‘What else?’
‘Well, there’s a gun pointed at his head, and a nasty Doberman,’ said Jana, tracing the outline of the large dog crouching on the ground next to the boy.
‘What about the geography?’
‘Alpine, I’d say. Stunning. Those mountains are massive and that’s heavy snow cover on top and pine forests down to the edge of a lake ... Austrian or Swiss perhaps? Rather large, judging by the size of the boat over here.’
‘Not bad,’ said Jack, clapping his hands in mock applause. ‘It’s a Swiss lake actually.’
‘Oh? How do you know that?’
‘The boat. Here, look. I’ve prepared several enlargements. Unfortunately I couldn’t disperse the fog to get a better image. Computers are good, but not that good – yet. That’s a powerful motor cruiser tied up at the jetty; fast, sleek, expensive. The sort of thing you’d expect to find moored in front of one of those exclusive hotels on a Swiss lake. And here’s the proof,’ he said, pointing to the stern of the boat.
‘A flag. But I can’t make out any pattern or design, it’s too blurred.’
‘Try this.’ Jack handed her another enlargement.
‘It’s a cross; the Swiss flag!’ Jana exclaimed, getting excited. ‘This is really quite something. I’ve told you before, you’re in the wrong business. You should be a sleuth.’
‘There’s more,’ said Jack. ‘The officer has something tucked under his arm. See?’ he said, pointing. ‘It’s an unusual shape. That’s what intrigued me.’
‘It’s too small and most of it is hidden. I can’t see what it is.’
‘Then try this, Inspector, it’s one of my more sophisticated tools of trade,’ said Jack, handing her a magnifying glass.
‘Amazing. It looks like a violin case.’
‘Precisely. Not exactly what you’d expect to find, is it? A gun in one hand and a violin case in the other. Quite a guy.’
‘You said it. Surely, there can’t be any more, I’m exhausted.’
‘Just one more item, and a fascinating one at that,’ Jack promised. ‘Here, look at the dog. Look at his collar. It’s wide and shiny, possibly made of some metal, and there are pointed studs and a leather band underneath.’
‘You’re right, it must be metal,’ Jana agreed, looking through the magnifying glass.
Jack was tempted to stroke her hair, but pulled back his hand. Standing so close to Jana, seeing the gentle curve of her neck, the tiny shell of her ear, smelling her familiar scent – musky and exciting – brought back memories of lazy Sunday mornings wickedly spent in bed a long time ago. But that was in another life, he reminded himself.
‘How unusual,’ said Jana. It’s engraved on the top here. You can just see the letters R–E–I. I wonder what it means.’
‘It could be initials, or the end of an inscription. A name perhaps, with the rest of the writing continuing on the other side of the dog’s neck,’ Jack suggested.
Jana walked to the window and looked down into the overgrown courtyard below. ‘Jack, have you been able to find out who owns the cottage, or rather what’s left of it?’ she asked.
‘That wasn’t hard; my title search is right here. The property is registered in the name of Wotan Holdings Pty Limited. The shareholders and directors are Eric and Heinrich Newman.’
‘Apparently, father and son. Sir Eric has agreed to see me; I have an appointment with him tomorrow at his home.’
‘It’s Sir Eric, is it?’ It was Jack’s turn to look impressed. ‘I don’t suppose I could come along?’ he asked hopefully.
‘That wouldn’t be such a good idea. It’ll be a formal police visit.’
Jack’s face sank.
‘Come on, Jack, don’t look so disappointed.’
‘Easy for you. Just flash a badge and walk straight in.’
‘I’ll tell you all about it after. We have a deal, remember?’
‘We do?’ Jack asked. ‘I didn’t know we’d agreed.’
‘Let me put it this way, if we have, you can come with me to visit Miss Abramowitz if you like. I’m going to see her now.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘She’s the lady who wrote to your editor claiming to have recognised the officer in the photograph,’ Jana replied casually. ‘The paper notified the police straight away. That’s really why I came to see you,’ she explained.
Jack looked thunderstruck. ‘The bastard didn’t tell me. You’re joking, surely?’
Jana opened her handbag and gave Jack a copy of the Abramowitz letter. He read it and hurried to the door.
