Schreiber's Secret

by Roger Radford

  “Calm down, Howard. You know my philosophy ...”

  “That the only time someone should worry is when a gun is held to his head. Yeah, sure, Henry. Go tell that to Joe Hyams. Talking about dangerous weapons, Henry, how go the markets?”

  “Up and down,” said the older man. “You know how it is.”

  Howard Plant certainly did know. Of late it had all been down. He was convinced that his guest was getting too old for the job. “Sit down, my friend. Sit down.”

  Bates, having hung Sonntag’s coat on an ornate baroque stand in the entrance hall, sidled into the room towards the drinks cabinet. He kept his gaze averted but his ears open. Having been forewarned, he was eager to hear Sonntag’s reaction.

  “Ah, thank you, Bates,” said Plant, taking his usual gin and tonic. “Bring us some peanuts, will you.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “Now, Henry,” said Plant, turning towards his guest. “You know me. I’m not one to bandy words.”

  Henry Sonntag smiled. He knew what was coming next. It was the Italian job. The Italian government had collapsed once again, only this time he had missed out by a whisker on making a killing.

  “My dear Henry,” the weasel continued, “you’ve lost me a lot of money this week.”

  There was a pregnant pause while Sonntag considered his reply. The little man was irritatingly avaricious and had been spoilt by too many years of unbridled prosperity. “You know the old adage, Howard: what goes up can also come down. Not every day is Christmas. You are still way ahead in the game.”

  “True, true. But when I lose a couple of million, it really hurts.”

  “How much have I made for you over the years, Howard?”

  Plant squirmed. He hated being in debt to anyone. He hated paying anyone. He especially hated the ten per cent merchants. Sure, they made him a lot of money. Millions. But while to lose a million might be considered an accident, to lose two million was carelessness. “I don’t know, Henry. I don’t keep count.”

  The beady hazel eyes narrowed in contempt. Sonntag knew that if anyone kept a constant vigil on his finances, it was Howard Plant. “By my reckoning, my trading for you over the years has earned you at least thirty million.”

  Whereas Howard Plant’s lupine features betrayed little emotion at the enormity of the figure, the baldheaded eavesdropper in the next room whistled sharply under his breath. Bates glanced at his watch. He was torn between the prospect of a good old-fashioned altercation and the possibility of setting up a seduction.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said Plant. “But time moves on, Henry. No one can afford to live on past glories.” Then, after a short pause, he continued, “We all have to retire sometime.”

  So that’s it, thought Sonntag. The big shove. The little weasel couldn’t take a downturn. So be it. There were plenty of other fish, albeit not quite so fat. As long as the little bastard settled his account. “So, Howard, you want to dispense with my services.”

  Plant cleared his throat nervously. “Well, maybe it’ll do both of us some good. You know, pastures new, so to speak.”

  “Okay, Howard,” said Sonntag, the contempt in his voice now clearly discernible, “we’ll settle up here and now. You owe me a million in unpaid commission.”

  “Ahem. I, er, don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there’s nothing in writing.”

  “There’s never been anything in writing, Howard.” Sonntag’s words, delivered slowly, were heavy with sarcasm.

  “Yeah, I know,” the little man squirmed. “Come on, it’s not as if it’s costing you personally. What you’ve never had, you never miss. You’ve earned a fortune from playing with my money.”

  Henry Sonntag felt a sense of hatred the like of which he had not experienced since Theresienstadt. “You English Jews are all the same. Always complaining. No patience to wait for an upturn ... I could kill you for this.”

  Howard Plant sank further into his armchair and spread his palms. “Now, now, Henry,” he cajoled. “Take things easy. We can talk this through.” Neither protagonist heard the front door close. Richard Matthew Bates had a more pressing need than to listen to the bickering of rich men.

  About five miles away, Mark Edwards was propped up in bed perusing his weekly issue of Time magazine. He had decided to have an early night and thought a little light reading might help him doze off. However, apart from a few lines on the murder in the review-of-the-week section, he could not concentrate on anything. His mind was juggling with three images, only two of them morphologically definable. The third was a phantasm, a collage of the haunted features of concentration camp victims. The anonymous caller kept invading his thoughts of Danielle and Dieter Müller. Was he sinner or sinned against? Would he call again? Would Müller find anything on this mysterious Hans Schreiber?

