The Eye of the Abyss - [Franz Schmidt 01]

by Marshall Browne

  Frau Seibert, still convalescent, did not go out but peered anxiously through the front windows at the sinister black vehicle stationed, semi-permanently, at the end of the drive. Helga and her sister had become short with each other — the latter resentful of this frightening ordeal, Helga with a sense of guilt at bringing home the insidious, nerve-chilling danger. Her sister had nearly died the night the two Gestapo had come to the door.

  But this noon: No car, no watchers! She stood with her market basket, holding her breath, and peered at the street. She’d lost weight and an acute tension was manifest in her movements, her posture, even in repose. But now something had changed and gradually she felt an oppressive weight lifting from her heart.

  If the Wertheim had seemed becalmed when Schmidt had arrived, now it was wallowing, rudderless. The auditor couldn’t quite accept the fact that Dietrich’s voice wasn’t going to come booming down the line, or his large figure appear in the door and hoist himself onto the desk.

  At 4.30 pm, the building’s lighting was feeble. Beyond his window the darkness was thick and impenetrable. Today, dawn to dusk, had been a mere seven-hour sprint. But what a sprint!

  After the drama in the vault, he’d not left his room, but the calamitous atmosphere which had descended on Wertheims had filtered to him through the building’s conduits, via the nervy messengers doing their rounds. He’d pictured the shocked cleaners wonderingly scrubbing away the grisly trail of blood, broken teeth, and vomit which Dietrich had left up the stairs and into the front foyer. Had there been a more dramatic exit in the banks history? He thought: At this moment I’m rudderless myself. He felt no elation, no relief, no warmth of retribution exacted - just a sense of another step completed, a temporary exhaustion. The game was still in play. The final consummation was up to von Streck. If it went to court, or a Party tribunal, the flaws in the case could become evident and a dissection of the evidence, his own questioning, could throw a spotlight back on to his actions and motives, into that gap: the smuggling of the bonds to Zurich. On to Wagner!

  Wagner must go immediately to Paris! Today. Must get out.

  But where was Wagner? His colleague hadn’t returned at noon. He’d rung the deputy foreign manager’s flat; his maid hadn’t heard a word. The foreign department had confirmed he was overdue. He wouldn’t leave the office until he’d tracked him down. The persons in his life were alternately emerging into the light, stepping back into the shadows, in tune with a melody which he couldn’t quite pick up. So it seemed. He was waiting for Wagner to come out again into the light. For God’s sake Wagner, don’t delay. Nervously, Schmidt pattered his fingertips on his desktop.

  The bank’s situation regarding the NSDAP had changed drastically. He’d been half-expecting a summons from Herr Wertheim, but a steel shutter of silence had come down on the first floor. What could they say to each other? Outrage on one side; his regretful, lying testimony on the other? He couldn’t get out of his mind the G-D’s astonishing demeanour, that last look.

  He picked up the phone and called Wagner’s maid again. No news.

  At 6.10 pm a summons did come. The Gestapo. He was shocked. He’d expected that when the moment for questioning arrived, it would’ve been under the auspices of von Streck — if the Nazi functionary’s involvement was to make sense. That didn’t appear to be the case. The voice of the man he’d just spoken to had infused in him a chilling doubt. Transfixed by a thought, he stood in his room. Dietrich had been protecting him from the Gestapo and Dietrich himself was now under arrest. He put on his overcoat and hat and went down in the lift.

  On the first floor.

  ‘Would you stay a little later, tonight, fraulein?’ Herr Wertheim smiled. ‘Ask my man to bring up a bottle of champagne, and caviar — immediately. Thank you.’

  Two glasses had been brought: one was in the fragile fingers of Wertheim, the other in the large, shapely hand of a surprised, blushing Else Blum. She’d not guessed that she was to be a participant. The champagne was poured, caviar heaped on a plate, and small silver spoons were on the desk.

  ‘A day of momentous events, my dear fraulein,’ the G-D said. ‘One we will always remember.’ He picked up his glass, studied the colour of the champagne. ‘Have you heard of the saying: Every cloud has a silver lining? Today’s events can be considered in that light.’

