The City of Shadows

by Michael Russell

  ‘I’m with him.’ Stefan followed the bishop out into the corridor.

  *

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Hannah had been waiting for Stefan in his room. ‘You knew about the pistol in December.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you because it was evidence we were holding back. You don’t throw these things around. It was part of another investigation as well. There were two bodies. The captive bolt pistol was the only thing Susan and Vincent Walsh had in common. I needed to know what that meant first.’

  ‘It meant she didn’t die, she was murdered. You knew that and you didn’t say it.’ She threw the letter from Father Byrne on the bed. ‘It didn’t take him long to work it out. It was a gun. It doesn’t matter what kind of gun, so somebody shot her. Was it Keller? Why would Keller shoot her?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t him.’

  She looked at Stefan, shaking her head.

  ‘But you know who it was. You know and you haven’t told me!’

  ‘I think I know.’

  ‘Isn’t that enough!’

  ‘It’s not enough to prove anything. It’s a lot less now Francis Byrne’s dead.’

  ‘Who did it?’ She wanted the truth now. He would have to tell her.

  ‘It was a guard.’

  First she was surprised; then there was a question. He could see it.

  ‘It’s not why I didn’t tell you. It was only when I talked to Byrne –’

  ‘Who is he?’ She wasn’t going to listen to any more evasion.

  ‘You’ve met him. He took you to the convent. Sergeant Lynch.’

  She stopped, remembering the December day she went to Merrion Square to see Hugo Keller; the interview room at Pearse Street; Mother Eustacia; DS Lynch. It felt a long time ago.

  ‘Did Father Byrne know that?’

  ‘He knew the man driving the car was a guard, that’s all. When the guard told him Susan was dead he believed it. And he ran. He left Jimmy to deal with the body. He was a guard, wasn’t he? It could have been true. Maybe she was dead. If she wasn’t, he shot her in the head to make sure –’

  ‘He killed her. Like an animal!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He worked for Keller. When there was a mess, he cleaned it up.’

  ‘So it was Hugo Keller who told him to do it?’

  ‘He could have done. I don’t know. ’

  ‘I think you need to know, Detective Sergeant Gillespie,’ Hannah said, her voice trembling. ‘And so do I. If you won’t find out, I shall.’

  She walked across the room and picked up her coat.

  ‘You know where he is, Stefan, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Francis Byrne was going to have it all out with Hugo Keller. I don’t know whether he got there or not, Hannah, but I’ve seen what they did to him. Keller’s got a lot more police pals here than he had in Dublin, not to mention the SS. It’s not just one Special Branch man taking kickbacks. Every Gestapo officer in Danzig is Jimmy Lynch with bells on. And they don’t do it for the money, they do it all for love. Keller’s too dangerous.’

  She was standing by the door, pulling on her coat.

  ‘Recording angels have been in my family a long time.’

  He knew he wouldn’t stop her. She’d find where Hugo Keller was, one way or another.

  ‘All right, we’ll go. But I’ll take the gun.’ He held out his hand.

  Stefan and Hannah got off the tram by the railway station in Langfuhr. There were new street signs as they crossed the main road, the recently renamed Adolf-Hitler-Strasse. They turned into Eschenweg. That was the address Francis Byrne had given Stefan. It was quieter here. Small apartment blocks lined the suburban street at first, with the ever-present swastikas hanging from almost every window. At the far end of the street there were several bigger, older houses with red-tiled roofs and tidy gardens. The last house, on the corner with Mirchauer Weg, was a lot less tidy. Trees and uncut bushes screened it from the road. There was no gate; it lay among the weeds that sprawled across the garden, rotting where it had been thrown a long time ago. The house reflected the garden. The paintwork was peeling; a length of gutter had come away from a wall and hung down almost to the ground; the broken shards of roof tiles crunched underfoot as Stefan and Hannah walked up the steps to the front door. Even from the outside it reminded Stefan of the empty, dilapidated rooms upstairs at Keller’s house in Merrion Square. He stood at the top of the steps, still unhappy about what they were doing.

