The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

  So now the routine.

  Evelyn Hoffmann moved away from the Café window and went to the narrow shop next door bearing a sign over the entrance that read KONDITOREI. She waited her turn, and then had a box filled with fresh Nusskuchen and had it wrapped with a ribbon to resemble a gift.

  Leaving the shop, she walked slowly across the street, purse in one hand and the box of cakes in the other, to Askanischer Platz, halting briefly on Schöneberger Strasse to buy today's copy of the Berliner Morgenpost . Seeing that it was sold out, she settled for the tabloid BZ—the Berliner Zeitung—which she rarely read, and took her place in the bus shelter to await the approaching number 29 bus that would bring her to the Ku'damm in twenty minutes.

  On the bus, she began scanning her BZ. The lead photograph and story reported that the American cowboy president had dispatched more nuclear missiles to West Germany, their warheads to be aimed at the Soviet Union. This satisfied her, since she hated the Russians even more than the Americans. As the bus rumbled along, Evelyn absently leafed through her paper. A lesser headline caught her attention, and she noted that the first paragraph beneath it was datelined London:

  A British publishing house, Ryan and Maxwell, Ltd., announced yesterday that it was going ahead with plans to bring out the long-discussed biography of Adolf Hitler, Herr Hitler, authored by Sir Harrison Ashcroft and his daughter Emily Ashcroft, of Oxford. There had been some question about the future of the unfinished book when Dr. Ashcroft, pursuing his research on Hitler's final days in Berlin, met an untimely death in an auto accident. However, yesterday the British publishing house announced that Emily Ashcroft had agreed to complete alone the biography that she and her father had been preparing for five years.

  Involuntarily frowning, Evelyn read on, lost patience with the rest of the news, and folded the tabloid, stuffing it into her purse.

  On the bustling Ku'damm, she dismounted from the bus and slowly traversed the few blocks on Knesebeckstrasse that brought her to the six-story apartment building where her closest relatives lived. On the third floor, in a large modern apartment, dwelt Evelyn's beloved Klara Fiebig, who worked part-time as an artist for advertising firms, and her husband, Franz Fiebig, a somewhat acidic but clever schoolteacher who taught modern history at the Schliesion Oberschule in the Charlottenburg district. Klara's mother, Liesl, invalided and often in a wheelchair, lived with the Fiebigs. Liesl had been Evelyn Hoffmann's maid in better days—the first of two maids with the same name—younger than Evelyn by three years and a distant cousin. Liesl had bought the expensive apartment for her daughter and son-in-law in return for their care.

  Evelyn was usually cheerful, looking forward to her weekly visit and tea and gossip with the family—a remote family, to be sure, but the only family that she had left—but somehow the ride on the bus this morning had changed and dampened her mood, and upon arrival at the apartment she was lost in thought and somber.

  Inside the apartment parlor there was an inexplicable atmosphere of joy. Franz was away teaching his classes at this hour, but attractive Klara, hugging Aunt Evelyn, and Liesi in the wheelchair, were both beaming with some secret wonderful news.

  "Tell her, tell your Aunt Evelyn," Liesl croaked from the wheelchair.

  Klara held her Aunt Evelyn off, her face wreathed in the broadest smile. "Auntie," Klara said, "I'm pregnant."

  Evelyn, feeling faint, grabbed her niece and smothered her with kisses. "Pregnant, pregnant," she whispered. "Thank God, at last."

  Evelyn had begun to give up hope. Klara had married late, at thirty, and after five years there had been no sign of a child. A few more years and it might be difficult to conceive, even impossible. But now at thirty-five, Klara was pregnant, finally, already in her sixth week, and everything was going smoothly.

