Swope's Ridge

by Ace Collins

  Glancing into his rearview mirror, he noted the now familiar gray Dodge Stratus. It was hanging five cars back, but it was still there. McGee laughed. Wonder where the guy wanted to stop for lunch? If he had his number, he would call and ask.

  17

  IT WAS WELL PAST MIDNIGHT WHEN DIANA CURTIS dragged herself out of the war archives building and onto Berlin’s dark, empty streets. For eight hours she had turned pages on moldy books and papers and asked historians and librarians questions. They had tried to help, sending her on one wild goose chase after another, up and down stairs and into parts of the musty building devoid of human life. She had zipped through microfilm until her eyes crossed. Her fingers tingled from rifling through card catalogs.

  And what did she have to show for it? Though her legal pad was filled with pages of notes and interesting doodles, she still had no answers. There was no record of a Henrick Bleicher ever having been in the German military, much less the elite and infamous Schutzstaffel. And not a single SS member’s serial number matched the number tattooed on the body found at Swope’s Ridge. So while her years of work at the ABI had given her contacts in Washington whose German cohorts threw open the door to seldom seen records, it appeared the trip had been a waste of her time and Lije Evans’ money.

  After thanking a housekeeper who had allowed her to stay three hours after closing, Curtis exited the six-story stone building and walked down the steps leading to the street. That’s when she realized she was as alone as she had been when searching the miles of bookshelves. There were no taxis and she had no idea if city buses ran this time of night. Her hotel was a mile away.

  Her briefcase at her side, she began the trek north. She had taken only a dozen steps when the rain started. Within a block, the skies let loose with a steady shower.

  When she stopped at the first street corner to wait for a truck to pass, she thought she heard something. She turned around and looked back toward the library’s entrance. Nothing. No, wait—there was something or someone, but who? Had it been a shadow or did a figure just slide into the darkness beside a gift shop? Sure her fatigue affected her vision and judgment, Curtis shrugged her aching shoulders, put the furtive image out of her mind, and crossed the thoroughfare.

  She was three blocks from the library when on instinct she suddenly spun in her tracks. As she did, a figure about fifty feet behind her casually looked into the window of a lingerie store, then began walking south.

  After studying files on Nazis all day, Curtis was almost ready to believe that she was being tailed. But why? She didn’t know anything that would interest anyone on this side of the Atlantic, and she surely hadn’t found anything worth noting in her research. Still, she would have felt much better if she’d been able to bring her gun.

  The man was no longer paying any attention to her. He strolled the other way. She now realized the firearm wasn’t as necessary as a raincoat.

  Satisfied she was safe, Curtis turned and picked up her own journey. Yet as she walked, she couldn’t shake an ominous feeling, one that was as persistent in her mind as the rain hitting her head. It was as if the ghosts of the evil men whose names she had read had been invited into her world and had manifested themselves in the form of a solitary figure.

  Though it seemed a waste of time, she launched into investigative mode. Why had a person picked such an odd time for window shopping—especially a man who looked as if he had stepped out of an old black-and-white movie? Why was he on the street at this time of night? Then the thought of SS ghosts leaped back into her head. She shuddered.

  Okay, she had to concentrate, keep her mind clear and embrace all that she’d learned as an investigator. That would be the key to her staying calm. It was time to ask the questions a cop always asks witnesses to a crime. She had seen him for only a moment, but how tall was he? When she compared him with the height of the window of the store, he was at least a foot shorter—about five feet nine or ten. He seemed thin. He was wearing a hat, a trench coat, and was carrying an umbrella she wished she had right now.

  She giggled as she realized she had just identified Humphrey Bogart as her tail. Suddenly feeling silly, she stopped, turned, and in full voice toasted the night, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” And there he was, just forty feet behind her.

