Beck chuckled. “Very good, Hans. Very good. You’ve been paying attention to my talks I see.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I must get to my appointment. Good luck with the championship. Father, if Herr Hartmann gets restless, see if you can persuade him to do some violin practice. That usually soothes him.”
Beck headed off toward the gate.
“You can use my chess set for the game,” said Father Glatz to the seminarian.
Hoeniger beamed in delight. “How generous of you, Father.”
The chess set was the Jesuit’s prized possession, brought out only under special circumstances. The pieces were polished rosewood and exquisitely carved; each one, including the pawns, had different features. Philipp Glatz obeyed his vow of poverty, but had never been able to relinquish this set, which was a gift from his father.
Hoeniger nodded in the direction of the guard tower. “They don’t seem to be interested in us today, thank goodness.”
“Keep your eye out. Any further infraction and we’ll report it again. Come on, I’ll give you the chess set and collect Professor Hartmann, poor fellow.”
28.
CLARE CLOSED THE DOOR OF THE HUT AND PULLED the curtain across the window. Not that it was likely anybody in the camp could see her, but she didn’t want to be disturbed. She unlocked the desk drawer and took out an envelope marked Top Secret. She opened the seal and removed the piece of paper inside. Written on it were six names.
Herr Kurt Bader
Dr. Bruno Beck
Father Philipp Glatz
Herr Rudolph Gold
Professor Gunther Hartmann
Herr Oscar Schmidt
In a few minutes, she had committed the list to memory. She then reached for the cigarette lighter that was on the desk. She set fire to the sheet of paper, letting the ashes fall into the tray.
When Tyler arrived at the camp, he was aware that he seemed to elicit much more curiosity from the internees than before. He was sorry he had been the one to bring such fear to the camp. He gave a friendly wave to the group that was closest, but the response was perfunctory.
Major Fordham emerged from his tent and greeted Tyler with a hearty handshake.
“Morning, Inspector. Any news?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Nothing concrete.”
“Well, perhaps Dr. Beck can throw some light on the subject. Very clever man by all accounts.”
“So I understand.”
“Quite. In the interest of public relations, Mrs. Devereau has asked to sit in on your meeting. I saw no reason why not. I’m off to have a word with the cooks to see if we can organize a strawberry social. Our relations with the local people have vastly improved, but this terrible tragedy could be a setback.”
“Before we start, I wonder if I might have a word with the Catholic priest in the camp? It’s to do with another matter. Elsie Bates’s friend appears to be missing.”
“Good Lord.”
“According to the warden at the hostel, she probably attended the service of Mass here in the camp at least a couple of times. She may have been heading here last evening. She hasn’t been seen since.”
Fordham clicked his tongue. “I have allowed some people from the area to celebrate Mass with our internees. Catholics are in the minority here and it seemed like a nice bridge between us.” His gaze shifted toward the gate. “I see Dr. Beck approaching. He and Father Glatz are good friends. He’ll know where he is.”
Fordham ordered the sentry to open the gate. Tyler didn’t recognize the man walking towards them dressed as if he were a cricket umpire until the major called out to Dr. Beck.
“The inspector wants to have a word with Father Glatz. Could you locate him for us?”
“Of course. He was about to engage in a chess match in the mess tent.”
“The father’s English is a bit rudimentary,” added Fordham. “Things might move faster if Dr. Beck translated for you, Inspector.” Beck had only the slightest of accents.
“Seeing as my German is non-existent, that sounds like a good idea.” said Tyler.
“I’ll fetch him,” said Beck. He stepped back with a little bow. “Come this way.” He pointed to a group of chairs that had been placed under a tarpaulin a few feet away. “We can meet over there if you like, Inspector. We call it our reading room. During the day, the sun blazes into the camp. I hoped we would have a reprieve today but it doesn’t look likely.”
The rain had stopped and the dark storm clouds were moving away. A patch of blue the size of a sailor’s trousers was showing to the west.
