The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

  “So do I,” Sarah said. “Have we met before?”

  “I’m sure I would remember. Perhaps I just have one of those faces. Now, are you going to answer my questions?”

  “Why should we?” Sarah demanded.

  “Well, I did just save you from getting arrested.” He glanced down at the hand still in his jacket pocket. “Among other reasons.”

  “You’re not going to shoot us,” Guy said. Though even as he said it, he wasn’t at all sure. There was an underlying coldness about the man, despite his façade of good humor and cordiality.

  “It would be a shame to get blood on the floorboards,” Smythe admitted. “Though I suspect it wouldn’t be the first time. This place has quite a history. I do hope you won’t be adding to that history in an unpleasant way. And I would hate to be barred. Now, you were going to tell me about your interest in Colonel Brinkman.”

  “What do you want to know?” Sarah said with a sigh. She seemed suddenly deflated, and Guy guessed she was as tired and hungry as he was. He hoped the offer of casserole wasn’t an idle one.

  “Assume I know nothing. Tell me why you’ve been following the colonel and his colleagues.” He leaned forward in the chair, hand still in his jacket pocket, eyes gleaming with sudden interest. “Tell me what you have found out, and what you think is going on.”

  Again, Sarah told her story first. She gave a shorter account of events than she had treated Guy to in the pub. But she covered the essentials. Smythe listened attentively, nodding now and then, asking the occasional question.

  “You’re curious,” he summed up when she paused, having reached the point in her narrative where she met up with Guy. “I can understand that. I’m a curious man myself. So then the two of you followed Brinkman to Bletchley and fell rapidly out of your depth.”

  “I guess so.”

  Smythe was silent throughout Guy’s account. He again omitted any mention of his trip to Glasgow and his meeting with Hess. When he was finished, Smythe frowned.

  “Is that it?”

  “Pretty much. I’m curious too.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean?” Sarah asked. “He told you what happened, how he got involved. You think Guy’s lying?”

  “Because I’m not,” Guy insisted.

  “Oh I’m sure you are veracity incarnate,” Smythe said. “I’m quite prepared to believed you’ve told the truth and nothing but the truth.” He considered for a moment before going on: “Only, it isn’t the whole truth is it? There’s not enough in what you said to merit what you’ve done. I mean—an RAF interception you didn’t really understand, a burned German soldier, a rather vague warning from someone who you think works for MI5, and … Well.” He smiled. “That’s about all there is, really. So what aren’t you telling me?”

  “He’s told you everything,” Sarah said.

  “In that case I apologize and revise my question. What aren’t you telling us?”

  For the first time Sarah seemed uncertain. She looked at Guy. He could tell from her expression that there was something in his own manner that gave him away. Rather than prolong the process he raised his hands in mock surrender.

  “All right. There was something else.”

  Sarah’s expression hardened. She looked away. That upset Guy more than Smythe’s knowing smile.

  “I met Brinkman, just briefly. In Glasgow, back in May.”

  “What were you doing in Glasgow?” Sarah wondered.

  He was in too deep to stop now, so Guy told them. “I was there to interrogate a German pilot who’d crashed his plane. Except…”

  “Except he wasn’t just an ordinary German airman, was he?” Smythe prompted. He must have guessed what was coming from the coincidence of the place and the date.

  “No. It was Rudolf Hess, the Deputy Fuhrer.”

  When Guy had finished there was silence for several seconds.

  Then Sarah shook her head sadly. “And you couldn’t tell me this before?”

  “I’m sorry. But there’s not really much to it. I saw Hess. He spoke to the Duke of Hamilton, not me. Whatever he told Hamilton evidently affected the man. Then Brinkman turned up and I was sent packing.”

  “But you think it significant?” Smythe asked.

  Guy nodded. “So now you know everything. Are you going to charge us? Or do you hand us over to the police for that?”

  Smythe was all sympathy. “Before you’ve had your dinner? I promised you mutton casserole, I think. In any case,” he added, “I can’t charge you with anything or hand you over to anyone.”

