The Eye of the Abyss

by Marshall Browne

  This seemed to amuse von Streck. Schmidt opened the envelope and extracted a sheet of paper. He read the numbers, removed Wagner’s combination. He took off his own, and swung open the safe door.

  He thought: Now, we’ll see what we’ll see. Behind his mechanical actions he was amazed how suddenly calm he felt. He retrieved the sealed packet and carried it to the table, obliging the SS to make two crab-like jumps, aside. One of them stepped to the table but von Streck waved him back airily.

  ‘I’ll do this myself,’ he said. He consulted a notebook, produced a fountain pen, laid both on the table. ‘According to yesterday’s report, after the Dortmund settlement, Reich bonds to the face value of 10,000,000 marks should be in sealed custody. And – nothing as of last night in the working stock.’

  Dietrich nodded, deferentially. The funds that had come in this morning by mail and remittance hadn’t been processed by Schloss’s department yet.

  With the knowingness of an illusionist about to perform, von Streck examined the assembled faces. He studied the seal on the big envelope.

  ‘This appears in order – sealed with the official seal, notated with a certificate for 10,000,000, signed by Herr Otto Wertheim and Herr Dietrich.’ Dietrich and Otto exchanged confirmatory looks, relaxed perceptibly – though their attitudes said instantly: What was there to be worried about?

  Von Streck looked up, caught this, smiled. He lifted the envelope, examined the seal again, weighed it in his hand. He laid the packet down.

  ‘All in order, Herr Minister,’ Dietrich suggested, his confidence flooding back.

  Schmidt’s heart had frozen. If the envelope wasn’t opened … Von Streck didn’t appear to hear Dietrich, seemed immersed in a complex calculation. Could he dare suggest it?

  ‘Do you think so, Herr Dietrich?’ the high Nazi said very quietly.

  ‘Of course, Herr Minister!’

  ‘As safe and sound as Fort Knox in the USA, Herr Dietrich? ’

  Dietrich smiled. ‘Absolutely, Herr Minister!’

  ‘Even as clear cut as a legal lecture at the Order Castle in Marienburg?’

  Dietrich smiled again, more warily. He remembered his days at Marienburg. What in hell was this all about?

  Herr Wertheim and Otto were observing this by-play with mystification; Schmidt was identifying the sadistic nuances, broadening his picture of von Streck.

  The Nazi functionary turned to Schmidt. ‘Herr Auditor, we’ll open this packet and count the bonds.’

  Thank God!

  Schmidt stepped forward, took the envelope, and slit it open. He held the empty packet in one hand, and gazed at the thick sheaf of plain white paper which he held in the other. He looked up slowly, at the frozen tableau.

  Thunderstruck, Otto’s eyes were protruding, as if staring into a void; Dietrich’s had narrowed to slits and his mouth had set involuntarily into its yellowish grin; the general-director had become deeply abstracted – as though he’d The Eye in his vision.

  ‘Jesus!’ Otto gasped, all the horror of the situation in the exclamation.

  Von Streck took the sheaf of blank paper from Schmidt, let the sheets flick through his fingers. Otto tried to speak again, but produced only a strangled sound.

  Von Streck surveyed everyone with hard, sardonic eyes. ‘Who is going to explain this to me? Much more importantly, to the Party?’ Accustomed to observing persons in crisis he noted that the shock appeared genuine. Except for Chief Auditor Schmidt, whose face was as blank as the papers, and the senior Wertheim, who appeared to have gone to an elevated plane. The Nazi smiled thinly.

  ‘Herr Minister, this is a great shock.’The old banker had recovered first. His tenor voice was perfectly controlled. His intimations had been right, von Streck had expected to find this. What was the fellow up to? Using his urbanity as though pouring oil on a storm-tossed sea, he said, ‘Herr Minister, could you enlighten us as to how your suspicions were aroused?’

  Von Streck had entered the Wertheim day with considerable velocity, then he’d changed the pace to a kind of amiably ironic event. In the crowded vault, another metamorphosis was under way: his deep-chested torso swelled, exuded its muscularity, the mole on his cheek was projected like a beacon. The olive skin had lightened – a strange, ominous effect; the brown eyes glittered menacingly.

  All in the vault stared at the transformation.

