~ * ~
Shortly after noon Schmidt arrived back at the bank. Herr Gott came into his office carrying several files, gave a slight bow and laid them in the in-tray. Schmidt acknowledged this with a nod. His deputy lingered, his face serious.
‘Was the funeral well-attended, Herr Chief Auditor?’
‘It was.’
‘I couldn’t go. My wife is unwell and I took her to the hospital.’
Schmidt showed his concern.
‘She’s all right now . . .’ He paused and the facial tic in his cheek became active. ‘Have you heard about Herr Rossbach?’
Schmidt raised his eyebrows.
Gott hesitated. ‘Apparently he spent the night in hospital. He’s been badly injured ... in his private parts.’
The sober deputy auditor reported that a woman working at the hospital had passed this tasty news on to a relative at the Reichsbank. This morning it had gone all through the bank.
Schmidt’s face was blank as he regarded his deputy.
Herr Gott left. Obviously, such an event touching the Reichsbank had horrified the staid man.
Rossbach had also been in Schmidt’s thoughts overnight. Briefly. He’d not agonised over the situation pertaining to the pro tem manager as he had over the Fischer affair. Anna wouldn’t be going back into that scoundrel’s orbit.
Schmidt took an early lunch in the canteen. He was about to finish his coffee when Fräulein Brandt whirled in and hastily put a meal on a tray. Her face was tense. Glancing at her, Schmidt wondered why she hadn’t attended the funeral. Despite her dislike and contempt for Fischer, protocol should’ve been observed. She came over to Schmidt’s table and, holding her tray, stared down at the auditor. ‘Did you attend the funeral, Herr Chief Auditor?’
Schmidt nodded. She would know that he had. He stood up and realised for the first time that she was slightly taller than himself. As usual, her blonde hair was drawn tight and smooth to the nape of her neck. Her perfect complexion showed not a trace of colour — just her tension.
‘I couldn’t go.’ She lowered her voice, even though they were immersed in canteen-clatter. ‘The gold situation’s at a crucial stage. The directors of that bank are muddling around like fat geese in a barnyard. ’The remark was acid, not humorous. ‘I may have to go to Zurich.’
A female secretary hurried in and came threading through the tables toward them. ‘Fräulein manager,’ she whispered, ‘the president’s telephoned and requires you to phone him back.’
With a clank, the head of precious metals dumped her tray on the auditor’s table and made for the door, her wide hips swaying. Schmidt, still on his feet, watched her go. The president! The chief auditor had been forgotten in an eye-blink.
~ * ~
Two cemeteries in one day. Schmidt paused at a side-gate to the Jewish cemetery and checked his watch. Two minutes to two. It was a long tram trip out to Weissenssee, then a ten-minute walk from the stop. Jews had been buried here since the mid 1880s. He was curious as to why von Streck had chosen it for their meeting. And apprehensive. These days it was a place to be avoided.
Turning his head, the auditor checked the snow-drowned scene, then entered the gates between the yellow brick walls.
Today the special plenipotentiary wasn’t hard to spot. He was immobile at the intersection of two main paths, and as Schmidt approached, he saw that he had on the black astrakhan-collared overcoat. He was standing, one hand behind his back, the other holding a cigar, a haze of bluish smoke around his homburg-clad head. The high official appeared amused by the auditor’s cautious progress.
The snow was ankle-deep, pristine. No-one else had walked these paths today. Peering at the plenipotentiary, Schmidt thought: Humanity’s gone from here. It’s like a winter-bound coast abandoned by migrating birds - except this abandonment had a sinister impetus.
‘There you are, Schmidt. On time as usual.’ The olive face with the prominent mole on the right cheek broke into a smile. ‘A good place to meet. Hardly anyone comes here now. The Gauleiter is talking of clearing it for a housing estate.’
Schmidt absorbed this information, watched and waited. Fischer’s bulky figure was stuck in his mind’s eye. Did this man hold the answer to the Prussian banker’s murder? Was Franz Schmidt responsible?