  “But—” Guy was confused. Confused and annoyed. “Look—who the hell are you, then?”

  “I know,” Sarah said quietly. “I recognized you just now. Something you said, the way you said it, your expression.”

  Smythe was smiling encouragingly. “Go on.”

  “I saw you in some Shakespeare play on Broadway back in ’thirty-seven. You’re Leo Davenport—the actor.”

  As soon as she said it, Guy could see that she was right. How could he not have recognized the man? He’d seen him on stage several times, and in more films than he could remember.

  “Perhaps I’m less impressive in the flesh,” Smythe—or rather, Davenport—said, as if guessing Guy’s thoughts.

  “If you’re not MI5 or Special Branch, why are you keeping us here?” Guy said. His anger was tempered with curiosity.

  “Just because I am an actor doesn’t preclude me from working as a policeman,” Davenport retorted.

  “Are you a policeman?” Sarah asked.

  “Actually, no.”

  “Yet you’re holding us here at gunpoint.”

  He seemed outraged. “I’m doing no such thing. I invited you to join me at my club, you’re welcome to leave at any time.”

  “But…” Guy looked again at Davenport’s jacket, his right hand thrust into the pocket.

  Davenport pulled his hand out. He was holding a fountain pen. “In case of autograph hunters. Although I suspect you’re not after my autograph?” He raised a hopeful eyebrow.

  “Hardly,” Sarah said.

  “Pity.”

  “You said you were pointing a gun at us,” Guy said. The anger was winning out now, helped by Davenport’s unflappable good humor.

  “I beg your pardon, but I said nothing of the sort. It was you that mentioned a gun.” Davenport opened his hands in apology. “I might have said that I could shoot the two of you in less than a second, and I stand by that boast. As a hypothetical statement. Obviously I have no intention of shooting anyone just at present.”

  “Then we’re free to go.”

  “Of course.”

  Guy stood up, Sarah mirroring him a moment later.

  “Although,” Davenport said affably, “my offer of dinner was quite genuine and the casserole does sound rather tempting, wouldn’t you say? So here’s the deal…”

  Guy hesitated. “Go on.”

  “Let’s adjourn for dinner, and I will tell you my story. I can promise you, even compared with your own, it’s quite a tale.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The casserole was hot and watery, thin strips of meat eked out with Oxo and carrots. It was better than Davenport had expected, and his guests were positively enthusiastic, despite the circumstances.

  Davenport waited until the food had thawed their attitudes a little before he launched into his narrative. He was vague about how he had come to be in France but spared no detail of his courting Streicher and wheedling his way onto the expedition.

  “Streicher’s group seem to be associated with the Ahnenerbe,” he explained.

  “The what?” Sarah Diamond asked.

  Davenport scooped up the last of the stew before setting down the spoon and dabbing at his lips with his napkin. “It’s a group within the SS that is responsible for finding evidence that pureblood Germans are the descendants of Nordic gods.”

  “You’re joking,” Guy said.

  “Simplifying a li
ttle, but no, I’m not joking,” Davenport told him. “It’s all to do with establishing the credentials of the Aryan master race. But actually, Streicher’s group has a rather different remit. They are looking for something else entirely.”

  “Which is?”

  “Ancient knowledge that will help them win the war.”

  The other two lapsed into silence as Davenport described the archaeological dig in France. He was a good storyteller, though he was careful not to embellish the facts. He described the excavations, breaking into the central chamber and dragging Streicher away to safety. He didn’t go into the details of how he got the man clear, and neglected to mention photographing his papers and possessions.

  “The mist—what was it? Some sort of gas?” Sarah asked.

  “I don’t know. But it was lethal, whatever it was. I was lucky to get Streicher out.”

  “And then you legged it while he was unconscious?” Pentecross asked.

  “That would probably have been the sensible thing to do,” Davenport admitted. “But no. I thought that since I had saved his life, the Standartenfuhrer might be grateful. Oh, I didn’t imagine it would make him any less likely to have me shot when his mission was completed. But I reckoned it might just make him a little more, what shall we say—loquacious?”

