It was a terrible time, the worst of her entire life.
And she could not turn to Jeremy. That had been another death—not comparable to this, her father's death—but in a way a prelude to misery. That one had been almost six months back, after Jeremy Robinson had been part of her life for a year. It had begun when Emily was summoned to London to write and host a new BBC documentary television film on the rise and fall of the Third Reich. The filming of her scenes had progressed smoothly, professionally, and when her job was done she had eagerly accepted Jeremy's invitation to a farewell dinner for two.
Jeremy had attracted her from the start. He was a most handsome and charming middle-aged man. True, a married man. With two young children. Jeremy had wanted an affair, but Emily had hesitated. She had been that route before and knew it was a dead end. When Jeremy assured her that he was in the process of divorcing his wife, and wanted to marry her as soon as it was possible, Emily had dropped her resistance and they had become lovers, although she had chosen not to move in with him.
Their affair at his pied-à-terre near the studio had been exciting and promising. From the beginning Emily had told her father about Jeremy. Sir Harrison had approved immediately. His own wish was for his daughter's happiness. Then, six months ago, Jeremy had phoned to cancel their customary weekend together in the country. He had been assigned to produce a dramatization of Moll Flanders for the BBC, starring the rising young actress, Phoebe Ellsmore. A plum of an assignment, but preparatory work would tie him up on the weekend. After that, he had canceled three more weekends and finally ceased phoning altogether. Then had come the shocking announcement in the press: Jeremy Robinson, having obtained his divorce, was about to marry Phoebe Ellsmore.
It had been the crudest sort of personal humiliation. For several days, Emily had not been able to face her father, but when she had he had consoled her and said she was better off knowing now what she might have got into.
Her hurt had remained, yet was gradually diminishing. Realistically she knew her pain had not been caused by the loss of love, but by wounded pride. Soon, looking back, she had been able to see that what she had really wanted was not Jeremy himself but conformity in marriage, a home, children of her own, and, mostly, a change of scenery. The idea of breaking away from lecturing, from confining research and writing, had appealed to her more than Jeremy had. She had been fond of him, of course. But when the air cleared, she had been able to see that an alliance with Jeremy would have been a disaster. After hurt had coagulated into distaste, the memory of him had begun to evaporate into the happier euphoria of good riddance.
Thank God, she'd had a fallback position. With renewed energy, she'd thrown herself into the completion of the Hitler biography. Increasingly, the book and her father had once more become the most important things in her life.
And now this, the most devastating loss of all.
Following the telephone call with news of her father's death, the living had done what must be done for the dead. Emily had wanted to fly to Berlin to be with her father, to accompany him home, but wiser heads had prevailed. Someone had helped her telephone the main police station in Berlin, and when her identity had been made clear, she had been transferred to Chief of Police Wolfgang Schmidt, who had spoken to her in English. The chief's manner had been warm, caring. He had reiterated the facts of the accident, and then tried to go into more detail. The truck out of control, jumping the curb, hitting Dr. Ashcroft on the sidewalk, flinging him into the street, and then by chance running over him. Dr. Ashcroft had been killed on the spot. The drunken driver with the truck—certainly he must have been drunk—had fled. Descriptions of the vehicle were varied because of the confusion, but efforts were being made to locate it. Chief Schmidt had little hope of success. Was deeply grieved by the accident.
After that, her uncle had forced Emily to rest. Pamela had followed through by telephone to make the final arrangements, and the body had been flown back to Oxford from West Berlin.
Now it was over. Her father peacefully asleep in the ground. His great work unfinished. And she, alone.
Dry-eyed, weak, emptied of all energy, she sat rig-idly in the rear of the soundless limousine, trying to look ahead. But she could not see beyond the wake that would take place during the next two hours.
