by Peter Watson
“Next time you talk to Hartt, ask him to settle my thousand dollars on something he thinks is worth it. Doesn’t matter what, I’ll trust him. He’s the whiz kid, after all. And here’s the sport. If you have a thousand dollars you can spare, get him to do the same for you. From then on it’s a race.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll settle on an end point, a closing date—since we are both academics, let’s say the end of the academic year, May 31. Two months from now, approximately. Whoever has the shares which are worth the most on that day wins.”
“Wins what?”
“Whatever you like, dear boy. Make a suggestion.”
I thought. Here was a chance to avoid a fight. “The SS helmet in the flat.”
“Done.” He cackled triumphantly. Too late, I realized he had trapped me at last into a gamble, however small. “Let me know what shares Hartt gives me. I don’t mind what they are so long as he favors them. And tell him my check will be in the mail tonight. I know that’s a joke phrase to you Americans. But as you are aware, Walter, I cannot bring myself to joke about money.”
A thousand dollars was a great deal then and not what it is now, which is not a lot. Furthermore, if I should divorce my wife, I had no idea what sort of financial arrangement we would come to. On the other hand, I did have a bit of money saved, I had no children and I had a job to go back to in California. Sammy was a genius on the stock market, there was no doubt about that, and I would be lying if I said that the sort of risk Maurice proposed had not crossed my mind from the moment I had first met Hartt. So I decided I would pit my thousand against Maurice’s. With luck both shares would rise so that whoever lost the helmet would at least have won something.
“Walter? Hi, where are you?” Hartt was as friendly as Hobel would have been cold.
“Koblenz.”
“In God’s name, why?”
I told him.
“Okay. So what now?”
“I’m going to have the vineyards in the Wachau checked by a colleague in Vienna. And I’m hoping Henry de Jaeger, in Hamburg, will pay a visit on the Baroness von Haltern for me. You can tell all this to Hobel if he asks.”
“Got that. What do you want me to do?”
“Spend two thousand dollars on Wall Street.”
“Come again.”
“You heard me, Sammy.” I explained about the bet. “They say in Frankfurt that you are a millionaire already. We’d like to ride on your coattails. You said the other day that auto company shares were worth investing in. Buy a thousand dollars of those for me. I’ll trust your judgment. Then choose something for Maurice. He’ll go with what you decide for him too.”
There was a chuckle down the line.
“Why are you laughing?”
His voice gurgled again. “It’s a good thing I’m not superstitious, or I might think you could read my mind. I’ve got a line through to New York at this very moment. As soon as the market opens, I’m moving five grand myself into Metropolitan Motors. You want to join me?”
“Yes, please,” I said quickly. “A grand.”
“Sure you’ve got the nerve?”
“Don’t know. This is the first time I’ve tried it.”
“Shares go down, you know, as well as up.”
“Yes, but I’m told the ones you back usually go up. And quite quickly. I’ll take the risk. So will Maurice. Choose something for him that you can buy with a round one thousand dollars. That way it’s clear who is winning the bet.”
Silence at the other end. Was Sammy having second thoughts? No.
“Paper. That’s what we’ll put your friend into. America has lots of space for trees to make paper. And after wars you get huge bureaucracies forming, and socialist governments. They have one in Britain already. They always gobble up paper. And people are going to make babies now the war is over—lots of them. So there will be a boom in education, and schools and colleges are even better than governments at eating paper. Yes, tell your friend I’ll try to get him into Confederate Paper Mills—a thousand you say? Okay. I’ll confirm it next time we talk. But don’t blame me if you are both destitute this time next week.”
“Thanks, Sammy. You’ll get our money in a day or so.” New York came through on the other line and we hung up without even discussing in detail what he should tell Hobel. I sipped the remains of the cold coffee I had taken with me to the phone and twiddled the gold ring on my finger. I had always wanted to know if making money on Wall Street was as easy as it often seemed from reading the newspapers. Now I was about to find out.
