Dust

by Martha Grimes

  “1939, I believe.”

  “So they suspected what was in store for them, this family?”

  “Yes, but I imagine denial was pretty strong then.” Into a thoughtful silence, Jury dropped the unwelcome news: “Their name was Brunner.”

  “Brunner?”

  “The point is that there is a reason to suspect this little brother, the other child who had to witness the shooting.”

  “Wait a minute…” The obvious objection to Jury’s ending came to him: “What has it to do with Billy Maples?”

  “Roderick. Billy’s father is the connection. Roderick is not by blood Oswald Maples’s son. Roderick was one of those evacuated children on the Kindertransport. He’s German.”

  Melrose looked as if Jury had thrown a basin of ice water in his face. He could say nothing.

  “Oswald Maples adopted him when he was eight or nine. The exact age wasn’t certain. Roderick’s father had plenty of influence, enough to get the child out of the country. This was in ’42 and they saw what was coming.”

  “Then, well, what were they worried about? The war in general? Afraid they’d be bombed?”

  “Roderick’s father was a war criminal.”

  “What? You mean he was in with Himmler and Goebbels and the rest of them?”

  “That’s right.”

  Melrose was silent for a moment. “Surely you’re not saying the father was this General Röhm?” Melrose waved the rest away.

  “Roderick is Röhm’s son, that’s right. This is what Oswald Maples is quite sure of. Given what Maples himself was involved with.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you remember Colonel Neame’s recommending Sir Oswald in the Croft case last year? Maples was at Bletchley Park, working in codes and ciphers. The Enigma code business. So he was accustomed to working with intense detail, to ferreting things out, to teasing out answers. The real identity of the boy was suspect, and following the adoption, Maples naturally wanted to know who the child really was. It was difficult because so much had been lost; many of the kids had no documents at all. But Maples kept up the hunt. This was probably why he was so good with code. He was relentless. Finally when Roderick was around fifteen, Maples comes to the end of the dreadful journey and discovers SS General Röhm…a mob man if there ever was one. The story of the little Brunner boy’s murder was an item in a long list of crimes against humanity.”

  “Why wouldn’t his trial then have satisfied Brunner’s need for revenge?”

  “There was no record of his having been tried. Maybe he got away—Brazil, Argentina—who knows?”

  “Does Roderick know about his past, then?”

  “Sir Oswald can’t be sure; he doesn’t know how much Roderick remembers. He might recall his father as a virtuous man who took him to the beach and told him stories and played the zither. Does he know his father wore the death’s head uniform? None of us can say. He didn’t speak about the family he’d left in Germany. I, on the other hand, am pretty sure Roderick knows about his past. The two paintings—”

  Melrose interrupted. “Yes, you were right. I managed to get a look at the back of the Soutine. There was something inked over.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised to find it’s a swastika. They put that on their confiscated art. I’m not sure why Roderick wouldn’t simply have replaced the backing—”

  “But why would he? There’d be no reason for anyone to suspect the painting was original, and even if someone did, that it was part of the Nazi loot. But I see what you mean. If Roderick knew about the paintings, then he probably knew about Röhm.”

  There was a brief silence, which Jury broke by saying, “You’re not convinced, are you, about Brunner?”

  “That he murdered Billy Maples? No. He didn’t do it.”

  “Do you believe Brunner is the brother of the little boy Röhm shot?”

  “That, of course, is quite possible, given that Oswald Maples traced this boy’s history. Only there’s plenty of room for doubt. I would imagine there must be at least one point in the chain of events that’s weak. What about that boy, Hans? The one who might have been shot intentionally.”

  “Possibly—”

  “Or by accident. What about that?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t know.”

  “But that sounds like retribution. For what?”

  “It was assumed the shots were aimed at the SS-Waffen across the street. Later, after the boy in the group of boys was killed, it was thought that perhaps that was meant to happen. The shot wasn’t necessarily aimed at Röhm’s boy. The shooter would have known the little band of boys there weren’t Jews, but children of the Reich. Their school uniforms would have told him that.”

  “How do you know Sir Oswald Maples isn’t simply wrong?”

  “I don’t. But I see no reason to doubt him.”

  “There’s every reason. The story is too—it’s too fevered. The work of a fevered brain.” Melrose frowned deeply.

  Jury burst out laughing. “I’ll be sure to tell him that. Look: would you say the tales about all of the German officers that Elie Wiesel ran to ground were the work of a fevered brain?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Do you think perhaps working out code is a fevered occupation—that sort of training is posited on one’s ability to see what’s there and not what’s not there.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “You’re not operating on the basis of any evidence at all except for your feelings about the man himself—Kurt Brunner.”

  “That doesn’t strike you as evidence? The man himself?” said Melrose.

  “No. It hasn’t ever since I read Hamlet and joined the police force.”

  “You never feel you know whether a witness is guilty or not?”

  “Of course I do. But that’s only the beginning. That’s not what lands them in the nick.”

  Melrose got up and thrust his hands into his pockets. “The thing is this: we’re not talking about Brunner’s shooting Billy Maples for, say, personal gain, or because Billy’s got his sister preggers, or in a sudden fit of temper. We’re talking about revenge on an innocent person for a crime that happened half a century ago.”