  She watched him over the thin rim of her own glass. What did he mean? It certainly had been a day - even from the perspective of her limited experience. What a scene with Herr Dietrich! As for that Herr Otto! And he doesn’t seem worried about it! Does the old boy want to play? If he does, it’s all right. He’s a good enough sort.

  ‘You know, fraulein; I liken our venerable old bank to a ship. Have you picked that up yet? You and I - and others, such as Herr Auditor Schmidt — are the crew. We’re on an interesting voyage — not without its dangers, and sometimes crew-members are washed overboard. Some might think that today we took a torpedo.’ He leaned forward and scooped up caviar, conveyed it to his mouth, ate it slowly. ‘Very good. Help yourself, my dear.’

  Fräulein Blum tasted the caviar with slight suspicion, found she liked it. ... Ships, crew, torpedoes? Wertheim refilled their glasses. ‘I mentioned Auditor Schmidt. You might find our Herr Schmidt ... a strange person. A little beyond your experience, at this stage. In fact, I should admit, a little beyond my own. One might think that institutions like Wertheims breed and nourish this kind of individual. Up to a point. It’s always surprised me that while they go home at night, they leave their main world ... simmering away here. That said, Herr Schmidt is a remarkable case.’ He admired the colour again. ‘A unique case. Remember I told you that, Fräulein Blum.’

  She drank her champagne. Schmidt had been pleasant enough, though there was something about him - the way he appeared, the way he watched - that gave her a touch of the creeps.

  The G-D said, ’There are some things one leaves too late. If one is lucky a little lost time can be made up.’ She did not understand this either, except that it was important to him.

  Wertheims thoughts had gone back to what she’d told him three days ago. Two of his cousins from Dusseldorf had arrived at the bank when he was absent. Most unusual. He supposed Herr Schloss had sent for them, for according to the fraulein, they’d spent an hour closeted with the big director. The two, twin brothers in their fifties, only ever turned up at the bank for the shareholders’ meeting, with their hands out for their dividend cheques. They’d asked to see his room, and had paid particular attention to the new art on the walls.

  His lips formed an enigmatic smile. ‘Like spies,’ he murmured.

  Fräulein Blum looked at him sharply. Instinctively, she knew what he was referring to. The short, ruddy-faced men had gazed at the two pictures, and finally stood in front of The Eye as though mesmerised. Not quite knowing it she was doing the right thing in letting them into the inner sanctum, she’d hovered in the room. Casting her looks, they’d whispered together. ‘He’s cracked!’ - she’d caught the worried exclamation.

  Herr Wertheim had moved his chair closer to hers. Without embarrassment, he put his hand under her skirt and pushed it up until it lay between the rich, soft warmth of her thighs. She smiled slightly, continued to sip her champagne. His hand was warm, which was surprising.

  After a moment, Wertheim withdrew his slender bluish hand. ‘My dear, I felt very comfortable doing that. But now you should run on home to your dinner.’

  Fräulein Blum straightened her skirt, rose gracefully to stand above him. ‘Should I clear this away, Herr General-Director?’

  ‘No, my dear. But you might call Herr Director Schloss for me, and ask him to step in here.’

  She looked doubtfully at the clock.

  ‘He will be there, waiting for my call. He’s been waiting for some months, and will be very relieved to receive it. You might be good enough to bring another glass.’

  ‘Thank you for including me in your celebration,’ Fräulein Blum said earnestly, blush
ing again, and went out. In the anteroom she heard the lift descending.

  Celebration? The heat of her thighs. What a lovely young woman: a combination of nervous self-consciousness, and overwhelming sexual assurance. What an interesting experience to plumb her depths! He smiled his most languid smile, lay back in his cushioned chair, steepled his fingers and rotated to confront The Eye. He was surprised that he couldn’t see it. Or the rest of the room. Suddenly it had appeared to fill up with fog.

