Was his nerve beginning to crack?
The morning stretched ahead. He went out into the corridors, and glanced in at Wagner’s vacant room. Otto came out of his office and without a word or a look swaggered from sight. The younger Wertheim’s mind was focused on 11.00 am, on the brilliant accolade which he expected to receive from the Nazi leader.
Schmidt smelled the peculiar odour which Otto, frequently, left in his wake: a touch of normality.
Dietrich, shining with grooming and health, smoked a cigarette. Herr Health and Sunshine. The nickname hadn’t reached his ears. The fingers of his right hand drummed softly on polished wood. The meeting at eleven was an enigma. Worriedly, he wondered why von Streck hadn’t brought him into the picture. Von Streck’s power-base was one of the Party’s myriad secrets, but clearly formidable, given the fear which it generated. He’d heard he was a personal confidant of Himmler. That he was attached to the Chancellery of the Fuehrer. But one heard many things.
Still, he was lucky to be alive. That madman had killed six of the Gestapo, virtually wiped out the local post’s operational group. His own standing must be enhanced by the way he’d dealt with the incident. Perhaps he was to be congratulated before the board; or Otto was, for his Aryanisation work. Otto would certainly be thinking along those lines. Perhaps they were both to be congratulated! The Party moved in unpredictable ways.
He smiled tensely: Its façade was steel-clad, inspirational, but behind that it was relentlessly the sum of its human parts. You had to be a little cynical about certain things, alert for your own self-interest. He was confident of the good work he’d done, that it was being noticed in the right quarters. And — he’d six o’clock this evening to look forward to! He felt a stirring in his loins. He visualised Franz’s body, smooth skin, his intriguing, mysterious personality. He was going to bust that little virgin wide open in two ways. Make him sing like a choir boy.
With the forcefulness of a gale coming onto the Baltic coast, von Streck, at the head of four black-uniformed SS men, boots clattering, strode into General-Director Wertheims anteroom. The SS were a head taller than he, but his muscular body was broader than any of them. He glanced back, as if to confirm the aggressive suspicion set on their faces.
He swept past Fräulein Blum, who stood by her desk, gave her a grin, and arrived at the double doors at the precise instant that they sprang open, orchestrated by Dietrich, who’d been standing by.
Herr Wertheim to the fare, the directors stood in a crescent in the inner sanctum. They sprang to attention, startled at the velocity of the visitors’ entrance. Von Streck pulled up, beaming.
‘Heil Hitler!’
‘Heil Hitler!’ — a ragged chorus rang out.
‘Good morning, gentlemen! Herr Wertheim a pleasure ... Everyone may go - with the exception of yourself, Herr Otto Wertheim and Herr Dietrich.’ Methodically, he stripped off the black gloves.
Wertheim showed polite surprise. Something highly unusual was in the air.
‘Of course ...’ He turned to the other directors. ‘Mein herren?’ They took their cue and filed out with palpable relief, led by the formidable Director Schloss, who darted a concerned look at the G-D.
The doors swung shut. Von Streck, his olive features still wreathed in a smile, standing at the head of the SS, said, ’Now to business. I’m here to personally audit the Party’s portfolio of bonds. Please make arrangements.’
Wertheim’s surprise went up a notch; he tilted his head in a calculating way. After a moment’s silence, he said, ‘I assure you —’
‘Immediately,’ von Streck said, his eyes narrowing.
‘Of course, if that is your wish.’ The general-director turned to a stunned Otto.
‘They’re kept in the vault,’ the younger director stammered, disappointment plain on his face.
‘We’ll go there,’ von Streck said. He was a reasonable man again.
Otto advanced with sudden energy. ‘I am a custodian, and I will summon our auditor. The third custodian is absent on duty, we’ve his safe-combination in a sealed envelope under double custody. I will get it.’ He hurried out as though his commitment to this errand, this inexplicable situation, would win back his accolade.