‘Bloody hell, what are you waiting for?’ he reprimanded her, looking for his car keys.
‘What about the window?’
‘I’ll fix it later, let’s go!’
4
Jana enjoyed sitting next to Jack in his MG with the top down. It reminded her of carefree student days at the Police Academy. Looking relaxed, she let the wind play with her hair. Not even the heavy morning traffic crossing the Harbour Bridge seemed to bother her.
‘Great car, don’t you think?’ asked Jack, lovingly patting the dashboard like a proud first-wheels-teenager. ‘I guess I was lucky.’
‘How come?’
‘Dreadful marriage, great divorce. I ended up with this old thing and the boat, and my dear wife got the town house and the mortgage. She’s a stockbroker, you see, obsessed with real estate. Negative gearing, capital gain, all that stuff. That’s just not me, I’m afraid,’ he explained, enjoying the sun on his face and the closeness of the exciting woman sitting next to him.
‘Any children?’ Jana asked casually, looking down at the Opera House.
‘No, only careers. Oh yeah, and a cat. She took the cat, thank God! Travelling journalists and cats don’t mix. Nine lives just wouldn’t be enough.’ Jana began to laugh. ‘What about you?’ he asked.
‘I seem to have been spared domestic bliss. The Police Force isn’t exactly a good place for such things ...’
‘Single?’ Jana nodded. ‘Career girl, eh?’ said Jack, looking sideways at her.
‘Did you say girl?’
‘Beg your pardon, Ma’am. I bet you’re a good shot as well.’
‘The best. Now try to keep your eyes on the road.’
‘What’s that bastard doing?’ asked Jack, looking in the rear view mirror.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The car behind us ...’ Suddenly, a black four-wheel drive with tinted windows veered to the right and began to overtake. ‘Here he comes.’
‘Look out!’ shouted Jana. Jack could feel the heavy car on his right bump against the driver’s door and begin to push him off the road. ‘Jesus!’ Jack cried out and hit the brakes, almost smashing into the guardrail to his left. The black car, its number plate covered in mud, accelerated, changed lanes and disappeared into the traffic.
‘That was close,’ said Jack, turning to Jana. ‘Are you okay?’
‘This was no accident, Jack! Are you going to tell me what’s going on here?’ asked Jana, taking a deep breath.
‘I really don’t know.’
‘Sure. You must have pissed someone off big time, that’s all I can say. The vandalised car, the brick and now this? Come on, Jack, we both know this fits a pattern.’
‘I think it’s some kind of a warning ...’
‘Warning about what?’
Frowning, Jack bit his lip. ‘I’m not sure – honest.’
Jana didn’t believe him. ‘You keep ignoring this, you could end up in deep trouble and you know it.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘You haven’t learnt a thing, have you, Jack?
‘The car has to go to the panel beater anyway, for the scratches – right? They can fix the door at the same time,’ Jack replied, grinning. Somehow, danger always seemed to follow Jack, Jana remembered. Yet somehow, he always got out of it – just. Lucky guy.
Bloody larrikin, thought Jana. ‘Have it your way. But remember, I did warn you,’ she said grav
ely.
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘And you can cut out the “Yes, Ma’am” crap.’
‘Yes ...’
Lena Abramowitz lived in a tiny flat in a neglected block of units in Rose Bay, a Sydney suburb popular with European immigrants of her background and generation. She spoke broken English with the heavy guttural accent of the Eastern European, and was difficult to understand.
‘Sit here, I bring cake,’ she said gruffly, after Jana had explained the purpose of their visit. The musty room was cluttered with all kinds of furniture that once must have graced a much larger home.
Display cabinets filled with heavy Bohemian crystal and porcelain figurines lined the walls. Dashing hussars on horseback and girls in rococo dresses smiled through the smudged glass. An assortment of threadbare Persian rugs piled on top of each other covered the floor. A large old radio stood prominently in the middle of a badly scratched dining table covered in dust.
‘You say in your letter, Miss Abramowitz, that you recognised the man in the uniform,’ began Jana, handing the old lady a copy of the photograph. ‘What can you tell us about him?’