“I’ll leave you to it” said the major, and he headed off. He was immediately accosted by a handful of internees who wanted to speak to him. They walked off together, Fordham leaning his head intently as he listened.
Tyler went over to the “reading room.” He could understand why it had been set up. There was no shade at all in the camp, except that provided by the tents. He sat down in a canvas field chair. One of the ubiquitous blue butterflies danced around his head for a moment, then fluttered off to better sustenance.
Dr. Beck soon reappeared with a tall, distinguished-looking man in the black robe of a Catholic priest.
“Inspector Tyler, allow me to present Father Glatz.” He continued in English, speaking more slowly. “The inspector would like to speak to you about a young lady.”
Glatz had thick, dark hair combed back from his face, a ruddy complexion, and keen blue eyes. Tyler didn’t know why he should be a little surprised at such a masculine appearance, but the clergymen he’d met in the Church of England had all tended to be rather delicate and high-voiced. The priest gave him a firm handshake.
Beck helped out with the language, but it didn’t take long to elicit from the priest that, yes, a young woman such as he described had been a regular celebrant for the past three weeks or so. There was a handful of people from round and about who came to Mass. He set up his altar on one side of the gate, and they stood outside and received the consecrated bread through the wire. “I sometimes found it hard to distinguish who was a prisoner and who wasn’t,” said the priest. “Nevertheless, I am most happy to demonstrate the unity of the Catholic community, no matter whether German or English.”
“Did this young woman attend Mass yesterday evening?” asked Tyler.
“She did not. There were only two outside celebrants. An older woman and a young man from a nearby farm.”
“What time was this, Reverend?”
“Seven o’clock. It is always at seven. The meal is over by then.”
There was nothing more the priest could offer, so Beck and Tyler proceeded to the major’s tent.
Tyler thought Glatz looked wistful as they parted. Nobody found being behind barbed wire an easy thing.
Once outside the gate, Beck stopped and took a deep breath.
“I realize this is fanciful, but the air on this side of the wire smells sweeter to me.”
Clare was waiting in the tent and she smiled a warm greeting at Tyler. Pleasure ran through his body, suffusing him with energy. He wanted to rush over and kiss her, but had to content himself with smiling back and touching her arm lightly as he sat down.
Dr. Beck gave a little bow, took her hand, and brushed his lips across her fingers. “Good morning, Frau Devereau. May I say that, as always, you look completely ravishing.”
Clare laughed. “You yourself look very smart today.”
He patted his stomach. “I have not worn these clothes all summer and I find the trousers to sit quite tightly on me. The result of camp cooking, I suppose, and not enough exercise.”
It was hard to say how old the doctor was. His hair and beard were streaked with grey, but his body was trim and fit for all his self-deprecation. His brown eyes were shrewd. For absolutely no rational reason, the man was irritating Tyler, and this made him jump in abruptly.
“Perhaps we could get down to business. As I understand it, you have done some study into the minds of criminals,
and you thought you had some insights that could help me with my case.”
Both the professor and Clare glanced at him with surprise. His tone must have been sharper than he realized.
“I do hope you don’t consider me an arrogant ivory-tower dweller who thinks I can tell you how to do your job,” said Beck. “I assure you that is not the case. I have the utmost respect for the British police force. However, I have made a particular study of crime, and I thought the only responsible thing to do was to pass along some of the things I have learned. It is up to you to use these insights or not as you see fit.”
“I shall endeavour to keep an open mind.”
Beck nodded. “That is all anybody can ask, Inspector.”
Clare smiled at Beck, which only aggravated Tyler more. He looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I do have a rather limited amount of time.”
Beck was unruffled. “Would it be simpler if I gave you a copy of my article and you can peruse it at your leisure?”
“Oh dear, what a pity,” said Clare. “I was looking forward to hearing what you had to say, Dr. Beck.”
“And I to imparting it. A professor with no classroom is like a solider without a regiment.” He took a slim, cloth-bound book from his inner pocket and handed it to Tyler. “I do ask you to return it when you are finished. It is my only copy. The others were confiscated by the Nazis and burned.”
