by Jon Cleary
He opened the front door, waited for her to put on her gloves. Which she did, struggling for some style. But she had very little of even that left now; she had even, somehow, lost the effect of being English. “Shit!” she said in German and left him, her heels clack-clacking down the marble stairs like bones tapping out some message in Morse.
He closed the door, leant back against it, felt burdened by women. He, who had never been a ladies’ man: even Ida, his mother, had said that of him. For a while it had been his ambition, but the effort had been too much. He had realized that a ladies’ man is, behind the facade, no more than his own man. He, himself, was not selfish enough for that.
He went to the window, drew aside the lace curtain and looked down. Meg had come out into the street, was getting into the Invicta when the two men came across to her from a doorway opposite. There was no mistaking them: they were Lutze and Decker. They spoke to Meg and after a few words all three got into the car. It was Decker, and not Meg, who got in behind the driver’s wheel.
Weariness and despair overcame Carmody; he should have let Meg remain for the night. That was probably one of the reasons she had come; she had wanted company on what might be one of the worst nights of her life and he had told her to go home. He went to bed and stumbled all night through dreams just this side of nightmare.
Thursday morning he was at the office by nine. He rang Meg’s flat and her maid answered: “No, Herr Carmody, Lady Arrowsmith has not been home all night. I am worried this time.”
“This time?”
“She has stayed out before—” The maid was hesitant; it was not her place to comment on where her mistress slept and with whom. “But the past two days she has been behaving strangely—she has been drinking a lot—”
“I’ll ring again later. Stay there, just in case she comes home.” He hung up as Fräulein Luxemburg came into his office with the latest teletypes. “How’s the news, Olga? No, don’t tell me.”
“I think the worst is going to happen. My mother got out her flag last night.”
“The Nazi flag? The swastika?”
“I’m ashamed to say so—yes. She has hung it in our front window. I wanted to die when I went home last night and saw it.”
“She’s an old lady—” But that was no excuse, and they both knew it. “I have to go out for an hour. If anyone calls, Fräulein O’Dea or Lady Arrowsmith, anyone—” He hoped the Langs would not call, that everything was going smoothly up at Ravensbrueck right now.
“I’ll be here,” she said and he knew she would be, even when here was falling down around her: Fräulein Horatius at the bridge.
When he got out into the Potsdamerplatz he looked up at the sky, something he had forgotten to do when he had come out of his flat this morning. It was a warm sky already, cloudless and bright, spoiled only from perfection by the squadron of Stukas flying east. Surely, he thought, all the troops and guns and tanks and planes are in position? These flights must be for the benefit of the home crowd, joy-flights in bombers.
He went quickly up to the Unter den Linden, moving much faster than his usual ambling walk. It had occurred to him during one of his fitful, waking moments last night that it would be dangerous to bring Mady Hoolahan to either his flat or Cathleen’s, It was a simple point, the matter of somewhere to hide Mady while they got her papers, but he had overlooked it. He was too inexperienced at this game; but what opportunities had he had to learn? He was learning the game while he played it and already the full-time whistle was close. Burberry’s flat seemed an ideal hideaway.
He took out Burberry’s keys, opened the door from the street into the building. He had gone up four or five of the carpeted stairs when a figure appeared from beneath the staircase. “Yes?”
“Oh.” The caretaker had startled him. “I’m a friend of Herr Burberry’s. He—he telephoned me to come here and get a book for him. He wants it posted to him.”
“You have a key?” The caretaker, bony and rheumy-eyed, a walrus moustache hanging beneath his long nose, was surprised and suspicious. “He didn’t tell me he was leaving anyone his keys.”
“He probably forgot. I won’t be long.”
He went on upstairs, paused on the first landing and looked down. The caretaker was staring up at him from the bottom of the stairwell, like a walrus waiting to be fed. Carmody went on up to Burberry’s landing, put the flat key in the door and opened it.
There was a gasp from somewhere inside the flat, then a voice said, “Rudy?”