Henry de Jaeger, whom I called next, was an excruciatingly polite man from Louisiana; he was of French extraction and had been on the same intelligence course as me at Fort Bragg in 1942. I didn’t like Henry but I knew he was good—very good—at his job. Tall, he was a mixture of the boyish—smooth skin, a deferential, diffident manner, floppy hair falling down his face—and a killer. He had hard eyes that shone like glazed quince, hands built like tarantulas, with long-jointed fingers covered in black hairs, and the crudest, most cancerous tongue I had ever encountered.
“Yessir,” he sang in that plantation lilt of his, when I finally tracked him down in his office and explained what I wanted. “Be happy to oblige.” Dutifully, he took notes without query as I described the situation. “Got that, got that.” He didn’t ask how I was or what I had been doing since last we met. When I had finished, he simply asked, “And what shall we do with this shithead Nazi if we find him? Dip his cock in cooking fat?”
Down the line I winced. “No, Henry. I hate Nazis just as much as you do. But just hold him and let me know. I’ll fly up.”
“Yessir,” he said, an obedient boy again.
I had done all I could, for the time being, with the first lead I had extracted from the von Zell file. Now for the second one.
That meant Munich, where, I had learned from the documents, von Zell’s senior secretary now lived. That afternoon I found myself on the same road I had been on twenty-four hours earlier but headed in the opposite direction. It was sunny now, though not as warm as I had expected. However, provided I kept the collar of my greatcoat up around my ears I did not need to put up the top of the car. Just outside Darmstadt I picked up a very pretty girl, but though she laughed at my jokes and even agreed to share my pipe, she got out near Heidenheim and I arrived in Munich alone.
I found a room at the Bayerischerhof, but since it was now nearly ten o’clock, the restaurant was closed. As usual, in situations like that, the railway station came up trumps. The brasserie was open, serving three types of hot sausage and jugs of beer.
As I undressed that night I wondered about my money working for me all those thousands of kilometers away in Wall Street. Would it, in time, make me a rich man?
3
The next day I had the early hours to myself. My plan was to call on Frieda Breker, von Zell’s principal secretary, in the evening. I reasoned that she probably had another job now and that at night she would be tired, less resistant.
As it had been a couple of days since I had enjoyed a full meal at the proper time, I decided that day to treat myself to a lavish lunch. There was a restaurant, with a terrace, overlooking the river and, provided I kept my coat on, it was warm enough to eat outside. Lamb seemed safest, roasted with potatoes and parsnips—unusual now but common then—fried in a skillet and larded with garlic and oil. The only red wine available was Austrian and that in full bottles. So I drank too much but enjoyed it.
In the afternoon I visited the Alta Pinakothek, Munich’s famous art gallery, with its extensive range of Dürers. I called at the main police station to use their map to locate Frieda Breker’s apartment. Then it was back to the Bayerischerhof for a snooze. I didn’t know it then but that proved to be a lucky move.
It was already a little past 7:30 before I rapped on Frieda Breker’s door. I had left it that late so as to be sure she was home. The flat was in a large apartment block with a curved front on one of the mai
n boulevards leading out of the city and overlooking some playing fields. The building had seen better days, with its huge tubs for plants that were now empty and neglected and a reception desk in the main lobby that had been shoved against a wall and forgotten. Spent light bulbs had not been replaced, nor cracked glass repaired. A lot of Europe would be like that for years to come.
It was no surprise, therefore, to find that the elevator did not work and that I had to climb the stairs to the fourth floor.
Whoever was inside took a long time answering my knock, but that may have been because the apartment was so big. I could hear voices—women’s voices—and then footsteps approaching the door.
“Who is it?” a voice asked through the wood.
“Lieutenant Wolff,” I replied. “U.S. Army. I would like to speak to Fräulein Breker, please.”
There was a rattle of chains and bolts and then the door swung back to reveal a statuesque blond woman wearing a flowered dress and very high-heeled shoes, as was the fashion in those days.