  The door was slightly ajar. Hannah stepped past him and pressed the bell. It rang loudly. There was no movement inside the house. They waited. She pressed the bell again. There was still no response. Stefan pushed open the door and walked in. Hannah followed him. There was no carpet; the floor was thick with dust. But on a table there was a new telephone. Next to it was stacked a neat pile of unopened letters. He stopped by the table, looking through the letters. One of them had a Saorstat Éireann stamp on it. He put it in his pocket, unseen by Hannah who was continuing along the hallway.

  There were two large rooms on either side. One was furnished with a sofa, an armchair and an unmade bed; the other was empty. Stefan was behind Hannah again as they passed the stairs and entered the kitchen. They didn’t see the broken furniture or the smashed crockery or the blood on the blue and white delft tiles of the big stove in the corner. They only saw the figure of the man stretched out on the floor. His hands and feet were tightly bound. He was almost naked. His bruised, wealed body was black with congealing blood. It was the right address. They had found Hugo Keller.

  19. The Westerplatte

  He wasn’t dead. Stefan found a knife on the kitchen floor and cut away the ropes. They sat him against the wall. He opened his eyes and looked at them, as if coming out of a deep sleep that he didn’t want to leave. He was struggling to find the place and the time he had been brought back to.

  ‘I know you.’ He was looking at Stefan. He turned to Hannah. He was sure he knew her too, but he couldn’t quite remember. He coughed. His face contorted. He had found where he was now and it was a place of pain.

  ‘They’ve gone?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at Hannah again; he remembered her now. ‘The priest told me you were here.’ There was a smile on his lips for a second. ‘It wouldn’t have been so bad, would it, an Irish gaol? Well, better than this, eh?’

  ‘We’ll get an ambulance.’ Stefan glanced at Hannah. She nodded.

  ‘It’s too late.’ Keller’s eyes seemed clearer. ‘It’s Hannah, yes?’

  ‘We can worry about that later. Stefan can phone –’

  ‘I’m enough of a doctor to know, my dear.’ He coughed again and a spasm of pain rocked his body. Blood trickled from his mouth. ‘They’ve done enough. They killed Father Byrne. It was my fault. I was the one they didn’t trust. I’d found out. They knew I’d found out. He didn’t even know what they were going to do. He didn’t know anything.’

  ‘I’ll phone now,’ said Stefan getting up.

  ‘No!’ Somewhere Hugo Keller found the strength to bark it out like an order. ‘There’s no point. I know. Do you think they’d send a doctor anyway?’ He clutched at Hannah’s coat. ‘He didn’t even know. The priest didn’t know what they really wanted! Neither did I. I’d only just found out why he was so important. It wasn’t only information. He was a way in. That’s why he mattered so much.’ There was unexpected determination in his voice. But then he stopped, his head dropping, his breath slowing. He struggled to look up at Stefan. ‘When he’s dead they’re going to blame the Jews. That’s what it’s for.’ He closed his eyes. Now the place he was in seemed to be fading. ‘I didn’t want to know. I wanted to find a way home. I just wanted a way back to Ireland!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Hannah.

  Keller stared, as if he had forgotten who she was again.

  ‘Blame the Jews for what?’


  ‘They’re going to kill him,’ whispered the Austrian.

  Hannah looked at him blankly. ‘Kill who?’

  ‘Count O’Rourke.’ Hugo Keller grimaced in pain, choking out the words. ‘They’re going to kill the bishop. If the election doesn’t go the way –’ His eyelids drooped shut. There was a rasping in his chest. Phlegm and blood oozed from his mouth. His eyes half-opened again. He was still looking at Hannah, but the present was slipping away. ‘Your friend shouldn’t have died. There was time. I told the guard to take her to the hospital! But he didn’t. I thought she’d just died. I didn’t know. I didn’t know he’d killed her. I don’t know why. He was working for the priest.’

  Stefan and Hannah stared at him; this contradicted everything.

  ‘But Father Byrne didn’t know anything, he didn’t know she was dead,’ said Stefan. Could the priest have fooled him that much?

  Even in Keller’s pain there was irritation.

  ‘Not the flunky, you gobshite! The monsignor.’

  The words meant nothing to Hannah. Stefan understood though.

  ‘What monsignor?’ said Hannah.

