by Robert Ryan
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Night Crossing
A Novel
Robert Ryan
For Nance
Contents
Prologue, 1945
Part One, 1938–40
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Part Two, 1941–2
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Part Three, 1943–5
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Part Four, 1945
Thirty-Seven
Author’s Note
About the Author
PROLOGUE
1945
THE LONDON CAGE: July 1945
The murder trial was drawing to a close after a week of eyewitness evidence, expert testimony and legal wranglings. Even after being in the so-called court for five days out of the seven, Uli found it hard to believe that men were fighting for their lives in such an incongruous setting. It had once been the grand dining room of a Kensington mansion, and every day she tried to picture the huge formal meals that must have taken place here, the gleaming silverware, sparkling crystal decanters of wine, the inevitable brandy and cigars and politics.
Wartime, however, had taken its toll, and the tableau refused to come to life. Now, cracked linoleum covered the floor, protecting the prized parquet that shone through the larger gashes. The enormous fireplace had been crudely boxed in, the flowers and cherubs of the ceiling plasterwork were blurred by endless coats of distemper and the towering windows scarred by the gummy remains of anti-blast tape. The oak panelling on the walls was scuffed and scraped from one-sided combat with army furniture. It was hard to imagine that the space would ever see its glory days again.
The empty long metal table where the six-man tribunal would take their places and pass judgement was at one end of the room. The defendants and their counsel, two army officers appointed by the military court, were to the left of it, along with a pair of translators. The three-man prosecution team, led by scrupulously correct Major Hansard, sat opposite to the right. Uli was at the rear of the room, perched on the first slat of her seat, as if ready to flee at any moment, an impulse that always grabbed her when the three young men accused of the murder were led in.
Now the trio sat just eight metres from her, all staring straight ahead, upright on their folding wooden chairs, lost, like everyone else in the hushed room, in their own thoughts. At first, a week previously, they had been slumped, indifferent to the opening proceedings, which, after they had been advised of the regulations they were being tried under, mainly consisted of challenging the legality of those very statutes. Their leader maintained that what had happened was no business of this court. Gradually, as their lawyers’ petitions were refused one by one, and they began to appreciate what was at stake, they became more animated, scribbling notes and appealing to the translators for clarification. Now they were slipping back into torpor once again, as they came to grips with the fact that British justice was going to be done, whether they recognised it as such or not.
Just a few more minutes and it would all be over, Uli hoped. She had forced herself to sit here day after day, almost as a penance, simultaneously trying to grasp and to shut out the grisly details of that night when the three men set upon one of their own, beating him with an iron bar until his eyes were closed, and his lips were split and his voice was too weak to raise the alarm, then dragging him across the compound to the bathing block where—
The door at the far end of the room snapped open and the six members of the tribunal marched in. The Presiding Officer, a gaunt, expressionless Guards colonel, nodded as those already in the room rose to their feet, and there was a scrape of chairs and a brief expectant murmur as all sat once more. Uli examined the faces of the other five men at the front table, two lieutenant colonels and three majors. They no doubt thought that their expressions were unreadable to those present in the courtroom.
Uli, though, could see in those grim eyes what the sentence was to be, and she glanced over at the three defendants for the last time. She imagined first the black hoods and then the intricately knotted ropes passing over their heads and she was surprised that the thoughts gave her no pleasure at all. As a bitter taste soured her throat and her stomach heaved, she rose from her seat and hurried from the court, conscious of the clacking of her heels on the linoleum as the NCOs moved quickly aside to let her pass.
Part One
1938–40
One
BERLIN: OCTOBER 1938
The alley where Ronald Draper of Imperial Chemical Industries had bled to death now smelled of carbolic and ammonia, thanks to the civic-minded Hausfrau who had scrubbed away the large stain of blood and excrement at the far end of the passage. It was, thought Inspector Cameron Ross, admirable that anyone who lived in these dank Weimar blocks could be so conscientious.
The Inspector knelt down and examined the cobbles of this short cut that linked the street to one of the inner courtyards of the complex. Berlin had baked throughout the summer and even now, when autumn should have staked its claim and the first Winterhilfe—winter relief—collection-box-rattlers had appeared on the streets, the days were warm and humid. The smell from Draper’s leaked body fluids must have built over the forty-eight hours while the crime scene was sealed, hence the need for the carbolic.
Something from the human spillage had been absorbed by the rough stones, because Ross could just make out an inch-wide ribbon that marked the route of Draper’s slow crawl towards the street. The stain on the cobbles represented the last few minutes of his life.
Ross looked at the notes that he had been allowed to copy from the mortuary report. The Englishman had been stabbed nine times. The four wounds in his back were large, diamond-shaped punctures, probably made by a sharpened file. They had not been fatal. The blade that had entered his chest had been the one that had killed him. This weapon had been flat and wide, and had slid easily into his tissue and between his ribs, thrust upwards again and again until one of the edges snicked the aorta, filling Draper’s chest cavity with blood.