‘He came to lager, how you say? – camp, often, with his hund, dog – a big dog. He always came with Kommandant; he was important man, you know.’ Her face lit up. ‘I see him now. He like music. We had orchestra in lager, you know. They played when the trains arrived. So many people, so many zuege – trains – so many dead. Schrecklich!’ She paused and stared at the photograph in her lap. ‘Wiener musik, you know,’ she continued softly, her voice barely audible. ‘Waltzer, polkas, Strauss. He always spoke to musicians and asked for special musik.’ She paused again. ‘I work in Canada section sorting clothing of people from trains. Mountains of shoes, mountains of scarfs, gloves, brillen, ah, spectacles, you know.’ Her voice trailed off and the photograph fell to the floor.
‘He just stand there with his hund as the trains came into lager and listened to music; always Wiener musik. “Juden raus, schnell, schnell! Links, rechts!” I can hear it now; Jews get out! Women and children, right; men, left.’ She waved her thin bony arm about. When she let her arm fall back into her lap, Jana noticed a set of small, faded numbers tattooed into her forearm. For a while, the old lady just sat there with her eyes closed.
‘Where was this, Miss Abramowitz?’ Jack asked.
‘Auschwitz.’
‘Can you remember his name?’ asked Jack, holding his breath.
‘The Kommandant called him, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, you know. I had a zwilling, a twin sister, Miriam, but she was not any longer with me then,’ continued the old lady, drifting away from the question. ‘She died after medical experiment. Doktor Mengele, der teufel, monster! She was only fifteen. We have many twins in Auschwitz, the doctors very interested in twins, you know. All that pain, all that pain.’ She paused again and her head sank slowly against the back of the chair.
‘Is there anything else about Herr Sturmbannfuehrer you can remember?’ Jana asked, bending over the old woman in the chair. There was no reply.
‘I think she’s fallen asleep, we better go,’ Jack suggested, standing up to leave.
‘The hund,’ replied the old woman softly, barely moving her lips. ‘He has shiny silver collar with writing on it. I can see it now.’ Jana looked at Jack staring at the woman in the chair.
‘Can you see the writing?’ Jana asked quietly. The old lady had slipped into a trance-like state, suspended, not quite awake, yet not quite asleep.
‘Ja, Miriam. Remember, we often joked about it, Arbeit macht frei.’
‘What did she say?’ Jack asked impatiently. ‘I couldn’t hear.’
‘She’s talking to her dead sister. Arbeit macht frei,’ Jana answered, her voice sounding hoarse. ‘The motto of Auschwitz – work sets you free, written on a dog’s collar, would you believe.’
‘Now, that’s what I call cynical.’
They left the flat without disturbing the sleeping old lady. Folding his lanky frame into the driver’s seat, Jack reached across to the glove box and took out a small notebook. ‘Old habit,’ he explained, jotting down a summary of their conversation with Miss Abramowitz. ‘Write it down straight away before your memory plays tricks on you, as my first editor used to say.’
Jack suggested lunch at a small seafood restaurant. ‘Everything she told us about Auschwitz was accurate, you know,’ he observed. ‘She may not have given us a name,’ continued Jack, ‘but she did provide a credible link between the man in the photo and Auschwitz. Assuming she didn’t really recognise the officer, she certainly recognised his dog, or rather that collar. She couldn’t possibly have noticed the engraving; we could barely see it with our magnifying glass in the enlargement.’ He took another sip of wine and reached for his notebook.
Jana looked dreamily across the sparkling harbour, enjoying the warm sunshine caressing her face. ‘Something puzzles me, Jack.’
‘Oh?’
‘Why are you so interested in all this ...? Aren’t wartime stories rather passé? This isn’t really your kind of stuff, is it?’
‘What makes you say that?’ Jack was watching her carefully from behind his dark sunglasses.
‘Well, you have quite a reputation for investigative journalism of a rather different kind.’
‘And what kind might that be?’
‘You know exactly what I mean. Religion, the Church, faith, history, and always with your particular twist. You like to provoke, isn’t that so? You’re the challenger, right?’ Jack did not reply. Instead, he topped up their glasses.
‘A Day In The Life Of The Pope – The Da Vinci Code Phenomenon – The Mary Magdalene Conspiracy,’ Jana rattled off the titles of some of his recent articles.