Von Streck examined his cigar-end. ‘So, what’s your report on President Funk?’
‘This is the situation . . .’ Schmidt began. Concisely, he told of Funk’s daily routine; his nocturnal transits between the ministry and the bank; where he put the vital papers at each day’s end; what had transpired at the meeting in the inner sanctum last night.
‘Financial and economic dynamite.’ Softly von Streck repeated that phrase. He looked acutely at the auditor. ‘The work’s coming along, his blueprint for inclusion in the Four-Year Plan will soon be presented to the Field-Marshal.’
How did he know this? Schmidt stared across the sea of tombstones.
The coal-black eyes were boring into the auditor’s face. ‘Time’s now short. So?’
Schmidt’s feet felt frozen. His knees, inside his long underwear and thick serge suit, were aching and burning. Usually the plenipotentiary chose to walk when they met, but he gave no sign of that today. From his rock-like stance, his eyes swept the locality. No sign of his giant blond bodyguard either. Though he’d be close by.
Snow dropped down from a nearby tree. A significant sound in this freezing repository of the remains of Jewish lives. Schmidt cleared his throat. ‘I need material to take an impression of a large key.’ He held his hands apart an indicative length. ‘After that, I’ll need the key made.’ He’d reported the old-fashioned safe in the alcove.
Von Streck nodded. ‘The material will be delivered to your flat.’ He looked aside at the auditor. ‘You’ll also need a special camera, and the knowledge to operate it.’
Schmidt blinked, but he’d already thought of this.
The plenipotentiary produced a sheet of paper. ‘An exhibition by a woman photographer opens tomorrow night at 6.00 pm. Fräulein Solmitz. Here’s the address. You should introduce yourself to her with the words, “The darkroom exposes the truth.’”
Schmidt blinked again, then repeated the words. Von Streck nodded. The auditor took the note, memorised the address, tore the sheet into tiny pieces and let them flutter to the ground. He gazed ahead. ‘Dr Funk has invited me to his house.’
Von Streck tossed the cigar away. ‘Good. The unfortunate banker Arnhold’s former house.’ His eyes kept moving. ‘Over one hundred thousand interred here. A lot of bones to dig up.’ He spoke almost to himself.
Schmidt’s heart had begun to beat faster. He had to have this out. ‘Herr Fischer was murdered.’
The functionary gave the auditor a quick look. ‘That is quite correct.’
Schmidt’s face tightened. ‘Stabbed in the thigh by a man with an umbrella. He collapsed in agony.’
Von Streck gave the auditor another look, tapped ash from his cigar. ‘A Gestapo agent. Poison was used.’
‘Gestapo?’ Schmidt stared at the functionary. Was this the truth?
Von Streck lowered his head, clearly deliberating on how much more to reveal. ‘Yes, Schmidt, the Gestapo, at the behest of your Reichsbank colleague, Fräulein Brandt.’
Schmidt gasped. She was an avid Nazi, but this!
‘She’s intimate with a Gestapo agent. That’s how it was arranged.’
Abruptly, Reich Minister Goebbels’s double was stark in Schmidt’s mind. He swallowed. ‘How is this known?’
‘Microphones, Schmidt. I’ve warned you about them. We’re listening in to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. A specialist killer was called in.’
To Schmidt, the muscles in his face felt rigid. Then he felt the blood pounding in his temples. The Czech gold. Deadly dangerous. Fischer must have known that, but had he suspected the malignant power of Freda Brandt?
Still watching him, von Streck was hissing softly through, his teeth. ‘I’ve told you before, Schmidt, sh
ocks await us at every hour, around every corner. You must be resilient, ride the punches, as the prize-fighters say.’ His breath hung in the air. He peered into the small man’s face. ‘You must focus on your main task. Nothing else.’