Von Streck watched Otto leave, raised an eyebrow, glanced around the room. ‘Mmm. You’ve an interesting taste in art, Herr Wertheim.’ The G-D bowed sightly. He thought: Yes, I do. I doubt it has a high priority in your mind this morning. ‘What is the architecture of your fine building. Baroque classicism?’
Wertheim nodded. He said, ‘Shall we go to the vault?’
Searching his mind for a gleam of light, Dietrich had been a silent witness to these exchanges. He was staggered by the development, by its implications, though his face remained calm and he was keeping quiet. What, in God’s name, was it all about? Whatever it was, it reflected disastrously on his supervisory status, his standing at the bank. He, the director seconded by the Party, totally ignorant of what was afoot! Grimly, he thought of enemies he’d made, felt his apprehension rising. Yet, everything would be in order.
The iron cage arrived with a clank and a shudder, and politely Wertheim ushered von Streck and Dietrich into it. Dismissively, the high Nazi signalled the SS to take the stairs.
‘Quite an antique,’ von Streck said, nodding benevolently at the lift. He’d become an instant connoisseur of the Wertheim province; but the general-director detected a mocking edge. His father had installed the lift in 1902, and to the despair of the manufacturer’s mechanics, he insisted on its preservation.
He bowed again, thought: Yes, he’s playing with us. But which of us doesn’t have our secret games? He was impervious to such tactics, found at some point he could often turn the tables. Again he went over his knowledge of von Streck - but abortively — much as Dietrich had done. Again that whiff of mystery. If the Nazi had worked behind the scenes to effect the transfer of the NSDAP business, what were the implications of that? What suspicions had now been raised in his mind? The bank’s systems were as good as any for security, everything would be in order.
Otto and Schmidt were waiting in the vault; the auditor had placed the big ledger on the table. The party from the lift entered and in a wind of body odour the SS came clattering down the stairs.
Dietrich flicked his eyes at them, and continued to analyse the situation. Why did von Streck have the SS on hand? Grounded in the party’s ways he didn’t like this one bit. He glanced at sober-faced Schmidt, then stared at the safe.
At a stroke, Schmidt’s overnight and early-morning doubts had been swept away. His heart had soared when Otto had burst into his room and demanded his presence in the vault. Von Streck had acted! Now they stood before the safe like an assemblage of city dignitaries at the unveiling of a plaque.
The high-ranking Nazi, as he’d been shown in, ignored the auditor, and didn’t appear to notice the G-D’s polite introduction.
‘Go ahead, gentlemen,’ Wertheim said.
Breathing audibly, Otto stepped forward to the safe, peered hard at the calibrated marks, turned the tumbler. Success first time! His several chins were atremble as he stepped back from the ordeal. He produced a sealed envelope and presented it with a flourish to Schmidt. ‘Herr Deputy Foreign Manager Wagner’s combination,’ he announced.
This seemed to amuse von Streck. Schmidt opened the envelope and extracted a sheet of paper. He read the numbers, removed Wagner’s combination. He took off his own, and swung open the safe door.
He thought: Now, we’ll see what we’ll see. Behind his mechanical actions he was amazed how suddenly calm he felt. He retrieved the sealed packet and carried it to the table, obliging the SS to make two crab-like jumps, aside. One of them stepped to the table but von Streck waved him back airily.
‘I’ll do this myself,’ he said. He consulted a notebook, produced a fountain pen, laid both on the table. ‘According to yesterday’s report, after the Dortmund settlement, Reich bonds to the face value of 10,000,000 marks should be in seale
d custody. And — nothing as of last night in the working stock.’
Dietrich nodded, deferentially. The funds that had come in this morning by mail and remittance hadn’t been processed by Schloss’s department yet.
With the knowingness of an illusionist about to perform, von Streck examined the assembled faces. He studied the seal on the big envelope.
‘This appears in order — sealed with the official seal, notated with a certificate for 10,000,000, signed by Herr Otto Wertheim and Herr Dietrich.’ Dietrich and Otto exchanged confirmatory looks, relaxed perceptibly — though their attitudes said instantly: What was there to be worried about?
