CHAPTER 7
Leslie was waiting outside, along the street well away from the guard, who appeared to have been keeping an eye on him, looking over his shoulder as he marched back and forth. The man came to attention and gave a short bow as Maisie passed, inclining her head in acknowledgment. Leslie joined her, though they did not speak until they had turned the corner, beginning their walk back along the route they had taken to the Nazi headquarters.
“What did they say?” asked Leslie. “Did they give you a day to claim your father?”
Maisie smarted at the word claim. It was as if Leon Donat were a coat discarded as one entered the theater, left with the girl who waited at the cloakroom. Perhaps she should expect to press a few pfennigs into the hand of each guard when she reached Dachau, a thank-you for taking care of the man she would call “Papa” until they reached the seclusion of the train to Paris.
“They said the papers would be ready on Thursday, and they bid me an enjoyable time in Munich.”
“Longer to wait than I hoped. And not good.”
“Why?” asked Maisie. “It seems we expected a delay of a day at least—that some sort of game-playing might be on the cards.”
Leslie clapped his hands together as if to beat the cold from his fingertips. “Yes, we did—but I had hoped for it to be quicker, especially now.”
“What’s happened? Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure, though I believe I’ll find out when I get back to the consulate. There was a bit of a buzz as I left, and I heard someone mention Austria. I think something new has come up with Austria, and you never know with this lot—they might have all sorts of clampdowns just because something has happened somewhere else. That maniac Hitler—you’ve no idea where you stand, and it’s not as if we haven’t been expecting trouble across the border. With any country neighboring Germany, in fact—we’re very concerned about Czechoslovakia, and Poland.”
Maisie said nothing. She wanted only to reach the next hill she had to climb, complete the ascent, and go home. She had been reflecting upon the circumstances of her recruitment for this mission. What had made her agree? Was it the need to be useful? To do something of worth? She could have said no, and now she was wishing she had. This was not her work. She was an investigator, a private inquiry agent. Yes, she had proved herself in other areas, and Maurice clearly thought she might—in fact, should—be called to service if Huntley saw fit. But now she realized that if she were to work again, it would be her own work. When this assignment was complete, when she had discharged her duties, she would give more thought to what she would do next.
“Miss Donat?”
“I’m sorry—I was miles away. Did you ask me a question?”
“Yes—I just asked if you would like company during the next day or so. What would you like to do in Munich? Despite all appearances, it is a very colorful city, and of course Bavaria is quite lovely.”
“I think I will consult my Baedeker, perhaps go for a walk in the English Gardens, visit the Residenz, and then spend most of my time at the hotel. And please don’t worry—I can manage on my own from now on.”
“I will of course accompany you again to Nazi headquarters to obtain the papers, and then we can go to Dachau from there. I’ll have a consular motor car ready for us to proceed directly to the station.”
“All right. Then telephone me at the hotel tomorrow evening.”
“Are you sure you don’t want company tomorrow?”
“Positive. I am used to being on my own in an unfamiliar country.”
“Right you are. We started to see women traveling alone or in pairs and small groups a few years ago. I suppose it was to be expected, what with fewer men to go around. I must say, you bachelor girls are all very brave when it comes to just going off on your own.”
They had reached the end of the narrow street, taken to avoid saluting Nazi heroes.
“I know my way from here, Mr. Leslie.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Leslie looked at his watch.
Maisie smiled. “Oh, yes, I’ll manage—I am one of those brave bachelor girls, after all.”
Leslie blushed. “I’ll be in touch, then.”
