The Eye of the Abyss

by Marshall Browne

  37

  A BLACKED-OUT CAR waited beside the bank’s entrance. Its rear door swung open as Schmidt appeared. A shadowy figure leaned across, motioned to him. He climbed in and was in the company of the Gestapo.

  Klaxon shrieking, they accelerated away, following the street’s long curve. Schmidt thought: It smells of cabbage, leather, the pressure of state business, obdurate, deadly power. He ticked them off and considered whether his winning run was about to end. Very soon they swerved under an archway into a weedy, wet courtyard. A rusted machine of indeterminate purpose sat in a corner. The car doors banged. Gesturing to him to follow, one of them led the way into a stone-flagged, soul-freezing corridor. Not just the cold, Schmidt thought. But why don’t I feel more anxiety? Have I, in fact, put on a kind of armour?

  He blinked as he entered a white-painted room ablaze with electric light.

  Wagner was slumped over a table, the side of his head flat against its surface, his face turned towards the door, his eyes staring, his mouth a red-rimmed, black hole hanging open. Flung down as if to tell a tale, teeth lay on the table. Blood shone stickily, starkly reminding Schmidt of a butcher’s block. Reminding him of …

  He gazed at the scene in horror, his recent detachment shattered. He looked up into the amused, assessing face of a man who sat negligently astride a reversed chair, smoking a cigarette. Another, in a worn, black suit, also smoking, leaned against a wall as though resting. Both seemed to have stepped aside from their work to concentrate on his reaction. The man against the wall gave two short, sharp barks of a cough.

  The seated man exhaled smoke luxuriously. ‘So you are Schmidt?’

  ‘Yes. I am Herr Schmidt.’The muscles in the auditor’s face had become rigid. He gazed at the Nazi. Since the incident of his eye it appeared to be his destiny to continuously enlarge his knowledge of the Party’s prototypes. He said, ‘Why is Herr Wagner here, and in this condition? He is my colleague, a respected senior official of Bankhaus Wertheim & Co.’

  ‘Colleague … Wertheim & Co,’ the man repeated. ‘We know all that, and more. Especially about his political activities, his courier-running of foreign currencies. In past months he’s been in Paris, Brussels, and Amsterdam smuggling out funds, salting them away … liaising with that den of criminals the SPD. We know about his opposition to the Party, his criminal defamations of our leaders. What we don’t know – yet – but will soon, is precisely why he went to Zurich. To save him further hardship, perhaps you could help us on this point?’

  Schmidt watched the speaker carefully as though reading his lips. On this bloody table, Wagner’s secret life was exposed. It was as he’d feared. His colleague’s chancey, double-game had been found out … A great pity – a tragedy. But he’d been on borrowed time.

  Zurich was still unexplained. If they got to the bottom of it … but they hadn’t. Their interest in Wagner clearly had its own life. He, Schmidt, had been brought here because he was a colleague and/or his name had come up in the Gestapo files.

  The seated agent’s face had an expression of mock inquiry.

  The auditor’s lips were clamped tight. He’d assumed von Streck’s power to be absolute, though unexplained, the functionary’s agenda similar to his own. This rested on the ‘all clear’ he’d been receiving as he’d dealt with him. And the connection with the Order. That wasn’t a figment of his imagination. And surely it’d been validated by the events this morning at the bank.

  Suddenly, the Nazi blew a smoke ring.

  He must speak.

  ‘I hope I can help you.’ Wagner was watching him. He realised this. The eyes in the brutalised face were fixed on his own. ‘Herr Wagner was sent by the bank to Zurich to confer with our Swiss correspondent banks. It’s his duty to do so – as with such banks in other countries. Relations with Swiss banks are of vital importance to the Reich. Herr Wagner’s a key man for this. He is highly regarded at the Reichsbank.’

  His heart was thudding. But he spoke with gravity and civility and precise enunciation, going down the line he’d used on Dietrich, hoping to strike a civilised note in the lethal atmosphere – soliciting a turn of events which would enable him to extract himself, his plan, from this debacle. Wagner, his SPD activities exposed, was a lost cause, unless von Streck …

  ‘How remarkable,’ the seated smoker said. ‘The same story we heard from him. Could it be the truth?’

  ‘Those are the facts,’ Schmidt said. Could he drop von Streck’s name in?