“What a shame you didn’t get Herr Hitler to lie on your couch,” said Tyler. “I bet he would be an interesting case.”
Beck shrugged, a gesture more Gallic than Germanic. “On the contrary, Inspector. The closed mind such as exists in most Nazis is dull and ultimately untreatable. I prefer to take on the lowly station clerk who has an open mind.”
“If he could afford analysis,” said Tyler. “I believe it is an expensive process.”
“It is. But I myself subsidize the therapy if I find the patient worthwhile.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. The doctor began to pat his pockets, a man searching for his tobacco. Tyler took out his own case and offered him a cigarette. Beck accepted and they both lit up, relaxing with the ritual.
“I used to smoke only cigars,” said the doctor, “but alas my dear friend and mentor, Dr. Freud, was quite addicted to his cigars and suffered dreadfully before he died from a cancer of the jaw. I thought there might be a connection between the two things, so I have now switched to cigarettes.” He chuckled. “You’ve no doubt heard the story about Dr. Freud and his little weakness? No? Somebody once asked Freud if he had ever analyzed his predilection for cigars, as they might be considered phallic symbols and all that. The good doctor replied, ‘Sometimes, my dear sir, a cigar is only a cigar.’ ”
Tyler gaped at him. He didn’t have a clue what he was blathering on about. He personally didn’t like cigars, or pipes. Clare had laughed as if she understood.
She turned to Tyler. “Do let’s hear what Dr. Beck has to say, Tom. I’m sure it won’t take long and it may prove invaluable.”
Tyler threw up his hands. “How can I refuse two such persuasive people?” He unfastened his wristwatch and placed it on the table. “You have ten minutes. Go.”
Beck made a tent of his fingers and pressed them against his lips. “How shall I start? … Let us say that in this area, the base proposition of psychoanalytic theory is that we all carry with us a primeval, profound, but not conscious sense of guilt. I won’t go into the explanation for this guilt at the moment; suffice to say it is universal and unavoidable to the human condition. This buried guilt creates its own pressure.”
Tyler shifted in his chair and sneaked a glance at the watch.
Beck held up his hand. “Allow me to use an analogy which is rather unpleasant but vivid. You might have had the experience of eating something that does not agree with you. At first you are not aware of this, but as time goes on, you realize there is a great deal of discomfort in your stomach, much rumbling and belching, perhaps your head begins to ache. All indicating there is an internal war going on. Your stomach both wishes to repel the offending food and use it for fuel. Finally you face the fact that the only way to settle the conflict is to vomit …” He paused. “Are you with me so far?”
“Ugh,” said Clare. Tyler merely nodded.
“It is the same with guilt,” continued Beck. “The material that we refer to as repressed causes us great inner discomfort. To obtain relief, we will seek a place to let go, to bring equilibrium to our troubled self, to vomit up the offending incident or incidents that have brought about our distress. For the fortunate, that place might be undergoing psychoanalysis or some other kind of therapy. For the criminal it is not as simple. He does not consciously seek to reveal his crime. If you ask him, he will tell you he wants to get away with it. Nevertheless our criminal has a compulsion to confess.”
He paused and looked at his audience. Tyler raised his eyebrows.
“Strangely enough, Dr. Beck, in all my experience as a police officer, there hasn’t been a long queue of riff raff waiting to pour out the stories of their crimes on our broad shoulders.”
Beck nodded acceptingly. “I don’t mean quite the same as what the common usage means by that remark. The murderer who enters the police station and says, ‘I done it, arrest me,’ is not that to which I am referring. What I mean is the unobtrusive little clue, or clues, that the criminal has unconsciously given which betray his identity and point the finger in his direction …”
Tyler interrupted him. “In the case of Elsie Bates, the murderer left behind the weapon, which is hardly unobtrusive. We’re checking it for fingerprints. It appeared to have been carefully placed beside the body.”
“Really, how interesting. Such a gesture suggests a reverence of some kind. I would say the killer felt remorse for his action, pity for his victim.”