Von Streck looked up, caught this, smiled. He lifted the envelope, examined the seal again, weighed it in his hand. He laid the packet down.
‘All in order, Herr Minister,’ Dietrich suggested, his confidence flooding back.
Schmidt’s heart had frozen. If the envelope wasn’t opened ... Von Streck didn’t appear to hear Dietrich, seemed immersed in a complex calculation. Could he dare suggest it?
‘Do you think so, Herr Dietrich?’ the high Nazi said very quietly.
‘Of course, Herr Minister!’
‘As safe and sound as Fort Knox in the USA, Herr Dietrich?’
Dietrich smiled. ’Absolutely, Herr Minister!’
‘Even as clear cut as a legal lecture at the Order Castle in Marienburg?’
Dietrich smiled again, more warily. He remembered his days at Marienburg. What in hell was this all about?
Herr Wertheim and Otto were observing this by-play with mystification; Schmidt was identifying the sadistic nuances, broadening his picture of von Streck.
The Nazi functionary turned to Schmidt. ‘Herr Auditor, we’ll open this packet and count the bonds.’
Thank God!
Schmidt stepped forward, took the envelope, and slit it open. He held the empty packet in one hand, and gazed at the thick sheaf of plain white paper which he held in the other. He looked up slowly, at the frozen tableau.
Thunderstruck, Otto’s eyes were protruding, as if staring into a void; Dietrich’s had narrowed to slits and his mouth had set involuntarily into its yellowish grin; the general-director had become deeply abstracted — as though he’d The Eye in his vision.
‘Jesus!’ Otto gasped, all the horror of the situation in the exclamation.
Von Streck took the sheaf of blank paper from Schmidt, let the sheets flick through his fingers. Otto tried to speak again, but produced only a strangled sound.
Von Streck surveyed everyone with hard, sardonic eyes. ‘Who is going to explain this to me? Much more importantly, to the Party?’ Accustomed to observing persons in crisis he noted that the shock appeared genuine. Except for Chief Auditor Schmidt, whose face was as blank as the papers, and the senior Wertheim, who appeared to have gone to an elevated plane. The Nazi smiled thinly.
‘Herr Minister, this is a great shock.’ The old banker had recovered first. His tenor voice was perfectly controlled. His intimations had been right, von Streck had expected to find this. What was the fellow up to? Using his urbanity as though pouring oil on a storm-tossed sea, he said, ‘Herr Minister, could you enlighten us as to how your suspicions were aroused?’
Von Streck had entered the Wertheim day with considerable velocity, then he’d changed the pace to a kind of amiably ironic event. In the crowded vault, another metamorphosis was under way: his deep-chested torso swelled, exuded its muscularity, the mole on his cheek was projected like a beacon. The olive skin had lightened — a strange, ominous effect; the brown eyes glittered menacingly.
All in the vault stared at the transformation.
‘Bankhaus Wertheim & Co AG, reputedly a model of financial probity in the Reich, trusted by the Party, has played host to an act of criminal treason! — and you, Herr Wertheim, speak as though champagne’s been spilt!’
The general-director winced. The Nazi had almost blown him over. His brain was quite clear this morning. A lifetime of weathering situations had left him resilient to the crises of the banking world; and, he was sure now that there was a lot more going on with von Streck than met the eye.
Von Streck had sent a spray of spittle over them, none wiped it off, except the G-D who produced a linen handkerchief from his sleeve.
The high Nazi snarled, ‘Fortunately, we don’t have to search for the criminals. They’re right here!’
He raised his finger, levelled it at Dietrich, and then as though moving a gunbarrel brought it around slowly to point at Otto.
‘Preposterous,’ Herr Wertheim exclaimed. But his thoughts were going down deep.
The two accused gazed at von Streck: a madman dropped into their midst.