  Curtis no longer questioned her fears. She picked up her pace, her two-inch heels clicking rhythmically against the concrete. Halfway to her hotel she again was forced to wait for the traffic light to allow her to cross the street. This time she didn’t turn around. Instead she used a plate-glass window as a mirror. That reflection showed he was now only twenty feet behind her, and this time he hadn’t stopped when she did. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a string of cars appeared. Why was there suddenly a parade? Not wanting to wait for an opening, she turned right and hurried down an empty sidewalk. Glancing over her shoulder, she noted the man was matching her movements and her speed.

  One block became two and two became three. The silent but relentless chase continued. Never had she felt more vulnerable. There was no one to call for backup. She was no longer headed for her hotel and safety. She was in a dark and seedy part of the city, away from the lights of the business district. When she realized her mistake, there were no cars on the street, no pedestrians, no policemen. The only sounds were of two sets of shoes hitting the sidewalk at a faster and faster pace.

  Should she try to outrun her tail? Should she change direction? Maybe she should just face him. Maybe it was time to use her briefcase as a weapon. Yet if he had a gun, she’d never get the chance. She’d be dead before she could swing the briefcase in his direction. Then again, maybe this wasn’t about who she was but what she was. After all, who knew Diana Curtis in Berlin? On these dark streets she was just another female. That realization made the situation seem so much worse.

  With her heart attempting to pound its way through her chest, Curtis continued to walk. She could no longer tell the rain from her sweat. She was soaked, frightened, and frantic. Her problems were now many. She had no way of defending herself. Her cell phone had been broken at the airport. She had no idea where she was. And it appeared that each step was taking her farther from safety.

  She was almost at the end of a row of warehouses. Intent on outpacing the person in the trench coat, she never saw the other man step out of an alley. She felt his hot breath and looked up. He was large, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds and well over six-six. He grabbed her by the arm, spun her around, and dragged her into the alley. A dim streetlight revealed his scarred face. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. He shoved her up against a brick wall and held a knife in front of her face. He smiled. She’d never seen such a smile. It was crazed.

  And if he was working with Bogie, she was dead—or worse.

  18

  AS SHE WAITED FOR THE KNIFE TO DIG BETWEEN her ribs, a voice from the street shouted something in German. Forgetting about Curtis, the hulking figure whirled like a cat. Ten feet away, the stalker in the trench coat casually presented a large handgun as if for inspection. It was all the identification the attacker needed. The hulk collapsed his shiny blade, lifted his hands in surrender, and backed away from Curtis. She watched as he slunk farther into the darkness of the alley and disappeared.

  Trembling, Curtis turned back toward her stalker. In the dim light she could see the man was well groomed, from his fedora to his shined shoes. She had been wrong. He didn’t look much like Bogart. In fact he looked more like Mr. Edlebrook, her elementary school principal. Of the two threats, this one appeared to be the lesser. Yet the gun, which had quickly discouraged her other attacker, still put her at a distinct disadvantage.

  “You’re Miss Curtis?” His tenor voice reflected a distinct British clip.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “That’s only important if you are who I think you are.”

  “Okay. I’m Curtis.”

  “Then the description I was given was spot on. Of course, with the wet hair, it’s a bit ha
rder to tell.” He grinned, a friendly grin. He didn’t look like a predator, at least none she had arrested in her days at the ABI.

  “Looks to me like you have had a rather harrowing adventure,” he noted. “He was a rather grotesque creature. So why don’t you allow me to escort you back to your hotel. Maybe we could have a spot of brandy. The rain’s made things a bit nippy.”

  Though he hardly sounded like a rapist, his good manners didn’t soothe her nerves. Criminals took on the persona of gentlemen. “I don’t normally drink with stalkers.”

  “Oh, that bit of rubbish.” He laughed. “I wasn’t going to bother introducing myself or even allow you to see my face until I was sure you were Diana Curtis. Of course, having to save you from that bloody creature did prompt me to change my plan. In fact, until that rather awkward moment, I was about to write you off as just another student of World War II history. You see, I know where you are staying. The Strousberg. If you had walked straight back and gone into the lobby, I would then have made your acquaintance in a much more appropriate fashion.”