  “Meaning?” Sarah asked.

  “Meaning I took him down to the village and plied him with local wine and cognac for the evening in the hope he’d open up a bit. I thought that even Streicher might feel a little guilty knowing he was going to have to kill his savior, and that might loosen his tongue. You’ll tell a dead man things you’d never dream of mentioning to anyone who might live to repeat it.” He paused to take a sip of water. “I assume.”

  “And were you right in your assumption?” Guy asked. “Did he tell you what they were really after?”

  “Yes and no. He wasn’t as explicit as I’d hoped, but he was certainly forthcoming. I told him I could tell he was a veteran of these sorts of excavations, that he was no ordinary soldier. Rather than appeal to a better nature I doubt he possesses, I majored on his vanity instead.”

  Sarah nodded. “Often the best approach.”

  Davenport stifled a smile. “Thank you. It certainly worked for Streicher. He was rather in his cups by the time we were finished, so how much of what he said was due to the drink, how much was him trying to impress me, I don’t know. But he told me he’d been all over the world for Himmler in the past ten years. He mentioned Finland and Sweden, a few other places—even Antarctica, though he clammed up about that straight away. But there were two expeditions he did describe in a little more detail. To say that I was intrigued is an understatement…”

  “And are you about to intrigue us too?” Guy asked.

  Davenport leaned forward in his chair. “Let me tell you about his expedition to Tibet, back in nineteen thirty-four…”

  * * *

  … The only paths were worn by goats, and the clouds hung low over the snow-covered peaks like smoke.

  “Can we trust him?” Hauptsturmfuhrer Klaas asked, nodding at the Tibetan guide as they paused for a short break.

  Streicher shrugged. “There’s no one else.” None of the other villagers had even spoken to them. They had all seen the looks of contempt the villagers gave the old man when he led them away. But with the promise of the Nazis’ gold he need never return.

  Perhaps sensing they were talking about him, the guide smiled across at Streicher. His face was rough and lined like old stone. What teeth he had left were blackened stumps. He said something in his incomprehensible language, and Tormann translated:

  “He says it is not far now. The entrance is just a small hole, barely wide enough for a man to enter. We’ll be there soon.”

  “He’s told us that before,” Klaas muttered.

  This time he was right. Another hour and they were trudging through shallow snow. The air was thin and it was getting harder to breathe. The hole was a narrow opening in the side of the mountain, partly hidden behind a rock fall. Snow had blown into it, and the guide knelt down to scoop it out with his gnarled hands, gesturing for Streicher and his men to help.

  “He might fit through there, but we won’t. Not with all our kit,” Klaas pointed out.

  “We don’t need to,” Streicher told him, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. He was looking up at the rock formation above the opening.

  “You think we can dig in from above?”

  “Not dig, no.”

  The guide was chattering away rapidly to Tormann, who held up his hands to stop him. The man seemed agitated, pointing to the opening in the rock, and then to the men in the expedition.

  “He says this is as far as he goes,” Tormann said. “He wants his gold now. He’ll stay and lead us back if we want, but he’s not going in there.”

  “Why not? Is he scared of the dark?” Klaas laughed, and some of the others joined in.

  “No, he says it’s … I guess ‘bad magic’ is the closest I can get.”

  “Magic?” Streicher said. “It’s supposed to be a burial chamber, not a conjuring show. Does he mean ghosts?”

  “I don’t know what he means. But he says the reason it’s still here, still intact, is because no one goes inside. No one at all.”

  Tormann turned back to the guide, who was talking excitedly again, fast as a machine gun.

  “Anyone who does go inside,” Tormann said, “never comes out again. To enter the tomb is to die, or so he says.”

  Streicher nodded. “Well you can reassure him that we aren’t going in there.”

  The guide listened, forehead creasing in puzzlement before he gabbled his reply.

  “He wants to know why we came here. How will we get the treasure if we don’t go inside?”

