"True," Major Elford confirmed. "Speer was the only prisoner who kept his full sanity because he spent his free time reading and writing about architecture."
"Well," said Foster, "when Speer finished the last year of his sentence, he must have carried the plans out of prison with the rest of his effects. In fact, he returned all the bunker plans to Zeidler, or thought he had. Actually, he returned only six. We're guessing he may have left the seventh bunker plan behind here in Spandau."
"Why?"
"Zeidler surmised it was an oversight. Zeidler figured that, while trying to identify the location of each bunker, Speer had some trouble placing the seventh one. So while still here, Speer loaned it to Hess hoping that the old deputy Führer might remember Hitler's intentions for that bunker, where he had wanted it built or actually had it built. I suppose Hess was unable to help."
"You suppose correctly. Hess's mind has been shot for a long, long time."
"Anyway, Speer never took the seventh plan back from Hess." Foster paused. "Zeidler expects it may still be among Hess's effects. Zeidler was hoping I could recover it, for my book and his own archives. What do you think?"
Major Elford blew a cloud of smoke, and then stubbed out his cigar butt in a bronze ashtray. "If it's here, you can have it. We don't give a damn about any ancient blueprints."
"Where do we look? In Rudolf Hess's cell?"
"Christ, no, his cell is bare as a stripper's tit. He's got a cot, chair, table, TV set, a few pieces of clothing, little more in there. We cleaned out most unnecessary effects over a decade ago." Major Elford stood up. "If it is anywhere, it's in the prison library. Let's go have a look."
They left the prison director's office, walking past the chief guard's room and the infirmary.
"Straight ahead is the actual cell block," announced Elford, "and also the library."
They strode along the corridor until they reached the converted cell that housed the prisoners' books, and finally entered it.
Elford gestured toward the bookshelves. "The war criminals were each allowed to take out four books at a time -a Bible, a second religious volume, a dictionary, and one nonpolitical novel. Sometimes they were permitted to read history books, but nothing military. Once, by mistake, a history of the Japanese-Russian war of 1901 crept in here. That was the war in which the Japanese whomped the Russians. When the Russians had their month in charge here, they found the book and threw it out. Anyway, under the table, in those three cartons, is where we keep prisoner storage. Hardly anything from the six who got out. Almost all the stuff in there belongs to Rudolf Hess."
Major Elford knelt down and dragged the three cartons from under the table.
There was a sparse number of items in the cartons. Elford began unloading the first one. "Mostly the excess of Hess's outer space collection," said Elford. "That became his hobby after he saw a moon shot on TV. He asked us to write NASA in Texas for reading matter, and all those pamphlets and brochures were mailed from NASA to Hess. They also sent him four color posters of the moon, taken on the moon. They're still on the walls of Hess's double cell. Naw, not a thing in this first carton."
Foster helped the major refill it, and then they turned to the second carton. This seemed to contain wearing apparel. Elford took out a pair of the wooden-soled canvas shoes the prisoners had originally been forced to wear. "Tell you a funny thing," said Elford, examining the scuffed shoes. "Albert Speer designed these for concentration camp inmates when the Nazis were in power. Then, in Spandau, he had to wear them, and one day for exercise he had to run in them. After he had finished running, Speer groaned and said, 'If I had known I'd one day be forced to wear them, I would have put a little leather in them.'
Foster took a shabby blue cap, a dirty blue jacket, and a pair of trousers out of the box.
"And this?" Foster wondered.
"The prison outfit all the war criminals wore at first. That one was worn by Hess."
Foster was pulling some kind of leather military uniform out of the carton. "What's this?"
"A real historical item," said Elford. "Hess wanted us to hold onto it. It is the Luftwaffe uniform of a lieutenant colonel that Hess wore when he flew from Germany to Scotland in May, 1941. He came down to try to make peace with England. I suppose because he knew that Hitler would be turning against the Soviet Union and attacking it, and he hoped to arrange things so that Hitler would have to fight on only one front." Elford peered into the carton. "Doesn't look like there's any architectural roll in there."
