Paving the New Road

by Sulari Gentill

  The four of them set out together that morning, ostensibly for the galleries. Richter had disappeared to finalise Edna’s gown and to ensure that his own tailcoat was adjusted to accommodate any recent expansions in his torso.

  “Perhaps we’ll get away with it,” Clyde murmured, as Rowland parked the Mercedes. “The three of us could just stay in the background, keep an eye out for Campbell. It’s only Ed that Richter wants to use as a billboard.”

  “Ed’s pretty recognisable,” Rowland said. “Campbell’s met her too.”

  “That was over a year ago,” Milton said. He turned to Edna. “Couldn’t you do something with your hair or your face to make yourself look different?”

  “I can hardly grow a moustache,” Edna replied.

  Milton grinned. “Look, Rowly, I don’t think it’ll be so bad. It sounds as if the Nazi hierarchy is unlikely to be on the guest list. If Hitler and King Rupert have fallen out, then surely Campbell’s not going to risk offending Hitler by going to the King’s party.”

  “He’s got a point,” Clyde agreed. “Perhaps we’re swinging at shadows.”

  Milton continued. “If, for some reason, Campbell is invited, and does attend, and then comes across Ed while Richter is parading her around, he’ll probably note that she looks remarkably like the girl who shot a man in his study, but he’s unlikely to assume it is the self-same girl. How many times do you see someone that you think looks just like someone else? If Ed continues to insist she’s Millicent Greenway, I doubt he’ll find the familiarity enough to investigate.”

  On this point Rowland was sceptical. “I don’t know, Milt. As you said, Ed shot a man in his study. You would think he might remember her.”

  Clyde raised his brows as he recalled that night. “She was splattered with blood and screaming bloody murder…With any luck, she’ll look a bit different all scrubbed up.”

  “I am sitting right here, you know,” Edna said, smacking Clyde indignantly.

  Rowland smiled. “Campbell didn’t only see Ed on the night she shot me, though. She came to a party at the Campbells’ posing as my fiancée, if you remember.”

  Edna rolled her eyes. “Good Lord, it’s not that difficult. If we see Campbell at the ball I will simply get a headache and slip home before anybody thinks to introduce us.”

  For a few awkward seconds nobody replied, as they considered what seemed too simple a solution.

  “I suppose that might work,” Rowland said finally.

  “Of course it’ll work,” Edna said. Her eyes glinted. “I know you fellows are getting fond of dressing up and pretending to be God knows what—”

  “Yes, all right, that’s enough,” Clyde interrupted.

  Rowland swung open his door. They were parked outside a modern apartment building, a structure of simples lines and occasional curves in classic Art Deco style, located in an expensive neighbourhood. Chic couples strolled the pavements arm in arm. Rowland’s eye was caught momentarily by a pair of glossy dachshunds holding their leads in their mouths as they trotted sedately beside an elderly gentleman.

  “Well-trained,” he murmured, thinking of Eva and her desperation for a dachshund.

  “You couldn’t get Lenin to do that,” Clyde agreed.

  Rowland smiled. Lenin didn’t like leads. The war-torn greyhound was hard enough to control with a grown man holding onto the lead for dear life.

  “Len’s an Australian dog,” Milton said glancing disdainfully at the dachshunds. “There’s something rather perverse about a hound that restrains itself.”

  Rowland was inclined to agree. He missed Lenin.

  “Where are we, Rowly?” Edna asked.

  “Anna Niemann lived here,” Rowland told them quietly. “I thought there might be a caretaker or a building manager about, to whom I could speak. See if she had her things sent on anywhere…that sort of thing.” He climbed out of the Mercedes and opened Edna’s door. “You lot don’t have to come with me…In fact, it might be counterproductive if you did.”

  Clyde checked his watch. He looked at Milton. “I suppose it’s too early for a beer.”

  Milton smiled contentedly. “Not in Bavaria, old mate.”

  “I’ll see you back here in about an hour, then,” Rowland said, tossing the keys to Clyde.

  “I’ll stay with Rowly,” Edna said, adjusting her hat in the reflection of the Mercedes’ windscreen.

