by Eric Ambler
He telephoned the Embassy man immediately.
“I’ve just seen Miss Kolin,” he said.
“Good. All fixed up?”
“No, not all fixed up. Look, Don, isn’t there somebody else I can get?”
“What’s the matter with Kolin?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it is I don’t like it.”
“You must have caught one of her bad days. I told you she’d had some pretty rugged experiences as a refugee.”
“Look, I’ve talked to lots of refugees who’ve had rugged experiences. I’ve never talked to one before who made me sympathize with the Gestapo.”
“Too bad. Her work’s O.K., though.”
“She’s not.”
“You wanted the best interpreter available.”
“I’ll take the next best.”
“Nobody who’s actually worked with Kolin has ever had anything but praise for her.”
“She may be fine for conferences and committees. This is different.”
“What’s different about it? You’re not on a vacation trip are you?” There was a note of irritation in the voice now.
George hesitated. “No, but-”
“Supposing there’s a dispute later over the testimony. You’re going to look pretty silly explaining that you passed up the chance of getting a reliable interpreter because you didn’t like her personality, aren’t you, George?”
“Well, — ” George broke off and then sighed. “O.K.-if I come back a raving alcoholic I shall send the doctor’s bills to you.”
“You’ll probably end by marrying the girl.”
George laughed politely and hung up.
Two days later he and Maria Kolin left for Germany.
5
A book-keeper named Friedrich Schirmer had died at Bad Schwennheim in 1939. He had had a son named Johann. Find this son. If he was dead, then find his heir.
Those were George’s instructions.
There were probably thousands of Johann Schirmers in Germany, but certain things were known about this one. He had been born somewhere about 1895, in Schaffhausen. He had married a woman whose given name was Ilse. There was a photograph of the two taken in the early twenties. George had a copy. It would probably be of little help in making a positive identification at this stage, but it might serve to remind former neighbours or acquaintances of the pair. Appearances were usually better remembered than names. The photograph itself supplied another faint clue; the photographer’s imprint on the mount showed that it had been taken in Zurich.
However, the first move in the plan of campaign which Mr. Sistrom had mapped out for him was, as Mr. Moreton had surmised, to go to Bad Schwennheim and start where the former inquiry had stopped.
When Friedrich Schirmer had died, he had been estranged from his son for several years; but there was always a chance that the war might have changed things. Families tended to draw together in emergencies. It would have been natural, Mr. Sistrom had contended, for Johann to try to get in touch with his father at that time. If he had done so, he would have been officially notified of the death. There might be a record of that notification giving his address. True, Mr. Moreton had heard nothing on the subject from Bad Schwennheim, but that proved nothing. The priest might have forgotten his promise or neglected it; his letter could have been lost in the uncertain wartime mails; he might have gone off into the German army as a chaplain. There were endless possibilities.
In the train on the way to Basel, George explained it all to Miss Kolin.
She listened attentively. When he had finished she nodded. “Yes, I see. You can, of course, neglect no possibility.” She paused. “Do you hope much from Bad Schwennheim, Mr. Carey?”
“Not much, no. I don’t know exactly what the German procedure is, but I would say that when an old man like this Friedrich dies, the authorities don’t fall over backwards finding relations to notify. We wouldn’t, anyway. What’s the point? There’s no estate. And supposing Johann did write. The letter would go to the sanatorium and most likely get returned through the mail marked ‘Addressee deceased’ or whatever it is they put. The priest could easily not have heard about it.”
She pursed her lips. “It is curious about this old man.”
“Not very. That sort of thing happens every day, you know.”
“You say that Mr. Moreton found nothing of the son except this one photograph among the old man’s papers. No letters, no other photographs, except of his dead wife, nothing. They quarrelled, we are told. It would be interesting to know why.”
“The wife got tired of having him around, probably.”
“What disease did he die of?”
“Bladder trouble of some sort.”
“He would know he was dying, and yet he did not write to his son before the end or even ask the priest to do so?”
“Perhaps he just didn’t care any more.”
“Perhaps.” She thought for a moment. “Do you know the name of the priest?”
“It was a Father Weichs.”
“Then I think you could make inquiries before going to Bad Schwennheim. You could find out if Father Weichs is still there from the church authorities at Freiburg. If he is not still there, they will be able to tell you where he is. You might save much time that way.”
“That’s a good idea, Miss Kolin.”
“At Freiburg you may also be able to find out if the old man’s belongings were claimed by a relative.”
“I think we may have to go to Baden for that information, but we can try at Freiburg.”
“You do not object that I make these suggestions, Mr. Carey?”
“Not a bit. On the contrary, they’re very helpful.” “Thank you.”
George did not find it necessary to mention that the ideas she had put forward had, in fact, already occurred to him. He had given some thought to Miss Kolin since taking his reluctant decision to employ her.
He disliked her and, if Mr. Moreton were to be believed, would end by detesting her. She was not somebody he had chosen freely to serve him. She had, to all intents and purposes, been imposed upon him. It would be senseless, therefore, to behave towards her as if she ought to represent-as a good secretary ought to represent, for instance-an extension of part of his own mind and will. She was rather more in the position of an unsympathetic associate with whom it was his duty to collaborate amicably until a specific piece of work was done. He had encountered and dealt philosophically with such situations in the army; there was no reason why he should not deal philosophically with this one.
