by Celia Rees
He smiled. An unrepentant Nazi with no regard for human life. He swept back his thick, blond hair with his right hand, a characteristic movement. He was the kind who had always relied on his good looks, his charm, even though his face had coarsened; his blue eyes had lost their brightness, they were dull and hard, like unpolished lapis. And that scarring on his face. Two deep, parallel grooves gouged deep into the flesh. Put there by a woman’s long, sharp fingernails; a last, defiant wounding, to mar his beauty, mark him for life as a murdering swine.
“Now, there is no more to say.” He reached for a cigarette. “I don’t like goodbyes, you know that. I just wanted to thank you for bringing my Elisabeth to me, for all you have done for us.”
She stood up and walked to the edge of the balcony. She heard the scrape of von Stavenow’s chair behind her, heard the spin of his lighter, smelled the tang of smoke from his cigarette. The setting sun was catching the snow on the distant mountains, turning them to rose gold and copper. Below the peaks, a jagged line of pines showed, Hooker’s Green against the deepening blue reflected in the steel mirror of the lake. The view was famous, that’s what people came here to see.
It was over. She’d done what Dori had asked of her. What happened now was up to others. She was free.
Germany seemed distant to her. Home, more so, yet she could see them clearly: Mother sitting in her armchair, the French windows open to the smell of roses after rain; Louisa in her kitchen, pushing back her heavy hair with her wrist, waiting for the rattle of Ted’s key. She would not be going back, not now, not for a long time, if ever, so this was a farewell of sorts.
Harry was waiting for her. She would be starting a new life. She saw him now, that slight quirking between his brows, there even when he smiled, as if happiness was an accidental surprise. I will be there soon, my love, to smooth that furrowing. I will be there quite soon now.
She looked up to a sharp, mewing cry. A hawk, or could it be an eagle? Turning and turning in a gyre, higher and higher . . . A sound pulled her back. It came with no warning; no sudden shudder of premonition. A sharp crack, as of a twig breaking. High above, the bird wheeled in its flight, heading toward the mountains with a flick of its powerful wings.
Dori watched from her balcony in the chalet above; the higher elevation and relative position afforded a good view of what might be happening in Pensione Sterzberg. She saw Edith come to the edge of the balcony, saw von Stavenow follow, saw him light a cigarette and felt a flutter of alarm. Edith was very exposed standing there. As, of course, she was . . . She swept her binoculars across the opposite shore and caught a sudden flash in the trees. Binoculars, maybe, or a rifle sight catching the sun . . .
She turned to run.
The first shot sent the birds on the lake rising up in a sudden cacophony. The noise grew, echoing away up the narrow valley. Rifle shots. One percussion followed by another and another. Dori felt heat on her cheek, a stinging, warm wetness, heard a whining yip close to her ear. She crouched down as she ran, using the flimsy balustrade as cover. When she looked back, she could no longer see Edith, just von Stavenow racing down toward the jetty. She leaned over the balcony and fired shot after shot. The Beretta was useless at a distance. Nevertheless, she kept on firing until the hammer clicked and clicked and clicked.
Below, an engine caught, stalled, caught again with a deep rumble and sustained roaring. Waves slopped and lapped on the shore. A small boat was pulling away from the jetty and heading for the middle of the lake, turning in a wide arc on its own creamy wake.
Dori ran down the steps from her balcony, crossed to Pensione Sterzberg, and raced up the flight on the outside of the chalet. At the top, she grabbed onto the balustrade, sending a geranium flying, petals scattering. Edith lay where she had fallen. Blown back by the force of the shot, surprise still on her face. There could have been no moment of recognition, no time to react. Dori knelt and tried for a pulse, knowing there wouldn’t be one, feeling for it anyway.
Nothing. She was dead.
Dori removed her glasses, one lens shattered, the other darkened with blood. Her eyes were half open, their greeny, gray-blue already clouding to a sea-glass dullness. Dori gently closed them, brushing a scarlet petal from her cheek. She touched the waves of golden hair spreading out like a halo, merging with the crimson pool that darkened the wooden floor. There was nothing she could do.