  ~ * ~

  37

  A

  BLACKED-OUT CAR waited beside the bank’s entrance. Its rear door swung open as Schmidt appeared. A shadowy figure leaned across, motioned to him. He climbed in and was in the company of the Gestapo.

  Klaxon shrieking, they accelerated away, following the street’s long curve. Schmidt thought: It smells of cabbage, leather, the pressure of state business, obdurate, deadly power. He ticked them off and considered whether his winning run was about to end. Very soon they swerved under an archway into a weedy, wet courtyard. A rusted machine of indeterminate purpose sat in a corner. The car doors banged. Gesturing to him to follow, one of them led the way into a stone-flagged, soul-freezing corridor. Not just the cold, Schmidt thought. But why don’t I feel more anxiety? Have I, in fact, put on a kind of armour?

  He blinked as he entered a white-painted room ablaze with electric light.

  Wagner was slumped over a table, the side of his head flat against its surface, his face turned towards the door, his eyes staring, his mouth a red-rimmed, black hole hanging open. Flung down as if to tell a tale, teeth lay on the table. Blood shone stickily, starkly reminding Schmidt of a butcher’s block. Reminding him of ...

  He gazed at the scene in horror, his recent detachment shattered. He looked up into the amused, assessing face of a man who sat negligently astride a reversed chair, smoking a cigarette. Another, in a worn, black suit, also smoking, leaned against a wall as though resting. Both seemed to have stepped aside from their work to concentrate on his reaction. The man against the wall gave two short, sharp barks of a cough.

  The seated man exhaled smoke luxuriously. ‘So you are Schmidt?’

  ‘Yes. I am Herr Schmidt.’ The muscles in the auditor’s face had become rigid. He gazed at the Nazi. Since the incident of his eye it appeared to be his destiny to continuously enlarge his knowledge of the Party’s prototypes. He said, ‘Why is Herr Wagner here, and in this condition? He is my colleague, a respected senior official of Bankhaus Wertheim & Co.’

  ‘Colleague ... Wertheim & Co,’ the man repeated. ‘We know all that, and more. Especially about his political activities, his courier-running of foreign currencies. In past months he’s been in Paris, Brussels, and Amsterdam smuggling out funds, salting them away ... liaising with that den of criminals the SPD. We know about his opposition to the Party, his criminal defamations of our leaders. What we don’t know — yet — but will soon, is precisely why he went to Zurich. To save him further hardship, perhaps you could help us on this point?’

  Schmidt watched the speaker carefully as though reading his lips. On this bloody table, Wagner’s secret life was exposed. It was as he’d feared. His colleague’s chancey, double-game had been found out ... A great pity — a tragedy. But he’d been on borrowed time.

  Zurich was still unexplained. If they got to the bottom of it ... but they hadn’t. Their interest in Wagner clearly had its own life. He, Schmidt, had been brought here because he was a colleague and/or his name had come up in the Gestapo files.

  The seated agent’s face had an expression of mock inquiry.

  The auditor’s lips were clamped tight. He’d assumed von Streck’s power to be absolute, though unexplained, the functionary’s agenda similar to his own. This rested on the ‘all clear’ he’d been receiving as he’d dealt with him. And the connection with the Order. That wasn’t a figment of his imagination. And surely it’d been validated by the events this morning at the bank.

  Suddenly, the Nazi blew a smoke ring.

  He must speak.

  ‘I hope I can help you.’ Wagner was watching him. He realised this. The eyes in the brutalised face were fixed on his own. ‘Herr Wagner was sent by the bank to Zurich to confer with our Swiss correspondent banks. It’s his duty to do so - as with such banks in other countries. Relations with Swiss banks are of vital importance to the Reich. Herr Wagner’s a key man for this. He is highly regarded at the Reichsbank.’

  His heart was thudding. But he spoke with gravity and civility and precise enunciation, going down the line he’d used on Dietrich, hoping to strike a civilised note in the lethal atmosphere — soliciting a turn of events which would enable him to extract himself, his plan, from this debacle. Wagner, his SPD activities exposed, was a lost cause, unless von Streck ...