  “Quite a story.”

  “Right-o! I’m sure it sounds that way, but if I wasn’t looking for you, how did I know your name and where you are staying?”

  Curtis nodded. At least that part made sense. Still, she didn’t like the thought of being a prisoner, even to a polite jailer.

  “Put the gun away and don’t lay a glove on me. You lead the way. Once we get into the lobby of my hotel, we’ll find a very public place to sit. Then we can discuss whatever it is you feel a need to discuss.”

  He grinned and let the impressive silver firearm fall to his side, then reversed it in his hand and shoved it in her direction. “I can do better than that. I’ll let you hold the gun and I’ll carry your briefcase. How does that sound?”

  He extended the revolver and waited for her to take it. Once Curtis had her fingers around the grip, she put her case on the ground and pushed it toward the stranger. He again smiled—he did have a nice smile—picked up the attaché case, and turned toward the east. As he started walking away, he announced, “By the way, I’m Peter Wilshire.”

  “Mr. Wilshire, just keep walking and don’t look back. If you really do know where I’m staying, then lead the way. In the meantime, just keep your mouth shut and your feet moving.”

  “As you say, my lady.”

  19

  IT WAS PAST ONE WHEN DIANA CURTIS AND PETER Wilshire slipped out of the rain and through the Strousberg Hotel’s circular doors. The century-old building, one of the few that had survived Allied bombing during the war, had a small, quaint lobby featuring dark wood and red carpet. The room was devoid of life except for a sleepy desk clerk leaning over the counter reading a magazine, his head supported by his arms. Curtis pointed to a table and two chairs in a far corner. Wilshire blazed the trail. After he’d taken a seat, she followed, lowering the gun to her lap but keeping her index finger securely locked on the trigger.

  “How do you know who I am and why am I so important to you?”

  “Miss Curtis, you’re nothing if not direct. I like that in a woman. As humans we often spend so much time on small talk. It’s a bloody waste. We English are the worst of the lot in that department. Nice to meet someone who gets right to the point. Oh, it is Miss, isn’t it?”

  Curtis didn’t answer. Instead she leaned back against the padded green-velvet cushion and observed the man who’d saved her from a fate too gruesome to consider. He was dapper, with a slender but solid build. As if harkening back to another time, he sported a pencil-thin mustache. Under the trench coat, he wore a tweed jacket. His eyes were lively, his nose narrow and long, his lips full. He could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy. And overriding everything else, he was confident. She was sure he thought of himself as a player, and she was just as sure the game was something she was not interested in pursuing on this night or any other.

  “Mr. Wilshire—”

  “Please call me Peter.”

  “Okay. Peter. My marital status should be of no interest to you. I see the ring on your left hand. So let’s begin there.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, I’m married; have been for more than forty years. Martha is a delightful gal. We have three kiddos and seven grandchildren. I have snaps if you’d like to see them.”

  Why did the British call pictures snaps? Why didn’t they call them pictures or photos like everyone else? “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  He grinned. “Now I get your line of reasoning. I guess my words were a bit ill chosen. Please allow me to apologize. I wasn’t trying to find out if you were married in order to—what do you Americans say—hit on you. I have a daughter who is surely much older than you. I just wanted to know how to address you. You know, Mrs. or Miss. Or maybe, as you Yanks say, Ms.”

  “Diana will do.”

  “Thank you. That does make things a bit easier.”

  “And,” she added, “thank you for rescuing me from the goon. But that fact does not mean I’m going to forgive you for stalking me.” He shrugged. “I made a miscalculation on that strategy. I say, I could’ve saved us both a lot of trouble by simply introducing myself as you came out of the archives. But I feared it would give you a terrible fright.”