Ross carefully examined the brickwork of the wall. The Neuköln tenements only dated from the 1920s but were crumbling already. He used his pencil to work at the individual bricks on the lower striations, hoping to find one loose, to discover the kind of hiding place that a desperate, dying man might choose. There was nothing, just a molehill of poor-quality mortar at his feet.
The policeman became aware of someone silhouetted at the street entrance of the alley and looked up. Ross was expecting one of the hard, snot-faced Berlin street kids who had pestered him when he had first arrived, but it was a uniform that greeted him. He squinted and checked the colours of the sleeve insignia—orange and green—and the jacket piping: orange. He relaxed. It was a young Anwärter of the Ordnungspolizei, the
Orpo, the regular uniformed police. The Anwärter was the Berlin equivalent of a British bobby on the beat. Except the latter displayed no equivalent to the twin lightning flashes, the Sigrune, that adorned this tunic’s breast pocket.
‘And what do you think you are doing?’ the young man barked.
‘You are blocking my light,’ said Ross, softly. ‘Could you move aside, please?’
His calm, practised authority meant that the Orpo did as he was told and moderated his harsh Berlin accent by switching to Hochdeutsch. ‘What are you doing here?’
Ross stood, grunting as his knees clicked. He walked forward into the main street, blinking in the light. The road was busy, the streetcars packed, the air filled with the rattle and spark of the S-bahn trains as they clattered over their wooden trestles. Friday afternoon, and the weekend had started in earnest. Across the street, a gaggle of startlingly white dresses, girls from the Bund deutscher Mädel, the League of German Maidens, many of them clutching pictures of Hitler to their nascent bosoms, skipped along the sidewalk, on their way to or from a Faith-and-Beauty dance rally.
Close up, the Orpo was a good-looking kid, a decade younger than Ross, barely into his twenties, and most of his bulk came from the pockets and belts and epaulettes that puffed out his uniform. Finally Ross said: ‘I’m doing my job. What are you doing?’
Ross could see the confusion in the chiselled face. Ross’s German was good, but a slight sibilance from his vestigial Scots accent suggested an Auslandsdeutscher of some description, possibly a Colonial German. ‘I need to see the notebook. And your identity card.’
Ross took a step forward. ‘Are you arresting me?’
‘I don’t need to arrest you to see the papers or your notebook,’ said the young man, his hand sliding across the belt towards his whistle. Ross held up a placating palm and reached into his jacket pocket. He produced the Ausländer Dienstausweis, which had taken him a whole day of form-filling—and string-pulling—at the Polizeipräsidium on Alexanderstrasse to obtain. It allowed foreign policemen limited powers, mostly enabling them to enter official buildings, even if it didn’t usually get them much further than the reception desk.
The Orpo took it, examined the four-page document and—handed it back before saluting smartly. ‘My apologies, Inspector.’
‘None needed. I should have identified myself immediately.’
‘Anwärter Schuller at your service, sir. This is a former murder scene, Inspector. Is that why you are here?’
Ross nodded, biting his tongue. No, I just like poking around in piss- and bloodstained alleys, he wanted to say. ‘This is your beat?’
Schuller waved an arm. ‘From the canal to the park.’
That covered a hefty swathe of working-class districts, taking in the fringes of Hallesches Tor, once famous for its seedy boy-bars, now long suppressed, and all of Treptow. ‘Big patch,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You know much about the case?’
The young man shook his head. ‘The Kripo won’t let us near anything interesting. I get to stop the traffic. Block people going into the bars while they take statements from the owners. Fetch them coffee and cake from Kranzler’s.’
‘They get anything from them?’ Ross indicated the scruffy café up the street and, opposite, the bar-cabaret. The latter was the sort of place that would be closely monitored by the Sipo or one of the other police agencies charged with suppressing internal unrest. There were still a few establishments brave enough to take the Führer’s pronouncements and recycle them as subtle satire and sarcasm. It was one of the many reasons why Hitler hated Berlin so much.
‘You think the Kripo’d tell me if they’d got anything, sir?’ said Schuller ruefully. ‘But I gather not. Nobody saw anything. Probably just another drunken brawl that got out of hand.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’
At the edge of his vision, Ross saw the dark Horch saloon detach itself from the orderly flow of traffic and draw to a halt level with him. Two thick-necked bulls in plain clothes stepped out from the front. Schuller sprang back and straightened up, distancing himself from the foreigner.
‘Inspector Ross?’
Ross nodded.
Both produced their glazed-linen identity cards. ‘Oberregierungs und Kriminalrat Pohl would like a word.’ The back door of the saloon was opened wide to show him the figure within.
Ross had a rule about getting into cars with strange policemen, but you didn’t take a summons from a Kripo ORuKR—a rank equivalent to lieutenant colonel—lightly. He slid into the rear seat and the door slammed shut.