Wanting to blow her nose, she sought her handkerchief inside the purse that lay at her feet. She brought the purse to her lap, unclasped it, and was surprised to find two envelopes lying on top of her billfold and cosmetics bag. Locating the handkerchief beneath, using it, returning it, she became curious about the two envelopes. Then she remembered. Leaving the house for the funeral this morning, she had noticed the day's mail left on her desk by Pamela. Without interest she had riffled through it, and determined that most of the small square envelopes carried condolence notes. Two longer envelopes were also there, each bearing German stamps, one postmarked from East Berlin, the other from West Berlin. Odd. She wondered who could be writing her from Germany. But there had been no time to open the envelopes and read the contents, with Uncle Brian and Pamela already at the door to escort her to the funeral. She had stuffed both envelopes into her purse, and left hastily.
Now the two envelopes remained sealed in her purse, waiting to be opened. Tentatively, she took them out, put aside her purse, and tore open the first envelope, the one postmarked East Berlin.
The letter inside, handwritten on a single page, bore the embossed letterhead of Professor Otto Blaubach. She recalled Blaubach. Her father's good friend, the historian, an expert on the Third Reich and Hitler, and now a deputy prime minister of East Germany. Her father had spoken to Blaubach the day before his death, had obtained permission through him to excavate the area around Hitler's old Führerbunker. She recalled having met Blaubach once, a stiff, somewhat Thomas-Mannish German, but the soul of courtesy and kindness.
His letter was in English.
My dear Emily Ashcroft,
When I heard on the television, and saw confirmed in the daily press, the news of your father's untimely and accidental death, I was filled with disbelief. I had spoken to him only the evening before. He never seemed more vital, and doubly so when I was able to inform him that permission had been arranged for him to excavate at the Führerbunker. .
My heart is heavy. For several days I could not bring myself to put pen to paper. But I want to do so now. I want to convey to you my deepest personal regrets and to offer you my condolences. We both have at least the close memory of a great and modest man.
I still cannot believe and accept the means by which the end came to your father. It was so unlikely an accident. While hit-and-run incidents happen all the time, I might say that it was an accident that was in this particular case almost statistically impossible. Yet we know in life that the impossible does happen.
What adds to my own loss is that your father had told me that you were both on the threshold of completing the book of which he thought he would be most proud. I am not unmindful of the major role you have been playing, as your father's daughter and a respected historian in your own right, in producing the Hitler biography. I fondly recall the occasion when you accompanied your father to lunch with me at the Opern Café in East Berlin three years ago, and the stimulating discussion that ensued about the biography. I know Herr Hitler needs only the ending to be written to complete the project. It is my strong hope that, in due time, you will bring the Hitler work to a conclusion. The world deserves to see it. Your father deserves to have it in print as a monument to his genius and scholarship.
Should you need my assistance in any way, please feel free to call upon MR.
Faithfully,
Otto Blaubach
Emily blinked at the letter, touched by it, moved, and brought back somewhat into the world of the living.
Blaubach wanted her to finish the book, believed that this should be done and that she could do it. The request, the hope, slightly rattled her. Since her father's sudden death, she had not thought of their b
iography at all, at least not consciously. Without him, she could not imagine the work's having existence.
Yet Blaubach was right. The work was not dead. She had been one of the arteries that had pumped life into it. And she was still here, very much alive.
Slowly she refolded Blaubach's letter. She could not give it further thought, and certainly not serious consideration, not now in her bereavement. She would read it again another day. Stuffing the letter back into her purse, she became aware of the second envelope. She ripped it open, and extracted a typewritten letter. It was typed on the stationery of the Berliner Morgenpost, the respected West Berlin daily newspaper. Emily's eyes sought the signature. It was signed with the name Peter Nitz, someone unknown to her.
Dear Miss Ashcroft,
Although you do not know me, I should like to take the liberty to convey to you my sorrow at Dr. Ashcroft's death.
I never had the good fortune to meet Dr. Ashcroft. However, I did see him and was able to hear his last public utterances not many minutes before his death . As a feature writer and reporter on a leading West Berlin daily, I was assigned to cover Dr. Ashcroft's final press conference.