  “Tell him he’ll find out in a few minutes.” Streicher turned to Klaas. “Get Schmidt and Huber to dig shallow holes along that ridge.” He pointed up to the area above the opening to the tomb. “Work out how much explosive we need to put in them. We’re not going through the front door of this place. We’re going to blow our way in.”

  Once he realized what Streicher’s men were doing, the guide became even more agitated. He grabbed Tormann’s arm, jabbering away rapidly, hardly letting Tormann reply.

  “What’s he saying?” Streicher demanded.

  Tormann tried to shake the little man off, but the Tibetan clung to him, still talking. What had started as anger now seemed like pleading. The man was scared.

  “He says we’ll bring down the wrath of the gods,” Tormann said. He had to speak loudly over the guide’s guttural barrage. “We’ll wake the … I don’t know—it’s like the great man. Some tribal king. We’ll desecrate his tomb.”

  “Fine, we’ll desecrate his tomb,” Streicher snapped. “If the guy wants his cut of the treasure, tell him he can shut up and let us get at it. If not, then shoot him and be done with it.”

  The guide finally lapsed into silence, encouraged by the fact Tormann had drawn his Luger and jabbed it into the man’s ribs. He sat on a rocky outcrop, watching as Streicher’s men finished laying the explosives. He’d shown no sign that he was even aware it was cold on the journey up from the village. Now he was shivering and pale. The Tibetan continued to mutter under his breath, shaking his head. Perhaps he was praying.

  Schmidt and Huber finished their work, hurrying back down the mountain, unrolling a thin cable behind them. They all took shelter behind the outcrop where the Tibetan was sitting. Huber took a small detonator from his pack and connected the cable. He had to take his gloves off to tighten the screws holding the stripped wire, blowing on his hands to stop them freezing.

  “Better get your friend down from there,” Klaas said.

  “He’s not my friend.” But Tormann patted the Tibetan’s shoulder and spoke to him. The man didn’t move, gave no sign he had even heard. So Tormann dragged him back over the rock and down to join them behind it.

  “When you’re ready, Sturmann Huber,�
�� Streicher said.

  Huber nodded. He counted down from three, then twisted the switch on the detonator.

  The sound of the blast echoed round the mountain. Debris ricocheted off the rocks above the soldiers. Streicher barely waited for the sound to die away before he stood up to see what had happened. A deep hole had been scooped out of the side of the mountain, cratering the snow, and leaving a dark opening. He caught a glimpse of stone walls leading back into the darkness.

  At first he thought it was snow, thrown up by the detonation. A mist drifting across the opening torn in the landscape. But then he realized the mist was coming from inside the mountain. Like smoke, wafting out—thinning in the air, slowly dissipating.

  “What was that?” Klaas asked. “Did you see it? It looked like fog.”

  The Tibetan was standing staring up at the ruptured ground. He was no longer shivering, but his pale eyes were wide. He said something, then slumped down to sit despondently at the base of the rocks.

  “What was it?” Streicher asked.

  “He says you have disturbed the spirit of the mountain,” Tormann said. “Its soul is awake and angry.”

  “Nonsense,” Streicher said. He saw that the guide was looking up at him. “It was just … snow,” Streicher told him. “Or low cloud.”

  Tormann translated the Tibetan’s mumbled reply.

  “Once you let the genii out of his prison, you can never get him back inside.”

  Streicher shivered. He looked again at the hole in the side of the mountain. There was no sign now of the smoke or mist or whatever it had been. It was just superstition he told himself. But if they had just released a genie, they’d done it by breaking the bottle.

  * * *

  “That was in the winter of nineteen thirty-four,” Davenport said.

  They’d all finished eating. Sarah and Guy were enthralled by Davenport’s retelling of Streicher’s story.

  “They had uncovered a chamber, rather like the one we found in France. That’s why Streicher was happy to talk about it, I suppose. He didn’t tell me what they found inside, but whatever it was they shipped it back to Germany for analysis.”

  “Forgive me,” Guy said. “This is fascinating, but how is it relevant?”