‘Not bad. More inside information from the short-skirt-loving editor of mine trying to keep you by his side a little bit longer, I bet,’ quipped Jack.
‘No, just a little research on an old rascal I used to know. Seriously, Jack, why this story – to be read on a Sunday morning with a latte and croissants, and then to be forgotten? You aren’t usually that flippant with your work, are you?’
‘Even journalists have to eat. Most purists are starving.’
‘Is it really that simple? Something tells me there has to be more ...’
Jack looked at her. He’d only told Jana enough about his own investigation to keep her involved. He hadn’t told her about one of life’s unexpected little coincidences. He hadn’t told her about what else he had found in the ashes of the cottage ...
‘It’s a good story, that’s all,’ Jack repeated casually, reaching for the bottle.
Jana wasn’t convinced. ‘Really? I wonder ...’ she mused, shaking her head. Despite the warmth of the sun, she suddenly felt quite cold.
Back in his attic study, Jack called one of his mates at the BBC in London. His friend had contacts in the Vatican Radio and had helped before. As he waited for his mate to come to the phone, Jack wrote three names on his notepad – Berenger Diderot, Marie Colbert and Francine Bijoux.
5
The Newman family residence stood concealed from the road by a green umbrella of tall Moreton Bay figs. The familiar summer-hum of cicadas near the fountain appeared particularly shrill and hypnotic in the stillness of the hot afternoon. Apart from a young man polishing a vintage Bentley parked under the trees, the expansive grounds were deserted. Aware of the searching eye of the CCTV camera trained on her from above, Jana took a deep breath before pressing the doorbell.
Inside the house it was pleasantly cool. As she followed the quietly spoken housekeeper down a long corridor, Jana recognised several of the paintings hanging on the walls. Brett Whiteley, Norman Lindsay, Sidney Nolan, she thought. Not bad.
The housekeeper stopped in front of a wood-panelled door and opened it. ‘Inspector Gonski, Sir Eric,’ she announced and stood aside. When Jana entered the room, three men seated on leather chesterfields by the fireplace stood up.
‘I’m Henry Voss, the family solicitor,’ said
one of the men, politely extending his hand. ‘We spoke earlier. Let me introduce you, Inspector. Horst and Heinrich Newman,’ he continued, pointing to the two younger men standing next to him. An awkward silence followed.
‘And I am Eric Newman,’ Jana heard someone call out from behind. A tall, lean man with a striking head of white hair – neatly parted in the middle – walked slowly towards her. ‘You are obviously interested in art, Inspector. I noticed your eyes went straight to my friend over here. Right?’ he asked, running his hand playfully over the top of a large stone bust on a pedestal. ‘A little frightening, isn’t he?’ he continued without waiting for an answer. ‘And so he should be. He is a demon after all; the Hebrew demon, Asmodeus.’
‘How fascinating.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘No,’ replied Jana, shaking her head.
‘Protector of secrets and minder of hidden treasure.’ Newman motioned casually towards a mahogany sideboard. ‘Please, do sit down. A cool drink perhaps?’
How extraordinary, thought Jana. He’s totally at ease and in complete control. And he’s trying to put me off balance. Within moments, Newman had taken over. As he came closer, Jana noticed that his eyes, behind a pair of small, gold-rimmed glasses, were still clear and ice blue. Quite remarkable for a man of eighty-seven, she thought. He shook her hand with a grip that was both firm and gentle. His hand was cold and dry and she found his touch unnerving. He spoke perfect English, with only the slightest hint of an accent occasionally betraying his foreign origin. Jana tried to resist his obvious charm. She did not want to be distracted by the easy, polished manner of this urbane man, or to be side-tracked by pleasantries or trivia.
‘You are mistaken, Sir Eric. I was actually looking at the photographs over here,’ Jana said, pointing to a group of photographs on top of the mantelpiece. ‘Photos can tell so much, don’t you think?’ She gave him her best smile. So much for charm, she thought. Jana opened her briefcase, took out an enhanced copy of the photograph showing the naked boy and the SS officer, and pushed it across the coffee table towards Newman. And so much for pleasantries, she thought, carefully observing the expression on his face.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 3