  As Klara prepared their tea, bubbling with optimism, Evelyn had given her the weekly token gift, the box of cakes, wishing that she had known so that she could have brought something more lasting and memorable. Then she remembered why she no longer brought Klara and Franz expensive presents. It was because of the reception accorded her last important gift to them on their first wedding anniversary. She had given them one of her prized possessions, a valuable heirloom, the magnificent realistic oil painting of a stately government building. Klara had appreciated it, but her husband Franz had not masked his distaste. "Handsome, of course," he had said politely, "but a little grim. Reminds me of all those brooding Third Reich pictures. Anyway, thanks Aunt Evelyn. Thoughtful of you."

  Evelyn had noted later that the oil never hung in the living room or dining room, but had been consigned to Cousin Liesl's rear bedroom.

  So Evelyn had ceased bringing valuable gifts. After that, and ever since, it had been chocolates or pastries or colognes.

  This morning it was pastries, and Klara, humming joyously, was passing the platter of cakes to her mother and her Aunt Evelyn. Klara was sitting now, and Evelyn feasted her eyes on the young woman and drew her own pleasure from Klara's pleasure. Klara prattled on about the new life inside her, and how happy it had made Franz, and discussed the names being considered if the infant was a he or a she.

  Evelyn, an eye on the mantel clock (she never liked to keep Wolfgang Schmidt waiting for their weekly lunch, knowing how busy he was), listened and decided that next week she would shop for white baby booties, feeling secure that such a present would be accepted favorably by both the mother and the father.

  Leaving at exactly a quarter to twelve, Evelyn walked back to the Ku'damm, and then turned down to Mampes Cute Stube, the restaurant where she and Schmidt had been meeting for these weekly lunches for so many years.

  Approaching the restaurant, Evelyn could see that Wolfgang Schmidt was already there. The black Mercedes used by Berlin's chief of police, with the chauffeur dozing behind the wheel, was parked in a reserved place. Seeing the car made Evelyn realize, once more, her good fortune in having so dear and trustworthy a friend, and one so powerful, in what had become a new and bewildering metropolis.

  Actually, Evelyn recalled, Schmidt had started in a lowly law enforcement position and through sheer effort and skill had worked his way to the top. Discharged from the defeated Schutzstaffel, seeking employment that was suitable, Schmidt had returned to his native Berlin and applied for police work. Applicants were being screened carefully by the new democratic government, but Schmidt's credentials both as an SS blackshirt and as a longtime secret anti-Nazi were the most impressive of all. Among the many officers under Count von Stauffenberg—who had tried to blow up Hitler, to assassinate him at Rastenburg in July of 1944—Schmidt had been the only major conspirator to escape punishment. Schmidt had eluded all Nazi traps set for the plotters and survived to become an anti-Nazi hero. Evidence of this was all the city of Berlin needed to give him a job on the Berlin police force. Ten years ago he had become chief of police, and was in that position still. Other than Klara and her cousin Liesl, this was the person Evelyn Hoffmann depended upon most in the outside world.

  Entering Mampes Gute Stube through the glass-enclosed sidewalk Café area, Evelyn went into the dark coolness of the restaurant. She walked past the button-back brown upholstered chairs and tile-topped tables to the solitary table next to the decorative antique porcelain stove in the far corner of the room, the table that had been isolated by the management out of respect for a regular customer who was the chief of police.

  Seeing Evelyn, Chief Wolfgang Schmidt clambered to his feet with the grace of a bull elephant. His countenance had the Prussian cast of Erich von Stroheim, Evelyn thought, only Schmidt was larger, much larger, bald head gleaming, muscles bulging, stomach protruding, and as ever he was not in uniform but in a businessman's blue suit.

  Evelyn sat comfortably across from him at the table.

  "You've ordered?" she inquired as always.

  "Taken care of," he said.

  That meant her gemischter Salat, Rühreier mit Speck, Wecke, and her second tea of the day, and his plate of Rinderroulade or Leberwurs
t, Bratkartoffeln, and stein of Weihenstephan beer would be here shortly.

  "How are you, Wolfgang?" she asked.