  Turning his head, he stared at his mobile telephone and the regular apparatus lying next to it, the number of which he divulged only to close friends. Edwards found himself willing the mobile to ring with the intense concentration of a practitioner in telekinesis.

  It did.

  The reporter’s heart leapt into his mouth. For a few seconds he sat ossified. “Hello, hello ...” he said at last, fiddling with the talk button.

  “Hello, Mark, this is Dieter. You sound out of breath.”

  “Oh, hi, Dieter. I – I just got in.”

  “I’ve got some important news for you. Have you got a pen?”

  “Hold on a minute,” said Edwards, grabbing the pen and notepad he always kept by the bedside phone. “Fire away.”

  “In the Dienst Heerliste der WaffenSS there is a listing for an Obersturmführer Hans Schreiber. His SS number was 675951. His date of birth was 10 June 1922. He was accepted into the SS on 15 July 1940. There were about twenty Schreibers in the listings, but only three named Hans.”

  “Fantastic, Dieter,” Edwards replied excitedly. “How did you do it?”

  “Elementary, my dear Edwards.”

  “Listen,” said the reporter, “did you find out if this particular Schreiber had any connection with Theresienstadt?”

  “I’m trying, Mark, I’m trying. Unfortunately, there is so little written about the Small Fortress. There used to be a Small Fortress Association in a place called Littlehampton ...”

  “Sussex.”

  “Yes. But it doesn’t exist anymore. They must have all passed on.”

  “Keep looking.”

  “I will, Mark, I will. What about your end? Anything new from the police or that mysterious caller?”

  “Nothing, Dieter, sorry.”

  “Let’s compare notes soon, Mark, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll give you a ring as soon as there are any new developments. Thanks once again, Dieter. Bye.”

  Edwards, his heart pounding, pressed the talk button again. He was already formulating the next day’s lead in his mind. He’d have to run the gauntlet from Webb, but the DI could not expect him to pass on this opportunity. Rejuvenated by Müller’s call, he sprang out of bed, paced around the room for a few minutes, and then made for the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water and ran his wet fingers through his hair. He desperately wanted to speak to Danielle, but he knew she would be spending the night with her inconsolable aunt.

  The phone rang again.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, “who can that be?”

  He strode back into the bedroom and picked up the mobile. “Hello, Edwards.”

  “M-Mr Edwards.”

  The reporter sat on the side of his bed. It was the anonymous caller and he was obviously distressed. “Yes, yes. What’s the matter?”

  “I am frightened, Mr Edwards. I am so frightened.”

  The man was sobbing, and Edwards felt at a loss as to how to react.

  “Look, whoever you are, try, er, try to compose yourself. What’s happened?”

  “He is going to kill again. I know it. He will kill again and again until he finds me. He is evil
. Please protect me, Mr Edwards. Please protect me.”

  “How can I protect you when I don’t even know your name or where you live?”

  “I can’t, Mr Edwards. I am too afraid. I lost my faith in humanity fifty years ago.”

  “I can arrange it so you’ll get round-the-clock police protection. You see, I believe you. I know that Hans Schreiber existed.” There was a long pause. “Hello, hello ... are you still there?”

  “Thank God,” came the whispered reply. “The whole world must know his name and what he did.”

  “Can you give me any more details?” the reporter asked, flicking over to a fresh page in his notepad. Again there was a long silence.

  “He was an animal, Mr Edwards.” The voice was low and bitter. “He would take a special delight in making a spectacle of killing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you ever see the film Spartacus, Mr Edwards?”

  “Yes, of course. With Kirk Douglas.”

  “For Hans Schreiber the Small Fortress was a Roman arena. He would arrange gladiatorial contests ...”

  “Go ahead, sir, I’m listening.” Edwards gripped the mobile hard.

  “Schreiber would pit one Jew against another and make them fight to the death.”

