The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  They left the building and crossed the road to a canal fenced with an iron railing. Unlike Berlin, the water here was unfrozen. Ludwig was tall and angular, and as they walked the canal path he shortened his steps, to suit the limping man by his side. The local Gestapo officer seemed ill at ease. He cast a sidelong glance at his Berlin colleague.

  ‘It was a strange case. Before my time. Six agents from the operational section were shot dead by a police detective - the father of a half-Jewish secretary at Bankhaus Wertheim. Two agents from the SD who’d been questioning a man called Wagner, an official of the same bank, were also shot and killed in a deserted office building — by an unknown hand.’

  Sack, limping along, considered this carnage.

  Ludwig asked, ‘How much do you know?’

  Sack shook his head. ’It’s the auditor, Schmidt, I’m interested in. At the time, he was also at Bankhaus Wertheim. The fellow came out of it all smelling like roses.’

  ‘Well, he was at the heart of it. As was the bank. Whatever “it” fucking well was.’ Ludwig gave a nervous shrug. ‘The colleagues who worked on it didn’t survive and the paperwork vanished.’

  A motorised barge towing two others, all loaded with coal, forged along the canal, sending bow waves of oily water slapping into the stone walls. Ludwig stopped and faced his Berlin colleague. ‘Listen, Wertheims were bankers to the Party. A functionary named Dietrich was sent from Berlin to watch over things. He sniffed out this Jewish woman secretary whom Schmidt was close to, had her put away. She died in Ravensbrück.’

  Sack put his hand on the rail, grateful to rest. He knew some of this from the file.

  Ludwig looked away. ‘Schmidt had a brush with the SA back in 1935, lost an eye. He and his mother sheltered the Jewish woman before her arrest. Dietrich, officially a captain in the SS by the way, put a lot of energy into getting him out of that.

  ‘The next thing we know, Schmidt brings to light a fraud by Dietrich and Otto Wertheim: the theft and smuggling to Switzerland of a wad of the Party’s bearer bonds.

  ‘Schmidt reports this to a Party high-up, von Streck. Two SD agents pick up Wagner coming back from Zurich. Supposedly, he was working with Dietrich to get the bonds into numbered Swiss accounts he opened for Dietrich and Otto Wertheim. Wagner dies under interrogation. The same night the SD men are murdered and their record of interview vanishes. If they’d had time to do one.’

  Sack grimaced. His hip was still painful. The situation described was opening up possibilities beyond those that normally passed across his desk. Ludwig swung back to look down at Sack. ‘The next thing, Schmidt’s joined the Party, is being introduced around by this von Streck as a fucking hero.’

  They moved on. Sack said, ‘A suspicious odour.’

  Ludwig laughed. ‘It stinks to high heaven.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I think Dietrich and Otto Wertheim were framed.’

  Sack gazed ahead along the path. ‘By Schmidt?’

  ‘Who else?’ Ludwig hesitated. ‘However, the case was prepared by some legal brain in the SS close to von Streck. I’m not going to ask who that was. Dietrich and Wertheim were executed within days.’

  Sack nodded, but he didn’t understand this.

  ‘Schmidt had an agenda - maybe revenge - and von Streck did too. God knows what his was. Forget I said that. After you phoned, I went to look out the papers on the trial. Gone, and the clerks know nothing, which makes me very, very nervous.’

  He has every reason to be, Sack mused. We both do.

  ‘My advice is, forget it. From this moment on, I am. We never had this talk.’

  Sack gave his grimace. ‘My thanks for what you never told me.’

  His colleague from the old days nodded, they shook hands, and the tall man strode hurriedly back along the canal.

  Immobile, Sack watched him go. What was von Streck’s agenda? Where did the man’s power begin and end? He’d only seen him once, across a crowded room at the Adlon Hotel. A strangely grotesque yet distinguished figure. It looked like auditor Schmidt might be the fellow’s instrument.

  Reich Minister Himmler had secretly briefed senior Gestapo officers to be especially vigilant for plots against the Fuehrer — the regime. If he could penetrate this imbroglio, which stank like rancid fish, it could make his career. Very satisfying to himself — and, no doubt, to Freda. It could also terminate his career. And his life.

  More coal barges, like plump black beetles in search of dinner, came ploughing up the canal toward him.

  ~ * ~

  From a telephone box near Wilhelm Platz, Schmidt made the call. He felt pressure to divest himself of the cassette in his pocket; an interim delivery. Fifty pages of the plan. Hopefully readable. Someone would contact him today, using the password he’d nominated. As he left the box he glimpsed a dark-coated figure shrink back into an embrasure: the small, bespectacled man; his shadow.

  Schmidt turned and headed for the bank. The tolling of a church bell seemed to follow him, as if in pursuit of a lost soul.

  Frau Heyer was red-faced and her hands were trembling when Schmidt entered the anteroom. His nerves jumped. Freda Brandt had just walked into the room, her chin lifted high. The auditor took in the president’s secretary’s obvious distress, received the head of precious metals’ terse nod.