Thus, having prepared himself for the worst, he had found the Miss Kolin who had presented herself with suitcase and portable typewriter at the Gare de l’Est that morning an agreeable modification of it. True, she had marched along the platform as if she were going out to face a firing-squad, and, true, she looked as if she had been insulted several times already that day, but she had greeted him in quite a friendly fashion and had then disconcerted him by producing an excellent map of Western Germany on which she had drawn for his convenience the boundaries of the various occupation zones. She had accepted with businesslike comprehension his patently guarded outline of the case, and shown herself alert and practical when he had gone on to explain in detail the nature of the work they had to do in Germany. Now she was making intelligent and helpful suggestions. Kolin on the job was evidently a very different person from Kolin being interviewed for one. Or perhaps the man at the Embassy had been right and, having experienced one of her bad days, he was now enjoying a good one. In that case it would be as well to discover how, if at all, the bad might be avoided. In the meantime he could hope.
After two good days in Freiburg, his attitude towards his collaborator had undergone a further change. He was no nearer liking her, but he had acquired a respect for her ability which, from a professional standpoint at any rate, was far more comforting. Within two hours of their arrival, she had discovered that Father Weichs had left Bad Schwennheim in 1943, having been called t
o the Hospital of the Sacred Heart, an institution for disabled men and women, just outside Stuttgart. By the end of the following day she had unearthed the facts that Friedrich Schirmer’s belongings had been disposed of under a law dealing with the intestacy of paupers and that the dead man’s next of kin was recorded as “Johann Schirmer, son, whereabouts unknown.”
To begin with he had attempted to direct each step of the inquiry himself, but as they were passed from one official to another, the laborious time-wasting routine of question and interpretation followed by answer and interpretation became absurd. At his suggestion she began to interpret the substance of conversations. Then, in the middle of one interview, she had broken off impatiently.
“This is not the person you want,” she had told him. “You will waste time here. There is, I think, a simpler way.”
After that he had stood back and let her go ahead. She had done so with considerable energy and self-assurance. Her methods of dealing with people were artless but effective. With the co-operative she was brisk, with the obstructive she was imperious, for the suspicious she had a bright, metallic smile. In America, George decided, the smile would not have beguiled an oversexed schoolboy; but in Germany it seemed to work. Its final triumph was the persuasion of a dour functionary in the police department to telephone to Baden-Baden for the court records of the disposal of Friedrich Schirmer’s estate.
It was all very satisfactory, and George said so as handsomely as he could.
She shrugged. “It does not seem necessary for you to waste your time with these simple, routine inquiries. If you feel you can trust me to take care of them I am glad to do so.”
It was that evening that he found out something rather more disconcerting about Miss Kolin.
They had fallen into the habit of discussing the next day’s work briefly over dinner. Afterwards she would go to her room and George would write letters or read. This particular evening, however, they had been drawn into conversation with a Swiss businessman in the bar before dinner and were later invited by him to sit at his table. His motive was quite evidently the seduction of Miss Kolin, if that could be accomplished without too much trouble and if George had no objection. George had none. The man was agreeable and spoke good English; George was interested to see how he would make out.
Miss Kolin had had four brandies before dinner. The Swiss had had several Pernods. With dinner she drank wine. So did the Swiss. After dinner he invited her to have brandy again, and again ordered large ones. She had four. So did the Swiss. With the second of them he became coyly amorous and tried to stroke her knee. She repelled the advance absently but efficiently. By the time he had finished his third, he was haranguing George bitterly on the subject of American fiscal policies. Shortly after his fourth he went very pale, excused himself hurriedly, and did not reappear. With a nod to the waiter Miss Kolin ordered a fifth for herself.
George had noticed on previous evenings that she liked brandy and that she rarely ordered anything else to drink. He had even noticed when they had been going through the customs in Basel that she carried a bottle of it in her suitcase. He had not, however, observed that it affected her in any way. Had he been questioned on the point he would have said that she was a model of sobriety.
Now, as she sipped the new arrival, he watched her, fascinated. He knew that had he been drinking level with her, he would by now have been unconscious. She was not even talkative. She was holding herself very upright in the chair and looking like an attractive but very prudish young school-mistress about to deal for the first time with a case of juvenile exhibitionism. There was a suspicion of drool at one corner of her mouth. She retrieved it neatly with her tongue. Her eyes were glassy. She focused them with care on George.
“We go, then, tomorrow to the sanatorium at Bad Schwennheim?” she said precisely.
“No, I don’t think so. We’ll go and see Father Weichs at Stuttgart first. If he knows something it may be unnecessary to go to Bad Schwennheim.”
She nodded. “I think you are right, Mr. Carey.”
She looked at her drink for a moment, finished it at a gulp, and rose steadily to her feet.
“Good night, Mr. Carey,” she said firmly.
