The Kammersee Affair

by John Holt

  “I can assure you that they are not rumours, Mr. Richter,” said Hartman. “The stories are quite true. Indulge me, please. Humour me. Allow me to continue for just a little longer. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time. However, I am sure that you will find what I have to say very interesting.”

  Richter didn’t have time for this nonsense. He had a lot to do, and was anxious to get on. “All right,” he agreed reluctantly. “I’ll give you ten minutes, and that’s it. Not a minute more.”

  “I’m obliged Mr. Richter. I’ll be as quick as I can,” Hartman replied. He held the gold bar aloft, and continued with his narrative. “This actual bar was recovered from Lake Kammersee. You are familiar with Lake Kammersee, I believe?”

  He looked at Richter, waiting for a response, some kind of reaction. None came. Richter sat quite silently. Hartman shrugged his shoulders. “No matter,” he continued. “I want you to help me recover the other bars that are hidden in the area.” He placed the bar on the table in front of Richter.

  Richter stood up and started to slowly pace the floor. He stopped and turned to face Hartman. “They are rumours, nothing but rumours. There’s no gold.” Hartman held his hand up, and shook his head. Richter looked down at the gold bar. He then looked directly at Hartman. “What makes you so certain that there is gold in that lake?”

  “Quite simple, Mr. Richter,” Hartman replied. “I know because it was I who placed the gold into the lake, in early March 1945, just before the Americans came along.” Hartman picked the bar up and returned it to his briefcase. “Now Mr. Richter, are you interested or not?”

  Richter looked at Hartman. He was unsure. Were they just rumours, or was there some truth in the stories. He had to admit that he really didn’t know for sure, but he had nothing to lose.

  “I could be,” Richter replied. “I’d need to know a lot more though. What would you actually want from me? And more to the point what’s in it for me?”

  “I need you to carry out some exploratory dives to see exactly where the gold is located, and to help in the recovery of the gold bullion,” Hartman explained. “From my knowledge I expect to recover at least one million US dollars worth of gold bullion. Your share would be ten per cent. That is one hundred thousand dollars. Now what do you say. Are you interested?”

  One hundred thousand dollars, Richter thought. Yes he was certainly interested.

  “Good,” Hartman said. “Now I have another little job for you.” Hartman placed two photographs on the table in front of Richter. “You don’t need to know anything about these two men. In fact the less you know the better. I want you to kill these two men.”

  Richter began to laugh. “That’s not a very funny joke, Mr. Weiss,” he said, beginning to choke.

  “Oh, it’s no joke Mr. Richter, I assure you,” said Hartman. “Those two men must be killed. And I want you to kill them for me.”

  Richter was stunned. “You must be mad, why should I kill two perfect strangers for you,” he said.

  “Mr. Richter, they may indeed be perfect strangers, at least they are to you,” Hartman replied. “However, I can assure you that their lives and yours are inextricably entwined. In fact you could say that your life depends totally, and utterly, upon their lives.” Hartman stopped for a moment carefully watching Richter. “Put in the simplest form, they live you die. They die you live. Simple.”

  Richter was puzzled. “I don’t know what you are talking about Mr. Weiss,” he said. “I think I’ve heard more than enough. So perhaps you better leave, now. Take your gold, and get out.”

  Hartman did not budge. “Mr. Richter, let me be quite clear, so that there is no misunderstanding. If you do not kill those two men, as I ask, then you will be arrested, tried and almost certainly executed.”

  Richter was stunned. He shivered. His palms started to sweat. “Why should I be arrested?” he asked, nervously. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Really, I actually have evidence to the contrary,” Hartman said. Richter started to shake, he was having difficulty breathing. After a few moments Hartman continued. “It might interest you to know, Mr. Richter, that I have a great deal of information regarding your time with the Austrian Underground.”

  Hartman opened his briefcase and took out a small folder, and placed it on the table in front of Richter. Richter looked down at the file apprehensively. Hartman continued with his narrative. “Yes you were very active from 1938 until the end of 1944.”