“No,” said Carmody, stepping into the entrance hall. “I’m a friend of Herr Burberry’s.”
A woman came to a door that Carmody saw led into the living room. She was young, blonde, wore an apron and carried a handful of dusters. “Oh, excuse me, sir. I thought it was the caretaker.”
Stone the crows, Carmody thought, how many defenders does an empty flat have to have? “I’ve come to get a book for Herr Burberry—he telephoned me. Are you here all the time?”
She stood in the doorway to the living room, looking uncomfortable. Has she got someone else in here with her? he wondered. “No, sir. I come only Monday and Thursday mornings when Herr Burberry isn’t here. Just to dust.”
“Herr Burberry will be pleased to hear you’re keeping the flat clean.” He decided he would have to assert himself. Like most Australians he was not accustomed to dealing with servants; Jack usually thought he was a bloody sight better than his master; it was no training for being a master. “I have to go in here—”
She remained in the doorway. “Herr Burberry’s books are all in his library, along the hall there.”
“This one, he said, was in the living room.” He was getting better at lying; he was in the right country for it. “Excuse me, please.”
He pushed past her, went into the living room. He had been here a couple of times to have a drink with Oliver Burberry; the flat had always struck him as being much more luxurious than his own. The furniture was heavy but expensive, antiques, Burberry had told him, that the owner had collected from all over Europe; the carpets were Bokharas, something else Burberry had told him. The pictures on the walls were Burberry’s own, English sporting prints and a painting of Eton College from the playing fields—“where,” Burberry had also told him, “when I was playing, nothing was ever won.” Against one wall stood a sideboard, its doors open and a cardboard box standing beside it, half-filled with bottles of Scotch, gin and schnapps. Other bottles stood on the floor and beside them a small suitcase.
He looked at the maid. “You’re being very conscientious, aren’t you? Dusting the bottles. Were you taking them home to do a thorough job on them?”
The girl hung her head, wrapped the dusters nervously round her hands. “I didn’t think Herr Burberry would be back. I know Rudy, the caretaker, comes up here and takes a nip—”
“What’s this?” Carmody picked up the suitcase. “Were you going to take this, too?”
“No. No.” She shook her head vigorously. “I’m not a thief, sir. I’ve never done anything like this before—ask Herr Burberry. I don’t know what that is. I’ve never seen it before—it wasn’t there when I looked in the cupboard on Monday—”
Was something being planted on Burberry? He picked up the suitcase. “Put the drink back where it belongs. I’ll say nothing to Herr Burberry. Where’s the kitchen?”
“Through there.” She nodded towards an inner door. “And thank you, sir. I was tempted—I was stupid—”
“We all make mistakes—What’s your name?”
“Jenny.” She was pretty in a heavy, bland sort of way; a few pounds off here and there and she wouldn’t have been out of place on one of the Reich’s Strength Through Joy posters.
“All right, Jenny. Just tidy up in here.”
He went into the kitchen, closed the door. It was an old-fashioned door and an old-fashioned kitchen; there was a key in the door with which the cook could keep out an unwelcome and busybody mistress or master. He turned the key in the lock, put the
suitcase on the kitchen table and tried to open it. But, as he had suspected, it was locked.
He searched in a drawer of the table, found a screwdriver. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he were going too far to protect Oliver: what if the suitcase had not been planted on him? But who had left it and why? Did it contain incriminating papers or photos? Who else but the caretaker had a key to the flat?
He put the screwdriver under the two locks, wrenched and they broke. He flipped open the lid of the case and knew at once that he had done the right thing in opening it. The gun, in its pieces, and the telescopic sight came together in his mind: he saw it, assembled, being aimed from the bathroom window, wherever that was, down at the familiar figure riding in the armour-plated Mercedes-Benz up the Unter den Linden. Oliver Burberry, knowingly or unknowingly, was implicated in a plot to kill Hitler.
The door handle rattled, then there was a knock. “Sir? I have to get some furniture polish.”