  “What?” the reporter gulped.

  “I know this,” the caller continued. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

  Edwards sat on the bed transfixed. His hand refused to write. His head was full of a thousand terrifying images of the worst excesses of ancient Rome.

  “I-I don’t know what to say,” he stuttered.

  The stranger’s voice suddenly became calmer. “He enjoyed it. He actually enjoyed watching men kill one another. I think he enjoyed it more than killing them himself.”

  “Now listen, please. Please do as I ...”

  “I cannot, Mr Edwards. I will call you again.”

  “No, don’t go ...”

  Click.

  “All right, calm down,” snapped Bob Webb. “For God’s sake, calm down!” The manservant stood trembling by the twisted body of his late employer and whimpered, not because of the grotesque manner in which his benefactor had met his end, but because he was about to be put out into the street. Knowing Plant as he did, he was sure that a will, if there indeed was one, would contain no provision for him. It had always been a case of enjoying the good life while it lasted. Richard Matthew Bates was crying because he was feeling sorry for Richard Matthew Bates.

  “Now let me get this straight,” boomed Webb gruffly. “You left the King’s Head to walk home about fifteen minutes ago. It took you five minutes to reach the front gates and you found Mr Plant where he’s now lying, about fifteen yards down the path from the gates.”

  “Yes,” Bates squeaked.

  “Is there anyone at the pub who can vouch for you being there?”

  “Yes, of course. Ask any of the barmen. They all know me.” Bates knew he was squirming, but he was damned if he was going to divulge the name and address of his new-found friend. He did not want the fresh meat spoiled.

  “Now you garbled something before about leaving Mr Plant with a guest.”

  “Guv!”

  Webb looked over his shoulder as Detective Constable Jim Sims, his ruddy face streaked by the rain, entered the hall. “Wipe your shoes, Jim, there’s a good lad. You look like you’ve been working on a farm.”

  “Yes, guv,” said Sims apologetically. “It’s starting to rain heavily. Everything’s muddying up. But look what we’ve found already.”

  Webb took the transparent plastic bag and smoothed it against the object inside. It was clearly a dagger, displaying the runes of the SS on the hilt and some kind of German motto along the blade. The tip was tinted with blood. But what concerned Webb most were the initials HS carved on the hilt between the Nazi winged eagle and swastika emblem and the runes.

  “And there’s also another note,” said Sims, handing his boss a second plastic bag.

  Webb stared intently at the printed message. It was the same as the first, but with a rider: “Publish this note and maybe I will stop enjoying myself killing Jews”.

  The gangling DI took a deep breath and turned round to face the ashen-faced manservant. “Does this mean anything to you?” he said, showing him the knife.

  “N-No,” stammered Bates. “Oh, look at the blood. I feel faint.”

  “Before you pass out, Mr Bates, you were saying that you left your boss in the company of a stranger.”

  “Well, not exactly a stranger. It was Henry Sonntag, Mr Plant’s financial adviser. They were discussing business.”

  “Where is this Sonntag now?”

  “He must have left before I got back,” came Bates’s tremulous reply. “Oh dear.”

  “What, Mr Bates?”

  “They were having a bit of an argument ... over money. I – I – oh dear ...”

  “Yes, Mr Bates?” said Webb, becoming increasingly irritated.

  “I thought he was joking ...”

  Webb’s imposing eyebrows lifted and his steely eyes bored into the manservant’s.

  “Just before I went out, I thought I heard Sonntag say he could kill Mr Plant. They were arguing about some commissions that Sonntag said Mr Plant owed him. I thought it would all blow over. Oh dear.”

  Webb pursed his lips. He felt like throttling the queer. “Right, Mr Bates. What does this Sonntag look like?”

  “He’s about six feet tall with thinning yellowy-white hair. Must be in his seventies. He’s a German Jew, I think.”

  Webb’s ears pricked. The word “German” had set the alarm bells ringing.

  “Where does he live, this Sonntag?”