  Leaving Clyde and the poet to find a beer hall, Edna and Rowland walked together towards Anna Niemann’s last known address.

  Rowland spoke first with the doorman, making enquiries about the building’s manager and requesting an audience with the same.

  The doorman directed them through a door behind the polished counter in the foyer. The office was small and clean, though cluttered. The walls were hidden by bookshelves and boards of hooks on which hung keys with brass tags. An extraordinarily short gentleman with a neat white beard stood behind a massive pedestal desk which made him seem smaller still. The manager’s name was Handel. He greeted them politely and invited them to sit.

  Rowland introduced himself and Edna as Mr. and Mrs. Marcel. He hadn’t discussed this with Edna, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he adopted the guise in this case. Perhaps he just liked the idea of introducing Edna as his wife.

  “I am with Film Fransçois, Herr Handel,” Rowland began, making it up as he went. “Perhaps you know this woman?” He handed the photograph of Anna Niemann to the manager. “We would like to offer her a major role in one of our upcoming productions, but we are having a little trouble locating her. Fräulein Niemann gave this as her last address, but we are told she is no longer here.”

  Handel nodded. “That is true, I am afraid. We have not seen Fräulein Niemann in over a month.”

  “Did she leave a forwarding address?”

  “No, but she left everything else.” Handel sat back in his chair with his hands folded over his belly. “Fräulein Niemann left in haste…My wife and I packed up her things when it was clear she would not return. Why, if it was not for her brother, her personal items would still be here in boxes.”

  “Her brother—?”

  “Herr Niemann. He came about a week after she left, settled the outstanding rent account and took her possessions away.”

  “I wasn’t aware Fräulein Niemann had a brother…are you sure—?” Rowland began.

  “Yes, yes.” Handel was emphatic. “I was surprised at first, too, as Fräulein Niemann had never mentioned a brother and he had not visited before. We do not give the goods and chattels of our residents to any person that walks in off the street!”

  “Forgive me, Herr Handel, I did not mean to imply such a thing,” Rowland said quickly. “It’s just that I have known Fräulein Niemann for many years and I have never met this brother. What did he look like? Perhaps we have been introduced and I have just forgotten.”

  Handel shrugged. “Tall…about forty-five, I’d say…red hair…He spoke with an accent, though I could not place it. He was polite, but his face did not match his words. He showed me a photo taken just after the war…They were younger, of course, but the likeness was unmistakable.

  Rowland frowned. He pulled the notebook from the lining pocket of his jacket and, opening to a clean page, drew quickly. “Is this the man, Herr Handel?” he asked, handing the notebook over the desk.

  Handel took a pair of spectacles from his breast pocket and peered at the sketch of Alastair Blanshard curiously. “Mein Gott! That is him…with so few lines you have drawn him…You know him then, Herr Marcel?”

  Rowland nodded. “I do…I had forgotten he was Fräulein Niemann’s brother until you described him just now.” He took the notebook back from Handel. “I don’t suppose he left a forwarding address.”

  Handel raised a finger. “Yes, yes, he did…for mail and such, though there has been nothing.” He opened a drawer and rumma
ged through it to find the note he sought. Painstakingly he copied the address onto a card which he handed to Rowland. “Perhaps you will find her there, Herr Marcel, or at least Herr Niemann. She is a fine actress…My wife and I went to one of her shows.”

  “We’ll do our best to find her, Herr Handel.” Rowland stood and thanked the manager for his time and assistance.

  As their companions had not yet returned, Rowland and Edna took tea in a small but fashionable café near the apartment block. Rowland informed Edna then that it was Alastair Blanshard who had collected Anna Niemann’s belongings and paid her rent.

  Edna gasped. “But why?…Do you think Mr. Blanshard knows where she is now?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder what precisely Blanshard knows and what exactly he’s doing,” Rowland replied tersely. He shook his head, remembering that when he first asked Blanshard about the mystery woman, the agent had pointed him towards Nancy. It seemed an intentional misdirection now.

  “Rowly?” Edna prompted him. “What are we going to do?”

  Rowland smiled, noticing that Edna had finished her cake and had duly started on his. “If we can’t trust Blanshard, we’re fairly vulnerable, Ed…Are you going to leave me any of that?”

