The Serpent's Egg

by JJ Toner

  Neumann stepped away. “Was he shot?”

  “Not at all. His neck was snapped.” He clicked his fingers. “Like a dry twig. Death would have been instantaneous. Was he wearing a blindfold at the time? Who can say?”

  “When was he killed?”

  “Ten days, maximum. It’s difficult to be more precise than that.”

  Neumann thought that was remarkably precise. Herr Rachwalski had been buried on October 6. That gave them a 2-day period for the killing, October 7 - 8. “Was he killed in the cemetery or elsewhere?”

  “He was almost certainly killed somewhere else. People don’t usually keep carpets in cemeteries. Wherever the carpet came from, that’s probably where he was killed.”

  “That’s very helpful, Herr Doctor. Is there anything else you can tell us? Was he beaten or tortured in any way?”

  “No, I don’t believe he was, but there is evidence that he was subjected to a severe beating some months ago. I can’t be sure when exactly, but I would guess four to six months before the shooting. The abrasions on his face are not recent.”

  #

  Back at the police station on Storkowerstrasss, the desk sergeant told Neumann that the technical team had recovered a good set of fingerprints from the cigarette lighter. They had already started to search their criminal records.

  Neumann drove a fist into his palm. “Well done, Rainer. Let me know the minute they find a match.”

  Chapter 73

  November 1939

  The Joint Forces Contingency Committee was preparing for a session in Whitehall, Air Commodore Frank Scott in the chair. The members were unusually subdued as they all eyed the two interlopers in their midst.

  “Gentlemen, take your seats,” said the Air Commodore. “I’d like to introduce General Marchand of the French Army. The General is here representing the combined armed forces of the Republic of France. You all know my aide. I have asked him to act as translator. I met with the general in September when he suggested a bold approach to the problems posed by the non-aggression treaty between Hitler and Stalin. I’ve discussed the basic idea of a pre-emptive strike with each of you privately, so we don’t need to dwell on the ethics of the thing. Our allies in Paris have now taken the basic idea and added flesh to the bones. The general will now outline the detailed plan.”

  General Marchand got to his feet and delivered his proposal through his translator.

  “The puzzle that we must solve, gentlemen, is how to strike a decisive blow against the enormous combined force of Germany and the Soviet Union. I have no wish to overstate the peril that we face, but the combined force of the Wehrmacht and the Red Army could easily amount to 20 million men. 100,000 tanks and 150,000 combat aircraft. If unleashed against us, a force that large would certainly obliterate both of our nations and could quickly sweep the world. Since my encounter in September with your Air Commodore, the best available minds in the joint armed forces of the Republic of France have been applied to find a solution to this puzzle, and they have determined that there is one weakness, one glaring vulnerability that both our enemies share. And that is?” He paused for effect. No one responded. “The oilfields in the Caucasian region of the USSR. This is the one vulnerable asset that both our adversaries depend on. The oil that is produced and refined there is used to power both the Red Army and Hitler’s Wehrmacht. My plan, which we are calling ‘Operation Folie,’ is to execute an airstrike against these assets before it is too late.”

  The general paused. Ten seconds of silence followed, and then the room erupted. Air Commodore Scott applied the bowl of his pipe to the table. When he had restored a measure of order, he gave the floor to the Royal Navy’s senior representative.

  “That area is bordered by the Black Sea to the west and the Caspian Sea to the east. The Navy has no access to the Caspian Sea. Passage to the Black Sea is possible with the agreement of the Turkish government, but I doubt whether it would be either desirable or wise to position any navy vessels in such a restricted area. I can’t see the Admiral of the Fleet sanctioning Royal Navy participation in such a plan.”

  A red-faced Army major general stood up. “I cannot speak for the Field Marshal, but speaking for myself, I would have to say that this plan is nothing short of total madness. I would have thought such an unannounced sneak attack may well provoke the worst imaginable reaction, driving the Soviets and the Nazis into each other’s arms and bring annihilation down on all our heads. If this plan is ever put into action, I predict Red Army tanks in the Mall and Nazi troops on the Champs-Élysées.”