  ‘Bankhaus Wertheim & Co AG, reputedly a model of financial probity in the Reich, trusted by the Party, has played host to an act of criminal treason! – and you, Herr Wertheim, speak as though champagne’s been spilt!’

  The general-director winced. The Nazi had almost blown him over. His brain was quite clear this morning. A lifetime of weathering situations had left him resilient to the crises of the banking world; and, he was sure now that there was a lot more going on with von Streck than met the eye.

  Von Streck had sent a spray of spittle over them, none wiped it off, except the G-D who produced a linen handkerchief from his sleeve.

  The high Nazi snarled, ‘Fortunately, we don’t have to search for the criminals. They’re right here!’

  He raised his finger, levelled it at Dietrich, and then as though moving a gunbarrel brought it around slowly to point at Otto.

  ‘Preposterous,’ Herr Wertheim exclaimed. But his thoughts were going down deep.

  The two accused gazed at von Streck: a madman dropped into their midst.

  ‘What actors,’ he sneered contemptuously. ‘What a wonderful show of innocence. You filth!’ he shouted and even the SS flinched. ‘Do you deny the Swiss bank accounts in your names?’ Last night he’d phoned a very senior man in the Swiss central bank; a man who was very sympathetic to the Nazi Party. ‘Do you deny the fraudulent obtainment of the combinations of the auditor, the deputy foreign manager, to this safe? Do you, Dietrich, deny your depravations on the Party’s Number Four account? Well?’

  ‘Herr Minister, there’s been some terrible mistake,’ Dietrich cried desperately. He stood transfixed, his teeth bared, the whites of his eyes prominent. He’d the sensation, entangled with others, that he was watching a back-street farce; that in a moment this ridiculous scene would end and the rational world would reappear.

  ‘Yes this is the mistake,’ von Streck said now in a dead-quiet voice, holding up the sheaf of paper. ‘We’ll adjourn to Gestapo headquarters, to further investigate it.’

  Schmidt was spellbound by von Streck’s performance – if it were such. Here was an unbelievably effective consummation of his plan.

  He looked at Dietrich and saw comprehension dawning on the tortured no-longer-handsome face. That blank form he’d signed! The Nazi’s head rolled around as though it was on swivels, stopped at him with a jerk. Accusation blazed in his eyes. His face had become suffused – like a man suffering a seizure. His neck was corded, the muscles working. He was trying to utter.

  ‘Christ Almighty! There is the perpetrator!’

  He launched himself at the auditor but the black-uniformed bodies blocked his rush, applied armlocks. He was incoherent, shaking with passion. All heads swung to stare at Schmidt.

  Von Streck roared into contemptuous laughter. He stepped up to Dietrich, a head shorter, but appreciably wider. ‘You vile traitor,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve the strongest evidence of your crimes. Like all your corrupt, unintelligent, miserable kind, when cornered you seek to divert the blame elsewhere. We’ll look into your perverted private life, too – you bum-fucker.’ He gestured to the SS: ‘Take them away.’

  Dietrich’s face was demented. He shook off the hands on him as though they were nothing. ‘Hands off!’ he shouted. ‘What evidence? I’m a captain in the SS! I tell you that man is the criminal!’ His slicked-back hair had fallen on his brow. His eyes burned with rage, and fear.

  Two of the SS laid big, work-roughened hands on him afresh, and dragged him out the doorway. He struggled powerfully in a desperate silence. At the foot of the stairs they smashed his face once, twice against the Wertheim wall, and everyone
heard the chink-chink of the yellow teeth. Still he struggled, his mouth running blood like a drain. Halfway up the first flight, again they smashed his face into the wall, breaking his nose, releasing another red jet. As it sprayed their uniforms they swore like navvies unexpectedly striking a waterpipe. He began to scream like an animal injured in the steel jaws of a trap.

  In a trance, Otto waddled behind this violent group, his flabby biceps gripped by the remaining SS men.

  Herr Wertheim studied these exits with a kind of supreme detachment which made Schmidt wonder whether the shock had at last disturbed his reason. Slowly, the silver head turned to von Streck, then to Schmidt. The auditor met his eyes. It was his turn to receive a shock: he was being gazed at with fascination – when he might have expected horror – as though a kind of Frankenstein creation was being viewed. Then the general-director turned away without a word, and followed von Streck towards the lift. The high Nazi seemed to have forgotten the auditor’s existence.