  Edna took another forkful of cake before returning it. “It’s simply delicious,” she assured him.

  “Wil said that Bothwell may have been betrayed by someone within the Old Guard…Perhaps it was Blanshard.”

  “Are we going to confront him?” Edna asked, adding another lump of sugar to her tea.

  “No, we are not,” he replied quietly. “But I might.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  ...It seemed a good opportunity so I asked him [Putzi Hanfstaengl] why the Nazi Party were so bitterly opposed to the Jews. His answer was surprising.

  “We do not interfere with Jews. You have been around Berlin? Yes? Well you would have seen plenty of Jews with big shops looking fat and happy. I tell you, if Hitler did not want any Jews in Berlin, it would be all over in twenty minutes including the burial service.” He then burst into laughter the way Germans so often do.

  As I was taking my leave, three men came into Putzi’s room and I was introduced. They were Ribbentrop, Alfred Rosenberg, and a Major Schmidt. The latter spoke English with a strong American accent...

  —Eric Campbell, The Rallying Point, 1965

  Rowland stopped in his tracks. Ahead of him was the parterre which ran down the centre of the park. It was here he had arranged to meet Blanshard. But the agent was not alone.

  Alastair Blanshard stood with his hat in his hand, in conversation with a tall blonde in a herringbone skirt. Unity Mitford.

  Rowland’s impulse was to turn on his heel and walk away, but it was too late.

  Unity waved, her long arm flailing in a wide, excited arc. “Kanga! Why, it’s Kanga Negus!” She ran over to him dragging Blanshard with her.

  “Hullo there.” She smiled broadly. “I say, it must be my day for bumping into people. First Biddles Blanshard and now you!”

  “Miss Mitford,” Rowland said, forcing himself to smile. He offered Blanshard his hand. “Robert Negus, Mr. Blanshard. How do you do?”

  Blanshard, apparently relieved that Rowland did not feel the need to call him “Biddles,” responded in kind. Rowland turned back to Unity as he checked his watch. “What a surprise to find you here, Miss Mitford. I would have expected you—”

  “To be at the Osteria?” she finished for him. “Not today. Mr. Hitler is in Berlin today…as is Mr. Campbell.” She burst into an uncontrollable fit of giggles.

  Rowland watched on uncertainly. The woman was quite mad.

  Blanshard cleared his throat. “Are you acquainted with Colonel Campbell, Mr. Negus?”

  “I know of him…” Rowland replied, bewildered as to where the conversation was going.

  “Well, it appears Miss Mitford has played a rather amusing prank on Colonel Campbell.”

  Unity slapped Blanshard’s arm. “No…stop!” she gasped, trying to control her laughter. “You must let me tell it…it’s just too much.” She hooked one arm through Rowland’s and the other through Blanshard’s. “Shall we walk? It’ll help me control myself…” She giggled again.

  And so they strolled down the parterre.

  Unity did nothing but giggle for a while, and then finally she began to explain her extraordinary mirth.

  “I was speaking to my friend, Putzi Hanfstaengl…that’s his real name, by the way; it’s so ridiculous I can’t call him anything else. Anyway, I was telling Putzi ’bout Colonel Campbell and, you know,”—she lowered her voice to a scandalised whisper—“his mother. Of course, Putzi was as outraged as I that Campbell would presume to form an association with our beloved Mr. Hitler and we thought how jolly it would be if we could make him think he’d actually met someone important…They’re like that, the Jews, always trying to insinuate themselves with their betters.”

  “Do you play poker, Mr. Negus?” Blanshard said loudly, glancing at Rowland over the top of Unity’s head.

  “What has that got to do with anything, Biddles?” Unity said, looking at Blanshard.

  Rowland took heed and tried to relax his face. Apparently, his distaste was showing.

  “Nothing at all, Miss Mitford…I do beg your pardon,” Blanshard apologised. “Do go on.”

  “Well, Putzi—he’s the Chancellor’s secretary or some such thing—invited Colonel Campbell up to Berlin to meet Mr. Hitler at the Chancellery. As you would expect, Colonel Campbell was tremendously pleased and accepted most enthusiastically.”