In her hotel room, Maisie pulled off her coat, threw down her bag, and went straight to the bathroom, where she splashed water on her face, leaning over the sink and holding her hands to her eyes as the facecloth dripped water back into the sink. She had not known what to expect during the visit to the austere Nazi headquarters that morning, but she knew the tension would not leave her until she was in Paris, Leon Donat at her side. She raised her head and looked in the mirror. It was something she’d found herself doing more in the past months, as if she wanted to see who she had become, to monitor change. She wanted to see if she looked like a widow, whether something in the way she carried herself revealed a woman who had lost a dear husband. Or did she resemble the young woman she had become after the war—one of so many “bachelor girls” who had, perhaps, lost a first love, spinsters for whom there would be no husband or family? She had been one of the lucky ones; her loss had been repaid, and she had loved again. That her husband had been killed and their child stillborn seemed to her a most unfair fate—as if a much-cherished promise had been rescinded, leaving an aching void.
She shook her head, reached for the towel, and made sure her wig was in the correct position. She would be glad to see it consigned to the dustbin as soon as she could divest herself of Edwina Donat. She put on her coat, hat, and gloves once more and checked the time. It was not even one o’clock. She could spend half a day today and much of tomorrow looking for Elaine Otterburn. At that thought she gave a sigh of relief. This was work she knew, even if it was in a different country.
There was one last element of preparation before she made her way back to the reception desk to ask directions to Schwabing. She reached into the leather case, unwrapped a cashmere cardigan with mother-of-pearl buttons, and removed a velvet pouch that looked as if it should contain toiletries. She slipped her hand inside and took out the revolver given to her by MacFarlane. With a deft hand she checked her weapon, used a cloth to remove any dust, and made it ready with ammunition. Running her fingers across the metal one more time, as if she were gentling a racehorse before a gallop, she slipped the Enfield into her bag. She could not have said why she thought she might need the revolver with her on a visit to Schwabing—an artists’ enclave of bookstores, cafés, and nightclubs, on the face of it a benign place. But she knew she did not want to venture out without it this afternoon.
The desk clerk took Maisie’s Baedeker guide, opened the map inside, and lifted his pencil. “May I?”
“Of course,” said Maisie. “I need to know where I’m going.”
Flourishing the pencil, the clerk marked the place where Maisie could board a tram and the point at which she should step off. He told her where to walk, and made a note in the margin of his favorite coffeehouse, where he informed her that she could buy a slice of the very best apple strudel. Maisie thanked the man and set off.
As the tram rumbled along the streets to Schwabing, Maisie watched people going about their afternoon—women running errands, children who looked as if they should be in school, and a couple she suspected were tourists, for they held a map and stopped a man in the street. He looked at their map, and pointed in the opposite direction to the one they had been walking. And men in uniform, usually in twos, or groups, receiving the inevitable acknowledgment from passersby, a salute to honor the chancellor.
Soon the conductress tapped her on the shoulder to let her know she had arrived; this was her stop.
“Danke. Guten Tag,” said Maisie as she moved toward the door.
The woman lifted her chin as she turned to another passenger to issue a ticket.
Stepping off the tram, Maisie looked up and down the street, taking stock of her surroundings. When the tram had moved off, she glanced across the road. She had no idea where she should start. How would she ev
er find Elaine Otterburn? The task seemed ridiculous—it was as if she had been asked to go to Chelsea and locate a person. But she had to start somewhere. She scratched her forehead where the wig had chafed her, causing a rash.
Elaine was a woman who liked society. She liked going out, and she liked to be noticed. It was mid-afternoon. Where would such a woman go, if she was not at home? Where might a woman who liked to be the center of attention be found? Maisie began to walk along the street, pondering the question. She suspected Elaine was not a shopper, but would accompany her women friends on an expedition to look at new clothing if it meant a chance of laughter, of company. And of course she might be in a restaurant, or a bar—what did they call them? Beer halls? Maisie wondered if Elaine would go to a beer hall. She realized she could just imagine it. Leslie had described the beer halls to her—they’d been the chosen venue for Adolf Hitler to address the crowd in earlier years. On those occasions, most of his audience had been drinking for some time, and many harbored an opinion about their situation—a job or lack thereof. The man who was now the chancellor took advantage of the situation, his rhetoric mirroring the temper of the times, reflecting the mood of the people and milking it for all it was worth. According to Leslie, Hitler’s eyes would almost pop out, sweat would pour from his brow, and spittle would fly as he barked out each syllable. The crowd devoured every word, more inebriated with drink and hyperbole as the minutes passed. “And he goes on for a long time,” added Leslie.