  “That’s right, I was an Austrian patriot,” Richter said firmly. “The day the Nazis marched in to Vienna, and annexed my country, was the blackest day in Austrian history. I fought the Nazis in every way I could. I’m proud of what I did. If I had to do it all over again, I would.”

  “Highly commendable I’m sure,” said Hartman. “And yet, Herr Richter, this document paints a totally different picture.” Hartman gently tapped the folder, and pushed it closer to Richter. “This clearly shows that far from being a patriot, you were in fact actually working for the German High Command. In short that you were selling secrets in exchange for huge sums of money. In other words, you were a traitor to your country.”

  Richter leapt from his chair. “What are you saying? That’s absolutely nonsense, a complete lie.”

  “Is it Herr Richter?” said Hartman menacingly. “Let me explain further. Did you know that we were fully aware of your activities in the resistance? We knew everything about you, and the operations that were planned. We knew every detail.”

  Richter quickly interrupted. “More nonsense,” he yelled. “If you knew that, why didn’t you arrest me? I was never even questioned,” he said proudly.

  “Precisely, Herr Richter, that is the very point I am making,” said Hartman. “Perhaps it was because it suited our purpose. Think about it.”

  Richter looked puzzled, and quite frightened.

  “Why would we arrest somebody who was helping us?” Hartman continued. “That would be quite foolish, wouldn’t it? You do see the point, don’t you?” Richter said nothing.

  “This document gives details of all of the operations that you were involved with. At least all of those, which, shall we say, went wrong.” Hartman looked at Richter. ‘Where the plans were discovered, and the participants arrested, tortured, and sadly executed. The document gives full details of names, dates, and places,” Hartman continued. “All of which can easily be checked and authenticated. Each operation is fully described, every aspect is itemised. In each case it is clearly shown that the operation was known by the High Command in advance. The names of those involved were also known. This information could only have come from you. It is clear, from this document that you betrayed your fellow countrymen, in exchange for payment from your German paymaster. You betrayed them, and you sent them to their death.”

  Richter darted forward, eyes glaring. “It’s not true, not true,” he yelled.

  “But it is true,” Hartman said. “Why even some of your co-conspirators suspected that you were a traitor. They told us as much when tortured, shortly before they died.”

  Richter grabbed the file and started to read the document. His head was reeling. He could not believe his eyes. “It’s a lie, a malicious foul lie. There’s not a word of truth in it. Where did you get this document?”

  “Where did I get it from? Oh, that’s quite simple,” Hartman said. “I wrote it.”

  Richter stopped reading, and looked up. Shocked, he could not believe what he had just heard. Hartman had confessed that he had written the document, which clearly proved that it was a forgery.

  “What do you mean?” Richter asked incredulously. “You wrote it. So you know that every word in here is a lie, not true. These official signatures are all forgeries. The whole document is a wild fabrication.”

  “I know,” said Hartman quite simply. “Clever isn’t it?”

  Richter was staggered. He knows. So what is this all about? Hartman saw the look of bewilderment on Richter’s face. He was beginning to enjo
y this, in a sinister way.

  “I know that the document is a forgery. I know it, and you know it,” Hartman continued. “But the Austrian authorities do not know it. That is a very important point. You do see the significance, don’t you?”

  Hartman continued to explain that the document had been so well prepared, and was so detailed. To anyone not directly involved in the matter, the document had all the appearance of being genuine. “I am sure that if this document fell into their hands, they would accept the contents without too much question,” he said smugly. “Although a forgery, the file does contain a vast quantity of truth. Many of the details check out and can be substantiated quite easily. Oh yes they would be extremely keen to get their hands on you.”

  It suddenly dawned on Richter, where this was leading. He became very scared. He felt sick, and slumped back into his chair, the dossier falling from his hands on to the floor. “What is it that you want?” he said quietly.

