, arrogantly strutting the platforms, demanding to see papers from time to time.

  The Orient Express was ready for boarding. They moved up the platform to the head of the train and there they said their good-byes. Von Eidelsöhn, as they had come to expect, was solemn and earnest with gratitude and assurances that he would see Sasha safely into the arms of his mother.

  Rowland beckoned the artist aside and gave him two cash-filled envelopes, one to cover the boy’s expenses, the other to be given to Sasha’s mother when she was found.

  “It is unnecessary,” von Eidelsöhn protested. “I will—”

  “Take it,” Rowland insisted. “It will make me feel better that I am not accompanying him myself. If you hit any trouble, you know where to reach us.”

  Von Eidelsöhn nodded and placed the envelopes into the pocket inside his jacket. “I remembered last night why I knew the lady in the photograph on Herr Richter’s mantel,” he said.

  “That picture was taken many years ago, during the war,” Rowland said, sceptically.

  “It was many years ago when I saw her, not long after the war. I was just a young man, attending my first cabaret.” He smiled at the memory. “She was magnificent…In time, she became famous, but then she was another struggling German artist.”

  “Famous?”

  “Yes. The woman in that picture is a young Anna Niemann…she is celebrated now.” Von Eidelsöhn glanced at Richter, who was singing some sort of ditty for Sasha’s amusement. “I did not mention it earlier because I assume she and Herr Richter parted, and I did not think—”

  “Of course,” Rowland agreed. “It is best that you do not mention this to Herr Richter.” He looked carefully at von Eidelsöhn. There was only an inch or so between them in height. The artist’s hair was dark, though he wore it quite long, and his eyes could definitely be called blue. Rowland turned around so that his back was to everybody but von Eidelsöhn, and from his breast pocket he took the identification papers and passport which described Robert Negus as six foot one, with dark hair and blue eyes.

  “May I borrow your pen?” he asked von Eidelsöhn. The artist obliged.

  Rowland removed the cap and broke the nib. He allowed the ink to drip onto his passport photograph and blotted it. It obscured just enough detail that the resultant photograph might have been von Eidelsöhn. He put the cap back on the fountain pen and returned it with the documents to the Dadaist.

  “Look, Hans, let’s be cautious…Just in case the SA is looking for you. These are my papers…if the Brownshirts do approach you and Sasha, use them. If they ask what happened to the photograph, tell them your pen leaked.”

  “But how will you—?”

  “Send them back to me when you reach Vienna. I should have thought of this earlier, but it only just occurred to me that you and I have similar features…at least on paper. You might not need it, but just in case.”

  The whistle blew to announce the Express’ imminent departure.

  Von Eidelsöhn looked distinctly panicked, but he placed the papers into his jacket and offered Rowland his hand. “Good luck, Herr Negus.”

  “And you.” Rowland slapped the man’s shoulder as he accepted the handshake.

  Alois Richter decided that they should celebrate the safe despatch of von Eidelsöhn and Sasha with ice-cream, and led them to an appropriate purveyor, where he demanded the establishment’s best. Rowland watched as Edna chose a strawberry confection and then, changing her mind, attempted to convince Milton to trade. The poet would have none of it, declaring that she was fickle and needed some sort of instruction in the value of constancy. Clyde had a beer with his ice-cream, more because the fact that he could do so amused him than because he really wanted a beer at nine o’clock in the morning. Milton joined him, on the grounds that it would be rude not to observe the customs of Munich, particularly when the custom was so agreeable.

  Rowland glanced at his watch, and switched his ice-cream with Edna’s.

  Milton accused him of undermining the lesson in character which he had been trying to teach the sculptress.

  “I don’t have time to eat it, anyway,” Rowland said, smiling. “I have an appointment in about ten minutes.”

  “You’re leaving us, Mr. Negus?” Alois Richter asked, wiping ice-cream from his chin.

  “I shouldn’t be too long,” Rowland replied. “There is a gentleman I must see.”

  “You young people and your appointments,” Richter said, shaking his head. “Always meeting this one and that one…”

  Rowland stood. “I’d better get on.”

  Richter sighed. “I was going to take you all to luncheon…Is this meeting absolutely necessary?”

  “I’m afraid it is rather important,” Rowland apologised, as he signalled a waiter for his
hat. “And it’s well overdue.”