"That folded paper on the bottom," said Foster.
Major Elford picked it up and carefully unfolded it. When it was partially open, an architectural blueprint could be seen, and it was clearly signed by Rudi Zeidler.
"The seventh bunker," said Elford. "I guess this is what you want."
"Exactly what I want," agreed Foster.
Elford came to his feet with a grunt. "Let's take it to my office and spread it out. Then you can have a good look."
After shoving the cartons back under the library table, they walked quickly back to the prison director's office.
Elford spread the blueprint open on his desk, with
Foster standing beside him, and they both examined it. "Not a bit of identification anywhere," said Foster. "Not a word," said Elford.
"Strange," said Foster, puzzled. "The other six—their locations were given. On this one nothing."
"You're sure it's an underground bunker?"
"No question about that. You can tell from the location of generators and ventilators for oxygen exchange. It's one of Hitler's underground-headquarters bunkers all right, the missing one. It's damn big, very big. But where did he build it, assuming he built it at all?"
"I suppose it was top secret," said Elford, refolding the plan. He handed it to Foster. "I guess Speer studied it, and couldn't figure it out, and then he turned it over to Hess, hoping Hess would recognize it as you've suggested. I can tell you that at that point Hess remembered very little. When Speer was released, he must have forgotten to take this back from Hess. So now you've got it. I suppose your only hope is to go back to Rudi Zeidler with it. Maybe he'll remember more."
"Maybe," said Foster. "Yes, Zeidler is going to be my next stop. Thanks for everything, Major."
"Thanks for what?" said Elford. "Anyway, here's hoping you get par all the way."
"Meaning?"
"Just don't bogey the seventh, young man," said Elford emphatically. "Don't bogey it!"
As Rudi Zeidler opened the front door to admit him, Foster held up the folded blueprint, waving it triumphantly. "Bunker number seven," he announced. "I found it."
"Good work," said Zeidler cheerfully. Drawing Foster into the house, he asked, "Where? Spandau?"
"Just as you suspected," said Foster. "I was hoping you'd have a look at it now."
"Absolutely," agreed Zeidler, buttoning the gray cardigan he was wearing with fresh white ducks and old tennis shoes. "Let's go to my studio."
Leading the way through the house, Zeidler wondered how Foster had found the missing bunker plan. Foster recounted details of his meeting with Major George Elford in Spandau, and coming across the plan buried among Hess's effects.
Inside the studio, the German architect turned on the fluorescent lights, and together they went to the nearest table. Zeidler took the plan from Foster, un-folded it, and laid it flat on the table. He examined the blueprint carefully, then, frowning, lifted it up and looked on the back to see if there was anything there.
At last, shaking his head, Zeidler refolded the plan and handed it over to Foster. "You're right," the Ger-man said. "No site location given anywhere on it."
Foster searched the other's face. "But the drawing itself—does it ring a bell?"
"A tinkle, no more," said Zeidler. "Yes, the plan is mine all right. No question. I drew it and personally signed it. Usually, when I did these designs for Hitler, he would have me print in the site where the bunker was to be built. Obviously, for this one he
didn't." As if to reassure himself, Zeidler repeated, "No, he didn't. Not for this one. I wonder why. I can't recall."
"Maybe Hitler hadn't made his mind up where he would have this bunker built," Foster volunteered. "Or maybe he did know, but didn't want you or anyone else to know the location."
Zeidler remained baffled. "Could be. Still, all the other bunkers I did for Hitler were classified secret, yet the location of each was known to me. But not bunker seven. Apparently he forgot to tell me—or didn't want to tell me."
"Well, what I find unusual," said Foster, "is preparing a design for a construction without any idea of where it was to be built."
"Not as unusual as you think," said Zeidler. "For one thing, I knew I was designing something to go underground, like all the others I did. For another, I would often get specific orders from Hitler on dimensions and rooms he desired and so forth. He was fairly good at that. You remember his own experience as an artist. No doubt, for number seven, he specified he wanted an enormous bunker and told me what kind of soil we'd be working with. I would guess he knew from the start what locale in Germany he would use for its construction. If he didn't tell me, you can be sure he told no one. What he had in mind died with him in 1945."