  "Never more fit," he replied. "And you, Effie, how are you?" He was the only one alive who dared call her by her old intimate nickname, and it warmed her that he did so.

  "An eventful morning," she said. "I have some wonderful news to tell you. Klara is pregnant."

  Schmidt responded with a broad smile, and reached for her hand. "Congratulations, Effie, I know what this must mean to you."

  "It means everything. I thank you for your good wishes."

  Schmidt shook his massive head. "I wondered if it would ever happen. So now at last you are going to be a grandmother."

  Evelyn furtively glanced about. "I am going to be a great aunt," she corrected her friend.

  "If you insist."

  "You know it is for the best, Wolfgang."

  He nodded. "I suppose that it is."

  Both fell silent as an aproned waiter served Schmidt his rolled beefsteak and fried potatoes, and Evelyn the mixed salad, scrambled eggs and bacon, and basket of buns.

  Stuffing a piece of steak into his mouth, Schmidt said casually, "Have you read today's paper yet?"

  "You want to know if I've read about the Hitler biography being done in London? I read about it. I also read that Dr. Ashcroft's daughter is going to complete the book for him. This is not surprising. I thought she or someone would."

  Schmidt studied Evelyn from beneath his bushy eyebrows. "That is not the latest news, Effie."

  "Oh, no?"

  "The latest news is that Emily Ashcroft arrives in Berlin shortly. She'll check into the Kempinski." He paused. "You know this is not a social visit."

  Evelyn waited.

  "Of course she is here to discover whether the Führer survived the war, and if so when and where his life really ended."

  Evelyn gave a short nod. "How foolish of her," she said softly.

  They both finished their lunches in silence, neither alluding to the matter again until the meal was over and they were ready to take leave of one another.

  Rising, standing, Evelyn spoke almost as an afterthought. "Emily Ashcroft," she murmured. "I suppose it would be interesting to know what she uncovers."

  Schmidt was on his feet smiling. "Have no concern,. Effie. We will know everyone the young lady speaks to, and about what. Leave it in my hands. You've always been able to trust me. You can trust me now."

  She squeezed his fingers. "My friend," she said, and she was gone.

  A half hour later, descending from her bus at Askanischer Platz, she waited for the traffic light, then crossed the street, walked past the corner bookshop and entered the Café Wolf. The few scattered tables were empty, but at the bar to her left a secretary from an office in the block was paying for a ham sandwich to take back to her employer.

  Evelyn went slowly to the far side of the Café , then entered the kitchen through a swinging door. There. were, as usual, two unobtrusive but strapping guards posted, both dressed as chefs. One, the older of the pair, was familiar to her. The other, the younger one, was not. She cast them a fleeting smile as she moved past them.

  The younger of the two, his hand reaching out, made as if to intercept and block her way, but the older man grabbed him by the arm, pulled him back, and nodded respectfully at her as she passed by them. She opened a door on the far side of the kitchen, revealing a stairway, and disappeared from sight.

  The younger guard protested to his colleague. "But she didn't show her identity card."

  The older guard offered his partner a shake of the head. "You're new here, Hans. Did you come in with that last batch from South America?"

  "Yes. I was warned that everyone entering must display an identity card."

  "Except her. Not her," said the older guard. "Why not? Who is she?"

  The older guard smiled. -Well, behind her back her nickname was always the Merry Widow."

  "The Merry Widow?"

  "That's because in the old days her lover was rarely with her, and she was alone so much."

  "But her real name?"

  The older guard leaned closer to the younger one and said in an undertone, "You have just met Eva Braun. More precisely, Frau Eva Braun Hitler. Yes, my friend, welcome to the Third Reich."

