Shadow Of Evil

by Peter Alderson Sharp

  “There is a page missing. What happened to it? Where is it?” he asked Schneider.

  Schneider was visibly shaking now. “I have no idea, Herr General, I left the ledger on my desk all day yesterday, anyone could have interfered with it.”

  The look McFarlane gave him required no additional words. Instead, after a pause, he moved to the window and appeared to be examining the next remaining page, 29 October, in minute detail. Placing his handkerchief over the page, he gently closed the book.

  “There are slight indentations on the next page. Hauptmeister Kranz, do you have a forensic expert who can decipher them?”

  “Yes, Herr General, in Paderborn.”

  Turning to Schneider, McFarlane said, “We are sequestering this document as evidence.”

  “But Herr General,” protested the custodian, “what if I have a booking?”

  Obermeister Schmidt was writing something in his notebook. On completion, he tore the page out and handed it to Schneider. “This is a receipt for the ledger. Please feel free to use the back of the page to write down any bookings that come in while we have it.”

  The cynicism was lost on poor Schneider, who looked decidedly unhappy.

  Outside, McFarlane looked back at the castle. “Creepy place,” he remarked to Rahn.

  “Did the Allies ever find anything of interest here when they took the castle, Wolf?” asked Dan Kelly.

  “I heard it was filled with precious objects—at least that was the rumour,” interposed Manteufel.

  “That was certainly rumoured,” confirmed Rahn. “Himmler was obsessed with religious relics. He considered them to have occult powers, so he raided all the museums and removed anything he felt fitted the bill. He even sent out expeditions in search of the lost treasures of Solomon’s temple. In fact, he once sent a research team to Tibet to find the lost tribe of Aryans. The treasure he sought most was the Holy Grail, and it was rumoured that he had found it and stored it in a vault in Wewelsburg Castle along with the Spear of Longinus, a piece of the real cross and so on and so on. When the Allies took over the castle, they found the vault, but it was empty.”

  “So, what happened to the artefacts?” asked Sybilla.

  Rahn raised both arms high and, as he did so, the wind swirled his white hair in every direction. With staring eyes, he slowly lowered one arm and pointed to the mountains. “Out there, Billa, the Holy Grail is waiting to be found!”

  A Conversation with the Vril Maiden

  The reception accorded McFarlane in Paderborn was entirely at odds with that which he had received in Wewelsburg. Being a British garrison town, the German police were in constant contact with the British Military Police and their detective branch, the SIB. The two organisations were quite used to working hand in hand. McFarlane was met by Polizeioberrat Krüger, who was at pains to extend as much assistance as he could.

  Krüger assigned one of his best forensic scientists to examine the ledger, which was taken to a laboratory and the relevant page photographed from a number of different angles and in different lights. The film was then packed in a transit envelope and sent for immediate development, marked ‘most urgent’.

  Later that same afternoon, McFarlane was summoned to police HQ, where the scientist revealed his findings. From the many photographs he had taken, he had managed to extract a piece from here, another piece from there, to produce a composite picture. It showed:

  Taufe,

  Enge Familie und Freunde, ca. 15 Personen

  Frau H**ga vo* Sind***dor*

  Leng***esser St***se, Bad Tö**, Bay***

  4**96*6*12

  The stars indicated letters and numbers that were not decipherable.

  McFarlane cursed silently. A baptism. Close family and friends, about 15 people, but the crucial part, the name and address, had been impossible to decipher.

  Sensing McFarlane’s frustration, the scientist was quick to reassure. “The name and address will not be difficult to determine. Look,” he said, pointing, “the first name has to be ‘Helga’, followed by ‘von’, surname we don’t have yet, but the last letter must be ‘f’ as in dorf. Street name we don’t have but it’s clearly followed by ‘Strasse’. Now, look at the last word. That can only be ‘Bayern’, and the only ‘Bad Tö’ in Bayern is ‘Bad Tölz’ near the Austrian border. See? We’re nearly there. Hans is currently going through the telephone company files for Bad Tölz to match what we have of the surname to what we have of the telephone number. It’s a slow job, but Hans is very meticulous. He will match them.”

