When Julia rushed into the Richemond, Marie and Ravenel were on their third brandies.
She looked from one to the other. ‘So tell me.’
‘We got it,’ Ravenel said. ‘Verification. The bank lied.’
A smile spread slowly across Julia’s face. ‘You are two of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever known,’ she said. She hugged them both. ‘You did it. You got in.’ She looked incredulous.
‘More important,’ Marie said. ‘We got out.’
‘I never thought you’d do it.’
‘I had my own doubts,’ Ravenel said. ‘Breaking into banks was not part of my training.’
‘Were you scared? I bet you were.’
She’s more interested in the fact that we got into the bank than the money, Ravenel thought. His estimation of Julia Lang went up another notch.
‘I was petrified. I don’t know about Marie.’
‘I was too,’ Marie said.
‘What’s next?’ Julia asked.
‘We get the pictures developed,’ Ravenel said. ‘Cristiani will pick them up in the morning.’
Julia shook her head in wonderment. ‘I can scarcely believe it. It’s incredible, what you did.’
‘I think so too,’ Marie said.
Ravenel put his hand on Julia’s arm. ‘What about you? How did it go with Eberhardt?’
‘Incredibly well. He couldn’t have been nicer. He wanted me to stay over to go round the bank tomorrow.’
‘I guessed the old bastard would turn on the charm,’ Ravenel said.
Marie nodded. ‘Don’t be fooled by him. He’s a cold-nosed Swiss banker with ice-water in his veins.’
‘Maybe so,’ Julia said. ‘But he was very gracious to me.’
‘He thought you were an important journalist,’ Marie said. ‘Why wouldn’t he be? Don’t forget, he’s the man who tried to do you out of your money.’ She finished her brandy and yawned extravagantly. ‘I’m ready for bed.’ She gave Ravenel a long look.
‘Me too,’ he said.
‘Not yet,’ Julia said. ‘I fly home tomorrow. Stay with me for a while.’
Marie and Ravenel exchanged glances.
‘You stay.’ Marie gave Ravenel a wooden smile. ‘I’ll go call Cristiani about picking up the film.’
Ravenel ordered another brandy.
Paul Eberhardt found himself smiling over his breakfast toast and coffee, something he had not done for a long time. What a delightful evening! And what a charming woman. Hilary Bennett. He had been much taken with her. She was the kind of woman who appealed to him; beautiful, intelligent and warm. Although the food had been good at Olympe he now wished he had suggested the Lion d’Or for dinner. He would like some of his friends there to have seen him with her. Perhaps next time. She would have enjoyed looking round his bank; he had noticed the look in her eyes when he suggested it. She had seemed genuinely sorry that she had to rush back so quickly. But he knew something about journalists and their deadlines. He wondered if she were married – he had not wanted to ask her that – and where in London she lived.
He would find out, he decided; send her some flowers; thank her for making the interview so pleasant; let her know how much he was looking forward to her return visit.
He thought back over the interview. Then he remembered. Damn. He had forgotten to tell her he was to chair the International Bankers’ Conference in Vienna. A high honour. That should be in the article; it was even more important than the upcoming conference in Paris. He glanced at his watch and rose from the table. It was just past nine o’clock. Surely she would not have left the Bristol yet? He went into his study and called the hotel.
Chapter 41
The negatives were developed and enlarged in a private lab owned by a friend of Cristiani’s. Studying them the next morning the investigator was startled. He picked up the telephone and called the Richemond.
Ravenel was still in bed with Marie, sleeping off their delayed lovemaking of the night before. It had been after 2 a.m. when he had finally got away from Julia.
‘They’re ready,’ Cristiani told him.
‘I’ll pick them up later,’ Ravenel said.
‘I suggest you stop what you’re doing and come by now,’ Cristiani said. ‘Two of these photographs are particularly interesting.’
‘Half an hour then,’ Ravenel said. He hung up and turned to Marie. ‘Cristiani says a couple of those photographs are very interesting.’
Marie smiled contentedly. ‘I told you,’ she said softly.
When they arrived at Cristiani’s office they found him pacing the room, the photographs in his hand.