"In fact," said Foster, "you don't know that Hitler actually used your design to construct this bunker at all?"
"No, I don't know that it was ever put together. The only ones who would know whether it had been built might be the slave laborers who actually worked on it."
"You mean all the underground bunkers that you designed and that were eventually constructed were built by slave laborers? By Jews, Czechs, gypsies, captured Poles and Ukrainians?"
Zeidler was hesitant. "Well, maybe not every one of them was built by slave laborers. Certainly we know that the Führerbunker was built by an old Berlin construction company. However, I'd venture to guess that most of the other underground military headquarters--due to the shortage of manpower—were dug out and constructed using enforced slave labor."
"And you're suggesting that one of those laborers might remember digging this bunker, if it was dug at all, and might be able to tell me where it would be found?"
Zeidler was shaking his head vigorously. "No, no, I'm not suggesting that as a serious possibility, Mr. Foster. Simply because there are no slave laborers left anymore. Hitler had them exterminated after they finished a job. He didn't want any of them around to reveal where his various secret bunkers were. When the slave laborers finished a job, they were rewarded with a trip to Dachau or Auschwitz or some other gas chamber. So I'm afraid you'll have to caption bunker seven in your book as 'unknown.'"
"Unless," said Foster slowly, "I could find myself a few slave laborers who survived the war, and who might recognize this plan."
"Why, yes, of course," agreed Zeidler. "You might start your hunt by practicing to find a needle in a haystack."
When Irwin Plamp brought his Mercedes to a halt before the dirty five-story building in Dahlmannstrasse where Ernst Vogel had his apartment and mail-order book business, Tovah Levine came out of the car ahead of Emily.
Eager to get Vogel's final verification of the entrance of a second Hitler into the Führerbunker two days before the end, Tovah hurried toward the bookseller's building.
For the better part of two hours Tovah had impatiently waited in Emily's suite for the time when they could see Vogel. During that wait, Tovah had been filled in on Vogel's background by Emily. Then she had skimmed the research notes Emily had produced in which all witnesses had agreed that Hitler had not left or returned to the Führerbunker in what was supposed to have been the last twenty days of his life. Yet, all these reports had been contradicted by the one guard who had actually seen Hitler enter just two days before his announced death. Again and again Tovah and Emily had reassured themselves that there had been a Hitler double in the bunker, and he had been the one who committed suicide, while the real Hitler had survived and escaped.
Now, with Emily right behind her, Tovah hastily entered the building, trying to find Vogel's apartment.
Emily pointed to a staircase. "He's up on the floor above, first door to the left of the landing. We should be just on time."
Tovah allowed Emily to lead the way. Reaching the landing, they both turned left into a corridor and halted before the first brown door, somewhat chipped and in need of fresh paint. There was a doorbell to one side and Emily pressed it and waited for the door to open. When it did not open, Emily pushed the doorbell again. Still no response. As if to make sure it was being done properly, Tovah reached over to ring the doorbell her-self. She rang it three or four times, but still no luck.
"Maybe the bell's on the blink," said Tovah.
"Maybe," agreed Emily. "All right, let's do it the old-fashioned way."
Emily began to rap on the door, and then as Tovah joined in they both rapped loudly.
The only response came from below the staircase. A rotund elderly lady was waddling up the steps.
"What is it? What is going on here?" she demanded breathlessly when she had arrived at the top. "You are making an awful commotion. I am Frau Lecki, the landlady. Who are you?"
"We are customers of Mr. Vogel," Emily replied calmly. "We had an appointment to meet with him five minutes ago. He was to show us an important book." She indicated the door. "But he doesn't answer."
Frau Lecki was immediately understanding. "Ach, Vogel, you know Vogel. Half the time he doesn't answer because he can't hear well, and when he takes off his hearing aid, he can't hear at all." The landlady fumbled in her apron pocket for a ring of keys. "If Vogel said he would meet you here, he will be here. I am sure it is only that he is not wearing the hearing aid. Let me find him and tell him he has visitors."