  As if on cue, there was a gentle tap on the door. A young man opened it a fraction and asked, “Is now good, Professor?”

  “Yes, yes, Hans, do you have it?”

  “It’s here, Professor,” he answered, handing over a sheet of paper.

  “Thank you, Hans.” A look of intense satisfaction spread over the scientist’s face. “The person you seek, Herr General, is Helga Maria von Sindelsdorf. Her address is Lenggriesser Strasse 141, Bad Tölz. Hans has very helpfully added some notes which may help you find the house—it appears to be a detached residence in a rural area—and he’s also included the telephone number in case you require it.”

  McFarland shook his head and smiled broadly. “Sheer genius, Professor, either that or magic, I’m not sure which.”

  “Neither.” The professor tried to appear self-deprecating, but couldn’t help looking slightly smug. “Hours and hours of study followed by years of practice. Dedication, application and determination, Herr General; it’s the German way!”

  The woman who answered a knock on her door at Lenggriesser Strasse 141, Bad Tölz, stood for a moment, silently appraising her visitors. A tall, strongly built man, clearly in charge. Beside him, a tough-looking man with a military air, behind him a priest with wild eyes and even wilder hair, and just to the side, taking a keen interest in the upper floor of the house, a woman of remarkable beauty. Thirty years ago, the woman mused, I looked just like this lady.

  Her reverie was interrupted by the man in charge, who was holding an identity card out to her. The woman didn’t deign to look at it. “Colonel Kelly, British security,” he said, then indicating the others, “Horst Manteufel and Sybilla Thorstaadt, also British security, and Father Wolfgang Rahn, French security.” Bob McFarlane, having had to return to London, had left Kelly in charge of the investigation.

  “Am I addressing Frau Helga Maria von Sindelsdorf?” he asked.

  “Not out here on the front step, Colonel, you must all come inside.”

  She led them into her living room where a log fire was roaring in the grate.

  “Herr Manteufel, will you help me carry in more chairs?”

  Manteufel raised his eyebrows in surprise but obediently followed the woman into an adjacent room, returning with three dining chairs which the woman arranged around the fire.

  “You men will sit in the hard chairs. Myself and this lovely young lady”—she indicated Sybilla— “will take the easy chairs. That way if I tire at looking at the gruesome faces of you men, I can rest my eyes on her beautiful countenance.”

  Sybilla didn’t quite know whether to be flattered or embarrassed and opted for both, but dutifully took her seat on the other side of the fireplace from the woman.

  “Frau Orsic,” said Rahn, “Maria if I may, the years have been kind to you.”

  “Father, that is an excellent strategy. Flattery will always gain you an advantage, I am very susceptible. Thank you for the compliment, however I am afraid I cannot return it. The years have not been kind to you—you look like a reject from a penal battalion. And by the way, I would love to meet the tough character who gave you that scar.”

  In spite of himself, Rahn chuckled. He could get to like Maria Orsic.

  “Well, gentlemen, and lady”—with a polite bow to Sybilla— “how can I help you? If you have come to discover the secrets of the mercury engine, you’re wasting your time, I won’t reveal them. Perhaps you wish to know how a plane can be made to
land and take off vertically? The location of the Holy Grail will remain my secret, which I will take to the grave. If it’s rocket propulsion, you’re too late. Von Braun has already sold out to the Americans, and I’ll wager he did not accord me any credit! Maybe you’d like a description of the creatures that inhabit the fourth planet of the star Aldebaran?”

  Kelly wondered if she was completely mad. There was no hint of humour in her voice or her demeanour; she seemed deadly serious. “As much as we’d like to discuss those issues with you, Frau Orsic, we’re here on a much more mundane quest. We’d simply like to ask you questions about some of your former acquaintances.”

  Maria shrugged and looked disappointed. “Ask away.”

  “In particular, we’re interested in Heinrich Müller.”

  “Which one? I knew two Heinrich Müllers.”

  “SS Gruppenführer and Generalleutnant der Polizei,” said Kelly, watching her face closely.

  “Oh, yes, I remember Heinie!” Maria’s face betrayed nothing. “Just for interest, Colonel, the other was also an SS General, but I didn’t know him well, so he remained, rather formally, ‘Heinrich’. The one you mean I knew very well, and he became ‘Heinie’.”