  “He lives about three miles away, off the main Abridge road,” said Bates, moving shakily towards the telephone table to his right. “I think his address and telephone number are in Mr Plant’s telephone book here.” The manservant picked up the leather directory. “Yes, here it is.”

  Webb ripped out the page. He knew the country lane in question and the few detached houses along it. “Jim, you come with me. Get Fairbrother in here to look after Mr Bates. Give these to Swanson for safe keeping.”

  “Right away, guv,” said Sims, taking the two plastic bags. Webb loped out towards his car, its blue light playing intermittently over the dark rain soaked bushes. He strode towards his colleagues, who had set up arc lights by the body further down the path. He felt elated, certain he was on the verge of some kind of breakthrough. The poof was a suspect and so was the character named Sonntag. Something was telling him he should put his money on the latter.

  The detective inspector climbed into the passenger seat of his new Ford Mondeo. Within seconds his subordinate was at the wheel. “How long will it take you to get there, Jim?” he asked.

  “Seven minutes for an ordinary driver, three for me.”

  “Step on it then, Jim lad.”

  Sims swung the Mondeo out of the late Howard Plant’s driveway with a vengeance. Neither man spoke as they sped along the A113. Sonntag’s home was just inside the border that separated the Met from the Essex constabulary. Webb was glad. He did not want any country yokels in on this one. The detective felt the familiar surge of adrenalin through his veins. The prospect of an arrest was what kept every good copper on his mettle. He just hoped this Sonntag character was still at home.

  Sims switched off the blue light and the headlights as he swung the car into the short driveway of Henry Sonntag’s home. Both men were relieved to see that the house was ablaze with light. They had every reason to believe that their suspect was present.

  Three times Webb pressed the white ceramic button that was set into an oval brass plate to the left of the oak door. Three times he could hear the bell ring from within, yet there was no sign of any life.

  “Okay, Jim,” he said, exasperated, “force it.”

  Sims tested the door. He prided himself on being able to make a forced entry using the minimum of force. The owner had thankfully not enga
ged the mortise lock and ordinary Yales were a piece of cake. Within seconds both men were inside.

  “Phew, pretty lavish, eh, guv?” Sims whispered.

  “Par for the course round here, Jim ... Ssh.” Webb suddenly put his forefinger to his lips. Both men listened intently. They could hear the sound of running water. Someone was having a shower. Suddenly they heard a voice singing. In German. “Bloody awful language,” the big man muttered.

  “Shall we go up, guv?”

  Webb nodded and placed his foot firmly on the first step of a large spiral staircase leading to the upper floor. For two big men they made surprisingly little noise as they ascended.

  “We’ll have a look around before we confront him,” Webb whispered. The singing, a croaky baritone, continued to emanate from a room to their right as they reached the top of the stairs. The detective inspector motioned to Sims to stay by the bathroom door while he went to investigate the three rooms to the left of the central balustrade. He quietly opened the first door, his sweaty palm luxuriating in the coolness of the round gold-plated doorknob. It was a broom cupboard. Moving along to the second door he sent a furtive glance towards Sims before opening it. He could see right away that it was the main bedroom.

  Bob Webb entered Henry Sonntag’s bedroom and came face to face with further proof that he had indeed found his man. On the bed was a large brown suitcase which its owner was clearly in the process of packing. Some shirts and a pile of underwear lay next to it. To the left of the suitcase was a European Community passport and a British Airways airline ticket. The detective inspector opened the passport and stared at the photograph of Henry Sonntag. Pretty distinguished-looking guy, he thought. He noted with interest that Sonntag’s place of birth was given as Berlin.

  Webb placed the passport back on the bed and picked up the flight ticket. The fact that the destination read “Rio de Janeiro” hardly surprised him. Forget Colin Smith and his bunch of yobbos. This was their man, all right. He replaced the ticket and left the room. Motioning to Sims to stay where he was, he then walked into the third room which was facing him at the end of the landing. The room was cold and musty. He groped for the light-switch. “Jesus H. Christ,” gasped the policeman as the room flooded with light. Nothing in his previous experience had prepared Detective Inspector Robert William Webb for what now confronted him.