  ‘What is wrong. Frau Heyer?’ Freda Brandt demanded.

  ‘Fräulein manager, the president’s censured me. When he returned last evening he found the door to the inner sanctum unlocked.’ She gulped in air. ‘I am certain I locked it before going home.’

  Freda frowned at the distressed woman. She thought: The slimy bastard treats all women like shit. If she had locked the door, who had opened it - and for what reason?

  Frau Heyer burst out, ‘Herr Funk leaves his papers from his work at the ministry in his safe overnight . . .’ She blinked back tears.

  Freda Brandt nodded imperceptibly, and gave Schmidt a cold look. ‘Herr Chief Auditor, good morning. If Frau Heyer’s recollection is correct, I wonder what’s happened?’

  Schmidt looked grave, raised his hands in puzzlement. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said. He gave his slight bow to the women and let himself into the inner room.

  Freda Brandt watched him go, her high cheekbones flushing crimson, her mouth pinched tight.

  Behind the closed door, contemplating the file of papers awaiting him, Schmidt exhaled. She was trying to piece together his movements last night; might already have discovered his late return to the office.

  When he emerged thirty minutes later, the head of precious metals had gone, and Frau Heyer was on the telephone. Schmidt walked quietly from the anteroom.

  In his office, he began to work on his in-tray. Herr Gott must be increasingly surprised by his ‘hands off’ approach to his auditing duties. His deputy’s bitterness at the southern interloper’s preferment would be stoking up. He was the one doing all the work!

  He thought: Everyone’s puzzled by the new chief auditor. Not the outcome he’d been hoping for. Back-room obscurity was what he wanted. The affairs of Herr Fischer and Anna von Schnelling had conspired against that; combined with the suspicious and ambitious mind of Freda Brandt.

  He settled down to write lengthy and troublesome instructions to his deputy on a range of items that would give Gott pause for thought.

  It was just before noon, with the odours from the canteen wafting in the corridors, when the crashing of boots outside his door made Schmidt’s heart leap. A rapping on his door rattled the glass. The door was flung open. An officer of the SS stood there aglitter with silver insignia. ‘Heil Hitler!’ The shouted salute and heel-click arrived like a clap of thunder. The clockwork-raised arm, the austere eyes, bore down on the auditor.

  Schmidt had half-risen from his chair. ‘Heil Hitler!‘ His response was tinged with shock. He gazed wide-eyed at the officer.

  The SS man’s voice relaxed to a normal level. ‘Dürer. Mein herr, you’ve something for me?’

  Of cou
rse. Schmidt fumbled in his pocket and hurried around the desk, the small box in his palm. He pressed it into the man’s extended hand.

  Another crashing salute, the black-uniformed officer wheeled and went out, surprisingly closing the door with almost gentle precision.

  Shaken, Schmidt returned to his chair. An officer of the SS to courier this item! To come to his office! Von Streck must be employing this brazen approach as likely to be less suspicious, less risky, than their clandestine meetings. The boundary of the plenipotentiary’s power and influence was flickering before Schmidt with the uncertainty of sheet lightning on a night horizon.

  He trusted von Streck didn’t know of the other special caller: Major Hoffmann’s Abwehr messenger. Herr Wolff’s visitor register in the front foyer would record both visits to the chief auditor; from two key institutions of the Reich. Someone would routinely check such traffic. Freda Brandt might ask: ‘Why is the chief auditor receiving such people? What is the purpose of such calls?’

  ~ * ~

  Freda Brandt had been about to drop in on the chief auditor. His non-appearance at her celebration party required explanation. And an apology. After the champagne, she’d been ripe for the handsome little bastard. He’d certainly made himself scarce this morning.

  She turned the corner of the corridor in time to see the SS man rap on Schmidt’s door and enter. She pulled up, hearing the vociferous salute. A moment later the officer withdrew with another heiling commotion, and marched away down the corridor, setting up a deafening resonance.

  She became tense with curiosity — avid for answers. The SS! What deep game was the auditor playing? For the Party or against it? Hopefully Julius would come back from the south with information that would enable them to penetrate the enigma. She’d found out that the auditor had returned last night and stayed out of sight in the building until nearly 11.00 pm. Doing what? Not intending to come to her party, that was clear.

  She abandoned her earlier intention and strode back to her office. She came to a decision: If he has more late-night sessions, I’ll keep him company.

  ~ * ~

  At 2.30 pm Sturmbannfuehrer Sack, glancing up, glimpsed in the swirling yellow vapour a faded blue flag, hanging limply from the pediment of the building he was heading for. Entering the stone building, passing under a carved granite lintel, he noted the polished brass plate inscribed: Bankhaus Wertheim & Co. AG, Private Bankers.

  The Gestapo agent showed his pass to an old attendant, who conducted him to an ancient lift. ‘First floor, mein herr,’ the man gasped, fighting for breath.

  Sack had decided to take one further step into the fog. In more ways than one: from late morning a sulphurous blanket had afflicted the southern city.

  From a phone booth, he’d made an appointment with this bank’s general-director. He’d expected no problems in achieving this; there was something between them that would sweep away any difficulties, something beyond even the power of his Gestapo warrant.

