The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

Guy sighed. He’d long ago concluded that Davenport saw life like one of his movies. “There are no second chances here, Leo. This is real life. It’s theater, not the flicks. And if we mess up, they’ll shoot us. Never mind dying on stage, this is for real.”

  For once, Davenport had the good grace to look chastened by Guy’s outburst. “You’re right, of course. What do you suggest? Apart from turning round and going home?”

  “Bit late for that. I’m not convinced we should ever have come here at all. But here we are, so let’s make the most of it. I don’t think we’re likely to get inside that place. So the question is, what’s the next best thing?”

  They sat and watched the early December sun dip below the distant edifice. Davenport said nothing for a long time, and Guy began to wonder if he was sulking.

  But finally, Davenport said: “All right, back to basics. We came here to learn whatever we can about the artifacts that Streicher recovered. Streicher himself may be here, or he may be off on another of his escapades. Question is, who would know and how do we get them to talk to us.”

  “Without knocking on the front door and asking,” Guy reminded him.

  “At the risk of sounding as if I’m about to burst into song—which I promise you I’m not—there’s a tavern in the town. Streicher mentioned it. He told me a bit about this place, how impressive it is and how Himmler’s spent God knows how much time and money restoring and extending it.”

  “You think we might find Streicher at this tavern?”

  “Possibly, though I’ll have to convince him I’ve had a shave. He knows me with a rather impressive beard that wasn’t entirely my own. But more likely we can find someone who has worked with Streicher, or who is involved with examining the artifacts he’s brought back.”

  Guy nodded. “Makes sense. We hang around at the tavern and get talking to some of the soldiers when they come in. They might let some information slip as they’ll be off duty.”

  “They’re SS, don’t forget. I don’t think they’re ever really off duty. And we’ll have to be careful they don’t guess what we’re up to. If we start with the locals we might have more luck.”

  “Any of them work at the castle?”

  “I don’t know. But they’ll have the latest gossip, if there is any. They’ll know who’s important, who’s got a loose tongue, and who can’t hold his drink.”

  “So long as they don’t report us just for asking.”

  “We’ll be subtle,” Davenport assured him. “Or you will, anyway. My German’s a little rusty, I’m afraid. Not as good as my French.”

  “Your French isn’t good at all.”

  “What?” Davenport was scandalized. “Nonsense. I understand French perfectly.”

  “It’s the speaking of it I was meaning.”

  * * *

  The tavern was getting busy as the evening turned to night. Guy and Davenport found themselves a table from where they could watch the door. They made sure they knew where the other exits were located in case they needed to leave in a hurry.

  “Say nothing,” Guy whispered to Davenport. “Let me do any talking.”

  “We’re here to listen anyway,” Davenport murmured back.

  It was getting noisy so there was little chance of them being overheard if they kept their voices low. But equally, it was hard to discern any other conversations. A group of several SS soldiers in their distinctive black uniforms sat at a table on the other side of the bar. But getting close enough to hear what they said would only draw attention.

  Guy attempted to strike up a conversation with the girl who brought their drinks. She was young and pretty with her fair hair in long plaits. But she didn’t smile, and hardly spoke. As well as being busy, Guy guessed she was well used to having to fend off unwelcome approaches from locals and SS alike.

  “We’re getting nowhere stuck here,” Guy decided. “I’ll go to the bar and get us more beers. Maybe I’ll overhear something useful. Keep your head down in case anyone recognizes you.”

  “You mean Streicher or one of his team?”

  “I mean anyone who goes to the movies.”

  “Ah,” Davenport conceded. “Good point.”

  The tavern got more crowded the closer Guy got to the bar. He pushed his way through, apologizing and excusing himself. But it meant he got to overhear several conversations. A group of soldiers off to one side looked promising and he changed his course slightly to make sure he passed close to them, lingering and listening. But they were making lewd comments about local girls and boasting about how many people they’d killed. Guy wished he hadn’t heard. He decided to forget about the drinks and just return to Davenport. The sooner they got out of here the better. They needed another strategy.