  ‘I don’t believe you, Schmidt. But there’s hardly anyone I do believe. You’ve been a lucky man so far. But that bastard Dietrich can’t protect you now. We’ve not forgotten your connection to the Dressler affair. That’s extremely fresh in our minds.’

  Schmidt kept his face expressionless. Doubtless, in that final remark he was referring to Dressler’s decimation of the local Gestapo.

  ‘However, you may go. For the present.’

  ‘And Herr Wagner?’

  The Nazi laughed.

  Unexpectedly, Wagner spoke – a slurry of barely recognisable words. ‘I’m afraid … not … going t’enjoy … dinner tonight … Franz … beer … might be possible.’

  The man against the wall said, conversationally, ‘You’ve drunk your last beer.’

  Schmidt put his hand on Wagner’s arum. ‘I will do something, Heinrich,’ he said.

  ‘Get away from him,’ the seated man said. ‘You can do nothing. Do you wish to help an enemy of the Reich?’

  Barely audible, Wagner muttered, ‘No more mistakes … for me … my friend.’Then with a major effort, quite clearly, ‘Fat man … was here … Bach.’

  ‘Shut up arsehole,’ the seated Nazi said, grinding out his cigarette.

  Schmidt found himself alone in the courtyard; alone in the fresh, damp air; then in a drab street overhung by old-style warehouses. Delayed shock. He’d trouble getting his bearings, walked two dark blocks in a daze, found streetlights, familiar territory, and a taxi.

  He went to von Streck’s office, a five-minute drive. It was his only point of reference for the Nazi functionary. The building was another abject study in darkness and desertion, but breathing out frosty breaths he kept pressing the bell.

  The clash of unlocking came. An elderly man with red-rimmed eyes, in a municipal uniform, stood in the gap of the door still chewing his dinner. Schmidt showed the pass and the man beckoned him in, closed and barred the door, and limped back into the hall. With grotesque upward-reaching clutches he pulled two light-cords, and pointed to the stairs. He’d vanished when the auditor glanced back from the landing.

  ‘He’s here,’ Schmidt told himself.

  But he was wrong. A single light burned in the anteroom above the desk of the blond, wide-shouldered man, who looked up in surprise from his magazine at the tense-looking visitor who was blinking rapidly behind gold-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘I wish to see Herr von Streck,’ Schmidt said, showing the pass again.

  He stared at the large pistol on the desk.

  ‘Is this urgent?’

  ‘Extremely urgent.’

  ‘Very well.’

  The blond man wrote on a piece of paper, and without rising pushed it across the desk. ‘You will find him here.’

  Schmidt let himself out, and hurried down corridors of hollow-sounding parquet floors. He’d noted on his previous visit the names gilded on the glass doors: the den of small import/export agencies.

  The address was in the district of beerhalls. Another taxi ride. For Schmidt, his birthplace had metamorphosed to an artist’s composition of areas which were blacked-out and devoid of life, and gaudily-lit and frenetically alive — one tract rooted in the past, the other whirling towards the future. Degenerate art? Even streets he’d known all his life looked unfamiliar. And dangerous.

  This was the district where he’d met Wagner six nights ago – no, an age ago – where they’d encountered von Streck and the man he’d just spoken with. Though it throbbed with the sounds of convivial act
ivity, the building he arrived at had an air of exclusivity.

  He climbed stairs following directions and stood outside the oak door of a private room. From inside came raucous singing, the crash of steins on tabletops. Nothing exclusive about this.

  Again Schmidt held out his pass with its street photograph. The uniformed SS man who came out, breathing beer, examined it, and frowned at the request the auditor shouted in his ear. He inspected the small, blond stranger with hard-eyed suspicion. But he went back in. Schmidt had a glimpse of red-faced, jacketless men bellowing their lungs out, and breathed in German life … the Teutonic ethos. The Third Reich.

  Von Streck came out in his shirtsleeves, his astrakhancollared overcoat slung over his shoulders against the cold in the corridor. His face showed alert good humour. Schmidt had worried about the condition the functionary would be in, but he was perfectly sober, standing there like a rock, suggestive of darkness and intrigue and ambivalence. He wondered at this man’s participation in these drunken revels.