‘You speak German?’ he asked Ravenel.
‘Hardly any.’
‘Too bad.’ He flopped into his desk chair. ‘Eberhardt must have been mad to keep these in the files,’ he said.
Ravenel looked at Marie. She had a big grin on her face. ‘Why?’
‘They don’t tell us everything,’ Cristiani said. ‘But they tell us a lot. Eh, Marie?’ He handed her the photos. She picked up a magnifying glass from the desk and studied them intently.
‘Incredible,’ she said after a moment. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw them. You’re right. He was crazy not to destroy these.’
Ravenel looked first at him, then at Marie. ‘Would you mind telling me what you’re talking about?’
‘These file papers show how Eberhardt’s bank got started.’
‘What’s interesting about that?’
‘It was Nazi money.’
Ravenel stared at him. ‘Nazi money?’
‘It’s there in the files.’ Cristiani sat back, putting his hands together, interlocking his fingers. ‘Remember I told you Eberhardt was pro-German? Went to Germany all the time during the war? Nothing wrong with that. A lot of Swiss businessmen did. From 1940 until 1944 the Nazis had us ringed. We were dependent on them for our fuel supplies.’
‘So?’
‘It seems Eberhardt had different reasons for visiting Germany. Someone there was secretly depositing funds in his bank.’
‘Who?’
‘We might have found out,’ Marie said drily, ‘if you hadn’t hurried me out of that place. There were dozens of other papers in the files.’
‘I thought I heard sirens,’ Ravenel said.
‘You heard ringing in your ears,’ Marie scoffed. ‘There were no sirens.’ She handed the photos back to Cristiani.
‘You saw the signatures of the two executives who witnessed the deposits?’ Cristiani said.
Marie nodded. ‘André Leber and Georges di Marco. Both knew about the Nazi money. Both are now conveniently dead.’
‘Gets more and more interesting, doesn’t it?’ Cristiani studied the photos again. ‘At least we’ve got one name here.’
‘There was another on the next page,’ Marie said. ‘But Guy kept pushing me to leave so I missed it.’
‘A pity,’ Cristiani said. ‘That would have given us the complete picture.’
Ravenel, sulky, looked at them both. ‘How can you tell it was Nazi money?’
Cristiani held up the first photo and, using the magnifying glass, read from it. ‘First entry. May 1938. Five hundred thousand dollars deposited in account number 845-090. Origin: Berlin. Hand-delivered by Lt Heinz hinge.’ He looked up. ‘Wouldn’t you say that was fairly conclusive?’
‘But money transfers must have been going on all the time?’
‘Official ones, yes. That’s how the Germans paid their agents operating overseas. And paid for vital materials. The Reichsbank asked us to transmit money to this or that country and we complied. We were neutral, remember.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
Cristiani ignored this.
‘What makes you so sure this wasn’t an official transfer?’ Ravenel asked.
‘Because the Reichsbank didn’t send money out of the country with couriers. Nor was it paid into private accounts.’
‘So this was a secret arrangement?’
‘Right.’
>
‘Look,’ Ravenel said. ‘I’m grateful to you both. But I’ve got what I was looking for. This other stuff is your affair.’
Cristiani eyed him thoughtfully. He held out the photo of Brand’s letter. ‘This shows that $20 million was supposed to have been credited to an account set up for Julia Lang. What’s your next move? You write to Eberhardt that you have it. He does not reply. What do you do? Sue him?’
‘I could send it to the Federal Banking Commission.’
‘That’s right. You could. I’ll give you their address. The first thing they’ll want to know is how you obtained this photo. What will you tell them? “I broke into the bank …”’
Ravenel sighed.
‘If I were you,’ Cristiani said, ‘though I thank God I’m not, I would try to track down this Heinz Linge. If he’s still alive and he’ll talk to you, then you’ll really have something to threaten Eberhardt with. A private bank has only one thing going for it – a reputation for absolute integrity. If it can be shown that Banque Eberhardt was started with Nazi money, money probably stolen from Jews, there would be an outcry.’