After briefing the gathered media about Herr Hitler, the important biography which the two of you had been writing, Dr. Ashcroft announced that he had held up the ending of the book, pending further investigation into Adolf Hitler's final hours in his bunker. Dr. Ashcroft remarked that although all standard biographies and histories of Adolf Hitler stated unequivocally that Hitler had committed suicide along with his bride Eva Braun in the Führerbunker in 1945, a piece of evidence had come to Dr. Ashcroft's attention that indicated some possibility that Hitler had not died at that time, and may have escaped from the bunker altogether. Dr. Ashcroft added that, to verify this possibility, he had obtained permission to excavate the bunker area in East Germany in search of a certain piece of evidence. It was Dr. Ashcroft's hope that anyone in Berlin who heard or read of his undertaking, and knew at firsthand any more facts about Hitler's last hours, would contact him at the Bristol Kempinski hotel during the week to follow.
Right after his announcement to us, Dr. Ashcroft said he was open to questions from the floor. Naturally, we had numerous questions to ask. Mostly they concerned the identity of the person who had given him the new evidence, and what form this evidence had taken. Dr. Ashcroft, understandably, would not answer us precisely, nor would he give us the names of the officials in East Berlin who had granted him permission to excavate in the Führerbunker area.
When Dr. Ashcroft concluded the press conference, he departed from the restaurant saying that he had to get back to the Kempinski to resume his preparations. While the other reporters prepared to leave, I realized that there was something 1 had forgotten to ask Dr. Ashcroft, and I went out into the street to catch up with him. I don't recollect what the question was at this date—assuredly nothing important—and it is not for that reason that I write to you but rather to report to you on what transpired after I rushed out of the restaurant to find Dr. Ashcroft.
I hastened down the Kurfûrstendamm, going very swiftly, although the boulevard was extremely crowded with shoppers. I thought I had a glimpse of Dr. Ashcroft crossing the next side street, and then when I reached this street I saw him plainly on the opposite corner, ready to turn up Fasanenstrasse toward the Kempinski entrance. I called out to him, shouted to get his attention, and he may have heard me. I am not sure. Events after that came too quickly.
Just as I had finished trying to get Dr. Ashcroft's attention, I saw a rather big delivery truck with a heavy metal grille and bumpers—the body painted blue I think, with balloon radial tires—come rocking unsteadily into the side street, suddenly careening left and jumping the curb as if it might plow into the Kempinski's outdoor Café , Its front grille caught your father on the side and lifted him into the air, throwing him into the street. Dr. Ashcroft was obviously badly injured, but was making an effort to rise, when the truck suddenly swerved again, veering away from the café, rumbling back into the street and directly to where your father lay. The truck rolled over his stretched-out body, rolled fully over him, then accelerated at great speed and sped up the side street. By the time that any of us who had witnessed this realized what had happened, the truck had vanished from sight.
I was possibly the first, among several witnesses, to rush to your father's body. It was clear to all of us that he had been killed when hit the second time. He was dead before the police and ambulance arrived.
This is a painful story for me to recount to you, but I feel that I must do so for a special reason.
Dr. Ashcroft's death has been seen as an accident, and even noted as such in my newspaper. But from what I observed with my own eyes, it appeared to be something other than an accident. To my eyes, it was as if Dr. Ashcroft had been run down and killed with careful deliberation.
When the truck rolled over the curb, it was going too slowly to be out of control. When it struck your father the first time, it seemed to be aimed at him and picking up speed. When it swung back off the sidewalk and into the street, the driver must have been able to see your father lying there and could have avoided hitting him again. Instead the driver went straight for Dr. Ashcroft, crushing him, and then drove on and away even faster, in full control of his vehicle.
Of course, I cannot swear that this was a deliberate act by the hit-and-run driver. I cannot prove it. Perhaps, after all, it was one of those crazy accidents that do happen infrequently. But I must tell you what I saw and felt and what is on my mind today.
I did not voice my suspicions to the police. There was no purpose. I have not a shred of evidence that this might have been murder. As a newspaper-man, I would have been believed by the police to be inventing some kind of story for my paper. So I kept my silence.