  “Now now, don’t worry so,” said Hartman, with mock concern. “You help me, by disposing of those two,” he said pointing once again at the photographs. “And I’m sure that I would be able to help you in connection with this little matter.” He picked up the document from the floor.

  Richter lunged to retrieve it, snatching it from Hartman’s hands. He started to tear the pages, dropping the pieces to the floor.

  Hartman laughed. “Did you think that by destroying that document that would be an end to our little arrangement?” He picked up his briefcase, and took out an identical folder, holding it up for Richter to see. Richter stood quite motionless, saying nothing. “Incidentally,” Hartman said, casually, “I have three more copies of that document, at home. Please don’t be worried though; I’ll keep them quite safe. We wouldn’t want them to fall into the wrong hands would we?” Hartman moved closer to Richter, and returned the folder he was holding, into his briefcase.

  Richter said nothing, but sat with his head in his hands. He was completely resigned to what was to come.

  “Now what about these two men?” Hartman said, as he once again pointed to the photographs. “I have arranged for them to come and see you, at Kammersee, in a week or so. I think that should be a good opportunity to complete the business at hand. I suggest that they are taken along the mountain path leading to the Tote Mountains, close to the lake. An unfortunate accident, sadly they both stumble and fall into one of the many caverns along that path. Most regrettable, but nothing you could do to save them.”

  Richter remained silent, but knew that he had no choice in the matter.

  “With regard to the other matter, I’ll be in touch with you, to go over the detailed plans. Sadly I have to go now. It has been very pleasant speaking with you. I look forward to our next meeting. Don’t forget to make our two friends as comfortable as possible, will you. They are to receive everything they deserve.” Hartman started to move toward the door. “By the way, why don’t you keep that?” he said pointing to the dossier in Richter’s hand. “You might enjoy reading it over the next few days.”

  Hartman then turned, and quickly left Richter’s office, and returned to the railway station, a short distance up the hill.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Potsdammer Platz

  The tram shuddered violently, the wheels clanking on the rails noisily, before coming to a halt. Scott slowly stepped down from the platform, on to the footpath. Too slowly for some, and an impatient man pushed his way past, in his eagerness to get off, striking Scott hard on the right side. Scott lost his balance. He tried to retain his footing, but stumbled and fell heavily onto the footpath. He landed badly rolling onto his side, his right knee colliding heavily against the adjacent park railings.

  He rolled onto his knees, and tried to stand. He managed to get a grip on the railings, and carefully pulled himself upright. His trousers were covered with the grime of the footpath, and a huge bloodstain had appeared on the right leg. He brushed himself down, removing as much of the dirt and dust that he could. Then he noticed that his left hand was bleeding quite badly. The wound was engrained with dirt. He took out his handkerchief, and wrapped it tightly around his palm. As he did so, he noticed that a number of people had gathered, and were staring at him.

  Somebody in the crowd suggested that he might be drunk. “It’s a disgrace, being intoxicated this time of the day.”

  Another voice intimated that he had been involved in a fight. “I saw the whole thing.”

  Whilst a third stated, quite emphatically, that he had actually been hit by a car. “The car came from nowhere, and then just disappeared.”

  “Nonsense,” said a fourth. “He simply stumbled and fell from the tram.”

  Scott did not need this kind of attention. Much more of this might attract the police. Then there’ll be all kinds of questions, and delay. “Probably cart me off somewhere for a check over,” he mumbled. No, he certainly did not need that. I must get away from here, and quickly.

  He turned away from the crowd and started to move along the street, as fast as he could, holding tightly on to the railings as he went. It was painful walking and he realised that he was actually limping. The crowd watched as he moved away. As he reached the park gates, and disappeared from view, they lost interest and returned to their own affairs. All talk of fights, and motor accidents, quickly dismissed and forgotten.

