Be Not Afraid

by Christopher Nicole

  BE NOT AFRAID

  Christopher Nicole

  © Christopher Nicole 2000

  Christopher Nicole has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2001 by Severn House Publishers.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  The Feud

  The First Attempt

  The Second Attempt

  The Lawyer

  A Visit from the Past

  Part Two

  The Avenger

  The Trial

  The Visitor

  The Wound

  The Avenger

  Part Three

  The Pursuit

  The Police

  The Adventure

  The Prisoner

  The End of the Journey

  “Be not afraid to do thine office.”

  Sir Thomas More

  Prologue

  Berlin, 1928

  The mob bayed. Then it moved forward, up the entire breadth of the street, like a wave in a high-banked river, seeming more powerful than it was because of its confinement.

  “Drive through them,” Commissioner Schuler snapped, as his chauffeur instinctively braked.

  “It would be better to wait, Herr Commissioner,” the chauffeur suggested. “If we were to hit one of them . . .”

  Schuler snorted, but allowed himself to be persuaded. A man ran past the stopped automobile, panting, hair wild, tie halfway down his shirt.

  “Why are they chasing him?” Eva asked.

  Schuler squeezed her knee. He did this often, as well as various other bits of her body; she was a pretty little thing, very blonde but also very buxom. It had never occurred to him to consider whether or not she enjoyed being squeezed – she knew who buttered her bread.

  “He is probably a communist,” he said. “Or a Jew.”

  The mob flowed up to the car and round it. They made no effort to damage it, intent on chasing the man.

  “But if they catch him,” Eva said.

  “They will beat him up. Serves him right.”

  Eva shuddered. “Shouldn’t they be stopped?”

  “I would need an army, not a police force,” Schuler pointed out. “Drive on.”

  *

  But he was glad to gain the security of his desk, having despatched Eva to the security of her office.

  “There has been another riot,” he told his secretary.

  Studt nodded. “We heard.” He frowned. “You were not involved, Herr Commissioner?”

  “I saw it,” Schuler said.

  “Nazis?”

  “How should I know?”

  “They are becoming a problem.”

  “It is a political, not a criminal matter,” Schuler said. And grinned. “Unless they actually kill somebody. Now what is this?” He gazed at his appointments diary.

  “He wishes to see you, Herr Commissioner.”

  Commissioner Schuler frowned at his secretary. “Who is this man?”

  “I believe he is a chicken farmer, Herr Commissioner,” Studt said.

  “And what on earth does he wish to see me for? Someone has been stealing his chickens, eh? Send him to the charge desk.”

  “He says it is very important. It concerns that gun battle a couple of years ago. When that man Grippenheimer was killed, along with several of his bodyguards.”

  “And damned good riddance,” Schuler remarked. “The fellow was a scoundrel.”

  “Nevertheless, Herr Commissioner, it was murder.”

  “It was a gun battle,” Schuler pointed out. “Between two sets of thugs.”

  “One of which got away,” Studt objected.

  “Ah,” Schuler said, “but one was killed, as I remember.”

  “We never identified the body, Herr Commissioner. And whatever our personal feelings, the fact is it remains an unsolved crime. This man . . .” he glanced at his notebook, “Himmler is his name, claims to have information. It would be better for us to hear what he has to say than for him to take it to some newspaper editor who might accuse the Berlin police of not doing its job.”

  “A chicken farmer,” Schuler said contemptuously. “Very well, Studt, show him in. And be prepared to show him out again, very rapidly.”

  Commissioner Schuler leaned back in his chair and stroked his moustache. Combined with his square head and close haircut he thought it made him look like Field Marshal Hindenburg, whose portrait hung on the wall behind the desk. Schuler was a good German who had been decorated in the war – he wore the Iron Cross Second Class – and worshipped the ground on which the Field Marshal walked. Having successfully survived the past few years, the quite horrifying inflation of 1923 and the internecine strife between the various political parties, to all intents and purposes civil war, while slowly making his way up the ladder of the Berlin police force, he had learned both his business and the limitations of power that went with it. In this autumn of 1928 he thought Germany, or certainly Berlin, was on the up. The war was behind them. If he was prepared, privately, to apportion blame, none was due to the Field Marshal, elected to the presidency of the country three years ago. As for the future, now that Germany had been allowed to enter the League of Nations, he was perfectly prepared to leave that too to the old man. For the time being, all was well. As winter approached, Berlin was an irresponsibly happy place, save for the odd social and political outcast. It was as if the trauma of the previous dozen years had been entirely forgotten. Some critics complained that the crime rate was too high, but Hermann Schuler was a practical man who saw his job in Benthamite terms: as preserving the peace and well-being of the greatest number of citizens that he could with his limited resources. That meant cracking down with the fullest rigour of the law on murderers, rapists, burglars and the like. But there was very little he could do about organised gangs, except when his men actually caught them on the job, principally because they were nearly all involved with and protected by various political bosses; so when rival gangs decided to kill each other he was inclined to clap his hands. The same went for political antagonism. If this chicken farmer intended to be a nuisance . . .