  Group Captain Cameron Pinkley of the RAF spoke last. “As must be clear, the RAF Readiness team has been engaged in detailed discussions with our colleagues in Paris. We have examined the practicalities of the plan, and it is entirely feasible. Given the element of surprise, three attack vectors, from our bases in Iran, Syria and Turkey, and given the overwhelming destructive power of the ordnance we will bring to bear, we anticipate an entirely successful outcome. Indeed, it is difficult to see how these raids could fail to achieve their objective. Gentlemen, this joint Anglo-French enterprise carries a high probability of complete success. And let me say in conclusion that it remains our one and only chance of survival in the gathering storm.”

  #

  The door to No. 10 Downing Street swung open and Air Commodore Scott was admitted to the office of the Prime Minister’s personal private secretary. He handed over the French document, and outlined the thrust of its argument.

  The secretary ran his eyes over the summary. “Obviously, our options are limited. I have to tell you this is the only proposal on the table at the moment. I shall pass it to the Prime Minister as soon as an opportunity presents. In the meantime, might I suggest you give it to the analysts in the War Office for a thorough evaluation.”

  Chapter 74

  November 1939

  On Thursday November 30 everyone was glued to their radios as news came through that the negotiations between the Finns and the Soviets had broken down and the Soviets had launched an all out attack against Finland. The Propaganda Ministry spokesman sounded close to hysteria, describing the incursion as a full-scale invasion by a world power of a small, neutral nation and calling on the League of Nations to condemn the action. The voice on the radio went on to pour scorn on the French and the British who had promised to protect the Finns, but did nothing to intervene.

  #

  That evening, Max went around the apartment searching for something, looking under the furniture and down the back of the sofa cushions.

  Anna watched him. “What are you looking for?”

  “My father’s cigarette lighter. Have you seen it? Have you tidied it away somewhere?”

  “I haven’t seen it. I thought you carried it everywhere with you.”

  “It was in the pocket of my pants.”

  “When did you last have it?”

  “I’m sure it was in the pocket of these pants,” he pulled a pair of pants from the wardrobe, “but it’s not there now.”

  “When was the last time you wore those?” Then she remembered. “Oh! Aren’t those the pants you were wearing when you went out that night in the storm? That night…”

  The blood drained from Max’s face. “You must have found it when you washed the mud from my clothes.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You’re sure you haven’t forgotten.”

  “Certain. Check the floor at the bottom of the wardrobe.”

  Max got down on his hands and knees. He removed all the shoes and ran his hands over the floor.

  “Any luck?”

  He growled at her. “Nothing but a couple of startled spiders. You’re sure you haven’t put it somewhere?”

  Anna searched through the shoes. He looked at her. She shook her head. Max checked the shoes himself. Then he went back to the wardrobe, pulled out all the clothes, item by item, running his hands over them and dropping them on the floor. Anna could see that he was in the grip of a raging panic.


  “You brushed the mud off in the kitchen before you washed them. Maybe it fell out then.”

  “I don’t think so, Max. I would have noticed.”

  She searched the kitchen floor.

  “It must have fallen out when I was digging. I must have dropped it in the cemetery.”

  #

  Two days later, Max caught an eastbound tram. He sat by the window with a clear image in his head of the Holy Cross Church. He jumped from the tram when he spotted it.

  There was a funeral in progress, a small group of mourners gathered at a freshly dug grave. He cursed silently that he hadn’t dressed for a funeral. He should have thought of that. The new grave was close to the one where he and the two Communists had placed Vigo in the carpet.

  Max sidled up behind the funeral party. He cast his eyes over Vigo’s last resting place. It looked surprisingly neat and tidy with fresh flowers on the grave. A shiny new gravestone declared that this was the grave of Bismarck Rachwalski, born October 1856, died November 1939. He circled the grave, keeping his eyes on the ground. He saw nothing. He traced his path back from the grave to the cemetery wall, but found nothing.