Maisie took a photograph of Elaine Otterburn from her bag and prepared to cross the road in the direction of what she thought looked like a very good women’s clothing shop. It was next to the café recommended to her on one side, and a gentlemen’s tailor on the other. Along the street were other shops—a hardware store, a grocer’s, then another store selling general goods. There was a shop selling artists’ materials, a bookseller’s, another clothing shop, a pub, a restaurant, and another café. She turned around again. From the look of streets close to the shops, it appeared to be a nice area—what Priscilla might call “bohemian,” certainly, but not a slum. Not top-drawer, either. It seemed a place that would attract those who liked a bit of color in their days—and nights. She could see a couple of shuttered music halls and a nightclub. Leslie had told her there used to be more, but many had closed down. And there were once a good number of small publishers in the area, selling magazines, broadsheets, opinion papers, books—though most had closed now, and the people who had worked on them had all but ceased to exist. There were, he said, “underground” presses, daily or weekly news and opinion from those opposed to the Nazi regime, published by people who railed against the loss of freedom in the name of keeping the country safe.
As she crossed the road, Maisie felt a whisper of cold air across the nape of her neck—a familiar sensation, where a scar ran just below her occipital bone. A shrapnel fragment had caught her flesh when the casualty clearing station where she was working in France, in 1917, had come under enemy fire. The same attack had almost taken the life of Simon Lynch, her former fiancé. The scar was barely visible now, yet it served her in its way, giving a warning when there was something close that demanded her attention. It was all but calling to her now.
She turned around. A man had stopped to look in the tailor’s window before stepping inside, the bell over the door clanging as he entered. Maisie watched as a woman crossed the street behind her; she was walking toward the grocery shop. There were others in the vicinity—it was not a deserted thoroughfare—but nothing she saw explained the sense she had that someone was following her.
Entering the recommended café, Maisie took a seat. When the young waitress approached, she ordered a coffee with hot milk and some apple strudel. She was very hungry. Soon the waitress returned to the table, using the palm of her free hand to smooth out the white embroidered tablecloth. She placed the coffee and strudel on the table and dipped as if to curtsy. Maisie smiled at her and held out the photograph of Elaine Otterburn.
“I wonder, have you seen this woman in your café?” she asked in German. “She is the daughter of one of my oldest friends, and though I know she lives here in this area, I have lost her address. I know I’m hoping for a miracle, but your café is just the sort of place she loves!”
The waitress looked at the photograph, shook her head, and apologized. No, she did not know the woman. Maisie thanked her and continued to enjoy her coffee, which was rich with creamy milk and hot. When she had finished, she gathered up her gloves and bag, left a few pfennigs for the waitress, and made her way back out onto the street.
She moved on to the dress shop. No one had seen Elaine. Then to the grocery shop—which she thought was rather a stretch; she couldn’t imagine Elaine cooking anything. But it was here that there was a glimmer of recognition as Maisie paid for an apple and then repeated her story. The man smiled and wiped his hands on his brown apron before taking the photograph, squinting as he studied the image. The abrupt change from helpfulness to a sudden interest in the next customer was almost imperceptible.
“Nein. Ich habe noch nie diese Frau gesehen.” No, I have never seen this woman before.
Maisie thanked the man, who was already addressing the next customer with a cheery smile. She left the shop, certain that the man had indeed seen Elaine Otterburn. Why had he lied to her? And something else was bothering her. The person waiting behind her, to whom the shopkeeper had turned when he claimed he did not know the woman in the photograph, was the same man she had watched enter the tailor’s along the street.