  He bent a baleful gaze on the door as it opened to admit a man in a trench coat and carrying a slouch hat. Schuler snorted. The man was somewhat young – only in his middle twenties, Schuler estimated – of medium height, and wore rimless glasses. His dark hair was carefully brushed, his suit was neat as was his tie knot, and his shoes were polished. There was nothing the least bit remarkable about him. Even his face was totally unremarkable; the glasses made him look like a schoolmaster. It was impossible to imagine him wrestling with a rebellious cockerel.

  He was also very nervous. “Herr Commissioner.”

  “Well?” Schuler barked.

  “In the matter of the assassination of Herr von Grippenheimer . . .” Himmler said tentatively.

  “Yes?”

  “It is nearly two years now, Herr Commissioner, and I do not believe there has been an arrest.”

  “That is quite true,” Schuler conceded.

  “And you have no leads? There were something like a hundred people present.”

  “My dear Herr Himmler, those hundred people were busy getting out of the house as soon as the violence began. The evidence we have is that four people entered Herr Grippenheimer’s house, apparently as guests at a large party he was throwing, and suddenly started shooting. As I say, the other, legitimate, guests made themselves scarce as rapidly as possible. When the police arrived, they found Grippenheimer and five of his bodyguards dead, and also one of the assailants. This man carried no identification. The
other three disappeared into the night. We have no names, and not even adequate descriptions. We know there were two men and a woman. Our informers in the Berlin underworld have been able to give us nothing. Whoever these people were, they came, they killed and they disappeared.”

  “And perhaps you did not look for them as vigorously as you might have done,” Himmler suggested, mildly.

  Schuler pointed. “You had better get out of here before I lose my temper. What business is it of yours, anyway?”

  “Herr von Grippenheimer was a friend of mine.”

  “Of yours?” Schuler gave another snort, this time of disbelief. Grippenheimer had been a millionaire, which this chicken farmer certainly was not.

  “We were also political associates.”

  “Ah!” Schuler said. “You mean you are a member of the National Socialist Workers’ Party. Grippenheimer certainly was. He helped finance it.”

  “I am a member of the Nazi Party, yes,” Himmler agreed. “I am not ashamed of it.”

  “I think I saw some of your people at work this morning.”

  “You cannot prove they were our people,” Himmler riposted.

  “That is true. And your Herr Hitler has renounced violence, has he not? It is a pity that he and his organisation seem to attract it. Well, I am sorry, but I cannot help you. I regard the Grippenheimer affair as closed.”

  “Suppose I told you that I know who the assassins were. One of them, anyway.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “He is an Englishman named Berkeley Townsend. He holds, or held until his retirement, the rank of colonel in the British army.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “I assume you still have the guest list for that party,” Himmler said. “You will find his name on it.”

  “There were several English people at that party.”

  “Berkeley Townsend was one of them. His associates were named Harry Lockwood, Alexandros Savos and Martina Savos. These last two were husband and wife.”

  “And you are saying they are English? With a name like Savos?”

  “No, they are Serbs, but resident in England and old friends of Townsend.”

  “Who are now dead.”

  “Only one man was killed. I would say it was probably Lockwood.”

  “I see. Now tell me, Herr Himmler, what possible reason could a colonel in the British army, together with an itinerant Serb and his wife, have for killing Herr Grippenheimer?”

  “We have spent the last year investigating this man Townsend,” Himmler said. “What we have found out is quite devastating: he is a professional assassin for the British government.”

  “Oh, come now.”

  “Here are some facts. We have discovered that he was involved in Serbian politics before the war; that he married the daughter of a leading member of the Black Hand secret society, and indeed took part in their activities; that he was commissioned a brigadier general in the Serbian army during the Balkan wars.”

  “And this makes him a British agent, instead of a renegade?”

  “We have evidence that throughout this period he was taking his orders from London and corresponding with them through the embassy in Athens. Since the war he has been prowling about Europe, eliminating people considered to be hostile to Britain.”

  “How come I have never heard of this?”

  “Well . . .” Himmler took off his glasses to polish them. “Most of his victims appear to have been common thugs. We have not established any link. But there has to be one. The point at issue, Herr Commissioner, is that we know Berkeley Townsend and his gang attended Herr Grippenheimer’s party on the twelfth of November 1926. We also know that he left the country immediately, that same night, with his surviving associates and perhaps one or two other people, and that he was back in England two days later. That is a man travelling in haste.”

  “November the twelfth,” Schuler mused. “That is the night your Führer nearly got himself blown up, is it not?”

  “That is true.”

  “You’ll be claiming next that this man Townsend had a hand in that.”

  “We do believe that. We know he was in Munich only a couple of days before the explosion. But it is very difficult to prove he actually planted the bomb because he was in Berlin when it went off. However, and for that very reason, his connection with the Grippenheimer killing is established.”

