The Empress Holds the Key

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘You know of course why I’m here, Sir Eric,’ Jana said casually, coming straight to the point. ‘Have you seen this photo before?’

  ‘Only in last Sunday’s newspaper,’ Newman replied, without actually looking at the photograph. The expression on his face had changed; he appeared suddenly tense. The affable, debonair manner had vanished.

  ‘But it was found in your house. How do you suggest it got there?’

  ‘As I have just told you, Inspector, I saw it for the first time in the paper.’

  ‘I understand that you built the house back in the sixties as a holiday home for the family,’ Jana pressed on.

  ‘Yes, it was mainly for the children. You are obviously well informed. You will therefore be aware that it was rented out for many years after my children grew up. We had numerous tenants. You can check with my agent if you like.’

  ‘I see.’ Jana continued undeterred, reaching for her briefcase. ‘What about this, Sir Eric, do you recognise any of these items? This box was found under the body of the young woman who lost her life fighting the fire.’ Jana was tempted to say, protecting your property, but checked herself. She opened the box and emptied the contents onto the wooden tabletop in front of her. ‘A Ritterkreuz, a Totenkopf ring, insignia and buttons belonging to the uniform of a Sturmbannfuehrer – just like the one in the photo here – and a cigarette case with an engraved swastika.’

  ‘Fascinating. And you say all of this was found in our cottage? How odd.’ Sir Eric picked up the silver cigarette case and turned to his sons. ‘Have you seen this before?’ he asked, tracing the small swastika with the tip of his finger. They glanced at it briefly and shook their heads. ‘There, you have your answer, Inspector. As you can see, we cannot help you.’ Newman put the cigarette case back on the coffee table and looked calmly at Jana. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘You have a beautiful home, Sir Eric,’ Jana replied, changing the subject. She realised that somehow she had to get under the old man’s guard. As time was running out, she decided to gamble. She was going to bait him. ‘And such a lovely family,’ she continued, pointing to the photographs on the mantelpiece. ‘You said earlier that you built the cottage for your children. I presume that includes your daughter?’ Jana asked, watching Newman carefully. The rift between Sir Eric and his high profile daughter was public knowledge; it had been dragged through the social gossip magazines only the year before. Newman sat up abruptly, as if prodded from behind, and turned towards Jana. A shadow of anger flashed across his face. It only lasted an instant, but Jana noticed and decided to press on.

  ‘She doesn’t appear to feature in any of the family snapshots over here, yet you have every reason to be proud of her. Wasn’t it only last year that she received the Order of Australia for her work?’

  ‘You appear to know a lot about my family as well, Inspector Gonski, I am flattered. But please tell me, what has all this to do with your inquiry?’ Newman asked.

  ‘Perhaps nothing at all,’ Jana replied. Two can play this game, she thought. It was obvious that the interview could not progress much further. She put one of her business cards on the table next to the photograph and stood up. ‘In case you do remember something, Sir Eric, please give me a call,’ said Jana, with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  Newman frowned. ‘Please do sit down, Inspector; I think it is time we stopped beating around the bush and put the real cards on the table,’ he said frostily. It sounded more like a command than a request. His solicitor began to squirm uncomfortably in his seat and was about to say something, but Newman held up his hand. It was obvious who was in control. His solicitor sat back and said nothing.

  ‘As you wish,’ Jana replied and sat down.

  ‘What you are really here to find out, Inspector, is whether the man in the photo next to the Jewish boy is me. Right?’ Jana did not reply. ‘You are really asking whether this Nazi honour ring – as you call it – and all these other curios allegedly found in our cottage, belong to me.’ Newman took off his glasses and began to polish the lenses with a white handkerchief. Jana was fascinated by the old man’s calculated performance. Newman put his glasses back on, leant slightly forward and looked directly at Jana.