“Fräulein Breker?”
She nodded. Speaking in German, I introduced myself again and said that I would like to ask her some questions about her former employer, Rudolf von Zell. “May I come in?”
Often, this was a tricky moment but not this time. She stood back to reveal a long, narrow passage. I led the way along it. Painted a sort of shiny chocolate, it was as dingy as an air-raid shelter but it opened out, at the end, into a much cheerier room, large and gaudy, and containing, to my astonishment, three other gorgeous women. It was their voices I had heard from outside the flat, but now, as I appeared ahead, they fell silent. Not one of them was less than five foot six, and I love tall women. As Fräulein Breker, speaking from behind, introduced me, I instinctively took out my American cigarettes and began handing them around.
My expression, however, must have remained one of astonishment as Frieda Breker continued to speak. For it emerged that the three other girls had all worked for von Zell. I now recalled that paragraph in the file which said he was grand enough to merit four secretaries. After von Zell had disappeared, and the war had ended, I was told, the girls had decided to stick together and set up house: they knew each other well, got on, employment and housing were not easy to come by and, this way, they could afford to live provided two or three of them had jobs, supporting the others. And it was fun.
They had all accepted my offer of cigarettes enthusiastically and I was offered a chair and a glass of beer.
I couldn’t believe my luck. Tracking down the four girls, had they been living separately, as I had imagined, could easily have taken me two or three weeks. Neither Hobel nor General Eisenhower would have liked that. But now I could get this part of the investigation over in one night. I was in no hurry, however; the girls were far too attractive for that.
I had not arrived empty-handed. For Fräulein Breker I had with me the one thing that was, if anything, more potent as a gift than American cigarettes—nylon stockings. She was delighted with them and thanked me extravagantly, pressing the stockings to her cheeks to feel the smooth sheen. I confessed that I had more in the car and the girls forced me to fetch them immediately. When I came back I handed them out and was rewarded with a big kiss from each thrilled girl. My beer glass had been refilled and the girls had lit up again from the pack that I had left on the table.
Would I like some supper? Frieda Breker asked. The others all pressed me to say yes, so what else could I do but stay? I didn’t know how we were to get from dinner to the interrogation, but I didn’t worry. For the time being I just let events take their course.
In my honor the girls decided to make it a party. They disappeared, to return in their finest clothes, what they had left of their makeup, which was in very short supply in those days, and, of course, their nylons.
“We must have some music, too,” said one of the girls, going to the piano. “And, since you wish to inquire after Dr. von Zell, we shall play some of his music.” It emerged that, because von Zell had vanished so quickly, he had left behind a great many things, among them his sheet music, which the girls had taken. The piano player—Pauline, with long hair, verging on red—began by playing a very sad Schubert piano sonata. It was clearly something she had played before and was known to the other girls, for they promptly fell silent. Another sonata followed, then two impromptus. By this time Fräulein Breker had made the table ready.
“Enough Schubert,” said Frieda, after the second impromptu was finished. She motioned to one of the other girls. “Margaretta will play some von Zell after supper.”
“Von Zell composed?” I said with some surprise.
Margaretta smiled. “Oh no. But he discovered, when he met his wife—she was a music publisher at one time—that there was once an Austrian composer also called von Zell who had studied with Mozart. His works are still played.”
Pauline took up the story. “Zell is a place in Austria, but Dr. von Zell was from Worms and he was one of those Germans who have always been interested in the greater Germany—you know, pieces of Switzerland, Czechoslovakia, France and, of course, Hapsburg Austria. Dr. von Zell made a point of acquainting himself with the Austrian composers—Schubert, Mozart, Haydn, Bruckner—even Schoenberg, whom none of us liked.”
And he was the same with Austrian wines, I thought to myself.
The supper was meager but, for all of us I think, huge fun, certainly to begin with. It was ages since they had had a man to dine there and what man could fail to enjoy the company of four such bonny women? It was difficult for me to believe that they had all once worked for the Nazi high command. We ate cheese, bread, a hot soup with vegetables and dumplings in it and there was a pastry to follow. Plenty of beer but no coffee. We lingered over the pastries and I handed around more cigarettes.