  Scott turned in at the park gates, and headed toward a bench a short distance along the pathway. He sat down, and gave a sigh of relief. Must rest for a while, at least until the pain eases a little. He looked down at his left hand, and un-wrapped the handkerchief. His wrist and thumb were badly bruised. The skin, on the palm of his hand, had been severely scrapped in a number of places. He tried flexing his fingers, and making a fist. It was difficult, and painful. The hand felt stiff, and quite sore.

  At least the bleeding had stopped, but the wound did need cleaning. There must be a drinking fountain nearby, or an ornamental pond, or even a lake.

  He stood up, and started to walk further into the park. He had not gone very far along the path when he found what he needed, a drinking fountain. He held his handkerchief over the water jet, until it was soaked. He then gently bathed his hand, carefully removing the dirt and grime that had been picked up from the footpath. After a few moments it was looking a lot cleaner, and the extent of the wound could be clearly seen. Generally, it wasn’t too bad. Not more than a large scrape really. Obviously he had hurt the hand by putting it forward in an attempt to stop his fall.

  Next he looked down at his leg. The trouser leg, just below the knee, was quite blood stained, but as far as he could see, the bleeding had stopped. Nonetheless, he knew that the wound on his knee needed some attention, and soon. However, he also knew that there was nothing that he could do about it at that moment. “Grin and bear it,” he told himself, as he limped back to the bench. “It’ll be all right after a rest.” He laid his head back, and closed his eyes.

  He wasn’t sure what had woken him, whether it was the barking of the dog or the ball hitting his leg. Whatever it was he woke with a start, to be confronted by a black and white mongrel, yapping loudly, and three young boys apologising for hitting him with their ball. Scott waved them away, dismissively.

  “All right, all right,” he said angrily. He picked up the ball and threw it at the children. “Clear off,” he yelled. “Get lost, go away. And take your mangy dog with you.”

  The children rang off, yelling at the tops of their voices. When they got to what they considered to be a safe distance, they stopped. They then turned to face toward Scott, and then started yelling at him, calling him names, and laughing. Scott looked up and glared menacingly. He then stood up and waved his clenched fist at them. They hurriedly ran off.

  Scott sat back down. He looked at his watch. It was just after eleven. He had slept for just over an hour. He hadn’t meant to go to sleep at all, but he had to admit that he did feel the better for it. He looked at his hand, and began to twist his wrist, and clench h
is fist. Not too bad. It was still sore, but not too stiff.

  “What about the knee?” He carefully stood up, and gradually put weight on to his right side. It was still quite painful, and it hurt as he moved, but it was bearable. He couldn’t be sure but he thought that the bleeding had stopped. The bloodstain on the trouser leg was beginning to dry at least.

  He walked back along the path, toward the park gates. Over to his left he could see the group of children playing with their ball, the dog running back and forth excitedly. They looked back toward him and waved as he passed by. He gave a cursory wave back. The children suddenly ran off, the dog running after them. He watched them until they had disappeared. “Oh to be young again,” he murmured. “Without a care in the world.” As he reached the park gates he noticed that the children were now almost fifty yards away, and still running.

  Slowly, painfully, he made his way to Potsdammer Platz. As he turned the corner he noticed that same group of children from the park. They were now playing football in the street. Perhaps they live here. Then he realised that one of them was, in fact, the child from number 37, the house where he had originally enquired about Hartman.

  Gradually he made his way down the street. His progress was greatly hampered due to the pain in his leg. Nonetheless, he tried to dismiss the pain, and focus his thinking on one thing only. His quarry, Deitrich Hartman was due to return that very day.

  “This will be his very last day on this earth,” Scott murmured constantly. As he approached number 37, he stopped, and looked over toward number 42. He was disappointed to note that the house still appeared to be empty. It looked no different to how it had been five days earlier.

  Scott cursed. What now, what do I do? He certainly couldn’t stay there all day waiting. He decided that he should return to his hotel, and come back in a couple of days. He realised that it wasn’t the best thought out plan, but what else could he do. Did he actually have any alternative? He turned, and headed back toward the tram stop.