“I’m glad you think so, Doctor. In fact, he shot an unarmed and helpless girl in cold blood. He should have had some pity before he acted, don’t you think?”
Beck eyed him curiously. “Are you referring to something in particular?”
Tyler shook his head. He’d already said more than he should have. “Can’t reveal any details, Doctor. But please continue. I’m taking it all in. Open as the air, that’s me.”
Beck tented his fingers again. “In my opinion, the criminal has the urge to be discovered as powerfully as the detective needs, for his own unconscious reasons, to discover him.”
“Explain that, will you?” Tyler asked, trying not to let his aggravation seep through in his voice. Clare’s warning glance showed he wasn’t altogether successful.
Dr. Beck gave his Gallic shrug. “Why men take up the profession of police officers is another book unto itself. A sublimation of their own anti-social tendencies perhaps …”
“Let me get this straight, Doctor. You are saying that instead of most criminals being stupid, useless pieces of shite, they are in fact afflicted with a conscience that make them do stupid, obvious things that even stupid, obvious detectives like me, who are barely on the side of the law, can understand?”
“Tom! Of course he doesn’t mean that.”
Dr. Beck, for the first time, looked disconcerted. “I do apologize if I have inadvertently offended you, Inspector Tyler. Perhaps it is a language problem …”
“Come off it, Doctor. Your command of English is superior to mine. And no, you haven’t offended me, I’m just trying to understand exactly what you’re saying so us thick plods can use it in pursuit of B and ES with bodily harm; the conscience-stricken rapists, murderers, and thugs. It’s good to know these scum secretly want us to find them. And punish them. Which of course, we are, as you say, most eager to do. In non-analytic circles, that’s called seeking justice.”
Beck sighed and built the tent again, a little habitual gesture of his that Tyler thought he should analyze. He looked as if he were praying. Perhaps Tyler should suggest that to him.
“I was wrong to think I could explain such a new and challenging theory in te
n minutes. Perhaps we should revert back to our original idea of your reading my article in your own time.”
“That might be better,” said Clare soothingly. “I myself often find it easier to understand something on the printed page.”
Tyler leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He could see a spider running along one of the struts. “I understand quite well what Dr. Beck has said. That does not mean I agree with him. However, you are quite right, Doctor, it might be better if I take your article with me and read it when I have a chance.” He brought his chair back to the upright position with a thump. “To tell the truth, I was actually hoping that you could share with me any more mundane observations you might have had about the dead girl, Elsie Bates. She was well known at the camp. In your professional view, were any of the men here besotted with her? She was a flirt, a very attractive girl. Did any of them become jealous, do you think? Who knows what sexual frustration will do to a man.”
Dr. Beck sighed. He knew a lost cause when he met one. “I did see the young woman on a few occasions and my fellow internees welcomed her. But even with the few young men here, I don’t believe any of them would allow themselves to be involved emotionally with a girl like that … after all, she is on the other side of the wire, is she not? For most of us, she is goyim. The unattainable.” His lips curled slightly at the corners. “But then the forbidden does have its own particular attraction, does it not? The serpent did not perhaps have such a difficult task to persuade Eve to eat the apple.”
Clare laughed. “Thank goodness you didn’t add, ‘and brought all our woe into the world.’ ”
My God, they are actually flirting with each other, thought Tyler. He picked up his watch and strapped it on.
“I really must be off. Thank you for your time, Doctor. I will let you know how my investigation develops. Now, we should probably have you escorted back to the camp.”
Beck slumped in his chair. “I must admit I find it disconcerting to have an armed soldier at my side as if I am a dangerous offender. I am, and have been for many years, a sedentary man with not the slightest proclivity toward violence, which in fact I abhor. How could I possibly be considered a threat to this nation? My career is in tatters thanks to the Nazis; many of my friends and relatives are trapped inside a country that persecutes them because they are Jewish. Is it likely I would be a fifth columnist and support the very regime that would destroy me?”
Season of Darkness Page 17