  “Right. Yet you seem to have no trouble believing General Röhm was the author of that crime: he shot a perfectly innocent boy, a member of a perfectly innocent family.”

  “Yes. Yes. But it’s not just that. Billy Maples was the innocent person for whom Kurt Brunner had worked for five years. Who had treated him well. Hell, they never even quarreled.”

  “I’m not sure I see what this is in aid of.”

  “Simply that Kurt Brunner surely wouldn’t have murdered Billy Maples if the original crime had nothing to do with Billy. Why didn’t he murder Roderick? Why not Billy’s father, since he was closer to the incident than Billy himself.”

  “But that, I believe, is the psychology of the whole thing. Where he’d do the most damage or cause the most suffering would be to kill Billy.”

  “And it was Kurt Brunner’s brother who’d been randomly murdered by Röhm. That boy had absolutely nothing to do with any crime against Röhm. As far as I’m concerned, that was almost total madness.”

  They turned at a call. Wiggins was standing in the doorway. “Mrs. Jessup would like to know if you’d care for tea.”

  Jury feigned surprise. “You mean there’s some left? You’ve been in the kitchen for a goodish hour.”

  “It was you who wanted me to talk to her.”

  “Right. I feel the reproof.”

  Wiggins sighed. “No, you don’t.”

  Jury smiled. “I’m going to have a talk with Kurt Brunner. You say he’s staying at the lodge? Where’s that?”

  “On the East Cliff. Hilder’s Cliff Road. Ten-minute walk. But you look pretty hardy for your age.” Melrose got up from the bench and stretched. “I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea myself. Are there any more of those homemade biscuits?”

  “No,” said Wiggins, with a purposefu
l look at Jury. “I ate them all.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  The lodge was a well-positioned white stone building across from the wall and the lookout place over the town salts. Jury stopped for a few moments on the opposite side of the road where he could peer over the salts and river and the marsh beyond. When Rye had been one of the working ports along this southeast coastline, the waves had curled in almost to the point where he now stood.

  He met Kurt Brunner in the lobby and they were sitting now in the shadow of the fire and under a painting of flying black-headed gulls, another of a bittern almost lost in reeds and sea aster, and a muted painting of a mallard drifting in a pond. The camouflages of nature never ceased to amaze him.

  Kurt Brunner sat in a wing chair, his face in part shadow. “I’d be glad to tell you more about Billy, but that’s all I know. As I said before, he was a very private person.”

  Jury had to credit Brunner with a good deal of patience; he had been asked the same question a half dozen times among Aguilar, Chilten, and Jury. He did not mind repeating an answer to a question he thought Jury had asked before.

  “No, I don’t mean Billy. I’m interested in your own life in Germany. Munich, wasn’t it? Where you were over a week ago when Billy was murdered.”

  “Yes, I believe I told you that. And it was Berlin, not Munich.”

  “Could you expand upon it, though? Your parents died during the war, I know that. What about siblings?”

  “One brother, older than I. He was shot when he was nine years old.”

  “That’s terrible. Do you recall the circumstances?”

  Brunner shook his head. “No, I don’t. My parents wouldn’t talk about it. They were devastated by his death. And I was so young—three or four, maybe—I can’t really remember him.”

  “This shooting, then, you don’t know where it happened?”

  “No. I mean, except it was in Berlin. At first, I asked a lot of questions about Josef—that was his name, Josef—but I soon gave up.”

  “It didn’t occur to you, later, I mean, to trace him? To find out about the whole thing?”

  “Of course it occurred to me. But I got nowhere. The trouble was, as you might guess, so much paper was lost, so many documents. I tried his school. He was six years older than I. The school had been bombed, demolished during the war. The same for official documents, birth and death certificates—all that.”

  This lack of records was always such a neat way of disowning the past or knowledge of anything inconvenient or incriminating. You could plead ignorance, and no one would call you a liar.

  Except for someone like Sir Oswald Maples.

  “Why all this interest in my brother, Superintendent? Have you found out something I don’t know about?”

  Jury smiled slightly. “I’d say so, especially since you don’t appear to know anything at all.”

  Brunner’s expression changed. Two couples walked by, heading for the dining room and an early dinner. He leaned forward. “Why the sarcasm, Superintendent? I’ve answered the same questions several times over. I’ve tried to cooperate.”

  Jury chewed the inside of his lip, watching Brunner. “I don’t believe so.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I think there’s a lot you’re not telling us. For example, the school might have been nothing but rubble, but there were records that were saved.”

  “How did you come by this knowledge?”

  “A rather thorough search by parties with a lot of experience doing it.”

  Brunner frowned. “And what did this reveal about Josef?”

  Jury didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Where will you stay in London?”

  “At the flat. In Chelsea.”

  “You shared that with Maples.”

  “Yes. It’s a large flat. Billy had it put in both our names.”

  “That was decent of him.”

  “He was like that.” Brunner smiled rather wearily. “You’re not going to suggest I killed him for a piece of real estate?”

  It did sound absurd the way he said it.