  The return was easier as the density of drinkers thinned out. He muttered “Entschuldigung Sie bitte,” as he squeezed past a young couple too interested in each other to notice him anyway, and glanced across to where he’d left Davenport.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  An SS officer—a major—was standing at the table, talking to Davenport who smiled and nodded in response. What did the fool think he was doing? Maybe it was an unavoidable encounter but the damage was probably already done. Guy glanced round. Should he get out? There was no point in them both getting caught. But he couldn’t just abandon Davenport to his fate.

  He compromised, stepping back into the crowd and watching what happened—ready to head for the exit, or to help Davenport, whichever seemed best. He could see Davenport was saying something, and the officer was nodding. Then, to Guy’s utter surprise, the officer snapped a Heil Hitler salute, turned briskly on his heel, and left.

  He waited a full minute to be sure the major wasn’t coming back with reinforcements. But nothing happened. Warily, Guy returned to his seat.

  “No beer?” Davenport accused quietly.

  “Who was that?” Guy hissed. “What did he want?”

  “Didn’t catch his name. Not sure quite what he said, actually.”

  “He wasn’t suspicious?”

  “Who knows. As far as I could tell he needs to talk to me urgently and wants me to meet him in an alleyway at the back of the tavern in ten minutes. ‘Zehn’ is ten, isn’t it?”

  Guy closed his eyes. “You realize this is a trap, don’t you?”

  “It does seem likely. But why not arrest me in here? Far easier and safer than arranging a meeting in some dark, deserted alleyway.”

  “Assuming you understood what he was saying. And if it is deserted. It’s probably stuffed full of soldiers waiting to do something other than arrest you.”

  Davenport shrugged. “You’re right, it probably is a trap, but it’s a rather bizarre one. And if I don’t go and meet him, he can just come back here and find me anyway.”

  “You’re not thinking of going?”

  “I don’t see what we have to lose.”

  “Well, our lives for one thing.”

  “My life, possibly. He doesn’t even know you’re here.”

  “We hope.” It was possible, though. Perhaps they could turn this round and ambush the German major.

  “Got to be better than just sitting here,” Davenport added. “With no drink.”

  * * *

  The alley at the back of the tavern was, as Guy had predicted, dark and forbidding. The SS major was leaning back against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He flicked it away and straightened up as Davenport approached.

  He had been through a tough regime of Commando combat training when he joined SOE, but Davenport reckoned his greatest protection was his acting ability. Could he bluff his way through whatever was going on? He could have done without Guy’s reminder that this was live theater at its most critical and cruel. His stomach was tightening into the familiar and unpleasant knot of fear.

  But he knew from experience that his expression and demeanor would betray none of that fear. He took some comfort from knowing that the SS major would expect him to be alone, whereas in fact Guy was watching f
rom the darkness at the end of the alley. What Guy would be able to do to help him if it came to the crunch, Davenport didn’t know. But at least he wasn’t alone.

  One of his lesser fears was expelled immediately the major spoke. “I assume you would prefer to conduct this conversation in English?”

  “Please.”

  As soon as he had spoken, Davenport realized his mistake. That was the trap—it had to be. And now he’d fallen right into it. The major’s thin smile seemed to confirm this.

  “Don’t worry,” the major said. “I’m not going to shoot you.”

  “Ah,” Davenport said. “Well, that’s a relief. So what do you want?”

  “To talk. I think we have things in common, things to discuss. Important things.” The major looked round, perhaps sensing that someone was watching them. An iron cross with oak leaves and swords glittered at his throat as it caught the light. “But not here, not now,” he went on.

  “Then where?”

  “I have to get back to the schloss. It was fortunate for both of us that I happened to pass through the tavern and recognized you.”

  “You know who I am?” He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised.