  “To your satisfaction,” Schuler pointed out. “Not to mine. You have yet to provide me with a motive.”

  “He is opposed to the Nazi Party and all it stands for. Hence the bomb in Munich and the killing of Grippenheimer in Berlin. We believe he was sent by the British government.”

  Schuler gave a shout of laughter. “Do you really think anyone in the world, much less the British government, believes any of your people important enough to be murdered? Tell me, Herr Himmler, how many votes did your party gain in the last election.”

  “Well . . .” Himmler flushed. “Eighty-five.”

  “Out of thirty million. One assumes you are about to take power.”

  “We will one day; that election was three years ago. Next year you may find things have changed. And you cannot deny that the beer cellar in Munich was blown up, only half an hour before Herr Hitler was due to arrive.”

  “Munich is not my jurisdiction,” Schuler told him. “There is some suggestion that the explosion was the result of a leaking gas main.”

  “That is absurd. Herr Commissioner, I have supplied you with sufficient evidence to apply for the extradition of Berkeley Townsend on a charge of murder.”

  “You have supplied me with nothing beyond a collection of wild and unrelated facts, Herr Himmler. I will bid you good day.”

  Himmler stared at him. “You refuse to act?” He stood up, then raised his right hand. “Heil Hitler!”

  “And the same to you,” Schuler said.

  *

  “The swine will do nothing.” Heinrich Himmler crouched over his cup of coffee, seated at a corner table in the crowded café. “What are we to tell the Führer?”

  “I think we should tell him nothing, at the moment,” the other man said. Somewhat older than Himmler although still a young man – he was twenty-nine – he had compelling if somewhat ugly features with burning eyes and lank dark hair. Of small build, he sat awkwardly, trying to conceal his club foot from the other customers in the restaurant. “The Führer does not know all that we know. He only wishes Grippenheimer’s assassin brought to justice, one way or the other; he does not know who the man is. If he remembers Townsend at all – they only met once, you know – it is simply as a man he tried to use and failed. Well, one way, what might be called the legitimate way, has failed. We shall have to take matters into our own hands. And inform the Führer when it is done.”

  Himmler licked his lips. “You mean . . .”

  His companion smiled. “Have you not wrung sufficient chickens’ necks?”

  “Yes, but – I have never killed a man. And this man . . . he is a professional assassin.”

  “You mean he might shoot first,” the lame man said contemptuously. “I am quite sure he would, Heinrich. In any event, the party cannot afford to be involved. It is, as you know, the decision of the Führer that our rise to power must be entirely legitimate and by the democratic process. Until then, officially, we keep our noses clean. So, for a job like this, we need someone who has a reason to kill Townsend but can in no way be linked to us.”

  “Do we know of such a person?”

  “I think we do. Before poor Frederika Lipschuetz got blown up in Munich, she gave me a file she had compiled on Townsend. You know she used to work for an English newspaper and had access to a lot of material which is not generally known. I would like you to make a journey to Nish, in Serbia. There I think you will find the person, or people, who will fill the bill. I will give you all the information and anything else that you require.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Josef Goebbels sighed. His own brain being as sha
rp as a razor, he found it sometimes hard not to become impatient with these thick-headed louts he was forced to employ.

  “Then listen. You know that Townsend rode with the Black Hand before the war. He was second in command to the famous Anna Slovitza, whose daughter he married. But next in command was a man named Karlovy. After Anna Slovitza was killed, Townsend and Karlovy fell out and Townsend shot Karlovy. What he did not realise was that Karlovy had three children who took on the burden of the blood feud – they are like that in the Balkans. After the war, when Townsend returned to Serbia to wind up his wife’s affairs, the eldest Karlovy child, a girl named Irene, attempted to avenge her father. She failed. Townsend either killed her himself, or had her killed by his friends in the Serbian police; it is not clear what exactly happened. However, there are still two children left, now adults. It is their sworn duty to avenge their father and sister.”

  “But . . . our information is that it is some years since Townsend was in Serbia. They have done nothing in that time. Does that not mean they have decided to bury the feud?”

  “A Serb,” Goebbels pointed out, “never buries a feud. That these two people have not yet fulfilled their duty is because they have lacked the money to leave Serbia and travel to England, and because they do not know where Townsend is to be found. You will supply them with both the money and the documentation – passports and the like – as well as all the information they need.”

  “But – do we know where this man Townsend is to be found?”

  “We do. We have several agents in England. One of them, a man named Green, has been working on this for us and is in fact keeping Townsend under constant surveillance. It will be your business to send these Karlovy people to Green.”

  “We have an agent in England named Green?”

  “His real name is Gerber. But he has been living in England since just after the war and is an accepted part of the community. He will take care of everything when the Karlovys get to England but of course he must not be involved in any action they undertake.”

  “And you want me to get in touch with the Karlovys,” Himmler said, slowly.