  Rowland looked at her with growing disquiet. Was everything they had done to keep Campbell away from Nazis of note about to be undermined by this idiotic English woman?

  “But of course he won’t actually see Mr. Hitler…who, Putzi will tell him, has been called away at the last moment. Instead, Putzi will introduce him to Mr. Von Ribbentrop, Mr. Rosenberg, and Major Schmidt. Only it won’t be Mr. Von Ribbentrop, Mr. Rosenberg, or Major Schmidt…. but two office boys and an American friend of Putzi’s, all dressed up!” Unity positively screeched with laughter. Indeed, if her arms had not been firmly entwined with her companions’ she might have collapsed with hilarity at what seemed to Rowland a somewhat bizarre joke.

  “I take it that Mr. Hanfstaengl’s American friend speaks German?” Rowland asked.

  “No…not at all! He just wanted to be part of the joke. I’ll say this for Americans, they’re always ready for a lark. Putzi’s going to dress an American in an SS uniform and tell Colonel Campbell that he’s an important Nazi. Oh, how we laughed planning it!”

  It did occur to Rowland that Unity Mitford and Hanfstaengl might just have orchestrated the meeting that would allow Campbell to leave Germany satisfied that he had met enough significant Nazis to justify his trip.

  Blanshard, too, did not look displeased. The agent took a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and, after consulting it, shook his head with a studied show of regret. “As much as I’d like to stay, I’m afraid I have a previous engagement, so if you’ll excuse me, Miss Mitford, I’ll have to leave Mr. Negus to walk you back to your hotel.”

  Unity wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “Don’t mention it, Biddles. Kanga and I will carry on.”

  Rowland glared at Blanshard, infuriated by this last act of bastardry. The man was capable of anything.

  Blanshard smiled, looking amused for the first time. “Let me give you my card, Mr. Negus. No doubt you’ll wish to write to me with thanks for facilitating this time with the charming Miss Mitford.” He handed Rowland a calling card.

  “Oh, Biddles, you do go on!” Unity smiled coyly. “Mr. Negus is well aware that I am spoken for.”

  “A man can but try,” Blanshard said, tipping his hat as he left them to it.

  Rowland glanced at the card before slipping it into his pocke
t. Scribbled in pencil on the underside was “Back Wednesday.”

  When he looked up again, Unity Mitford was studying him. “Do you want to do something a little bit naughty, Kanga?”

  Rowland just wanted to leave.

  She pulled at his arm. “Come on, then, we’ll have a smashing time!”

  “I’m afraid I—”

  “It won’t take terribly long,” she interrupted. “You simply must come…I shall be most put out if you don’t.” She folded her arms and pouted.

  “Where exactly do you wish me to accompany you, Miss Mitford?”

  “To the stadium at the end of Wilhelmstrasse. I want you to see why Germany is going to become the greatest nation in the world.”

  Rowland relaxed. A stadium. The Nazis had a fondness for epic, classical architecture. He relented.

  They took a motor cab to Wilhelmstrasse, which was located outside the central business district. The stadium he saw as they approached was not particularly spectacular. Hardly worthy of the hyperbole of Unity’s description.

  They alighted near the entrance and Rowland paid the driver, who Unity instructed not to wait.

  The main entrance to the stadium was shut, guarded by two SA officers who stood talking about their plans for the evening and smoking.

  “This way,” Unity said, hooking her arm through Rowland’s and pulling him away as if they intended to stroll about the outside perimeter of the stadium. About two hundred feet from the entrance was another door…small and unassuming, obviously a service or utility access of some sort.

  “The lock is rusted,” Unity whispered. “If you give it a decent push, it’ll open. Putzi showed me a week ago.”

  Rowland stepped up to the door and shouldered it sharply. As Unity had predicted, it gave and opened.

  “Quick, before anyone sees us.” Unity pushed past Rowland and into the stairwell on the other side of the door. Rowland closed the door behind them. The stairs were dark and narrow and smelled of mildew. They came up between the rows of tiered seating which surrounded the grassed oval of the stadium.