  “Not your name, no.”

  “Oh,” Davenport tried not to sound disappointed.

  “There is an area of woodland to the west of the village. Through the trees, about a quarter of a mile in, you will find a quarry. It is worked out now, but it provided stone for the schloss. There is a wooden hut at the edge of the trees—old and falling down. No one goes there. It used to be a storehouse for tools and equipment. I will meet you there tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Yes?”

  “Yes, all right. I’ll be there. But what’s this about?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “And if you don’t know who I am, how did you recognize me?”

  In answer, the SS major drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Davenport. It was a drawing, crude and blocky—a portrait of a man’s face staring out, eyes wide with fear.

  “But that’s me,” Davenport realized.

  “Exactly.” The major took back the paper and refolded it carefully. “Tomorrow—I shall explain then.” He returned the paper to his pocket and turned to go. Then he paused and turned back. “Out of curiosity, what is your name?”

  “I’m not sure you need to know that,” Davenport said warily.

  The other man smiled suddenly. He raised his gloved hand and snapped his fingers. “But I do. Yes, of course, you are Leo Davenport. I see it now.” He clicked his heels and bowed his head briefly. “Sturmbannfuhrer Werner Hoffman, at your service.”

  CHAPTER 34

  All light seemed to have been leached from the room. The walls, floor, ceiling were all black. The table in the center of the room was ebony in color although the wood was from a lesser tree. Even the candles that provided what guttering illumination there was were as black as the smoke that curled up from their flames. The upturned glass in the center of the table was made from crystal with a high lead content. The cards around the edge of the table were hand lettered in Gothic script—a single letter or number on each.

  “I’m still looking for suitable chairs,” Miss Manners said.

  “Are the chairs important?” Wiles asked.

  “Everything is important,” she told him.

  Henry Wiles nodded. “I suppose so.”

  This was the first time he had been to London for quite a while. The first day he had spent away from Bletchley this year, he realized—and it was 8 December. But he had wanted to see the room. They were standing either side of the table. The surface was lacquered, reflective black. Another set of mirrored flames danced on its surface echoing the candles placed on small shelves round the edges of the room.

  The flickering uncertainty of the candles was interrupted by stark electric light from outside as the door opened. Colonel Brinkman stepped into the room, looking round.

  “Getting there?” he asked.

  “Getting there,” Miss Manners confirmed.

  “Still need some chairs, apparently,” Wiles said. He felt he ought to say something to remind Brinkman he was there.

  “Good.” Brinkman hesitated on the threshold. “You’re sure this will work?”

  “Well, there’s nothing certain in this world or the next,” Miss Manners told him. “But I certainly think it’s worth trying.”

  Wiles cleared his throat. “The dates and times of Crowley’s séances conform almost exactly to Y Station intercepts of Vril transmissions. The correlation’s so high there’s a statistical certainty that the two are related. If Crowley can communicate with the Vril in this manner, then we should be able to eavesdrop on the conversation, so to speak.”

  “And initiate our own communication?” Brinkman wondered.

  “In theory. Though we don’t actually know how the communication works. I mean,” he gestured to the table, “we’ve assumed a language based on letters and numbers, rather like we’ve tried to equate the sound of their transmissions to Morse code or an alphanumeric sequence. But we don’t know that’s how Crowley communicates.”

  “How else?” Brinkman asked.

  “The communication might be a voice,” Miss Manners said, “transmitted through a medium.”

  “Or he may have a set of cards that show pictograms of some sort.”

  “Like ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs?” Brinkman said.

  “Or runic symbols,” Miss Manners replied. “Himmler is apparently very interested in runes. There may be a reason for that.”

  “And we have no way of knowing?”

  “Not unless Miss Manners’ friend gets in touch again,” Wiles admitted. “Unless you’d care to ask Crowley himself.”

  “Not just for the moment, but it may come to that.”