Inserting a pass key into the keyhole, Frau Lecki unlocked the door and pushed it open. She clumped inside, took in the room, and gave a grunt of triumph. "Just as I thought. There he is in his rocker, with the hearing aid off and sound asleep." She beckoned Emily and Tovah. "You come in while I wake him."
The instant Tovah was inside the living room, she sniffed and wrinkled her nose. "What a foul smell," she whispered to Emily. "What can it be?"
But Emily was observing Ernst Vogel, lying back in his rocker, eyes tightly closed. Tovah followed her gaze and held on the slight wizened figure slumped in the rocker, his sunken cheeks almost white, his lips bluish.
"He looks ill," Emily muttered.
Frau Lecki was shaking Vogel by the shoulder. "Get up, Ernst. You have customers here."
Vogel's eyes did not open. Instead his head fell forward, and as the landlady took her hand away, he slid sideways against the arm of the rocker.
"He looks dead to me," Tovah said in an undertone.
Emily dashed forward, and knelt down on one knee in front of Vogel. She grabbed his limp arm and felt for his pulse. After an interval, she shook her head and staggered to her feet.
"How horrible," Emily gasped. She shut her eyes, and shook her head again. "He's dead, no question. What a terrible thing." Forcing herself to open her eyes, she allowed them to hold on the slumped figure in the rocker. "I think what you smell, Tovah, is potassium cyanide."
"But he was all right a few hours ago," Tovah protested.
"Not anymore," Emily said. "The poor man took the poison or was made to take it. The cyanide killed him instantly."
The landlady was beginning to comprehend, and suddenly she brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. "No, he can't be dead! It is impossible. He was too much alive. He would never kill himself. But he—he has—he has."
"Maybe with some help," Tovah murmured. But only Emily heard her.
Frau Lecki was already at the telephone. "This is terrible, terrible! I must call the police!" Picking up the phone, she saw the line dangling loosely. "The phone line—it's cut. I'd better call from my room." She turned and ran out the door.
Averting her eyes from Vogel, Emily's attention was diverted by a storage carton on a ledge behind the ro
cker. "That carton," she said, "it's marked in crayon on the side. It says Bunker Logs. He was ready for us."
Tovah hastened to the carton. "The one for April 28, 1945, the one in which he noted the return of Hitler to the Führer bunker." Tovah started going through the logbooks, noting the dates on their covers.
"Make it fast, Tovah," Emily called out. "We don't want the police to find us here." Then she added, "I don't think you'll find it, Tovah."
After another half minute, Tovah turned around. She frowned at Emily. "You're right. It's the only one that's missing."
Emily took Tovah by the arm. "Quick scenario. Someone overheard our phone conversation with Vogel, and learned what he intended to show us—"
"But how?"
Emily was silent for a moment. "I don't know. Possibly a phone tap. Anyway, someone beat us here, and was innocently admitted by Vogel. The caller put a gun to Vogel's head, forced him to bite a cyanide capsule, and then snatched up the logbook and got out of here fast." Tovah allowed Emily to propel her to the doorway. "Now we've got to get out, too," Emily insisted.
"We can't just leave. What about the police? He's been murdered."
"So was my father. I'm almost sure of that. Where were the police then? Let's go. There's nothing we can do here."
"Maybe you're right. We can't afford to get mixed up in this. Nobody knows we've been here."
Emily looked at her. "Except the murderer, of course."
They hurried past the landlady's apartment and ran into the street. Reaching the waiting Mercedes, Tovah asked, "What does this do to our case? Vogel swore he saw Hitler return from a walk, when he had never gone out for a walk. We agreed that the Hitler he saw was a second Hitler, a double, Manfred Müller. Now we don't have Vogel or the logbook."
"We don't need Vogel and his logbook. Two hours ago we had Vogel, and he told us all we wanted to know. We're getting very close, Tovah, very close to the truth. Sick as I feel, I have to get back to my excavation. Where can I drop you off?"
The Seventh Secret Page 24