  ‘The answer to both of your questions, Inspector Gonski, is no. No, I am not the man in the photo, and no, these things are not mine,’ he said in a quiet, yet almost threatening tone of voice. The air in the room felt suddenly hot and oppressive. Jana’s hands and neck began to perspire. She realised that this impeccably dressed old man sitting opposite her was both unpredictable and dangerous; a man who, if challenged or threatened, would instantly turn into a resourceful and vicious adversary. She also sensed she had been told a lie. Despite her discomfort, Jana held his gaze.

  ‘How do you know the boy in the photograph was Jewish? There was nothing in the article to suggest that,’ Jana said, looking directly into the old man’s ice-blue eyes. For a while Newman did not respond.

  ‘If you look carefully, Inspector, you will see that the boy has been circumcised. In Germany at the time, only Jews were circumcised.’

  ‘I must congratulate you, Sir Eric. You have remarkable powers of observation. You barely looked at the photograph here and the unfortunate boy’s private parts were masked in the paper.’ Newman just looked at her without saying another word. The meeting had obviously come to an end.

  Jana walked towards the door and stopped in front of the bust of the demon Asmodeus. ‘One can only hope, Sir Eric, that the demon hasn’t lost his powers,’ Jana said, without turning around. ‘To guard secrets and protect hidden treasure, that is,’ she added quietly and left the room.

  Arrogant bitch, thought Newman, a flash of anger clouding his eyes.

  6

  Jana reached for her mobile and dialled Jack’s number. ‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘I can hear water.’

  ‘Sailing. Hold on, I have to tack.’ Jana could hear the tinkling of the sheet running through the steel block as the boat came about. ‘That’s better. The ferry came a little too close. How did it go?’

  ‘Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘That bad, eh? You’re on. Hop in a cab and come to Watsons Bay. I’ll pick you up at the wharf in half an hour. Have to go.’ Jack’s words almost drowned in a clatter of flapping sails and gurgling water.

  Watsons Bay, a popular suburb located at the entry to Sydney Harbour, was teeming with tourists. Jana got out of the taxi and looked around: seeing Jack’s familiar boat tied up at the end of the wharf conjured up memories of long balmy nights spent on the harbour.

  ‘Permission to come on board,’ she shouted, waving. Jana kicked off her shoes and jumped on board. Jack pointed to the tiller. ‘Hold this,’ he said, lowering the jib. ‘Let’s head back. There, thunder; could be a storm.’ Jack looked up at the dark clouds rolling in from the south. The wind freshened and the temperature dropped rapidly. Draping his favourite old sailing jumper over Jana’s shoulders, Jack took back the tiller and looked at her.

  ‘Well, Sir Eric is an impressive man. It’s hard to believe he’s almost eighty-seven. Sharp, quick-witted, no Alzheimer’s there, I can tell you! He was courteous, yet his politeness didn’t feel genuine – quite the opposite, if you know what I mean.’

  Jack nodded. ‘What about his appearance? Any resemblance to the man in the photo?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s certainly the right height and the correct age, but that’s about all. The picture is more than fifty years old; appearances change. But there was something about his eyes ...’ Jana stopped mid-sentence. ‘It’s difficult to articulate – something mocking, something cruel,’ she explained. ‘I can’t be more specific I’m afraid; it’s only a feeling. Yet, when I look at the man in the photo, I have the same feeling. Not very helpful, is it?’

  ‘On the contrary, first impressions are most valuable and often surprisingly accurate. Go on.’

  ‘Of course he denied all knowledge of the photo and the Nazi stuff, just as we
expected. But the way he did it was quite extraordinary.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think he was really telling me that of course he was the man in the picture, but that I would never know for sure and would never be able to prove it. It appeared quite deliberate, like a game. No, not a game; more like a challenge.’

  When they tied the boat to the mooring, the first heavy raindrops began drumming against the deck. Soon, the raindrops turned to hail, making it difficult to row ashore in the small dinghy. By the time they reached the jetty, they were covered in ice-balls the size of marbles, and shivering.

  ‘Not a bad kitchen for a bachelor. How’s your cooking, nowadays?’ asked Jana, looking for a place to put down the wet paper bags filled with groceries.