Carmody hastily closed the case, pushing down the busted locks as best he could. He dropped the screwdriver back into the table drawer, then unlocked the kitchen door. He was about to apologize, then remembered Germans took their servants for granted more than an Australian ever would. “Get what you want, Jenny.”
He saw her cast a sidelong glance at the case on the table as she went to a cupboard and got out a tin and a bottle and some fresh cloths. She gave him a tentative smile and went back into the living room. Only when she had gone did he feel the sweat on himself.
He stood pondering what to do. Should he take the case with him? If it had been planted here (by the Gestapo, the SD, even the Abwehr?), were they expecting Burberry to return? The odds, when he added them up, were unlikely: Oliver and all the English and French correspondents were gone for good. So the rifle and the telescopic sight belonged to someone who knew of the advantages of the flat’s bathroom as a marksman’s hide; but who? Had Whitehall, belatedly reversing its rejection of the British military attaché’s suggestion, deciding at long last to be unsporting, sent in an assassin? Though, of course, being sportsmen, they would not call him that. If he were here in Berlin, where would he be hiding? The British embassy was still operating, though Carmody knew they had already begun packing. Was the marksman hidden in the embassy?
Stone the crows, he thought, what a story! Excitement raced through him, something that was usually slow to stir. Then it drained out of him; he was hit by that bane of a newspaperman who thinks he has a beat: second thoughts. How could he write the story? Before or after the event? Could he find out who the marksman was and name him? But then, a chilling thought, the assassin might come after him. Then a sense of responsibility, a handicap every newspaperman hopes will never trouble him, settled on him like a raven. If an assassination of Hitler was planned, then it must be allowed to go ahead: the story had to come after the event. World peace was worth more than World Press: it was a trite phrase, the sort of subheading the story would have got from the New York desk. He looked at the small suitcase with its deadly contents and made his decision.
He went back into the living room. “Are you nearly finished, Jenny?”
“Yes, sir. There isn’t much to do, now Heir Burberry isn’t here.” She had put away the bottles and closed the sideboard door.
“No, I suppose not. I’ll be staying here a little while. I have to make some notes for Herr Burberry from one of his books. I’ll lock up.” He went to the sideboard, took out a bottle of schnapps. “Here. I’m sure Herr Burberry won’t miss this one.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—not after—” She had the true embarrassment of the truly honest. Caught once, she would never try to steal anything again from the flat.
“Go on, it’s all right.” She hesitantly took the bottle and he gave her a smile. “Jenny, if war breaks out, Herr Burberry definitely won’t be back. As soon as the first bombs drop, I give you permission to come back and take the lot. I’m sure Herr Burberry would rather that you had it than Rudy, the caretaker.”
She looked at him, not sure that he wasn’t joking; decided that he wasn’t and gave him a hesitant smile. “Thank you, Herr—”
“Smith,” said Carmody.
Five minutes later she was gone. As soon as the door closed behind her, Carmody went back into the kitchen. He looked at the suitcase, wishing he had been able to pick the locks instead of breaking them; the owner of it would take one look at it and probably not even touch it but skedaddle as fast as he could go. Yet he might not: the assassination attempt was itself a high risk, one more risk might be taken with a shrug: the prize was worth it. But could Carmody himself take the risk of putting the case back where it had been found in the sideboard? What if the maid came back? Or the caretaker came up looking for a nip of schnapps? The caretaker, if not the girl, would almost certainly inform the police.
He looked about the kitchen. This was a well-furnished one; it had a refrigerator, which had not been unplugged. He went to it, found a bottle of beer and opened it. He sat down at the kitchen table and sipped the beer while looking at the case. Last night’s disturbed sleep was not helping him concentrate; fragmented thoughts floated in his mind like broken pieces of a kaleidoscope that would not form a pattern. He had decided he had to help the marksman complete his mission, but how was he to protect him?