  “You’re thinking we were partners? Gay?”

  “No, I wasn’t…”

  “Others seemed to.”

  “I’ve seen the flat. It’s spacious.”

  Kurt gave him a questioning look. “You had a warrant?”

  Jury smiled. “You sound like my boss. We had one.”

  Brunner ran the toe of his shoe around a figure in the Turkish carpet. “I hope you were careful.”

  “Police are pretty careful.”

  Kurt Brunner said nothing.

  Jury said, “You told us you were in Germany when—”

  “Berlin.” Brunner looked aggrieved. “I came back on that day, or rather that afternoon. Perhaps if I hadn’t left…well, I won’t get over that very easily.”

  “No, I expect not. That’s one of the hardest things to accept, that we weren’t there, that we might have been able to prevent it. Though you couldn’t have.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments.

  Jury said, “You were in Berlin for how long?”

  “Five or six days. Six.”

  Jury had his notebook out. He made a note. “Would you have your passport with you?”

  Kurt Brunner gave Jury a queer look. “Why?”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  Brunner frowned. “That’s not much of an answer.”

  “I know.”

  “It isn’t here; it’s in Sloane Street. I went there first, dropped off a few things.”

  “Why didn’t you come directly here? I mean, the Chunnel’s much closer to Rye than it is to London…?” He left the question hanging.

  Sitting forward and leaning his forearms on his knees, Brunner locked his hands as if they were playing the old nursery rhyme of “This is the steeple.”

  Jury sat looking at him. Then he said, “I think, Mr. Brunner, you know more about your past than you’re saying.”

  “What does my past have to do with this?”

  “Perhaps a great deal.”

  “What do I know that I’m not telling you?”

  “Well, I believe you remember what happened to your brother. I mean exactly what happened, not some vague report of its being a World War Two shooting.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Jury watched Brunner’s eyes change from dark amber to the color of weak tea.

  “My God! You think I shot Josef? You think I did it?”

  Jury was completely surprised by this response. “No, no. Not at all. You were only a child. Why would I think that?”

  “Because you seem to be implying there’s something so dreadful in the killing of Josef I must recall it.”

  “Other circumstances might do the same thing.”

  “What?”

  “Like seeing him shot right in front of you.”

  Kurt Brunner fell back in his chair as if he himself had been shot. “That couldn’t have happened.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t remember it.”

  Jury thought for a moment, looking at him. “I’ll admit it is possible that you were so traumatized you shut it out of consciousness. That’s possible. And, of course, you were very young.”

  “It’s what happened. If those were the circumstances. I just find it hard to believe. And, anyway, what has this to do with Billy’s murder?”

  “A lot.” Jury checked his watch. “I’m starving. Shall we get a bite to eat? There must be a decent pub around.”

  “There’s always a decent pub.” Brunner smiled and rose, and they left.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  They stood first at the bar, got tired of that, picked up their drinks, and settled at a table where, now, the remains of two cheese and pickle sandwiches sat before them.

  “I met Billy in Munich six years ago,” said Kurt. “I was teaching at one of the international schools, history, my specialty, Russian. I’d been there for a decade and was growing more and more dissati
sfied.” He moved his hand and brushed condensation from the table. “I met Billy sitting at a bar in Alexanderplatz. We exchanged a few words about the city, Billy saying he had just visited the most boring show in history at a fashionable gallery. Some artist named Rio Bravura. I really liked the name, I told him. Wasn’t that the name of an American Western with Dean Martin or John Wayne? No, he told me, that was Rio Bravo, and probably the artist Bravura had seen it several times. He didn’t look much like Dean Martin, but he drank like him, that was certain.

  “Billy went on about the paintings and the painter who was, not surprisingly, insufferable. It was a hell of a rant, but I found him superb company, really. We talked about Greek drama and so forth, and all in all, we shut the place down. That done, we went in search of something still open. I swear to God, Billy never stopped talking. He was extremely intelligent. He was manic.” Kurt gave a short laugh.

  “We got together several times after that over the next year. I’d told him I was going to jettison the teaching and he asked me to work for him. And here I am. He said he needed somebody to run things.”

  Jury watched the cigarette in the tin ashtray smolder and slowly burn down to ash; he almost reached over to pick it up. It had been nearly three years since he’d smoked and he was still like this. He heard Brunner, of course, but his eye was on that line of ash. What was it, he wondered, that was hidden in those ashes?

  “So that’s my role: running things.” Kurt noticed the ash end of the cigarette and tipped it into the tray. He looked at Jury. “You were a smoker.”

  Jury leaned back. “I was. Stopped almost three years ago and I still lust after them.”

  Kurt shrugged, said matter-of-factly, “Maybe it’s not cigarettes you really lust after. There are things you never get over. People who’ve never been addicts couldn’t understand this. At first, it’s like feeling saved, and then you find that you aren’t. You’re still lost. Wouldn’t it be better not to have felt it in the first place? I think the trouble is we don’t know what it meant in the first place. Cigarettes, booze, love…?”

  Kurt lit another cigarette and turned the lighter in slow arcs.

  Jury said, “You lived in the flat in Sloane Street together?”