  Chapter Three

  After Emily Ashcroft had registered at the reception desk of the Bristol Hotel Kempinski, she had gone with the clerk to the lift, taken it to the third floor, and been shown into suite 229. It was an excellent suite, with a small sitting room that would be comfortable for her work, a large bedroom with a double bed, and a connecting tiled bathroom. There were fresh flowers in bowls on both the bedroom bureau and the sitting-room coffee table. Atop the television set rested three bottles—scotch, vodka, pink Tavel wine—as well as glasses, napkins, a bucket of ice, and on the writing desk beside it a platter of cheese and crackers, with a card reading, Compliments of the Managing Director.

  A hospitable beginning.

  Picking up the green booklet on which her suite number was printed, she saw that the first page was headed Herzlich Willkommenim Bristol Hotel Kempinski Berlin. The other pages contained photographs of, and information on, the amenities that the hotel offered.

  Then Emily realized that underneath the booklet there was a telephone message that had been left for her.

  Reading it she saw that it was from Peter Nitz, the Berliner Morgenpost reporter, who had written to her last week to tell her he had witnessed her father's accident. She had answered to inform him that she was coming to Berlin to finish the research her father had begun, and that she hoped she could meet him soon after her arrival not only to thank him in person for his kindness but to get an overview of what she could expect in Berlin. The telephone message, taken at the reception desk this morning, told her-that Peter Nitz would be pleased to call upon her at two o'clock. If he did not hear from her, he would come directly to her suite.

  This gave her time to unpack and take a bath and get into some fresh clothes. After her three pieces of luggage had been deposited in the bedroom, Emily had opened the garment bag and hung it in a closet. Then she had unstrapped her two suitcases. One contained blouses, underthings, and shoes, as well as a small travel kit of toiletries. The other contained books and files that were part of the reference material needed for the final chapters of Herr Hitler.

  Taking up her kit of toiletries, Emily moved into the bathroom. There were mirrors everywhere. As she undressed, Emily became conscious of her naked body. Not half bad for a schoolteacher—Jeremy Robinson notwithstanding, the bastard. Her auburn hair, green eyes, tilted freckled nose with delicate nostrils, and her full lips might not be found unappealing by someone decent, someday. The breasts, perhaps, might be a bit small for some tastes, but they were firm. The stomach was flat—the strenuous daily exercises paid off—the small waist supple, and the brown beauty mark below the deep navel not uninteresting. The hips were acceptably feminine, the thighs full yet the legs long and shapely. Still, this attractiveness had never found her the right man. After graduation from college, enamored with a literature professor fifteen years her senior, she had eloped. It had been an ill-fated union. He was immature, arrogant, a womanizer, and worst of all a lush. The marriage had lasted only six months. After that, there had been several mild attachments and affairs, but none with any depth or real commitment.

  Gradually, she had found her main satisfaction in teaching and writing. Five years ago, when her father had invited her to join him in researching and writing alternate chapters of Herr Hitler, she had been thrilled. But sometimes, more frequently than before, she longed for the love, companionship, and bodily warmth of a wonderful mate. The meeting at the BBC with Jeremy Robinson had given her hope, but with hindsight she could see that it was her need for a mate and not her feelings for Jeremy himself that had propelled her into the relationship. Blindly, she had not permitted herself to see that Jeremy had been a hope misplaced. Following that disaster, h
er absorption in Adolf Hitler and his incredible court of Nazi clowns had become more fulfilling than ever.

  Now, with a last glance at her nude figure, Emily immersed herself in the tepid bubble bath and pondered whether she alone would solve the riddle of Hitler's end. Peter Nitz was a fair enough start. As a newspaperman, be might offer her some leads. And there would be Dr. Max Thiel, who believed that Hitler had survived the war, as well as the East German, Professor Otto Blaubach, who might give her permission to excavate at the Führer bunker site.

  Once she had finished her bath, and dried herself with the terrycloth robe provided by the hotel, Emily sought a softcup skintone bra and string nylon panties (she disliked panty hose), then dressed herself in a simple white blouse, cool pleated blue skirt, and low-heeled pumps. No stockings. She had just finished applying her makeup when she heard the buzzer and noted that Peter Nitz was exactly on time.