  36

  ‘WHO OR WHAT do they hope to see?’ — Helga asked herself. ’What are they waiting for?’ The Gestapo agents had not attempted to conceal their surveillance. They’d not interviewed her again. Did they expect Franz to come? That was futile. Each night, like her mother in the morning, she watched the cigarettes glowing in the darkness and pondered these questions.

  Day by day tension had accumulated in the household; even Trudi had absorbed it, become quiet, watchful of the adults’ faces. Each morning when they left the house the car with the two Gestapo men was waiting to follow.

  Frau Seibert, still convalescent, did not go out but peered anxiously through the front windows at the sinister black vehicle stationed, semi-permanently, at the end of the drive. Helga and her sister had become short with each other – the latter resentful of this frightening ordeal, Helga with a sense of guilt at bringing home the insidious, nerve-chilling danger. Her sister had nearly died the night the two Gestapo had come to the door.

  But this noon: No car, no watchers! She stood with her market basket, holding her breath, and peered at the street. She’d lost weight and an acute tension was manifest in her movements, her posture, even in repose. But now something had changed and gradually she felt an oppressive weight lifting from her heart.

  If the Wertheim had seemed becalmed when Schmidt had arrived, now it was wallowing, rudderless. The auditor couldn’t quite accept the fact that Dietrich’s voice wasn’t going to come booming down the line, or his large figure appear in the door and hoist himself onto the desk.

  At 4.30 pm, the building’s lighting was feeble. Beyond his window the darkness was thick and impenetrable. Today, dawn to dusk, had been a mere seven-hour sprint. But what a sprint!

  After the drama in the vault, he’d not left his room, but the calamitous atmosphere which had descended on Wertheims had filtered to him through the building’s conduits, via the nervy messengers doing their rounds. He’d pictured the shocked cleaners wonderingly scrubbing away the grisly trail of blood, broken teeth, and vomit which Dietrich had left up the stairs and into the front foyer. Had there been a more dramatic exit in the bank’s history? He thought: At this moment I’m rudderless myself. He felt no elation, no relief, no warmth of retribution exacted – just a sense of another step completed, a temporary exhaustion. The game was still in play. The final consummation was up to von Streck. If it went to court, or a Party tribunal, the flaws in the case could become evident and a dissection of the evidence, his own questioning, could throw a spotlight back on to his actions and motives, into that gap: the smuggling of the bonds to Zurich. On to Wagner!

  Wagner must go immediately to Paris! Today. Must get out.

  But where was Wagner? His colleague hadn’t returned at noon. He’d rung the deputy foreign manager’s flat; his maid hadn’t heard a word. The foreign department had confirmed he was overdue. He wouldn’t leave the office until he’d tracked him down. The persons in his life were alternately emerging into the light, stepping back into the shadows, in tune with a melody which he couldn’t quite pick up. So it seemed. He was waiting for Wagner to come out again into the light. For God’s sake Wagner, don’t delay. Nervously, Schmidt pattered his fingertips on his desktop.

  The bank’s situation regarding the NSDAP had changed drastically. He’d been half-expecting a summons from Herr Wertheim, but a steel shutter of silence had come down on the first floor. What could they say to each other? Outrage on one side; his regretful, lying testimony on the other? He couldn’t get out of his mind the G-D’s astonishing demeanour, that last look.

  He picked up the phone and called Wagner’s maid again. No news.

  At 6.10 pm a summons did come. The Gestapo. He was shocked. He’d expected that when the moment for questioning arrived, it would’ve been under the auspices of von Streck – if the Nazi functionary’s involvement was to make sense. That didn’t appear to be the case. The voice of the man he’d just spoken to had infused in him a chilling doubt. Transfixed by a thought, he stood in his room. Dietrich had been protecting him from the Gestapo and Dietrich himself was now under arrest. He put on his overcoat and hat and went down in the lift.

  On the first floor.

  ‘Would you stay a little later, tonight, fräulein?’ Herr Wertheim smiled. ‘Ask my man to bring up a bottle of champagne, and caviar – immediately. Thank you.’