‘Suppose we do go looking for Linge …’
‘Not “we”. You.’
‘… and he’s dead?’
‘You could always go back into the bank and get the next sheet on the file,’ Marie said. ‘The one you wouldn’t let me wait to read. “I think I heard sirens …”’ she mimicked, pulling a face.
Ravenel glared at her.
‘He may well be dead,’ Cristiani said. ‘Who knows?’ He went over to the cabinet in the corner and looked through some papers. ‘There’s a man who specializes in keeping track of those sort of people,’ he said.
‘Someone at the Simon Wiesenthal Center?’
‘No, they’re only interested in war criminals. There’s another man who keeps tabs on all the people who worked for the top Nazis, even their hairdressers. He might know where to find Linge.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘That’s what I’m looking for,’ Cristiani said. ‘Don’t be so impatient.’ He flicked through some more papers, cursing. ‘That dumb secretary of mine. No idea of filing.’ He pulled out a sheet. ‘Here it is. Pierre Gautier.’
‘The war ended years ago,’ Ravenel said. ‘I’m surprised he still bothers.’
Cristiani went back to his desk. ‘Ever hear of Oradour sur Glane? Gautier evacuated his wife and daughter there during the war. A little village; nobody would bother with it. That’s what he thought. But as punishment for the killing of a German officer in the area, the SS Das Reich Division drove all the local women and children into the village church, blew it up and set fire to the town. Six hundred women and children died, among them Gautier’s wife and daughter.’ He looked hard at Ravenel. ‘Does that explain why he’s carried his hate over the years?’
‘Jesus.’ Ravenel got up. ‘Where can I find him?’
‘He lives in Paris. Here’s the address.’ Cristiani held out the sheet.
‘I’ll call him tonight.’
Next day Ravenel said goodbye to Marie over a long lunch at Le Duc. Then he telephoned Julia in London.
‘You won’t hear from me for a day or two,’ he said. ‘I’m going to Paris.’
‘I thought you’d already got what you need?’
‘Part of it,’ he said. ‘It seems there’s a whole lot more …’
‘It’s B-e-n-n-e-t-t.’ Eberhardt spelled out the name for the reception clerk. He waited a moment. ‘Of course I’m sure. I dropped her off at the hotel myself.’
‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Eberhardt.’ The clerk studied the computer console in front of him. ‘I have no record of that name.’
‘She checked in yesterday, from London.’
‘No, sir, I’m sorry. Could she have used a married name?’
Eberhardt felt a twinge of disappointment. He had not considered that. Well, what if she were married? It meant nothing these days. She could be divorced; still using her married name …
‘A young woman in her mid-thirties. Attractive. Blonde hair …’
‘That doesn’t help, sir. I was not on duty yesterday.’
‘You know who I am? The Banque Eberhardt?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘I have to get in touch with this lady most urgently. I know she stayed last night at your hotel. Give me the names of any guests who arrived yesterday afternoon from London and checked out this morning.’
He waited, standing by the telephone, finishing his coffee. He did not have long to wait.
‘There was only one, Monsieur Eberhardt. A Miss Julia Lang.’
Julia Lang! He had dined with Julia Lang! The woman who had been in his thoughts for weeks now; whose very existence had caused so many of his recent problems.
Totally mystified, Eberhardt slumped back in his study chair. Why had she done this? What was the point? Was she hoping to trap him into saying something to her advantage? He racked his brains for an answer.
For years he had lived the life of a highly successful Swiss banker. Now everything seemed to be unravelling: Cristiani’s probe into di Marco’s death … the tapping of his telephone … Grace Brand’s hysterical calls. And now this.
He tried to recall the conversation of the night before. What had he talked about? Had he said anything that she could use to incriminate him? He could think of nothing. It had been a perfectly ordinary interview. Now he saw why she had become flustered when asked the name of her editor.
He had her address in London. It would be a simple matter to obtain the phone number. But what then? What could he say to her – I know it was you. I just want to know why? He would seem like a gullible old fool.
The worst part was that he had liked her; had hoped to see her again. There had been eye contact there. She had responded to him.