  She couldn’t help it. She loved the way he talked. Still, that fact didn’t melt her anger at his methods. Even if he was being straight with her, it was time to put him squarely in his place. “As if trailing me didn’t give me a fright?”

  “Sorry.”

  He had kind eyes and a soothing voice. Maybe he was a gentleman. Yet he also carried a big gun and might have another in his coat. No reason to trust him yet.

  “Why were you looking for me?”

  Wilshire smiled, lifting his bushy eyebrows and creating at least a half dozen deep furrows in his forehead. “Do you remember Helga Schoal?”

  Curtis nodded. “I met her when I checked into the archives. I’m guessing she’s close to retirement. A bit stocky, brown eyes, a deeply lined face, a square jaw.”

  “I’ve known her for years. In fact, three decades ago she tried to help me in my search for answers about a member of the SS. Back then I never got out of the fog. Did you do any better?”

  “No,” she admitted, “my quest was unsatisfactory. Yet the fact that we both struck out at the archives doesn’t answer the question about your interest in me.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But perhaps a little background will build a bridge between us.”

  He paused, the seemingly perpetual smile now giving way to the stern, pensive expression doctors wear right before they tell a patient he has only a few months to live. “I met Helga,” he began, “because I was looking for information on my father.”

  “But your accent…”

  “Oh, yes, I grew up in Britain, but I was born in Germany in 1945, during the last days of the war. I don’t remember ever seeing my father. He disappeared on a mission and never resurfaced. My mother moved to England in 1946. She was sure he had died; she told me so many times. But I believe she loved him so much she really never gave up hope that he had somehow survived the war. Whenever she saw someone who looked like him, she stopped. It was almost like she was being haunted. That continued even after she had remarried. Yet he never came back. On her deathbed she gave me a couple of snaps I’d never seen and told me a story I’d never heard. That’s when I found out that my father had been in the SS.”

  Relaxing her grip on the gun, Curtis raised her eyebrows. “Must’ve been a shock.”

  “You have no idea. That’s why I first came to Berlin and began digging. Helga helped me all she could, but my father’s name was not in the files.”

  Curtis nodded, “I ran into the same thing.”

  “I know. Helga called me soon after you signed in. She told me the name of the man you were looking for. Her call was a favor that went back almost three decades.”

  Curtis had no idea what he meant. “So you live in Berlin?”

  “No, London. As soon as I
received the call, I caught a plane in an attempt to get to the archives before they closed. I didn’t make it. But Helga had already informed me where you were staying. If you recall, she asked you for that information. The sleepy clerk over there informed me you hadn’t come in. I called Helga at home and discovered you were working late. So, after running my own errand, I decided to wait outside the building for you to come out. I know I should’ve simply asked you your name and introduced myself then, rather than following you to see if you were headed to the Strousberg.”

  What she’d heard smelled distinctly of fish. There could be no reason for anyone to fly from London to Berlin just to meet her. This had to have something to do with the archives. Helga had probably mistaken her for someone else.

  “Other than my name, what else do you know about me?”

  “Nothing, just that you were trying to find information on an SS officer named Henrick Bleicher.”

  “And that prompted a trip from England? You’re either very wealthy or have too much time on your hands. Maybe both.”

  He tilted his head and pushed a strand of gray hair off his forehead. “My mother remarried not long after we arrived in England. Her husband was a commodities trader named Henry Wilshire. He adopted me. But my real father was Henrick Bleicher.”

  The news took her breath away. She pushed back into the thickly padded chair. So Bleicher was in the SS. But where were the records? And was he the man they’d found under the bus?

  “Do you have any pictures of your father?”

  Wilshire reached inside his coat pocket, retrieved an envelope, and tossed it on the table. Leaving the gun in her lap, with her left hand Curtis slid out a single photograph. She studied it as it lay on the table. There were four men in the black-and-white image. One was Adolf Hitler. Two she didn’t recognize. One man looked like the mummified body they’d found under the bus at Swope’s Ridge. She was sure it was Bleicher.