  His quest was hopeless. The lighter was probably under the soil with poor Father Vigo and Herr Rachwalski, his companion in death.

  “Can I help you?”

  Max turned to find a young priest standing uncomfortably close.

  “No, thank you, Father. I was lost in thought.”

  “Ah yes, memories of your departed dearly beloved. What was his or her name?”

  “Bismarck Rachwalski, my grandfather.”

  “I remember the funeral. It was well-attended. He was a remarkable man in his time. You must be related to Frau Glueck, so, his granddaughter.”

  “We are cousins. Thank you for your kind words, Father, I must leave now.”

  “Good to talk to you. Go in peace.” Max took a couple of steps toward the entrance. “I’m sorry about that nasty business with the grave, but as you have seen it’s all been set to rights now.”

  Max stopped in mid-stride. “What nasty business, Father?”

  “The police, the disinterment, the extra body. Frau Glueck was most upset. Didn’t she tell you about it?”

  In hushed and scandalized tones the young priest told Max how the police had dug up the grave and discovered a second corpse wrapped in a carpet. Nothing like it had ever happened at Holy Cross Church before. The archbishop had paid them a visit, threatening to hold the parish priest personally responsible.

  Anna dropped the last of her mother’s willow pattern saucers when he told her. “If the police have found your lighter in the grave and they trace it back to you, you could be arrested for murder.”

  “I’m not worried about it, Anna. I don’t see how they could possibly trace the lighter back to me.” It was a lie, for himself as much as for her.

  Chapter 75

  December 1939

  Oberassistent Fischer strode into his Boss’s office. Kommissar Neumann was lighting one of his long Russian cigarettes. He offered the pack to Fischer.

  Fischer declined. “I don’t know how you can smoke those things, Boss. They’re mostly air.”

  Neumann ignored the comment. No doubt he’d heard it before. “I’ve been thinking about our dead priest, Fischer. We should take a look into his life, find out what he’s been up to recently and see what emerges.”

  “I was hoping the carpet would lead us somewhere, Boss. Have you spoken to Doctor Otto about that?”

  “The state of the carpet and the grave gave him a probable date for the burial. It must have been during that storm on October 8. He got nothing else from the carpet. It’s a cheap carpet. Any evidence it might have contained was covered in mud and washed away by the rain. No, I’m hoping the fingerprint search will identify our man. In the meantime, I’d like you to take a trip to the church. Talk to the old priest, see if you can find anything. Father Vigo must have made an enemy. He was Italian. Maybe he upset the Italian Mafia. Maybe he was having an affair with someone’s wife. Find me something. Anything.”

  Fischer said, “I found a report of a burglary in the parish house about the time the priest went missing, Boss, and one of our Schupo colleagues came up with some information that might be relevant. Officer Gretzke pounds the beat near St. Angar’s Church. He says a new priest started there in February.” He consulted his notebook. “Name of Gunther Schlurr.”

  “That’s all good. Talk to this Father Schlurr.”

  Fischer took the car to St. Angar’s Church. He knocked on the parish house door and Father Zauffer, the parish priest, opened it.

  The first question he asked produced a surprising response. “I’d like to speak with Father Schlurr.”

  “Who?”

  “Father Gunther Schlurr. I was told he started in this parish recently.”

  “We haven’t had a new priest here for years,”

  Fischer set that aside for later consideration.

  “You reported a burglary in September. Was anything stolen?”

  “They broke the front door and threw my books around, but we have little enough to steal.”

  “So they stole nothing?”

  “They stole a map.”

  “What sort of map?”

  “A map of the city. It’s difficult to be sure, but that’s the only thing we’re sure they took.”