She was aware of people around her. Rossi’s hands paddling the air. Cries of “Orrore! Orrore!”; maids, women from the kitchen crossing themselves, hands at their mouths, eyes wide, one girl crying, her face turned into the shoulder of an older woman while Dori crouched over Edith, glaring up at them, as protective as a mother cat.
“This is a mess.”
Drummond strode through the group. He walked round, head down, inspecting the body.
“Carabinieri?”
He turned sharply to the people standing on the fringes. Rossi shook his head.
“Well, don’t. No police,” he said briskly and took a bundle of lire from his pocket. “We’ll take care of this.”
He knelt down next to the body and examined the hole drilled in the temple.
“Head shot. Neat job.” He looked at the Beretta still in Dori’s hand.
“I shot after him but . . .” She shook her head quickly.
He looked down at the small gun. “Next to useless.”
“A sniper in the trees over there.” She shook her head again and gave a shuddering sigh at the futile hopelessness of it. “Somewhere. Other side of the lake.”
Drummond’s narrowed eyes scanned the opposite shore. “Long gone now. That’s for certain.”
“Von Stavenow got away in a motorboat. It went up the lake.”
“We saw. We had to leave the inflatable in case he spotted us. Came in by foot. Another few minutes and we’d have had him.”
Dori bowed her head. “I didn’t anticipate—”
Drummond helped Dori to her feet, lifting her gently. She leaned against the balcony, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the varnished rail, sticky from the day’s heat.
She hardly registered Drummond’s men, dressed in boots and khakis, moving onto the balcony to stand guard, arms folded.
“You.” Drummond turned to the hotel proprietor, indicating the hotel servants still collected together. “Get this mob out of here, show’s over, and brandy for the lady. Pronto!”
“I’m all right.”
She looked out at the water. It had regained its calm, mirror surface. The famous view that people came to see. She couldn’t look at Edith, at the hole in her temple, small and round, bluish at the edges, leaking blood. Dori closed her eyes, tears threatening to spill.
Drummond covered her hand with his own. A surprisingly tender gesture.
“Don’t break down,” he whispered. “We don’t have time for it now.” He gently pushed back her hair, turning her face to expose the wound on her cheek. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.” She put her hand to her cheek. It came away wet.
She looked at the blood on her hand and turned away. He was right, she mustn’t break down now, but she was close to it, damn close to it, closer than she’d ever been. This was all her fault. Should never have involved Edith in this business. Should have taken better care of her. It should be me lying there. She braced her arms against the balustrade to stop herself shaking. It should be me.
“No point in taking on,” Drummond said quietly. “Let’s concentrate on the job in hand.” He looked out at the lake. “Where do you think he went? To meet the lady wife?”
“I suppose so. Merano.”
“I want to see her room.” He glanced down at Edith. One of the women had covered her with a sheet. “Come with me, Dori. These chaps will look after things here.”
Drummond looked around for the hotel owner, who was hovering by the door, eyeing the body with nervous concern, weighing up the consequences and wondering how he was going to remove the stain from the wood of his
balcony floor.
“Show me her room. Now.”
Rossi hesitated then shrugged.
Rossi led the way to the chalet above. Dori looked around the room. All Elisabeth’s belongings had been removed. All that was left was the lingering musk of her Worth Je Reviens perfume. Drummond opened the wardrobe and the drawers. All empty. A leather suitcase stood by the door.
“This hers?”
The proprietor nodded quickly.
Drummond hauled the case onto the bed. It was locked. He took a knife from his pocket and selected a blade. The locks opened with a pop. He began to rummage through the contents.
“No, signore!” The proprietor ran forward, hands fluttering in objection. “Is not your property!”
Drummond hit him hard, an open palm across the side of the face, sending the gold-rimmed glasses flying.
“Where is she, you little shit?”
“I don’t know!”