  ‘I regret this intrusion, Herr Minister, but could I have a private word?’

  ‘Why not Herr Schmidt, why not?’The Nazi assessed the auditor’s face. ‘We’ll walk along the corridor.’

  They proceeded to do so. Schmidt’s heart was beating faster; three images were clear in his head: Wagner’s brokenmouthed face; the Zurich scheme, set up like a house of cards, awaiting an interrogatory puff of breath from any inquiry to come; his own jeopardy Given the apparent case against Wagner, could the Nazi functionary work a miracle and remove him from the clutches of the Gestapo before they beat the truth about Zurich out of him, before they killed him?

  ‘My colleague at the bank, Herr Wagner. The Gestapo have arrested him, beaten him badly. He was on a mission to Zurich for the bank which has aroused their suspicions. The mission was routine, perfectly legitimate. However, it’s alleged he’s been involved in some political action.’

  As he uttered these half-truths Schmidt had fresh doubts about how far he could go with this man. Von Streck had been in that torture-chamber! He must concentrate. His mind seemed to have missed a notch. Concentrate! What if von Streck’s action in the Wertheim affair had simply been the aggressive reaction of a dedicated and ambitious functionary protecting the Party’s interests, his own? His connection with the Order, merely a coincidence and a little side-game. His sense of the ’all clear’ — a mirage. He seemed to have missed another notch. Was his mind going to plunge into free-fall?

  Were all his assumptions about the Nazi functionary built on sand?

  Suddenly Schmidt felt empty.

  Von Streck stared straight ahead as they paced along the wide, timber-planked corridor, and seemed to weigh the auditor’s utterance.

  At last he said, ‘Dietrich and the gross Otto Wertheim are fine actors. Most convincing in their protestations that they know nothing of the missing ten million. One might think they’re truthful – if one didn’t know better.’ His throaty voice vibrated in the corridor. He smiled sardonically. ‘They make bitter accusations against you, Schmidt. However, they’ve been prevailed upon to sign authorities on the Swiss bank to repatriate the bonds.’

  Schmidt stared at him hard, pulling himself together, and said, ‘Herr Wagner?’

  ‘Cannot be released. This past half-hour he’s signed a statement admitting his complicity with Dietrich and Wertheim in embezzling the bonds, smuggling them out. Admitted other matters. Of course, in the Swiss affair he was duped by those criminals. That must be a shock to you.’

  He gave the auditor a dry look.

  Schmidt stared back. Von Streck had moved to bridge the gap. Though how that pair could dupe Wagner on a financial matter was a fragile proposition. Von Streck was ahead of him! He’d felt that events were running out of his control, and now the dimensions were taking shape. Involuntarily, he’d stopped walking. Alone the Nazi paced on.

  ‘I saved Wagner at the frontier on his way to Zurich,’ the Nazi said. ‘The Gestapo had his number.’

  Schmidt’s shoulders jerked with nerves. Von Streck had known of Wagner’s journey even as he was telling him of Dietrich and Otto’s criminal actions … He moved forward. ‘Why didn’t you save him tonight?’

  ‘The situation is complicated, Schmidt.’The Nazi brooded on the dark at the end of the passage. ‘Also it has changed. At the frontier, I’d no precise knowledge of what you were up to. Except that something was in motion – and Wagner and you were as thick as thieves. I wished to observe the full scope of your machinations. A suitable description, I think. My congratulations and admiration. Since you came to my office with your revelation, since that stimulating interlude at the bank this morning, I’ve a very precise understanding of the affair – even as to your motives. Poor unfortunate Fräulein Dressier. Again – my admiration Schmidt.’ He was smiling at the auditor. ‘But don’t ask for too much.’

  Wagner was to be sacrificed. Schmidt stared to the deadend of the corridor. With a sickening feeling, he knew that the foreign manager no longer had any part in whatever von Streck’s plans were. Yet, the special plenipotentiary was anti-Nazi. The confirmation was plain in his words.

  Von Streck had halted, and turned his bulky figure to look back at the auditor. His eyes glinted in the light. ‘I pointed out the deficiency in the case to you, Schmidt, and now it’s been rectified. Herr Wagner has quite admirably served the purpose. A few in the Gestapo have brains. Never forget it. How the bearer bonds got to Zurich would’ve been a burning question in their minds. That deficiency had to be rectified. It won’t go to court. The Party will have a hearing. Affidavits are being prepared for your signature. I have an excellent man who’s done wonders in the drafting. Dietrich and Wertheim will be tried, executed within the week. Good news, eh?’