  “That’s it, Mr. Negus!” Alastair Blanshard was businesslike. “The Graziers’ Association is no longer willing to fund your shenanigans. I have been instructed to inform you that you should consider your association with the Old Guard finished. What you choose to do forthwith will be on your own account and therefore at your own expense.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rowland said, astounded.

  “I warned you, Mr. Negus. The organisation will not allow the funds of members to be squandered in this way. The excesses of you and your friends will no longer be met.”

  “What do you expect us to do?” Rowland demanded furiously.

  “Return to Sydney. Go home.”

  “I can’t,” Rowland said angrily. “I’ve given Robert Negus’ passport away.”

  “Well, that was a damn fool thing to do, Mr. Negus, but I am afraid I cannot help you. This is our last meeting.”

  Rowland tried to keep his temper. He had expected to confront Blanshard today, but over Anna Niemann, not bookkeeping. The money was in any case not an issue: Wilfred had pre-empted this and they still had a small fortune secreted in Richter’s Mercedes. He didn’t even really care about the loss of Robert Negus’ papers. On Wilfred’s advice, they had brought their actual passports and papers with them. He would just have to leave as Rowland Sinclair, somehow. What did incense him, though, was the timing of this renunciation by the Old Guard, and he had to wonder if it was anything to do with his discovery of Alastair Blanshard’s claim to be Anna Niemann’s brother. He said as much.

  “You would do well to forget your tin-pot investigation into Peter Bothwell’s death!” Blanshard hissed. “This is not a game, boy! Leave the matter to men who know what they’re doing and take your friends and run along.”

  Rowland longed to punch Blanshard in the nose, but he resisted. They were standing in a museum and without Robert Negus’ identification papers, arrest could be very awkward.

  Blanshard glared at him, and then seemed to relent a little. “Where is this chap to whom you gave your papers?”

  “Vienna…he’s in Vienna.” Rowland had received a telegram that morning which informed him not only that von Eidelsöhn and Sasha had reached Vienna, but that his “gift” had proved invaluable.

  “Get him to send it back to you. You’ll receive the passport in a day or two, I expect…and once you get it, don’t delay. Leave. At the moment, nobody suspects Robert Negus and his entourage of anything. It’s time to go.”

  “And Campbell?”

  “I’ll just have to deal with him myself.”

  Rowland stiffened. What did Blanshard mean to do? What had he already done? “What happened to Anna Niemann?”

  Blanshard sighed. “I expect she’s dead.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if she were in trouble and alive she would have contacted us.”

  “Then it’s true she was a spy?”

  Blanshard ignored the question. He grabbed Rowland by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks.

  Rowland was too startled to pull away. The Continental way of greeting was not new to him, but it was not something he expected from Blanshard.

  “I have slipped a parting gift into the pocket of your coat,” Blanshard said tightly. “You may need it at some point. Now, walk away, Mr. Negus. I shall neither see nor acknowledge you again.”

  Rowland put his hands into his pockets. His right hand closed upon the hard barrel of a revolver.

  Blanshard nodded and turned away.

  Mrs. Schuler opened the door to Rowland and admitted him sullenly.

  “Herr Richter is in the drawing room,” she said, showing him her back.

  Preoccupied, Rowland barely noticed the housekeeper’s hostility. He followed Mrs. Schuler into the drawing room.

  His friends were there as well. Clyde and Milton were playing cards while Richter made some final adjustments to the gown he’d made for Edna. The sculptress stood on a stool as he fussed about the hem and fitted the soft fabric to the curves of her figure. She smiled as Rowland walked in, and for the briefest moment he forgot everything else. Unconsciously, he reached for his notebook, moved by a sudden impulse to draw her, to capture the delight in her face as she shimmied, showing off the dress.

  “Leibchen, you must hold still,” Richter chided, laughing. “There will be enough time for dancing tonight, when you dance with the King.”

  “Tonight?” Rowland said, leaning against the mantel. “That’s tonight?”

  Edna laughed, knowing he had not forgotten. Alois Richter had spoken of little else since the evening before.

  “I suppose we should go up and check that our tails are in order,” Rowland said, glancing at Milton and Clyde.

  Milton picked the signal immediately. “You could be right. I recall my waistcoat’s missing a button.”

  “A fallen button!” Richter’s head snapped around. “Investigate, gentlemen! I will not have you stepping out looking as though you had been dressed by that scoundrel Hugo Boss!”