“I think you do. At least you know where she’s going to. A lady doesn’t leave all this behind. She’ll want it sent on. To where?” He picked the little man up by his shirt and slammed him against the wall. “Where did she say to send it to? Tell me.”
“I can’t say, please, signore!” The words came out in a squeak. His face was oiled with sudden sweat. Dori could smell his fear, sharp and rancid. “I have to live here! If I tell you they kill me!”
Drummond hoisted him higher, twisting the collar into a ligature.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll let my boys loose on you. They’ll rip you apart and throw the bits into the lake for the fishes. How’d you like that, eh?” Drummond slammed him harder, the man’s head hitting the wall with a dull cracking sound, dislodging flakes of plaster. “Eh?”
The little man went limp. Drummond let him drop and stood over him, legs apart, waiting for him to recover.
“No, no, please!” He looked up, pleading as Drummond reached down to haul him up again. “No more! I beg!” He hid his face with his hands and scuttled, crablike, trying to escape.
“You better tell me, then.” Drummond squatted down to his level.
“She say send to Roma. Rome!”
“Where in Rome?”
Drummond reached for his throat. The man cowered back, trying to evade his grip.
“Vatican. German College.”
Drummond leaned back, as if he was satisfied, allowing the man to scurry out of his grasp. He picked up his glasses and was off down the stairs.
“Rome! Lying little toad.” Drummond stood up and wiped his hands on his trousers as though the contact had soiled them. “The case says Genova. All carefully labeled. Good mind to let the boys loose on him. Throw what’s left into the drink. But we’ll let it ride for now. Let him tell them what a clever little chap he’s been, throwing us off the scent.”
Adeline and Kay were sitting outside the hotel in that soft golden light peculiar to evenings in Italy. They were smiling, Giorgio about to take a snap of them with Adeline’s camera. Dori walked toward them, eyes cast down to her long shadow. Time divided into before you knew and after. The moment before you could be laughing, talking, just as they were, and then came after when there could be no more jokes, no innocent, idle chatter. Nothing would ever, could ever be the same again.
“What’s the matter? What’s happened?” Kay rose from her seat. “You’re hurt. Has there been an accident?”
Adeline was on her feet, looking behind them. “Where’s Edith?”
Dori shook her head, the tears that she’d been holding back spilling. How many times had she seen smiles and laughter freeze like that? Seen eyes wide in a moment of foolish wonder then the crumpling contraction of grief and despair? Too many times—in London pubs and Paris cafés, forest clearings and lonely airfields. It should be me, she thought, not for the first time, not for the last time. It should be me.
“It all went tits up,” Drummond said. “Edith was shot. Edith’s dead.”
Only the slight shake in his voice softened the brutality of his words. He would not, could not show more emotion. Feelings always had to wait until “afterward.” It might not be for days, weeks, years, but it always came.
“Where is she?” Adeline demanded, looking from Dori to Drummond, her voice rising, her face creased with shock and anquish. “Where have they taken her? I must go to her. Stay with her. It’s not right that she should be on her own.”
“To the local doctor’s office, Signora,” Giorgio supplied gently. “That is where they will take her. Angelina will go with you. Make sure everything is done.”
He went inside, turning around the “open” sign on the door to “closed.” Angelina came out with him and put an arm round Adeline.
“Where’s Jack?” Drummond asked Kay as they watched the two women cross the square.
Kay turned, frowning at the harshness in his voice.
“He’s just got back. He went straight up to the room.”
“Dori, come with me.”
Dori followed him into the hotel and up the stairs.
“Open up, Sergeant.” Drummond hammered on the locked door. “Or I’ll break it down.”
Jack let them in. Towel around his waist, torso still wet from the shower.
“So? What happened?” Drummond stood, arms folded, confronting him.