  “So, you knew him well?” asked Sybilla.

  “Quite well; he was an absolute darling, a lovely man, and so intelligent! He was a terrific chess player—he lost a couple of matches to grandmasters, but against mere mortals, I only knew of one person who could beat him.”

  Rahn, himself a keen chess player, his interest piqued, asked, “Who was that, Maria?”

  “Oh well, oh well—me, actually.” Her voice and demeanour did not exhibit any hint of boastfulness.

  “Do you know where he is now, Frau Orsic?” asked Kelly.

  “That is something I cannot tell you, Colonel.”

  “Cannot or will not?” Kelly persisted.

  “Colonel, it is a matter of supernatural indifference to me which modal verb you choose, the outcome is the same. Anyway, what do you want with him?”

  “He is a dangerous man, Maria,” said Rahn softly, “we want to bring him to justice.”

  “PAH! Justice.” Maria spat the words out. “Victor’s justice is what you mean. How many innocent men and women have you strung up in the name of your justice? Men and women whose only crime was that they had the audacity to be born German. You want the real criminals? I’ll give them to you: Heinie Himmler is in an unmarked grave on Lüneburg Heath—do not let that impede you—I can give you the exact coordinates. Dig him up and hang him! Reinhard Heydrich is in the Invalids’ Cemetery in Berlin, his monument and grave marker removed by the spineless, pathetic bureaucrats who now rule that city, but again I can give you the location. Dig him up and hang him! Müller, Jodel, Keitel and the like were simply soldiers, following orders, doing their duty. They were no different to Montgomery, Eisenhower or Bradley.”

  It was the first time they had elicited an emotional response from her. She was silent for a moment then added, the bitterness clear in her voice, “Don’t talk to me about justice. Why wasn’t Arthur Harris put on trial for war crimes?”

  They allowed her to calm herself for a while before Sybilla asked softly, “Did you know Eva Braun, Maria?”

  Maria smiled at her, grateful for her sensitivity. “I presume you mean Eva Hitler, yes, I met her a number of times—a rather frivolous young girl. Sadly, I think Eva must have been near the end of the queue when the fates were allocating intelligence, but she was a good German and fiercely loyal, dying alongside her husband in Berlin.”

  “You really think so, Maria?” asked Rahn casually.

  Maria turned her head sharply towards him. “Of course, it’s common knowledge.”

  Manteufel, who until this point had been watchful but silent, suddenly asked, “Frau Orsic, are there any pig farms in the area?”

  All eyes pivoted on Manteufel, astonished at the question, but quickly switched to Maria who suddenly flew back in her chair as if slapped. She swiftly regained her composure and, stammering slightly, answered, “Why, yes, I suppose so, this is after all a farming area. I imagine there are a few.”

  Manteufel smiled but said nothing further.

  Kelly rose. “Frau Orsic, thank you for accommodating our curiosity, but we have imposed on your patience long enough. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  The others rose and, after thanking Maria, followed Kelly out. Maria waited until she heard the door close, then rose and surreptitiously watched the group from the window, conversing near their car. They were only a few metres away and Maria could make out every movement of their lips, easily understanding every word they were speaking. The fact that they were conversing in English was no impediment to the senior Vril Maiden, who, long ago, had learned not only English and French but also to lip read in order not to miss a word of any conversation in which she was not directly involved.

  Kelly was speaking. “Come on then, Horst, you’ve got something, what is it?”

  Manteufel smiled enigmatically. “Cast your mind back to when we went down the ratline to Austria. Do you remember Gerda Busch in Jena?”

  Kelly nodded.

  “She told me something that has stuck in my mind,” continued Manteufel. “She thought it highly amusing that one of the SS men who had come down the line had been sent to a pig farm as cover, and it occurred to me that might be the cover that Müller was also using. After I asked the question, her reaction told me I’d pinned it! Notice that she didn’t ask me why I wanted to know—she didn’t need to—she knew why I wanted to know!”

  As the visitors’ car pulled away, Maria cursed her momentary lack of control. She must be getting old. Slowly and deliberately, she picked up the phone.