  ‘Patience, and you’ll find out. How about something quick, spicy and Asian. A stir fry perhaps?’ Jack opened a bottle of wine and handed her a glass.

  ‘Promises, promises,’ Jana joked.

  ‘If you’re prepared to help, we could be eating in half an hour.’ Jack placed the wok on the gas stove and began to arrange his ingredients next to the chopping board. ‘I forgot, career women don’t cook, do they?’

  ‘Just give me a moment and I’ll surprise you. But I have to get out of these wet things first. May I borrow something of yours? And a quick shower perhaps?’

  ‘Be my guest. My entire wardrobe is at your disposal,’ Jack replied, pointing to the stairs with his glass.

  ‘Did you say wardrobe? Come on, Jack, you never had a wardrobe. Checked shirts and jeans and a couple of old jumpers – threadbare at the elbows – if I remember correctly, that’s about it. And of course, I almost forgot, that leather bomber jacket – right? You’ve still got it, I bet.’

  ‘You know me too well; piss off.’ Jack took another sip of wine and began to chop the chillies.

  When Jana returned wearing one of Jack’s checked flannel shirts, thin strips of chicken were sizzling furiously in the wok, and the kitchen was filling with the aroma of frying onions and ginger. Jana noticed that Jack had almost finished the bottle. ‘I was right,’ she said. ‘Your stuff belongs in a charity bin.’

  ‘Stop whingeing. You obviously don’t mind wearing it – see? First my favourite sailing jumper and now my shirt. What’s next?’ Jack asked, grinning.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not. Wearing anything underneath?’

  ‘I won’t tell you.’

  ‘Teaser!’

  ‘Look who’s talking.’

  ‘Enough! Make yourself useful and chop something. There’s lemongrass, then you can get to the coriander and a little more chilli.’ Jack opened another bottle and watched Jana fumble with the chillies. He noticed that his shirt was a little too short to be entirely decent, yet long enough to tease his imagination. Her wet hair, combed straight back, accentuated her prominent cheekbones and the graceful arch of her neck. Her long legs, still flushed from the hot shower, had a soft, pinkish glow.

  ‘Not like that! I thought I told you to chop the chillies, not destroy them,’ Jack complained, shaking his head. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ Jana looked up, raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Jack walked over to her, took the knife out of her hand and kissed her on the back of the neck. Jana did not pull away; instead, she turned slowly around, opened her mouth just a little and began to lick her lips with the tip of her tongue. Putting her arms around his neck she lifted herself onto the kitchen table directly behind her.

  ‘Any ideas?’ she purred, her voice sounding seductively husky.

  7

  Jana switched on the bedside lamp and answered the phone. She recognised the tone of voice instantly; desk sergeants on night duty sound the same anywhere, especially at four o’clock in the morning.

  ‘Inspector Gonski?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know Jack Rogan, the journalist – right?’

  ‘Yes.’ An eternity seemed to pass before the voice continued.

  ‘There’s been a burglary ...’

  ‘Jack?’ was all she could say. Her mouth went dry.

  ‘He’s been injured.’

  ‘How bad ...?’

  ‘He’s on his way to hospital.’

  ‘But I only left him a few hours ago.’ Jana’s voice sounded shrill.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Jack was in the operating theatre. The night nurse was tight-lipped and uncooperative. Even Jana’s police ID was no help. She found waiting difficult at the best of times, but sitting in casualty early in the morning, next to bleeding drunks and incoherent druggies was almost unbearable. But worst of all was the uncertainty.

  To calm herself, Jana began to read the fax she’d received from her research assistant the night before. It contained background information on Newman and his family.

  Dr Erich Neumueller, (he changed his name by deed poll to Eric Newman in 1947), arrived in South Australia in December 1946 by boat from Genoa. There is a letter of introduction from a certain Monsignor Brandauer addressed to Bishop Honegger in Adelaide. His immigration to Australia was apparently arranged and sponsored by the Vatican. However, when I requisitioned his immigration papers to find out more about this, I came across something odd – classified information. I was denied access. I will try the Freedom of Information Act to get around this, but as you know, this will take some time. In the interim, I have asked for his divorce file, which should tell us a little more. Until I receive that, I’m afraid this is all I have been able to come up with. Strange, isn’t it ...?