Pohl reminded Ross of a bloodhound, all eye-bags, jowls and wet mouth. His hair was greased back from a sharp widow’s peak with a perfumed pomade. He offered his hand and introduced himself as Herr Doktor Pohl.
‘My apologies for not seeing you at the Alex,’ he said, using the slang for the Kripo headquarters. ‘The reorganisation of the force takes all my time now. But I thought I would bring the good news personally. We know who killed your man.’
‘Really?’ asked Ross warily. ‘You have the culprits?’
‘Culprit. A man called Eickhoff. Not a Berliner. Already known to us.’
‘You have him, in custody?’
Pohl nodded.
‘Tegel or Plötzensee?’ The two main Berlin prisons, although these days the latter held more politicals than criminals.
‘Prinz Albrecht Strasse.’
That might make things trickier, thought Ross. The old university building was the heart of the Reich Security Service’s ever-expanding fiefdom. ‘Any accomplices, Herr Doktor?’
Pohl shook his head, setting his cheeks flapping. ‘We believe he acted alone.’
Ross hesitated, wondering how to react to this nonsense. ‘Can I see Eickhoff ?’
‘Not now. Monday perhaps.’
‘Why not now?’ He tried to keep the irritation from his voice.
‘Inspector. We have to complete our own inquiries using our own methods according to German law before we can allow a … guest to intervene. It is also the weekend and Reichsführer Himmler’s birthday, which means a big parade on Unter den Linden to police. We will be short-staffed. Monday, perhaps.’
‘Morning?’
‘Afternoon.’
Ross opened the door to get out. ‘Very well.’
‘You have friends in Berlin to entertain you over the weekend?’ asked Pohl, as if he genuinely cared.
‘Some, yes.’ All Ross really had planned was a round at the Wannsee golf course, which his father had recommended. Or rather, he’d said, ‘If you manage to miss the trees, even you should get round on par.’
‘Excellent. You know I am so glad that everything was sorted out at Munich between our countries. Aren’t you?’ he said, referring to the humiliation of Chamberlain by Hitler. Ross thought of his father’s profanity-fuelled indignation at the news, but said nothing. ‘Fighting over people like the Czechs … I have nothing against them personally. I drive a Tatra, a fine car. But …’ Pohl shook his head dolefully. ‘We can’t let them dictate our two countries’ destiny.’
‘Indeed,’ said Ross. ‘Thank you, Herr Doktor.’ They shook hands. ‘Monday, then.’ As he stepped out of the Horch, Ross turned and poked his head back inside, unable to stop himself adding: ‘I’ll be curious to know how this lone man managed to stab a big chap like Draper in the back with one weapon, then switched to another to stab him in the front.’
Pohl didn’t skip a beat. ‘Oh, so will I, Inspector. So will I.’
Ross caught a cab north, then walked the last kilometre back to his hotel, down poor butchered Unter den Linden, its trees a victim of subway construction and, subsequently, the width of the latest generation of tanks. He thought about Draper.
All he knew was that Draper had claimed to be on his way home to England with information of the utmost importance. That message had been left at the British embassy the day before he was murdered. Draper’s hotel room had been searched thoroughly by embassy security
before the Germans could get there. They had found nothing, which had infuriated Colonel Ross. So the old man had decided to call in what he called ‘a few outstanding favours’ from Scotland Yard, and to have a detective from the Met sent over.
Which was where Ross came in. Despite his protests, the Colonel wanted to keep it in the family, and requested that his son should be the one chosen for the mission. As usual, he had assumed that the Inspector had nothing better to do than wait for him to snap his fingers. Still, as Ross knew, his father was not an easy man to dislodge from an idea, and he simply went higher and higher up the chain of command until his request was granted.
Fat lot of good it had done the Colonel sending him, for he, too, had turned up nothing. Perhaps the information had only been in Draper’s head. In which case, it was lost to Colonel Ross for ever. He didn’t relish breaking the news to the irascible old goat. Bringing his father bad tidings still reminded him of being summoned to the library with Nanny for a behind-the-ears inspection before bedtime.
He looked to his left down Wilhelmstrasse, at the lights blazing in the British embassy and beyond, imagining he could see number 8 Prinz Albrecht Strasse, although it was actually masked by other buildings, and tried to imagine the fear and pain that the arrested man must be going through in the basement cells. No matter that he was probably innocent of Draper’s murder, the Gestapo would have found another reason to put him through hell.
At the Hotel Adlon, Ross walked across the lobby, past the lounging SS officers who seemed to be a permanent fixture, collected his key and was told there were no messages. He was therefore surprised to see an envelope on the floor as he opened the door to his room. The Adlon rarely got such things wrong. Unless whoever had delivered it had sneaked by the front desk.
Inside the envelope was a thick printed card, with the date filled in using a heavy Gothic script. An address in the western, more affluent, section of the city, an invitation to afternoon tea on Sunday, and a little checklist underneath. No uniforms. No ranks. No politics.