  Fischer subjected the parish priest to a battery of questions about Father Vigo’s private life. When they first interviewed him, Father Zauffer had said that Vigo had interests that took him away from the parish from time to time. Could he be having an affair? What about his friends and acquaintances? Father Zauffer’s answers led nowhere. Finally, Fischer asked for a list of the work that Father Vigo had been involved in for the three months prior to his disappearance. Father Zauffer wrote out a list containing 7 Baptisms, 29 funerals and 10 weddings.

  Fischer went to work. He spoke to 7 sets of happy parents and admired 7 newborn babies. He met with 29 grieving widows or relatives. Nothing surfaced that was remotely helpful. He asked Father Zauffer if he had any Italians in his congregation. Father Zauffer gave him the name of a family that ran a pizza and pasta restaurant in the parish. Fischer spoke to them and found a pleasant, hard-working family devastated by the loss of their beloved Italian priest.

  Next, Fischer turned his attention to the weddings. He checked the parish register back to the start of the year and found one wedding that looked odd. Father Vigo had married Max-Christian Noack and Anna Weber on Saturday March 25. It was signed by the bride and bridegroom but by only one witness.

  “Why only one witness?” Fischer asked.

  Father Zauffer scratched his bald pate. “I’m not sure. The Gestapo interrupted that ceremony. Perhaps the witness forgot to sign in the confusion. I’m not sure, sorry.”

  “The Gestapo? What happened exactly?”

  “I didn’t see the incident, but I gather they barged into the church and arrested one of the guests.”

  Fischer asked to see the Marriage Authorization and the priest went into the parish house to fetch it. He returned with a bemused expression on his face. “It’s not there. I looked through our records – twice. It’s not there.”

  Fischer knew then that he had something. A lead. A trail to follow.

  He drove to Schönstedtstrasss and interrupted the registrar in the middle of someone’s wedding. “I need to see the Authorization for the marriage of Max-Christian Noack and Anna Weber on March 25 of this year.”

  “You’ll have to wait. Can’t you see I’m conducting a marriage ceremony?”

  “It can’t wait. I’m conducting a murder investigation.”

  The registrar objected again.

  “Please find the document immediately.” Fischer put his hand on the butt of his pistol.

  The registrar searched his files for the Authorization. March 25 had been a particularly busy day. As he handed it over, he remembered the unpleasantness with the Gestapo.r />
  “I had a visit from a member of the Gestapo not long after that wedding. He claimed that the Authorization was a fake. He said the signature was a forgery. He threatened to have me removed from office. He never came back, though.”

  “And is it a forgery?”

  The registrar shrugged. “I’ve no way of knowing. The signature is illegible. It carries the official stamp.”

  “I’ll hold onto this, thank you.”

  “You say you’re investigating a murder? Surely there can’t be any connection between a wedding and a murder?”

  “One more question,” said Fischer. “What was the name of the Gestapo man?”

  “Franz, Franzl, no, Framzl. Kurt Framzl, that was his name.”

  Fischer sped back to the police station. The case was unfolding at last!

  Kommissar Neumann hadn’t moved from behind his desk where Fischer had left him. And he was still smoking one of his Russian coffin nails.

  “Officer Gretzke’s information proved faulty, Boss. The parish priest never heard of a Father Gunther Schlurr.”

  “Talk to Gretzke again. Anything else?”

  Fischer placed the Marriage Authorization on Neumann’s desk and told him what he’d discovered.

  “And you say it’s a forgery?”

  “I can’t say that. That’s what the Gestapo man told the registrar. He might have been making some kind of mischief. You know what the Gestapo are like.”

  “Did you get the name of this Gestapo officer?”

  “Kurt Framzl.”

  Kommissar Neumann picked up his telephone and dialed a number.

  “This is Kriminal Kommissar Erhart Neumann. I’m ringing from police district 6 on Storkowerstrasss. I need to talk to one of your men.” He listened for a couple of moments. “Kurt Framzl. It’s a murder enquiry. I believe Herr Framzl may have information—” Another pause. “I see. Where? Thank you.” He replaced the telephone on its cradle.