  ‘Inspector Gonski?’ Jana looked up. ‘The doctor will see you now,’ the nurse said. A very tired looking young intern in a dark green operating gown was examining X-rays in the far corner of the brightly lit room.

  ‘You’re the investigating officer, I take it? I think we’ve saved his eye,’ the doctor said casually before Jana could contradict him. ‘He has some rather nasty injuries though,’ he continued, ‘there will be permanent scarring, here and here.’ He pointed to the X-rays in front of him. ‘He received a terrible beating; it’s one of the worst I’ve seen for a long time. He had a bad fall as well and lost a lot of blood. There was considerable internal bleeding, several broken ribs, extensive bruising, abrasions; his face is a mess.’ The doctor looked at his notes and rattled off the injuries like items on a shopping list. ‘He’s lucky to be alive. He could easily have broken his neck or his back during the fall. The alcohol didn’t help either. You’ll have my full report in the morning.’

  ‘When can I see him?’

  ‘Not for quite a while, I’m afraid, perhaps in a few hours when he comes out of the anaesthetic. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...’ The doctor reached for the pager in the top pocket of his gown and hurried out of the room.

  Jana returned to the hospital just before noon and was shown to Jack’s room. She had made many a hospital bedside visit during her career and thought she’d be well prepared for what was to come. She wasn’t.

  At first, she couldn’t recognise him at all. The top of his head, the left eye and part of his face were completely covered in bandages. A ring of dark bruises circled his other eye, which was bloodshot and almost closed. Through a small gap between the bandages, Jana could see that his head had been shaved. Several plastic tubes protruded from his nose and various monitoring devices were connected to his right arm. A fine line of small, neat, zipper-like stitches ran from the corner of his mouth along the jaw to his ear.

  When Jana walked towards the bed, Jack winked at her with his good eye, a hint of a smile creasing his mouth.

  ‘Can he talk?’ Jana asked the nurse.

  ‘Yes, he’s actually quite alert; aren’t you, handsome?’ the nurse said, giving Jack’s good hand a gentle squeeze before leaving the room.

  ‘That was some dessert last night,’ Jack whispered, moving his lips slowly and carefully. ‘Look at me.’ He managed to raise his hands a little. ‘Next time, I want a smaller helping.’ Jana laughed and wiped a few tears from her c
heeks. Jack’s unexpected humour had broken the dark spell of the awkward moment.

  ‘What on earth happened?’ Jana asked, regaining her composure.

  ‘I really don’t remember too much, I’m afraid. I fell asleep in the chair. Something woke me. I think it was a noise coming from upstairs. At first I thought it was you, but you’d already gone. Apart from the light in the kitchen, the house was in total darkness. That should have alerted me, I guess, but then I was still half asleep and not thinking straight. I wasn’t entirely sober either ...’

  ‘Five more minutes,’ said the nurse on her way past. ‘I have to change the dressing.’

  ‘The rest happened very fast,’ Jack continued. ‘He was waiting for me at the top of the stairs.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My mystery sparring partner.’ Jack closed his eye. ‘He came at me fast, like a cat, and hit me several times in the stomach. I think I fell against the handrail. Then he hit me again, hard. My knees gave way and I went down. I remember this tremendous blow to the side of my face here.’ Jack pointed to his jaw and traced the stitches. ‘The last thing I remember is falling backwards down the stairs. He must have kicked me in the head, I suppose.’

  ‘Is that all?’ As soon as she said it, Jana realised just how foolish this sounded.

  ‘I’ll try to do better next time, promise.’

  ‘Sorry. But why? Did he say anything?’

  For a while, Jack did not respond. ‘Yeah, I think he did say something ...’