  Straightaway, Sack was shown by a secretary past pale varnished faces of long-dead Wertheims, into a wood-panelled private room. He stopped and regarded the giant man who sat behind an oak desk dense with dynastic carving.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’

  The white-haired general-director stared at the Nazi. He didn’t rise from his chair, merely gave a terse nod in response to the salute and pointed at a chair. There was no question of shaking hands.

  Sack sat down, said with his grimace, ‘Congratulations on your high position.’

  The man gave another curt nod.

  Sack placed his hat on his lap. He’d not been invited to remove his overcoat. Was this giant banker from Rostock still going after the bums of little boys? He said, ‘Are there any Wertheims left in the bank, or have you cleaned them out?’

  ‘There are Wertheim shareholders.’

  The room was a severe space: no decoration at all on the walls. Two large controversial paintings, which had hung there several months before, had been removed by the new incumbent. The Gestapo man sat forward. ‘Herr Schloss, I’m here on official business. I wish to ask some questions about your former chief auditor, Schmidt.’

  The director’s expression didn’t change. Sack went on. ‘I’ve some basic information regarding the interesting events at your bank last November. For example, that Herr Otto Wertheim, and the Party functionary, Dietrich, were found guilty of a fraud against the Party and executed.’ He paused. ‘That Herr Schmidt, the long-serving and loyal servant of the bank, unmasked this fraud, earning the Party’s gratitude.’

  The general-director’s eyes didn’t deviate from Sack’s face.

  ‘However, there are puzzling aspects. Among them, the rather rushed trial of the traitors, the actions of your foreign manager, Wagner and, most importantly, the exact part Schmidt played — in what can only be called a farrago, wouldn’t you agree? I find his part quite obscure.’

  Sack regarded the silent other. ‘Perhaps fantastic is a better word.’

  Herr Schloss lowered his eyes to examine his massive but soft hands locked together on the shimmering desktop. He wanted this man gone from his office; from his life, as he’d hoped he was until the telephone call one hour ago. He’d paid him enough to effect that. The voice on the phone had given him a sickening jolt.

  Sack assessed the general-director. ‘I must have your full cooperation. If not . . .’

  The threat uttered so casually was left to lie on the table.

  The giant’s shoulders gave a slight shudder. For a lifetime, Schloss had been famous for the diamond-hard quality of his blue eyes. These days, advancing age flooded them with water, diluting the impact.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Were Dietrich and Otto Wertheim guilty?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Sack blinked at the unhesitating response; the two Party members had been executed with similar dispatch.

  Reluctantly, Schloss added, ‘Though each deserved his fate. Dietrich was an appalling man, Otto Wertheim an incompetent oaf. We’re well off without them.’

  Sack absorbed the information, the forceful contempt. “‘Probably not”? Yet they were caught red-handed in a scheme to deprive the Party of its hard-earned funds, weren’t they?’

  Schloss grunted. ‘After the event, I ran my own investigation within the bank. Contacted people I know in the Swiss bank, where the so-called fraudulent accounts were opened. It was all a sham.’

  ‘How was it done?’

  ‘With forged signatures. And by gaining access to the safe where the bonds were in custody. Otto Wertheim was a joint custodian. A stupid, delinquent man who kept his combination numbers to the safe taped inside his desk drawer.’

  Sack felt a rising excitement. ‘So Schmidt was the manipulator who framed those two?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would a trusted auditor do this?’

  ‘Revenge.’

  ‘For the death of the Jewess?’

  The huge man nodded. ‘Also because of certain principles he’d indoctrinated himself with.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was known that he was a student of the history and ethos of the Teutonic Knights. His family claims descent from one of them.’

  Sack checked his teeth with his tongue. The Party also had claims on that medieval order and its heritage to inspire and train the elite among young Nazis.

  ‘And Deputy Foreign Manager Wagner?’

  ‘Wagner wasn’t working with those two. He was working with Schmidt. He took the bonds to Zurich. Opened the accounts at Schmidt’s behest.’

  Sack spoke almost to himself: ’And Wagner’s version of events is lost to us.’ He became alert again. ‘What is your opinion of Herr Schmidt?’

  The banker’s face reddened. ‘A devious individual. He betrayed us, brought ridicule down on us, humiliated us before the Berlin banks. A substantial amount wasn’t recovered, and we had to pay compensation.’

  Sack frowned, and gazed into space as if deep
ly puzzled. ‘Why didn’t you expose him?’

  The blue eyes were afloat, yet sharper. ‘Where might that have led?’

  Sack thought: Yes, into von Streck’s mysterious and obviously dangerous world. That was the crux of it — and for him too. This banker, with liquid gold running in his veins, would’ve seen only further disaster in that.

  Sack sighed. Should he take the lesson from that copy-book? The twin beacons, his career and Freda, were luring him toward the move that the banker had rejected. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Mein herr, what you’re telling me can be supported by hard evidence? Which you will provide?’

  With great reluctance, Schloss nodded.