The general store held nothing of interest for her, though she thought she might buy some souvenirs. Purchasing a couple of postcards might not be a bad idea; at least it demonstrated an interest in the local attractions. The bar—a wood-beamed pub—was still a few yards away. Maisie imagined a darkened interior, with brown paneling and gravel-voiced daytime drinkers in corners, furtively caressing a glass of schnapps, or a rowdy crowd ready to move on to another venue for afternoon entertainment. She sighed. Yes, she would have to go in, though she dreaded it. On the other hand, she was well versed in entering dark, dingy places in the interests of gathering information. Still steps away, she heard the volume increase, with even louder laughter, shouting, teasing. The doors of the bar seemed to crash open to more giggling as a motor car came from along the street and pulled up parallel to the open doors. Three officers of the Schutzstaffel emerged from the pub, accompanied by three women. It would seem they were all enjoying the afternoon, each woman dressed in expensive clothing, one with a fur collar, the others with coats draped around their shoulders. High heels clicked along the pavement, and a woman’s laughter punctuated the air, like champagne bubbles rising in a fluted glass.
Maisie stepped back into the shadows of the encroaching dusk and watched the partygoers clamber into the motor car and the vehicle draw away from the curb. She turned away and began to walk back toward the place where she would board the tram bound for Marienplatz. It was as she approached the grocery store that she noticed the shopkeeper standing on the threshold. They exchanged glances, and he nodded. Now she knew where he had seen Elaine Otterburn, and why he’d denied any knowledge of her or her whereabouts. Maisie would have recognized that laugh anywhere. It was Elaine Otterburn who had left the bar on the arm of an officer of the feared SS.
Maisie remembered once, a long time ago, attending one of the Otterburns’ parties at their Park Lane mansion. Elaine had skipped over to Priscilla, Douglas, James, and Maisie, champagne glass in hand, her dress clinging to her narrow frame, her hair a pixie cap of curls, her eyes wide with the knowledge that she was noticed. “Lucky, lucky lady,” she’d said, teasing Maisie as she linked her arm through James’ as if to draw him to her. Priscilla had raised an eyebrow as Elaine laughed, released James’ arm, and moved away toward a clutch of young men clamoring for her attention.
“If I were you, Maisie, I’d watch that one,” Priscilla had said.
Darkness had fallen by the time Maisie r
eached the tram stop close to Marienplatz. She made her way across the square, past the glockenspiel, looking for the route back toward the Residenz and her hotel. After a few minutes, she suspected she might have taken a wrong path. The pedestrians had thinned out, and she felt quite alone. She hurried her step, and felt her heartbeat quicken when she heard the echo of her own footfall. The scar at her neck was throbbing a warning. She ducked into a doorway, pressing a hand to her chest to still her breath. The footsteps came closer and then slowed. Whoever had been behind her was just one step ahead now. She slipped off her gloves, feeling the chill air on her fingertips. Pulling the revolver from its hiding place in her handbag, she took hold of the grip, stepped from the doorway, and held the gun to the neck of the man who had halted, as if wondering where his quarry was hidden.
“Wer bist du? Warum hast du mich verfolgt?” Maisie whispered close to the man’s ear. Who are you? Why have you followed me? Now she knew her suspicions were well founded; she was sure it was the man who had first walked into the tailor’s shop in Schwabing, and then to the grocery store.
The man answered in English, and with a distinct American accent.
“Mark Scott. United States Department of Justice, ma’am. Or should I say Fräulein D? That would cover both of you.”
“I would like to see a means of identification. And move forward two paces.”
As the man flapped back an olive-green overcoat to reach the inside pocket of his jacket, Maisie stepped around to face him.
“No.” Maisie aimed her weapon at his heart. “Keep your hands out of the way.” She reached into his pocket, removed a wallet, and stepped back to take advantage of the light from a window above. She flicked open the wallet with her left hand, aware of the man’s every movement. “And please do not try anything, because—believe it or not—I can use this thing, and I have it on authority that I am not a bad shot. Mind you, anyone could be a good shot at this distance.”
Journey to Munich Page 9