  ‘How remarkable,’ the seated smoker said. ‘The same story we heard from him. Could it be the truth?’

  ‘Those are the facts,’ Schmidt said. Could he drop von Streck’s name in?

  ‘I don’t believe you, Schmidt. But there’s hardly anyone I do believe. You’ve been a lucky man so far. But that bastard Dietrich can’t protect you now. We’ve not forgotten your connection to the Dressler affair. That’s extremely fresh in our minds.’

  Schmidt kept his face expressionless. Doubtless, in that final remark he was referring to Dressler’s decimation of the local Gestapo.

  ‘However, you may go. For the present.’

  ‘And Herr Wagner?’

  The Nazi laughed.

  Unexpectedly, Wagner spoke — a slurry of barely recognisable words. ’I’m afraid ... not ... going t’enjoy ... dinner tonight ... Franz ... beer ... might be possible.’

  The man against the wall said, conversationally, ‘You’ve drunk your last beer.’

  Schmidt put his hand on Wagner’s arm. ‘I will do something, Heinrich,’ he said.

  ‘Get away from him,’ the seated man said. ‘You can do nothing. Do you wish to help an enemy of the Reich?’

  Barely audible, Wagner muttered, ‘No more mistakes ... for me ... my friend.’ Then with a major effort, quite clearly, ‘Fat man ... was here ... Bach.’

  ‘Shut up arsehole,’ the seated Nazi said, grinding out his cigarette.

  Schmidt found himself alone in the courtyard; alone in the fresh, damp air; then in a drab street overhung by old-style warehouses. Delayed shock. He’d trouble getting his bearings, walked two dark blocks in a daze, found streetlights, familiar territory, and a taxi.

  He went to von Streck’s office, a five-minute drive. It was his only point of reference for the Nazi functionary. The building was another abject study in darkness and desertion, but breathing out frosty breaths he kept pressing the bell.

  The clash of unlocking came. An elderly man with red-rimmed eyes, in a municipal uniform, stood in the gap of the door still chewing his dinner. Schmidt showed the pass and the man beckoned him in, closed and barred the door, and limped back into the hall. With grotesque upward-reaching clutches he pulled two light-cords, and pointed to the stairs. He’d vanished when the auditor glanced back from the landing.

  ‘He’s here,’ Schmidt told himself.

  But he was wrong. A single light burned in the anteroom above the desk of the blond, wide-shouldered man, who looked up in surprise from his magazine at the tense-looking visitor who was blinking rapidly behind gold-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘I wish to see Herr von Streck,’ Schmidt said, showing the pass again.

  He stared at the large pistol on the desk.

  ‘Is this urgent?’

  ‘Extremely urgent.’

  ‘Very well.’

  The blond man wrote on a piece of paper, and without rising pushed it across the desk. ‘You will find him here.’

  Schmidt let himself out, and hurried down corridors of hollow-sounding parquet floors. He’d noted on his previous visit the names gilded on the glass doors: the den of small import/export agencies.

  The address was in the district of beerhalls. Another tax
i ride. For Schmidt, his birthplace had metamorphosed to an artist’s composition of areas which were blacked-out and devoid of life, and gaudily-lit and frenetically alive — one tract rooted in the past, the other whirling towards the future. Degenerate art? Even streets he’d known all his life looked unfamiliar. And dangerous.

  This was the district where he’d met Wagner six nights ago — no, an age ago — where they’d encountered von Streck and the man he’d just spoken with. Though it throbbed with the sounds of convivial activity, the building he arrived at had an air of exclusivity.

  He climbed stairs following directions and stood outside the oak door of a private room. From inside came raucous singing, the crash of steins on tabletops. Nothing exclusive about this.

  Again Schmidt held out his pass with its street photograph. The uniformed SS man who came out, breathing beer, examined it, and frowned at the request the auditor shouted in his ear. He inspected the small, blond stranger with hard-eyed suspicion. But he went back in. Schmidt had a glimpse of redfaced, jacketless men bellowing their lungs out, and breathed in German life ... the Teutonic ethos. The Third Reich.