  Hugo Keller seemed to be staring straight ahead, straight into her eyes, but he didn’t see her.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ Hannah was almost shouting.

  ‘He’s dead, Hannah,’ said Stefan, taking her arm.

  She moved back a little, still gazing down at Hugo Keller.

  ‘What did he mean, Stefan?’

  ‘We need to go.’ He pulled her up.

  ‘I don’t understand who was he talking about.’

  ‘It can wait. I’ll explain. We’re not safe here.’

  As they turned round, two men were standing in the doorway, watching them. The first was Kriminaloberassistent Klaus Rothe. The other was the bearded man who had come to feed the dogs at the hunting lodge above Oliva. Rothe was surprised, but not so surprised that the long barrel of a Mauser machine pistol wasn’t already pointing at Stefan and Hannah.

  ‘We came to clear up one pile of shit and now we’ve got three.’ He walked forward. ‘That’s your Jewess then. You’re right, she’s worth a fuck. If I had more time I might try her out first. But we’ve got an election to win.’

  ‘She’s the one from the lodge,’ said the man they knew as Karl.

  ‘Now you know why Jews have big noses. They stick them in where they’re not wanted. But then Jews aren’t wanted anywhere, are they?’

  Stefan stood very still. There weren’t many options he could see.

  ‘We’ve got no idea what went on here. We don’t care. This is about something that happened in Ireland, that’s all. We were too late anyway. He was already dead.’

  ‘It looks to me like you killed him, Herr Gillespie.’

  The Gestapo man was pleased. It made the mess easier to clean up. He had Hugo Keller’s murderers in front of him. He only had to shoot them and the job was done. Stefan didn’t have to fill in the gaps to be able to read that thought. Talking wasn’t going to get them out of this, but talking could buy them seconds.

  ‘All we want to do is leave Danzig.’

  ‘I’m sure. Unfortunately, you’ll be shot while resisting arrest.’

  Stefan glanced at Hannah. Her face was almost expressionless, but the tension in her body was enough to tell him that she wouldn’t stand there and be shot. They didn’t have much of a chance, but Hannah was ready to move. He nodded, hoping it was a signal she would understand. He was ready too.

  ‘You don’t need to do this, Kriminaloberassistent,’ he pleaded.

  ‘No, but it suits me to do it. And apart from anything else, you pissed me off, Irishman, in Weidengasse, in the mortuary.’ He stepped closer.

  The big pine table that stood in the middle of the kitchen was between Stefan and Rothe. Stefan put his hands on the end of the table, leaning down and shaking his head, with an expression that made him seem utterly defeated.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hannah.’ He looked up. ‘There’s nothing we can do. Nuair a bhrúim an tábla, ionsaigh an ceann eile.’ He spoke to her in Irish.

  She smiled sadly and shrugged. ‘Tá mé réidh.’

  ‘Words of fond farewell, that’s nice,’ said Rothe, smiling.

  All at once Stefan pushed the table forward, with every bit of force he could find, driving it across the floor into the Gestapo man’s legs. It was a heavy table and it hit Klaus Rothe hard. It was still moving as he fell under it. At the same moment Hannah rushed forward and flung herself on top of Karl, knocking him to the ground. Rothe rolled out from under the table and leapt to his feet very fast. He was still holding the Mauser and he was grinning. It was a good try. He didn’t expect the pistol in Stefan’s hand, Hannah’s PKK. His surprise didn’t last any longer than it took Stefan to fire.

  The Kriminaloberassistent was dead. In the doorway Hannah and Karl were still struggling. The bearded man lashed out and pushed her away. He scrambled to his feet and ran. Stefan hadn’t moved. He still had the PKK pointed at Rothe. Hannah got up and stepped over the body. ‘He’s dead. The other one isn’t!’ Stefan didn’t understand for a moment. It didn’t seem to matter. They were alive. She grabbed the pistol and raced to the door. ‘What are you doing?’ He ran after her into the hall. There was the sound of a car.