One thing of particular interest had attracted my attention during the meal. This was the habit they all shared of referring to their former boss as Herr Doktor von Zell. This, I thought, implied respect for him and an absence of familiarity. Had any of them been more familiar in private? Well, that was what I was there to find out.
I tapped the bowl of my pipe on the table. “Ladies,” I said, smiling, “it has been a great pleasure to share your table. Soup and cheese never tasted so good.” The girls applauded and stamped their feet, and one or two blew me kisses. I held up my hand for silence. “But I came here to do a job and the information I need is important, so important that I am afraid I must question each one of you separately.”
More stamping of feet and laughter as the girls pretended to misunderstand my motives. I held up my hand again.
“Sorry, ladies, but I must be serious for a moment. I have to ask you questions in such a way that you cannot compare stories.” The girls exchanged glances at this. In stressing my seriousness, I was stepping across some invisible boundary; the mood of the party was changing.
Sensing this, I added hurriedly, “No, it is not that I don’t trust you, or anything like that. But it is important that I find Dr. von Zell as quickly as possible.” I stressed the “Dr.”
“But how are you going to do that, Lieutenant? There are four of us and only one of you?” It was Frieda Breker speaking. “What is to stop three of us from comparing notes while you are in another room with the fourth?”
She had a point but I had thought ahead of her. “Because I shall not question you here.” Now I had their attention. “I am arresting you and taking you to jail.”
Disbelief and horror spread in equal measure across the four faces. I could see them thinking, as one woman, Was this a way for me to repay their hospitality?
It was not, and I smiled reassuringly. “Please, ladies, don’t be alarmed. It is merely a friendly arrest so that we can get this over with quickly. Please think. We’ve had a lovely dinner but I am not fooling when I say that my job of tracking down Dr. von Zell is important—and urgent. Any one of you may know something that could prove vital. I love all of you but I need to know what you know. So,
as I say, please think. The only place I can make absolutely sure that you can’t compare stories is if you are safely locked up in a police station, each of you in a cell all to yourself. Extravagant, I know, but I’m going to have to do it. And the only way I can get you into those cells is by arresting you, each lovely one of you.”
I took out my orders. “Look, I have the authority of General Eisenhower himself. Does that convince you that the information I want is important?”
No one said anything and my orders remained on the table, untouched. They believed me—or maybe they weren’t interested.
Margaretta went to the piano, sorted through the sheets of music and held up a thin booklet.
“This is the von Zell,” she said and sat down on the stool.
It was, thankfully, a bright, cheerful piece, with a brisk tempo and a series of loud, deep chords. She was shrewd, Margaretta, and the lively mood of the party was more or less restored by this, with the other girls tapping the table in time. When I handed around more cigarettes they were accepted enthusiastically. Then, when the music stopped, the girls—cigarettes jutting from their lips like the white guns of a tropical flotilla—left the table as it was and clambered into their coats. A caretaker, or night watchman, was standing by the entrance to the apartments, savoring what was probably his last cigarette of the day, and he watched in mute amazement as first one, and then all the other girls squeezed themselves into my car, wedging their shiny, nylon-coated legs wherever they would fit, amid giggles and shrieks of pleasure at the prospect of a ride with the top down.
It was 11:00 when we left the apartment block and, since I could not drive too fast with all that flesh in the car, it was another twenty minutes before we arrived downtown. I realize that, nowadays, an army man could not just turn up at a police station late at night and commandeer a few cells. But in 1946 that is exactly the sort of thing you could do. Germany had been a totalitarian country for years and years, which meant that people were used to arbitrary power, to being ordered around. And there was still, after all, a military government in the area, run by Americans. With Eisenhower’s orders in my pocket, I was a more powerful man than I have ever been, before or since, which is probably just as well.