Schmidt recovered quickly from such shocks. Probably more quickly than von Streck understood. His thoughts had moved with irrevocable purpose to Rossbach; to a decision he’d taken last night on the drink-sodden manager. He said, ‘There’s a man - Rossbach — at the bank. The deputy to Fräulein Brandt. A rabid Nazi. He is hostile to me, maybe has suspicions. I don’t think he’s made a move yet, but he could be dangerous to the mission.’
Unblinking now, Schmidt gazed at von Streck.
The functionary’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you certain?’
The auditor gave a terse nod.
‘Very well, Schmidt. Rossbach.’ He pointed to the path he would take, and the one Schmidt should leave by, and with a final look at the auditor, he departed.
Schmidt didn’t move. He watched the black-garbed figure recede. Even in the snow the fellow moved with his panther-like walk. The grotesque shape disappeared among the tombstones.
Fischer. Why had he been so shocked at the murder? He was a paid-up actor in this violent new world. However, it was a great relief that he hadn’t been the cause of his death. He turned on his heel and retraced his steps to the side gate.
Twenty metres ahead of him an elderly, well-dressed woman rubbed her gloved hand across a tombstone dislodging snow, bowed her head before it, then turned and hurried toward the distant gate. Schmidt was surprised. A lone visitor. Curious, he turned aside and examined the marble monument . . . ‘Paul Singer 1881-1932.’ He wondered at what he’d just observed. Jews in Berlin were now few and they were lying low. When he reached the street, the woman wasn’t to be seen. He walked to the tram-stop.
In some ways, Fischer had been a man like himself. An old-style banker. Instinctively he’d been in sympathy with him. That was why he’d been so shocked by his death and everything surrounding it. The thought warmed him a little; some residual humanity lay in him. But he was grim-faced. Could he claim that after what he’d just done? Especially now that Anna was beyond Rossbach’s power?
Effectively, he’d just arranged Rossbach’s execution.
~ * ~
21
A
T 7.30 AM, ARRIVING at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, Sturmbannfuehrer Sack felt refreshed and optimistic. A night ‘on the nest’, as an SS colleague was wont to say, was a great tonic; that Berlin was cocooned in fog and beset by claustrophobia was of no account to him. With keen eyes, he took in the military convoys winding like grey pythons through the city’s heart, their rumbling over the cobbled streets trembling the petrol-fumed air. The Third Reich was on the move, even in the toils of this severe winter.
He’d removed his hat and coat when his assistant, Untersturmfuehrer Buhle, appeared to report. Sack sat down at his desk and listened. The von Bose woman had left her house late last night to meet someone waiting nearby in a taxi. The agent watching the house hadn’t been able to follow. An hour later she’d returned alone. A man continued to watch the house.
Buhle saluted and left. Sack pondered: What was that about? They were getting edgy, he decided. Probably they’d picked up the surveillance. The sooner the word came down to bring them in the better.
Other reports waited on his desk. A man who fitted the description of the fugitive Jew, Rubinstein, had been seen leaving a house in Neve last night by a block informer; the house of a Jewish family who’d fled to France.
Sack frowned. It was annoying that Berlin was sprinkled with such properties. It was due to inefficient lags in the clearance and confiscation procedure; havens for criminals like this— if it was the ex-judge.
Sack took up the internal phone. It was high priority to reel this one in and he ordered a 24-hour watch on the abandoned house. He made a second call. He wanted to know the identity of the blond man who’d been with the schoolteacher and the von Schnelling woman at the tearoom. The agent he spoke to was left in no doubt that this was urgent.
He stroked his face with his bony hand. The Reichsbank’s new chief auditor had some explaining to do. The fellow’s brief meeting with a targeted dissident must be regarded with deep suspicion. Dear ambitious Freda wouldn’t be unhappy if this new colleague had stepped into the shit.
He stared at the wall. Experience and instinct informed him that all these parties were entwined in a dance to traitorous music. A dance that was going to turn into a dead-march.