Jack sat down on the bed and covered his face with his hands. “I went over to the other side of the lake to cover the balcony, like you said. It was rough terrain, lots of trees and rocky outcrops. Took me a while to get into position. Turns out someone else had the same idea. Through the ’scope, I could see Dori watching from the balcony above. Edith and von Stavenow below, sitting, talking. Edith suddenly stands up, comes to the front of the balcony, von Stavenow following. Then bang, bang, bang. Shots from somewhere below me. Von Stavenow jumps over the balustrade and down onto the grass. I got off a good few and I saw Dori fire. I think one of us winged him. Then he’s in a boat and away. After it dies down, I wait. Chap comes out of a shallow cave just below me, cool as you like. So I bash his brains in, stuff him back, and block the entrance.”
“Any idea who he was? Who he might have been working for?”
“No identification. No labels in his clothes. Eyetie Carcano M19 rifle, French scope, Mauser ammo. Good kit. A professional. Knew what he was doing.” Jack picked up an empty brass cartridge case and gave it to Drummond. “I saw Edith go down,” he said quietly. “Is she . . .”
Dori inclined her head.
“Thought so. That’s a shame.” He gave a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s a damned shame. She was good, a good woman.” He bowed his head so they couldn’t see his face. He coughed to clear his throat and wiped his eyes with his fingers. “You should’ve given her close cover.” He looked up at Dori. “Got him while you were at it.”
“I could say the same thing.”
“Stop this.” Drummond put up his hands. “What’s done is done. That’s not going to help anyone.”
41
Verona
19th–20th May 1946
Risotto al Radicchio
A speciality of Verona. Risotto made with radicchio and red wine. The recipe is cooked in the same way as a classic risotto but with red wine instead of the customary white. The roughly torn leaves of a radicchio lettuce (Rosso di Verona) are added after the rice, then a glass of Valpolicella. The wine and radicchio give this risotto its distinctive reddish color. Sounds unlikely but tastes perfectly good.
Stella Snelling’s Memorable Mediterranean Meals
The von Stavenows would be heading south. Drummond had bought tickets for the last train to Verona. They would stay overnight there and go on to Genoa the next morning. Jack and Drummond had tucked into the corners of the carriage by the door. Kay was asleep, her head on Jack’s shoulder. Dori stared at the reflected scene, her thoughts too busy for sleep.
Adeline had gone with Edith’s body.
“She’s not going on her own,” she’d said. “I’m goin
g with her. Someone has to see her safe home.”
The plain, pine coffin looked small inside the ancient, spindly, glass-sided hearse drawn by plumed black horses. It was odd, incongruous, to see it pulling up at the station, but how else do you transport a coffin? Drummond’s men jumped down from where they had been riding with the driver and formed up with Jack and Drummond to become the bearers, arms linked to take the weight. They carried the coffin onto the northbound platform where the train waited in huffing clouds of steam. Passengers stood back, bareheaded, as they passed, the women crossing themselves. It didn’t matter that this was a stranger’s coffin; after so much death, it was time to show respect again. The coffin was loaded into the baggage car. Drummond’s men and Adeline climbed in after it. The sliding door slammed shut, a whistle blew, the impatient hissing turned to slow chuffing, the wheels began to turn, and she was gone.
They found a small hotel near to the station and checked in for one night. Two rooms. They were traveling as couples. It seemed less complicated.
“Mangiare?” Drummond demanded.
The man behind the desk looked at his watch and shrugged, palms out.
“È tardi.” It’s late.
Drummond produced lire and began counting off notes.
“Un momento, signore.” It was late, he repeated, few places were open, but the lire did the trick. “Venite, venite.” He ushered them out and down a side alley to a small restaurant. “Il mio fratello.”
His brother opened the place for them. They ate by candlelight surrounded by chairs stacked on tables. Clattering came from the kitchen as his wife went about preparing something. They didn’t know what and weren’t given any choice. The brother brought plates, a basket of bread in the crook of his arm, an earthenware jug of wine dangling from one hand, and a fistful of glasses clutched in the other. He took spoons and forks from his top pocket and poured the wine. It was rough stuff, blackish red and harsh tasting, but it brought them back to some semblance of life.