  Two glasses had been brought: one was in the fragile fingers of Wertheim, the other in the large, shapely hand of a surprised, blushing Else Blum. She’d not guessed that she was to be a participant. The champagne was poured, caviar heaped on a plate, and small silver spoons were on the desk.

  ‘A day of momentous events, my dear fräulein,’ the G-D said. ‘One we will always remember.’ He picked up his glass, studied the colour of the champagne. ‘Have you heard of the saying: Every cloud has a silver lining? Today’s events can be considered in that light.’

  She watched him over the thin rim of her own glass. What did he mean? It certainly had been a day – even from the perspective of her limited experience. What a scene with Herr Dietrich! As for that Herr Otto! And he doesn’t seem worried about it! Does the old boy want to play? If he does, it’s all right. He’s a good enough sort.

  ‘You know, fräulein, I liken our venerable old bank to a ship. Have you picked that up yet? You and I – and others, such as Herr Auditor Schmidt – are the crew. We’re on an interesting voyage – not without its dangers, and sometimes crew-members are washed overboard. Some might think that today we took a torpedo.’ He leaned forward and scooped up caviar, conveyed it to his mouth, ate it slowly. ‘Very good. Help yourself, my dear.’

  Fräulein Blum tasted the caviar with slight suspicion, found she liked it … . Ships, crew, torpedoes? Wertheim refilled their glasses. ‘I mentioned Auditor Schmidt. You might find our Herr Schmidt … a strange person. A little beyond your experience, at this stage. In fact, I should admit, a little beyond my own. One might think that institutions like Wertheims breed and nourish this kind of individual. Up to a point. It’s always surprised me that while they go home at night, they leave their main world … simmering away here. That said, Herr Schmidt is a remarkable case.’ He admired the colour again. ‘A unique case. Remember I told you that, Fräulein Blum.’

  She drank her champagne. Schmidt had been pleasant enough, though there was something about him – the way he appeared, the way he watched – that gave her a touch of the creeps.

  The G-D said, ‘There are some things one leaves too late. If one is lucky a little lost time can be made up.’ She did not understand this either, except that it was important to him.

  Wertheim’s thoughts had gone back to what she’d told him three days ago. Two of his cousins from Dusseldorf had arrived at the bank when he was absent. Most unusual. He supposed Herr Schloss had sent for them, for according to the fräulein, they’d spent an hour closeted with the big director. The two, twin brothers in their fifties, only ever turned up at the bank for the shareholders’ meeting, with
their hands out for their dividend cheques. They’d asked to see his room, and had paid particular attention to the new art on the walls.

  His lips formed an enigmatic smile. ‘Like spies,’ he murmured.

  Fräulein Blum looked at him sharply. Instinctively, she knew what he was referring to. The short, ruddy-faced men had gazed at the two pictures, and finally stood in front of The Eye as though mesmerised. Not quite knowing if she was doing the right thing in letting them into the inner sanctum, she’d hovered in the room. Casting her looks, they’d whispered together. ‘He’s cracked!’ — she’d caught the worried exclamation.

  Herr Wertheim had moved his chair closer to hers. Without embarrassment, he put his hand under her skirt and pushed it up until it lay between the rich, soft warmth of her thighs. She smiled slightly, continued to sip her champagne. His hand was warm, which was surprising.

  After a moment, Wertheim withdrew his slender bluish hand. ‘My dear, I felt very comfortable doing that. But now you should run on home to your dinner.’

  Fräulein Blum straightened her skirt, rose gracefully to stand above him. ’Should I clear this away, Herr General-Director? ’

  ‘No, my dear. But you might call Herr Director Schloss for me, and ask him to step in here.’

  She looked doubtfully at the clock.

  ‘He will be there, waiting for my call. He’s been waiting for some months, and will be very relieved to receive it. You might be good enough to bring another glass.’

  ‘Thank you for including me in your celebration,’ Fräulein Blum said earnestly, blushing again, and went out. In the anteroom she heard the lift descending.

  Celebration? The heat of her thighs. What a lovely young woman: a combination of nervous self-consciousness, and overwhelming sexual assurance. What an interesting experience to plumb her depths! He smiled his most languid smile, lay back in his cushioned chair, steepled his fingers and rotated to confront The Eye. He was surprised that he couldn’t see it. Or the rest of the room. Suddenly it had appeared to fill up with fog.