He got up and went out into the living room and through to the bathroom. He remembered the details, small though they were, that Burberry had given him. He stood at the toilet, as McMartin-Innes had done, and looked out of the narrow window and down into the Unter den Linden. The angle was acute, but there were about fifty yards of the wide street clearly visible. Unless Hitler’s car was moving at breakneck speed, there would be time for the marksman to draw a bead and fire at least twice. He unbuttoned his fly, used the toilet and flushed it: a nervous pee, something that had embarrassed him as a boy on social occasions, was in order, though this was no social occasion.
He looked about the bathroom, noting the width of the window and the floral curtains drawn back on either side of it. Then he went back to the kitchen, took the pieces of the gun out of the case and assembled it. The two pieces, the walnut stock and the shortened barrel, fitted together on a single screw. He fitted the telescopic sight, sighting down it and being surprised at the magnification of it. He bounced the gun lightly on his palms, appreciating the weight and balance of it; he had never handled a gun as expensive and good as this one, neither in the bush back home shooting rabbits and kangaroos nor in Spain shooting Franco’s soldiers. His thoughts now were concentrated: he was the soldier he had been for those twelve months in Spain.
He went back to the bathroom, put the rifle into the inner frame of the window; placed diagonally, it just fitted. Then he pulled the curtains across; the gun was effectively hidden. If the maid came back or the caretaker came up to the flat, he could only hope that neither of them came into the bathroom; or, if they did, they did not pull back the curtains to look out of the window. He reasoned that life, in the past couple of weeks, had become so complicated it was time luck turned his way. He had thought he had become philosophical, but now was the time for prayer.
He returned to the kitchen, took out his notebook, pondered a moment then wrote his message in block letters: My apologies for opening your case. The contents are in the appropriate place. It was stilted; it would have been even more so had it been in German. He used English because the chances were that, if the maid or caretaker found the note, they could not read it; he also was banking on the marksman’s being an Englishman. He put the note in the case, went back into the living room and put the case away in the sideboard. He stood up, drew a deep breath and let out a long sigh.
He looked at his watch: 11.30. He went to the phone, dialled his office. “Any messages, Olga?”
“Fräulein O’Dea has been trying to get in touch with you. She has telephoned three times. She sounds rather desperate, Herr Carmody. She’s at the studio.”
He hung up, dialled UFA and was put through to
Cathleen. “I’m on the set, darling, so I can’t say too much.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “I can’t get away—God!”
He thought she was going to break down. “Easy, darl. What’s the hold-up?”
“Goebbels sent a personal order to the front office this morning—I’m to finish up today, get every one of my scenes in the can. There’s to be no coming back for re-takes, no dubbing, nothing. I have to be off the lot tonight.”
“Can’t you just walk out, tell them to go to buggery?” He could feel himself getting angry.
“That was my first reaction. I’d actually got outside as far as the car . . . Then—I didn’t think I had the sort of mind that could put things together so quickly. I thought, what if I walk out and he gets really nasty? What if he has me followed everywhere, if he stops my exit permit? I have to go along with the order—I’ll get everything done today—Oh Christ, I’ll be glad to be out of here!”
So would he, out of Berlin, out of Germany. He wanted to go into the bathroom, take the Mannlicher and go looking for Goebbels; Hitler could wait. “I’ll go and meet your mother. What does she look like, in case the Langs just leave her there on her own?”
“Okay, Karl, I’m coming. I’m coming!” Her voice was turned away from the phone; then it came back, in the hoarse whispers again: “Karl’s going out of his mind . . . What does she look like? She’s smaller than me, has dark hair, not red like mine, blue eyes—”
“Blue?” He had never thought of Jews having blue eyes. He had made up his own stereotype of them.
“Yes. Some of them do,” she said, as if she had read his thoughts. “That’s about all. I can’t tell you what she’ll be wearing . . .” A pity he thought: women were better at describing a woman’s dress than her features.
“Don’t worry, darl. Get the picture out of the way and good riddance to it. I’ll pick up your mother. I’ll take her to the office. Come there as soon as you’re finished.”