Before transferring to the Gestapo in 1936 he’d been tracking down traitors to the Weimar Republic. In five years time, who would it be? A few minutes after 2.00 pm the teletype print-out from the Central Security Office was delivered to him. Sack sprang up as he scanned the words. Under the personal orders of Reich Minister Himmler . . . He hit a buzzer. Buhle hurried in, blinking with nerves. Sack passed his subordinate the list of names and addresses. Still on his feet, he rapidly issued his orders. They’d round up the traitors at 7.00 pm. Five teams would be needed, two cars for each. His section hadn’t sufficient manpower; he’d need to borrow agents from Strasser. He grunted. A pity. Sturmbannfuehrer Strasser would be eager to stick his nose into anything the Reich Minister had put his stamp on.
‘Wait,’ he said as Buhle was hurrying off. ‘There’s a Jewish woman living in the flat opposite the criminal von Schnelling’s. A Frau Singer. She should be arrested at the same time.’ Buhle saluted and left. Whatever sordid vendetta Rossbach had going against the woman didn’t interest Sack. Somehow the Jewess had evaded previous clearances. Possibly money had been changing hands. At her interrogation, they’d look into that.
~ * ~
When she hurried back to her office from the canteen, Freda Brandt found Frau Heyer anxiously waiting. The president’s secretary said Dr Funk would be returning from the ministry at 3.00 pm and would expect Fräulein Brandt in his office at that time.
At 1.05 pm she’d booked a trunk-line call to her contact in Zurich. The fellow was away from his office. Fuming, she’d hung up. He’d called earlier to tell her there was still no decision from the directors of Bern Trust & Privatbank. He was supposed to have reported to her again at 1.00 pm or whenever the news came through.
At five minutes to three the manager of the Precious Metals Department was pacing the president’s anteroom, adding to Frau Heyer’s anxiety. Presumably Dr Funk wished to know about the Czech gold, but she had nothing to tell him. Her damp hands were clasped together, her chest felt tight. She’d left instructions with the switchboard that a call from Zurich was to be switched through to the president’s anteroom.
‘Heil Hitler.’
Fräulein Brandt’s arm snapped up.
‘Heil Hitler, Herr President!’
Funk, carrying his satchel, entered the room and was going towards the inner sanctum with his quick, short steps. Frau Heyer ran from behind her desk to throw open its door ahead of the squat, stoop-shouldered man. ’Come in, fräulein,’ he said over his shoulder to Freda Brandt.
She marched into the room, her eyes mirroring her desperation.
He laid the satchel on his desk and dropped into the chair. For a moment he appraised the statuesque blonde. He said, ‘Herr Fischer is no more, fräulein. Your worries in that department are at an end. So, life moves on, does it not?’
She gazed at him, unable to comment.
He smiled his crooked smile. ‘Well, fräulein, the gold from the Swiss bank will be shipped to us within seven days. I spoke to their chairman before lunch. They’ll make no difficulties. What do you say to that?’
Freda Brandt’s mouth fell open. She hardly understood what she was hearing. Shipped. Chairman. No difficulties?
She was stunned. The president smiled at the stark emotions on her face. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of her brain she realised that he was enjoying this. Her contact in Zurich? What in God’s name had happened? The president who held her career in hi
s little pervert’s hands had gone behind her back! Undercut her authority! Destroyed her triumph! She exhaled her breath in a gust. Her bosom subsided. Her face was flushed with humiliated anger.
Funk dropped his eyes and began to glance through the folder of incoming communications that Schmidt had assembled for him this morning. ‘Hmm, I must say Herr Schmidt’s doing an excellent job,’ he said in a casual tone. He looked up. ‘That’s all, fräulein.’
Dizziness hit Freda Brandt in the corridor. She staggered and put her hand against the wall for support. Her plan to take the marvellous news of the success to the president, to win an appropriate accolade, was in tatters. In a daze, she moved back to her office. She stood rigid before the Fuehrer’s portrait. ‘Aren’t I the one who unearthed its existence?’ she demanded. ‘Where is the acknowledgment of that? Where is the justice?’
The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02] Page 17