‘What actors,’ he sneered contemptuously. ‘What a wonderful show of innocence. You filth!’ he shouted and even the SS flinched. ‘Do you deny the Swiss bank accounts in your names?’ Last night he’d phoned a very senior man in the Swiss central bank; a man who was very sympathetic to the Nazi Party. ‘Do you deny the fraudulent obtainment of the combinations of the auditor, the deputy foreign manager, to this safe? Do you, Dietrich, deny your depravations on the Party’s Number Four account? Well?’
‘Herr Minister, there’s been some terrible mistake,’ Diet-rich cried desperately. He stood transfixed, his teeth bared, the whites of his eyes prominent. He’d the sensation, entangled with others, that he was watching a back-street farce; that in a moment this ridiculous scene would end and the rational world would reappear.
‘Yes this is the mistake,’ von Streck said now in a dead-quiet voice, holding up the sheaf of paper. ‘We’ll adjourn to Gestapo headquarters, to further investigate it.’
Schmidt was spellbound by von Streck’s performance — if it were such. Here was an unbelievably effective consummation of his plan.
He looked at Dietrich and saw comprehension dawning on the tortured no-longer-handsome face. That blank form he’d signed! The Nazi’s head rolled around as though it was on swivels, stopped at him with a jerk. Accusation blazed in his eyes. His face had become suffused — like a man suffering a seizure. His neck was corded, the muscles working. He was trying to utter.
‘Christ Almighty! There is the perpetrator!’
He launched himself at the auditor but the black-uniformed bodies blocked his rush, applied armlocks. He was incoherent, shaking with passion. All heads swung to stare at Schmidt.
Von Streck roared into contemptuous laughter. He stepped up to Dietrich, a head shorter, but appreciably wider. ‘You vile traitor,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve the strongest evidence of your crimes. Like all your corrupt, unintelligent, miserable kind, when cornered you seek to divert the blame elsewhere. We’ll look into your perverted private life, too — you bum-fucker.’ He gestured to the SS: ‘Take them away.’
Dietrich’s face was demented. He shook off the hands on him as though they were nothing. ‘Hands off!’ he shouted. ‘What evidence? I’m a captain in the SS! I tell you that man is the criminal!’ His slicked-back hair had fallen on his brow. His eyes burned with rage, and fear.
Two of the SS laid big, work-roughened hands on him afresh, and dragged him out the doorway. He struggled powerfully in a desperate silence. At the foot of the stairs they smashed his face once, twice against the Wertheim wall, and everyone heard the chink-chink of the yellow teeth. Still he struggled, his mouth running blood like a drain. Halfway up the first flight, again they smashed his face into the wall, breaking his nose, releasing another red jet. As it sprayed their uniforms they swore like navvies unexpectedly striking a waterpipe. He began to scream like an animal injured in the steel jaws of a trap.
In a trance, Otto waddled behind this violent group, his flabby biceps gripped by the remaining SS men.
Herr Wertheim studied these exits with a kind of supreme detachment which made Schmidt wonder whether the shock had at last disturbed his reason. Slowly, the silver head turned to von Streck, then to Schmidt. The auditor met his eyes. It was his turn to receive a shock: he was being
gazed at with fascination - when he might have expected horror — as though a kind of Frankenstein creation was being viewed. Then the general-director turned away without a word, and followed von Streck towards the lift. The high Nazi seemed to have forgotten the auditors existence.
~ * ~
36
W
HO OR WHAT do they hope to see?’ — Helga asked herself. ‘What are they waiting for?’ The Gestapo agents had not attempted to conceal their surveillance. They’d not interviewed her again. Did they expect Franz to come? That was futile. Each night, like her mother in the morning, she watched the cigarettes glowing in the darkness and pondered these questions.
Day by day tension had accumulated in the household; even Trudi had absorbed it, become quiet, watchful of the adults’ faces. Each morning when they left the house the car with the two Gestapo men was waiting to follow.
The Eye of the Abyss - [Franz Schmidt 01] Page 25