Could it have been an innocent stratagem she had devised to meet him? He had refused to see her as Julia Lang so she had determined to meet him as Hilary Bennett. But to what end? He sat perfectly still in his big leather chair searching for answers.
And found none.
Ravenel arrived late the following morning and took a taxi to his favourite small hotel, the Résidence du Bois in the rue Chalgrin. From there he telephoned Pierre Gautier. ‘I am here,’ he said.
‘Do you know the Boulevard Raspail?’
‘Very well.’
‘There is a small street leading off it, the rue des Pierres. Come to number 75, apartment 4.’
Ravenel went down to find a cab. Traffic was heavy and it was forty-five minutes before he dropped off at the corner of the rue des Pierres, a narrow street lined with small shops and restaurants. He found Gautier’s number easily and took the ancient lift to the fourth floor.
Gautier was waiting for him as he stepped out; a small man with a shock of white hair, bright piercing eyes and the look of someone who has spent his life suffering. They shook hands. Gautier led the way into a rambling apartment at the end of the corridor, a place of creaking floors and high ceilings with French windows looking out over the street. The walls were lined with bookcases, every shelf laden with bulging files and papers. Other files were piled on the floor. Many of them had pictures of men in uniform stuck to the covers with tape. The place looked a mess. Ravenel was immediately depressed.
Gautier gestured to a chair. ‘I can offer you wine?’
‘Thank you.’
The old man disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a tray holding two glasses and a bottle of Beaujolais.
‘I didn’t think people like you were still in business,’ Ravenel said.
‘In business?’ Gautier said, glancing at him. ‘A curious way of putting it. Yes, I am still in business.’ He poured a measure of wine for both of them. ‘You are trying to locate a former Nazi?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not a war criminal? For those you must go to the Public Prosecutor’s Office in Frankfurt.’
‘I understand that. As far as I know
this man was not a war criminal.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He worked in Berlin. Probably for one of the top men.’
‘His name?’
‘Linge. Heinz Linge.’ He held out the paper with Linge’s name on it.
Gautier studied it carefully. ‘Linge? Linge? I don’t think I know this one.’
‘He went into Switzerland at least once during the war.’
The old man sipped his wine. ‘Probably took money out for someone. They all had accounts there, you know. I told the Americans that after the war. They weren’t interested.’
‘I’m interested,’ Ravenel said. ‘Do you think you might have something on him?’
‘Why do you want to know about this man?’
‘A friend of mine is trying to track down some money that is owed to her. I think this man may know something about it.’
Gautier glanced around. ‘As you can see, everything’s in a bit of a mess.’
‘Perhaps I could help you?’
‘You wouldn’t know where to look.’ He glanced back at Ravenel. ‘People say I am crazy doing this. “Why?” they ask. “Why?” I tell them why. I lost my wife and child to those butchers. Oradour sur Glane. They were herded into the church there and blown to pieces. Gallant soldiers, eh? Men of the SS Das Reich Division; men who prided themselves on their fighting prowess. Not Nazi thugs, German soldiers.’
Ravenel listened silently.
‘People forget,’ Gautier said. ‘I don’t.’ He glanced at the paper again. ‘Heinz Linge,’ he repeated. ‘Let me take a look around.’
He wandered around the room, examining files, occasionally muttering to himself while Ravenel, watching, grew increasingly pessimistic. At the end of the search Gautier came back. ‘Nothing here, I’m afraid.’ He frowned. ‘There’s one more place.’
He disappeared down the hall. Ravenel looked around at the files wondering how Gautier ever found anything. He was a little mad, he judged. Everything about him suggested it; the way he talked, the look in his eyes, the movements of his hands. For years he had lived here alone, surrounded by his files, making calls, trying to track down the people who had destroyed his life.
‘Aha!’
He heard a grunt of triumph. A moment later Gautier reappeared bearing a yellow file in his hand. ‘Heinz Linge.’ He held the file up for Ravenel to see the name on the top. There was a photograph too, of a young man in uniform looking very serious. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s see what we have here.’ He glanced at Ravenel. ‘You see, one should never give up.’
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