  “We’ll look into it at once,” Milton assured him as they made their exit.

  In the privacy of his bedroom, Rowland told them everything: von Eidelsöhn’s rather perplexing recognition of Richter’s wife, that he had given the artist his papers and about the final meeting with Blanshard.

  “Why didn’t you say anything, Rowly?” Clyde demanded, clearly unhappy that Rowland had kept von Eidelsöhn’s revelation to himself.

  Rowland shook his head. “I’m sorry. It seemed so terribly ungrateful to doubt Richter, and I had already begun to have serious concerns about Blanshard’s involvement…”

  “Doubt Richter?” Clyde asked.

  “The man said his wife died in the Great War, and yet von Eidelsöhn saw her perform in Vienna in the twenties.”

  “Perhaps von Eidelsöhn is mistaken.” Milton was also reluctant to think ill of their host.

  “Perhaps,” Rowland conceded, “But the photo of Richter’s wife and child is no longer on the mantel. Why would he suddenly remove it after noticing von Eidelsöhn looking at it?”

  “There are many men who won’t admit their wives left them, Rowly. It’s probably just pride.”

  “I showed Richter the photograph of Anna Niemann—he acted as though she was a stranger.”

  “Again, Rowly, that may not be anything but wounded feelings,” Milton insisted. “The old guy has done nothing but help us since we arrived.”

  Clyde stood with Rowland. “No, Rowly’s right. You’re not seeing it straight, Milt, because you like the man.” He rubbed his brow. “Perhaps Richter discovered his wife was a spy?”

  Milton folded his arms and looked hard at them both. He did like Richter. But it was not in Rowland’s nature to jump to conclusions…If anything, Milton considered his friend naive. “Ed’s not going to like this,” he said finally.

  Rowland nodded. Telling Edna of his suspicions was going to be awkward.

  “So what do we do, Rowly?”

  “We leave as soon as possible.”

  Clyde agreed. “Your papers should be here with the morning mail if von Eidelsöhn got them away on time. We can concoct some family emergency and leave.”

  “And Campbell?” Milton asked.

  Rowland glanced at his watch. “Nancy’s interviewing him as we speak. With any luck, he’ll be leaving soon too.”

  “We’ll tell Ed after the ball,” Milton decided. He shrugged. “We could still be wrong, you know.”

  Rowland frowned, aware that they still knew nothing definitive about how and why Bothwell died.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m going to fabricate a reason not to go to this royal reception, or at least to hang back and join you chaps later.”

  “Why?”

  “With you all out of the house I might be able to lo
ok around. There are no papers in Bothwell’s trunk. Perhaps Richter has them.”

  “I don’t know, Rowly.” Milton was doubtful.

  Rowland put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the revolver Blanshard had given him. He pressed it into Clyde’s hand. “An insurance policy, just in case Richter turns out to be dangerous.”

  “What about you?”

  “Most of the servants don’t live in…there’s only Mrs. Schuler.” Rowland smiled. “I’m sure I can handle her…I used to box, remember?”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  NEW RECORDS

  (BY L. DE NOSKOWSKI.)

  The British Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Bruno Walter, plays “Siegfried’s Journey to the Rhine,” one of the few cheerful pages from the otherwise gloomy atmosphere of Wagner’s “Twilight of the Gods.” Walter, one of Germany’s most prominent conductors, has been excluded from Germany, because of his Jewish origin. His great work and fame do not preclude him from being on the “verboten” list, which, incidentally, makes one wonder whether the performance of Mendelssohn’s works in Germany will also be prohibited?

  Siegfried’s Journey to the Rhine opens with the “Fate” motive, followed by several of the most important motives of the “Ring” cycle, including that of the “horn,” the “Twilight of the Gods,” “Rhinegold.” “Woe,” and Brunhilde’s beautiful love motive, introduced by the wood winds.

  As Siegfried proceeds down the Rhine in search of new adventures, the music becomes brighter, but towards the end the “Rhinegold” and the “Woe” motives recall the sinister curse of the fatal ring which will eventually spell death to the hero.

  “Siegfried’s Journey” is one of the few Wagnerian orchestral excerpts which could have well done with an up-to-date modern recording, and in this respect Bruno Walter’s new version is splendidly recorded and should become very popular. (Columbia.)