  Gardermann’s Farm

  The car rolled to a halt in the yard behind Gardermann’s farm and Kelly and his three compatriots debussed. The choice of Gardermann’s pig farm had been an easy one. Apart from the fact that he was a known dyed-in-the-wool Nazi, his farm was less than a mile from Maria’s house, down the same lane.

  Walking around the side of the old timber-framed farmhouse, they came upon the farmer hosing down one of the yards.

  “Herr Gardermann!” Kelly called above the general din of the hose and the squealing and snorting of pigs.

  Gardermann spun round in surprise, turning a small wheel near the end of the hose to switch off the water. “Yes, what is it?”

  Manteufel approached him, while the others tried in vain not to breathe in the stench. Producing a photograph of Müller, Manteufel asked, “Have you seen this man recently?”

  Gardermann took the picture and examined it closely, or at least appeared to do so, tilting his head first one way, then the other. Finally, he pulled a long face and shook his head.

  “Never seen him before, who is he?

  “Doesn’t matter, it’s not important,” said Manteufel, stowing the picture in his pocket, “but you have had someone working on the farm with you recently, is that not so?”

  “Yes,” said Gardermann, nodding enthusiastically, “Klaus Gruber, Austrian labourer, good man, I was sorry when he left. I could use him now.”

  “What did he look like?” asked Manteufel.

  “Hmm, let me think … very tall, and thin like a bean pole, long blond hair and, surprisingly for a fair-haired man, very dark eyes.”

  Manteufel smiled to himself. A more unlike description of Müller would have been hard to fabricate. Outwardly he grimaced. “No, doesn’t sound like the man I’m seeking, I think I must have the wrong farm.”

  He glanced at the farmhouse. He needed some pretext to get inside to check to see if ‘Herr Gruber’, or whoever he was, was hiding somewhere in the house.

  As if reading his mind, Gardermann said, “Why don’t you and your friends come in for a minute, I’ll make some coffee, or you can have a dunkel beer or a schnaps if you prefer.”

  “We’d really appreciate that, Herr Gardermann, if it’s not too much trouble, we’ve been travelling a
ll morning,” responded Manteufel eagerly.

  “Before we go in, let me show you my pride and joy.”

  Linking Manteufel’s arm, he led him to another pen in the yard and the others, curious, followed. Lying in the pen and covered in mud and other substances was one of the fattest boars Manteufel had ever seen. As Gardermann approached, the boar struggled to his feet, grunting in delight and running to Gardermann as fast as his obese body would allow. Gardermann entered the pen and, bending over, embraced the animal’s head while the boar snorted and squealed.

  “This beauty is Tomas!” exclaimed Gardermann to his audience. “I have lost count of the number of offspring he has sired; he never lets me down. Tomas and I go back years—he is like a brother to me.”

  Gardermann opened the gate and let the boar into the main yard. “Come on Tomas, there’s food in your trough and fresh water. Enjoy.”

  Tomas gave every appearance of doing just that as he buried his snout in the trough, grunting and snorting his satisfaction.

  “Come!” said Gardermann, leading the way back to the house.

  Gardermann stood aside chatting to Manteufel as he ushered the other three in. Manteufel was just about to follow when a volley of shots rang out. Rounds crashed against the farmhouse, some ricocheting away, one round thudding into the door frame just above Manteufel’s head.

  “Inside!” he roared, grabbing the farmer and thrusting him through the door, slamming it shut. Pushing the farmer to the floor, he called to the others. “Down and away from the windows, we’re under fire!”

  It was an unnecessary command. The other three had already assessed the situation and were crouched, peering round the side of the front windows, the glass of which had been shattered by the fusillade.

  “Don’t return fire until you have a good target—we only have limited ammunition,” called Manteufel.

  Kelly left command to Manteufel—in a situation like this there could be no one better than the ex-Fallschirmjäger Sergeant Major. He cursed the fact that the boot of the car contained several boxes of ammunition, as well as the sniper rifle, he was carrying, ready for the time when he had to carry out his ‘special mission’. The firing from the assailants was now almost stopped, and Kelly was pondering whether he could make a dash to collect his rifle and the other ammunition, when Gardermann sprang to his feet screaming, “No! No! Tomas, no!”