  Sergeant Green appeared in the doorway behind Brinkman. “Excuse me, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “Alban,” Green said simply.

  “I said I’d give him some figures for the funding meeting that’s coming up this afternoon.” Brinkman turned. “I’ll take the call in my office.”

  “He’s not on the phone, sir,” Green said. “He’s here. In person.”

  “Alban?” Wiles asked quietly.

  “MI5,” Miss Manners explained. “He seems to have made it his personal crusade to get us closed down.”

  “Does he know what we do?”

  “Of course not.”

  A voice from the corridor outside cut across her answer: “Brinkman, there you are. I’ve been chasing for those figures all week now, and the damned meeting’s this afternoon…”

  “Christ,” Miss Manners muttered. “He’s here.”

  “I’ve got them in my office, back this way,” Brinkman said quickly.

  But he wasn’t quick enough. A round-faced man with red hair stepped into view in the corridor. Miss Manners hurried across to the door.

  “What are you all up to down here, then? Wasting more time and money?”

  Alban smiled at his comment. The smile froze as he glanced into the room, past the closing door. The door stopped, Alban’s foot suddenly jammed against the frame as Miss Manners tried to close it fully. He pushed it back open again.

  “What the hell?”

  “That’s a restricted area,” Brinkman said. “You can’t go in there.”

  “I said ‘hell’ and it looks like I was right.”

  Alban looked round in fascinated horror, taking in the table and letter cards, the upturned glass, the black candles.

  “Green—get him out of there,” Brinkman insisted.

  “Come along, sir,”

  But Alban shook off Green’s hand. “You are completely mad, the lot of you. What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

  “Out!” Brinkman snarled.

  “You hoping the devil and his hordes will give you some supernatural insight into enemy plans, is that it?”

  “You have no idea,” Miss Manners said.

>   Alban wasn’t listening. He looked at Wiles. “And who’s this? High Priest of Darkness? You haven’t a clue, you lot, have you?” His voice rose as Green practically shoved him out into the corridor. “Don’t you understand? We’re fighting a war, not playing some bloody parlor game! You’re unhinged—the lot of you. I’ll shut you down.” His voice faded. “I’ll see you never get funding for anything ever again…”

  “Can he do it?” Wiles asked nervously. “Can he really get us closed down?”

  “He can try,” Miss Manners said. She looked away. “And yes, there’s a chance he could succeed. He has powerful friends.”

  * * *

  Alban grabbed the sheet of paper Brinkman gave him without a word. His mind was reeling from what he had just seen. What were they doing? What could they possibly hope to achieve? He was well aware of the value of unconventional thinking, but Brinkman’s Station Z was something else. Did they seriously think they could defeat the Nazis by magic?

  Not for the first time he wondered who these people were and what their mission actually was. He couldn’t imagine that they’d retain their funding once he’d told the committee what he’d seen today. Couldn’t for a moment believe that it was covered by whatever remit they had.

  He was outside, gulping in fresh, cold air before he knew it. He didn’t remember even coming down the stairs. The car was on the other side of the road. He crossed over, acknowledging Hedges, his driver, with a nod as the man opened the back door for him.

  “You all right, sir?” Hedges asked.

  “What? Oh, yes.” He stuffed the sheet of paper into his coat pocket.

  “Had they heard?”

  “Sorry?” He could still see the black candles burning in that room. The flickering light reflected in the facets of the upturned glass tumbler.

  “I was wondering if Colonel Brinkman had heard the news.”

  “No, no, I don’t think so. He didn’t mention it.”

  Hedges started the car. “Did you tell him?”

  Alban was staring out of the window at the door to the offices where Station Z was situated. “No. He’ll find out soon enough.”

  As the car pulled out, he saw the woman hurrying along the pavement. Sarah Diamond, half American and in a hurry, he thought. She was almost running, mind elsewhere—he could guess what she was thinking about. She didn’t seem to notice the car as they passed her.