  As Hannah reached the steps the black Mercedes was already heading down the drive, picking up speed. Stefan was there beside her now. ‘You won’t stop him.’ She stood quite still, holding the PKK in both her hands. The car was at the gate when she fired a single shot. The Mercedes carried on, straight on, out into the middle of Eschenweg, not turning to the right or the left. Then it halted; the man slumped over the wheel was dead too.

  Stefan stared at Hannah. It was a shot he could never have made.

  ‘You’ve done that before.’

  ‘It was never a human being, just a target.’ She was still staring at the car. Then she turned, handing the PKK back to him, as if she didn’t want to touch it now.

  ‘What do we do, Stefan?’

  ‘We find anything that moves that’s leaving Danzig. If we needed to get out before, I’d say we’ve more than overstayed our welcome now.’

  ‘And Bishop O’Rourke?’

  ‘There is that,’ he smiled wryly. They were in this now, whether they wanted to be or not. They couldn’t just walk away with what they knew.

  ‘We can’t let it happen, can we?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, we can’t. Keller’s got a phone.’

  ‘The phones aren’t safe, Stefan, none of them are.’

  They needed to act. Stefan’s mind was racing.

  ‘Seán Lester’s the only one who can stop this.’

  Hannah took his hand, pulling him down the steps.

  ‘I’ll go to the cathedral. You go to the High Commission.’

  They ran down the steps and back out into Eschenweg, past the Mercedes in the middle of the road and the dead man slumped over the wheel, past the houses with red roofs and tidy gardens, past the apartment blocks where the swastikas hung from the windows, into Adolf-Hitler-Strasse. Hannah went one way and took the tram to Oliva; Stefan took the tram the other way, back into the city. There wasn’t really any choice.

  *

  At the mouth of the Tote Weichsel, where the river dissolved into the Baltic, there was a narrow spit of sand that became thinner and thinner until it disappeared into the sea itself. This was the Westerplatte. In high summer the beaches here were far less crowded than Zoppot’s. Here, scattered among the trees, were the concrete bunkers that represented Poland’s only military presence in Danzig. A hundred soldiers sat there for no very good reason, except that they could. When the League of Nations established the Free City it was a tiny concession to mollify Polish anger that the city they still claimed as part of Poland wasn’t Polish. The League saw the Polish flag flying over this windswept spit of sand as a gesture so modest as to be unimportant. The Poles saw the flag over the Westerplatte as proof that one day the
city they called Gdan´sk would be Polish, whatever language was spoken in its streets. For the Germans of Danzig it had been an irrelevance to some and an irritation to others; an itch rather than a sore. But as the years went on and Hitler’s voice grew shriller in the city, the Polish fort and the Polish flag that flew over the Westerplatte had become an insult. It was a sore now. And if it could sometimes be ignored it could never be forgotten.

  Stefan Gillespie sat in Seán Lester’s car, looking out at the Baltic. Behind them, among the trees, was the red and white Polish flag. On a day like this the Westerplatte was a wild place. The beaches were empty and there was only the low hum of the wind off the sea. They were a long way from the streets swathed in swastikas and the trucks of stormtroopers cheering for a democratic end to democracy. The High Commissioner had driven the car himself. He had no reason to believe his chauffeur was a spy but trust wasn’t something that could be taken for granted in the Free City any more. And here, today at least, there would be nobody to see them.

  They had been silent for a while now. Lester was trying to make sense of what Stefan had told him. Some of it made no sense at all, but then he had only fragments of information. Where it did make sense it frightened him.

  Another car drove towards them. The High Commissioner watched it approaching, still thoughtful. He got out of his own car and Stefan followed. The constant hum of the wind was louder. As the second car pulled up Stefan could see that the driver wore the uniform of the Schutzpolizei.

  ‘Oberleutnant Lange is the nearest thing to a policeman I can trust.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure,’ said Stefan.

  ‘Trust can be bought and sold like everything else. Diplomacy isn’t really geared up for this. I remember some advice given to me by a British diplomat before I left Geneva: When deciding what to wear in the morning, bear in mind the day may bring unforeseen demands. Women should always keep a hat and gloves in the office for emergencies and men should keep a black tie in the desk for unexpected mourning. I don’t keep one in mine. Reinhold Lange is my best chance of not having to go home to get one.’