Still, I find it necessary to report this to you, on the chance my suspicion may make some sense to you. I wonder. Did Dr. Ashcroft have any enemies?
Again, I am sorry to have aggravated your wound. If you are ever in Berlin, do contact me at the paper. I should enjoy having a talk with you.
Sincerely,
Peter Nitz
P. S. I wrote the obituary for your father in the Morgenpost . I enclose a cutting of it.
Shaken, Emily automatically felt in the envelope, found the three-inch press cutting on her father, and scanned the German text. Then she lowered it and the letter to her lap, and glanced out the car window at the first sight of the buildings of Oxford.
The man's suspicions had unnerved her completely.
Murder.
It was inconceivable. Her father was the mildest and sweetest of men. An introverted scholar. He had not a single enemy on earth that she had ever known.
Yet a professional newspaperman had witnessed his accidental death and thought it possibly deliberate.
Could that be? Was this a madman writing her? Still, the letter was direct and sincere, and seemed to have come from a decent man.
The dullness was leaving her mind. She was thinking clearly now.
What possible motive would anyone have for killing her father? He had no possessions. He had no feuds—but there her mind gave her pause. He did have one possession, a unique one, something he owned that others may have wanted to take from him. Harrison Ashcroft had possessed evidence, and a burning belief, that Adolf Hitler had not died on April 30, 1945.
Maybe someone out there did not want this proved.
The Daimler was nearing their house in Oxford when Emily made her resolution. Until now she had been her father's junior collaborator, depending upon him, deferring to him, leaving decisions up to him. Now she was alone, and all present or future decisions were hers to make. She would replace her father. She would carry on their work. She would bring it to a successful conclusion.
She was going to West Berlin. She would see Dr. Max Thiel, and Professor Otto Blaubach, as well as the reporter Peter Nitz.
She would seek out the truth. If Nitz was right, she might be a
sitting duck. Someone might try to stop her as they had stopped her father.
Even try to murder her too. Yet, by inviting it, she might prevent it, and solve two mysteries.
Harrison Ashcroft's death.
Adolf Hitler's survival.
Chapter Two
In the week after the funeral, Sir Harrison Ashcroft's death, and his daughter's resolve to finish the epic biography of Adolf Hitler, made news all over the world. Not big news. But a tidbit worthy of interest almost everywhere.
Behind his desk inside his office in the Hermitage, Lenin-grad's massive art museum, Nicholas Kirvov, the recently appointed curator, nibbled a warm pirozhok, scanned the pages of Pravda, and came upon the
In West Berlin, another of the decadent city's hooligans precipitated a fatal accident. An unknown drunken truck driver lost control of the vehicle and ran down a pedestrian. Sir H. Ashcroft of Oxford University, the prominent British expert on Adolf Hitler, was killed almost instantly as he walked on the Kurfûrstendamm. The hooligan could not be found. Ashcroft was in the process of completing a lengthy biography of Hitler in collaboration with his daughter Miss E. Ashcroft, also a historian. Reuters reports that Miss Ashcroft will undertake to finish the book.
Nicholas Kirvov chewed the last of his meat-filled pie and suppressed a yawn. He had no particular interest in the news brief he had just read. He had not the faintest idea who this Ashcroft was, except that he had been researching and writing about Hitler. The coincidence of the mention of Hitler in Pravda on this particular day, of all days, was what had piqued Kirvov's attention sufficiently to read the news brief through.
Kirvov had always been fascinated by the Fascist monster, Hitler, from his earliest schooldays following the Second World War until the present. Because Kirvov was an art expert, it had always tantalized him that a creature as mad and gross as the Nazi leader had once been an artist, had painted many watercolors and oils, and had also possessed a love for architecture and music. This killer who had soaked Russia's soil with the blood of millions, an artist! An incredible contradiction. To make sense of Hitler's schizophrenia, Kirvov began to search for examples of his art.
The Seventh Secret Page 2