  Schmidt remained speechless. Chilled. In a flash he’d an image of Dietrich and Otto, standing against a prison wall staring at the firing squad. And Wagner. They paced back. Schmidt’s mind was wrestling with monsters.

  ‘One feels sorry for Wagner, though he’s been imprudent in his other activities. But the greater need must have precedence.’This time he shot the auditor a speculative look.

  Schmidt thought dully: That gap, that loose end, could have finished up anywhere. Would’ve sabotaged the plan. Wagner had to be Dietrich’s and Otto’s co-conspirator. If only he’d not tried to return — gone from Zurich direct to Paris.

  In signing the confession he had sacrificed himself. That struck Schmidt so hard that he staggered.

  The Nazi seized his arm. ‘Steady, Schmidt … in the Third Reich, shocks await us every hour, around every corner. Much is in the air. Many levers are being pulled. For instance, that old fox Wertheim could hardly believe it when the Party’s business was landed in his lap. But who put it there?’ He laughed quietly. ‘Very little can be taken at face value.’

  Even in his daze, Schmidt knew he’d received an insight. Suddenly von Streck said, looking at him, ‘You’re a very brave and competent man, Herr Schmidt. An individual with rare talent and a hero’s precepts. Altogether, a man with extremely unusual and useful qualities, and I’ve great plans for you.’ He nodded to himself. ‘I must return to my colleagues. We’ll meet again soon.’

  Recovering, thinking hard, Schmidt said, ‘Wagner’s a good man. He should be saved. He could be very useful to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry Herr Schmidt, that is no longer possible. For your sake, and for mine.’

  In the frigid corridor, stock-still, Schmidt heard the shouts of reunion as the special plenipotentiary, apparently the star turn, rejoined his party.

  The man’s last phrase flashed in his brain. Dully, Schmidt felt the horror subsiding, and a sense of fatalism taking him over. Still he stood motionless. It came to him, that this Wertheim episode was just the beginning.

  He suddenly remembered he had a home to go to – if it could be described as such now.

  However, he didn’t go home. Wagner’s small gold key was in his pocket. He must take care of thi
s last piece of business for his friend and colleague. Grimly, obdurately, he moved into the streets.

  Where Dr Bernstein had had his rooms was a ten-minute walk, and almost immediately he was in a depopulated, dingy district. The thin building looked abandoned. From the opposite corner, Schmidt scrutinised it. No lit windows, but some feeble illumination in the downstairs foyer. Narrow streets went away from him like spokes on a wheel. Street by street, shadowy doorway by doorway, he inspected them. No sign of humanity. The cold bored into his bones like steel screws were being turned into them.

  He crossed the street and entered the foyer. It was lit by a single bulb. Ignoring the door under the stairs he went up two flights to Dr Bernstein’s dark door. Stuck to the glass was a notice: Closed down. For dental attention contact Dr Muller, etc. He retraced his steps.

  In the foyer, he listened, sorting out sounds: a distant train; a shutter banging on a wall; the wind in some kind of wires. He opened the door under the stairs. Fourth board from the entrance. Enough light came in. The board looked a fixture; he bent down and tried it with his fingers. Then he took out his pen-knife and slid it into the crack. It came up easily. A tin deed-box. He laid it at his feet. He listened again: timbercreaks in the old building. He had the key out; it inserted, turned easily. He lifted the lid.

  The banded packages of mint banknotes filled it to the brim. French francs. The crisp smell of new money saturated the tiny space. It figured. Dietrich’s phrase. He closed it, picked it up, and edged out to the foyer. He shut the door and turned to leave.

  Two figures stood in the street door. Schmidt couldn’t move; stared at them like a hare caught in headlights.

  ‘Herr Schmidt!What a surprise! Though, is it really? Under the stairs, four boards in from the door …?’ The second figure emitted three short barks, begun as a laugh, finishing as a cough. Wagner’s interrogators! ‘You bankers do work strange hours. And at suspicious locations. In your case, that is. Let me see that box, mein herr.’