“Good night, Miss Kolin.”
She picked up her bag, turned round, and positioned herself facing the door. Then she began to walk straight for it. She missed a table by a hairsbreadth. She did not sway. She did not teeter. It was a miraculous piece of self-control. George saw her go out of the restaurant, change direction towards the concierge’s desk, pick up her room key, and disappear up the stairs. To a casual observer she might have had nothing stronger to drink than a glass of Rhine wine.
The Hospital of the Sacred Heart proved to be a grim brick building some way out of Stuttgart off the road to Heilbronn.
George had taken the precaution of sending a long telegram to Father Weichs. In it he had recalled Mr. Moreton’s visit to Bad Schwennheim in 1939 and expressed his own wish to make the priest’s acquaintance. He and Miss Kolin were kept waiting for only a few minutes before a nun appeared to guide them through a wilderness of stone corridors to the priest’s room.
George remembered that Father Weichs spoke good English, but it seemed more tactful to begin in German. The priest’s sharp blue eyes flickered from one to the other of them as Miss Kolin translated George’s polite explanation of their presence there and his hope that the telegram (which he could plainly see on the priest’s table) had arrived to remind him of an occasion in 1939 when…
The muscles of Father Weichs’s jaws had been twitching impatiently as he listened. Now he broke in, speaking English.
“Yes, Mr. Carey. I remember the gentleman, and, as you see, I have had your telegram. Please sit down.” He waved them to chairs and walked back to his table.
“Yes,” he said, “I remember the gentleman very well. I had reason to.”
A twisted smile creased the lean cheeks. It was a fine, dramatic head, George thought. You were sure at first that he must hold some high office in the church; and then you noticed the cracked, clumsy shoes beneath the table, and the illusion went.
“He asked me to give you his good wishes,” George said.
“Thank you. Are you here on his behalf?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Moreton is now an invalid and retired.” It was difficult not to be stilted with Father Weichs.
“I am sorry to hear that, of course.” The priest inclined his head courteously. “However, it was not the gentleman himself who gave me special cause to remember him. Consider! A lonely old man dies. I am his confessor. Mr. Moreton comes to me asking questions about him. That is all. It is not as unusual as you think. An old person who has been neglected by relatives for many years often becomes interesting to them when he dies. It is not often, of course, that an American lawyer comes, but even that is not remarkable in itself. There are many German families who have ties with your country.” He paused. “But the incident becomes memorable,” he added dryly, “when it proves to be a matter of importance for the police.”
“The police?” George tried hard not to look as guilty as he suddenly felt.
“I surprise you, Mr. Carey?”
“Very much. Mr. Moreton was making inquiries on behalf of a perfectly respectable American client in the matter of a legacy-” George began.
“A legacy,” interposed the priest, “which he said was for a small amount of money.” He paused and gave George a wintry smile before he went on. “I understand, of course, that size is relative and that in America it is not measured with European scales, but even in America it seems an exaggeration to call three million dollars a small amount.”
Out of the corner of his eye George saw Miss Kolin looking startled for once; but it was a poor satisfaction at that moment.
“Mr. Moreton was in a spot, Father,” he said. “He had to be discreet. The American papers had already caused trouble by giving the case too much publicity. There had been a whole lot of false claims. Be
sides, the case was very complicated. Mr. Moreton didn’t want to raise anybody’s hopes and then have to disappoint them.”
The priest frowned. “His discretion placed me in a very dangerous position with the police. And with certain other authorities,” he added bleakly.
“I see. I’m sorry about that, Father. I think if Mr. Moreton had known-” He broke off. “Do you mind telling me what happened?”
“If it is of interest to you. A little before Christmas in 1940 the police came to me to ask questions about Mr. Moreton’s visit of the year before. I told them what I knew. They wrote it down and went away. Two weeks later they came back with some other men, not of the police, but the Gestapo. They took me to Karlsruhe.” His face hardened. “They accused me of lying about Mr. Moreton’s visit. They said that it was a matter of highest importance to the Reich. They said that if I did not tell them what they wished to know, I would be treated as some of my brothers in the church had been treated.” He had been looking at his hands. Now he raised his head, and his eyes met George’s. “Perhaps you are able to guess what they wanted to know, Mr. Carey.”
George cleared his throat. “I should say they wanted to know about someone named Schneider.”
He nodded. “Yes, someone named Schneider. They said that Mr. Moreton had been searching for this person and that I was concealing my knowledge. They believed that I knew where this person was who was entitled to the American money and that Mr. Moreton had bought my silence so that the money could go to an American.” He shrugged. “The sadness of evil men is that they can believe no truth that does not paint the world in their colours.”
“They weren’t interested in Friedrich Schirmer?”
“No. I think that they believed in the end that it was a trick of Mr. Moreton’s to mislead them. I do not know. Perhaps they only became tired of me. In any case, they let me go. But you see I have reason to remember Mr. Moreton.”
“Yes. But I don’t see how he could have anticipated the trouble he would cause you.”
“Oh, I have no bitterness, Mr. Carey.” He sat back in his chair. “But I should like to know the truth.”
