She returned his identity card and blew her nose. “Will you sit down? You look exhausted. Not even time to shave! Some coffee? Sherry, perhaps? No? Rose, bring coffee for the Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. And perhaps I might fortify myself with just the smallest sherry.”
Perched uneasily on the edge of a deep, chintz-covered armchair, his notebook open on his knee, March listened to Frau Luther’s woeful tale. Her husband? A very good man, short-tempered — yes, maybe, but that was his nerves, poor thing. Poor, poor thing — he had weepy eyes, did March know that?
She showed him a photograph: Luther at some Mediterranean resort, absurd in a pair of shorts, scowling, his eyes swollen behind the thick glasses.
On she went: a man of that age — he would be sixty-nine in December, they were going to Spain for his birthday. Martin was a friend of General Franco — a dear little man, had March ever met him?
No: a pleasure denied.
Ah, well. She couldn’t bear to think what might have happened, always so careful about telling her where he was going, he had never done anything like this. It was such a help to talk, so sympathetic…
There was a sigh of silk as she crossed her legs, the skirt rising provocatively above a plump knee. The maid reappeared and set down coffee cup, cream jug and sugar bowl in front of March. Her mistress was provided with a glass of sherry, and a crystal decanter, three-quarters empty.
“Did you ever hear him mention the names Josef Buhler or Wilhelm Stuckart?”
A little crack of concentration appeared in the cake of makeup: “No, I don’t recall…No, definitely not.”
“Did he go out at all last Friday?”
“Last Friday? I think — yes. He went out early in the morning.” She sipped her sherry. March made a note.
“And when did he tell you he had to go away?”
That afternoon. He returned about two, said something had happened, that he had to spend Monday in Munich. He flew on Sunday afternoon, so he could stay overnight and be up early.”
“And he didn’t tell you what it was about?”
“He was old-fashioned about that sort of thing. His business was his business, if you see what I mean.”
“Before the trip, how did he seem?”
“Oh, irritable, as usual”. She laughed — a girlish giggle. “Yes, perhaps he was a little more preoccupied than normal. The television news always depressed him — the terrorism, the fighting in the East. I told him to pay no attention — no good will come of worrying, I said — but things…yes, they preyed on his mind.” She lowered her voice. “He had a breakdown during the war, poor thing. The strain…”
She was about to cry again. March cut in: “What year was his breakdown?”
“I believe it was in “43. That was before I knew him, of course.”
“Of course.” March smiled and bowed his head. “You must have been at school.”
“Perhaps not quite at school…” The skirt rose a little higher.
“When did you start to become alarmed for his safety?”
“When he didn’t come home on Monday. I was awake all night.”
“So you reported him missing on Tuesday morning?”
“I was about to, when Obergruppenfuhrer Globocnik arrived.”
March tried to keep the surprise out of his voice: “He arrived before you even told the Polizei? What time was that?”
“Soon after nine. He said he needed to speak to my husband. I told him the situation. The Obergruppenfuhrer took it very seriously.”
“I’m sure he did. Did he tell you why he needed to speak to Herr Luther?”
“No. I assumed it was a Party matter. Why?” Suddenly, her voice had a harder edge. “Are you suggesting my husband had done something wrong?”
“No, no…”
She straightened her skirt over her knees, smoothed it out with ring-encrusted fingers. There was a pause and then she said: “Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, what is the purpose of this conversation?”
“Did your husband ever visit Switzerland?”
“He used to, occasionally, some years ago. He had business there. Why?”
“Where is his passport?”
“It is not in his study. I checked. But I have been over this with the Obergruppenfuhrer. Martin always carried his passport with him. He said he never knew when he might need it. That was his Foreign Ministry training. Really, there is nothing unusual about that, really…”
“Forgive me, madam.” He pressed on. The burglar alarm. I noticed it on my way in. It looks new.”
She glanced down at her lap. “Martin had it installed last year. We had intruders.”
Two men?”
She looked up at him with surprise. “How did you know?”
That was a mistake. He said: “I must have read the report in your husband’s file.”
“Impossible.” Surprise had been replaced in her voice by suspicion. “He never reported it.”
“Why not?”
She was on the point of making a blustering reply -’What business is it of yours?” or something of the sort — but then she saw the expression in March’s eyes and changed her mind. She said, in a resigned voice: “I pleaded with him, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. But he wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t tell me why.”
“What happened?”
“It was last winter. We were planning to stay in for the evening. Some friends called at the last minute and we went out to dinner, at Horcher’s. When we got back, there were two men in this room.” She looked around as if they might still be hiding somewhere. “Thank God our friends came in with us. If we’d been alone … When they saw there were four of us, they jumped out of that window.” She pointed behind March’s shoulder.
“So he put in an alarm system. Did he take any other precautions?”
“He hired a security guard. Four of them, in fact. They worked shifts. He kept them on until after Christmas. Then he decided he didn’t trust them any more. He was so frightened, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.”
“Of what?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
Out came the handkerchief. Another helping of sherry was sloshed from the decanter. Her lipstick had left thick pink smears around the rim of her glass. She was sliding towards the edge of tears again. March had misjudged her. She was frightened for her husband, true. But she was more frightened now that he might have been deceiving her. The shadows were chasing one another across her mind, and in her eyes they left their trails. Was it another woman? A crime? A secret? Had he fled the country? Gone for good? He felt sorry for her, and for a moment considered warning her of the Gestapo’s case against her husband. But why add to her misery? She would know soon enough. He hoped the state would not confiscate the house.
“Madam, I have intruded too long.” He closed his notebook and stood. She clutched his hand, peered up at him.
“I’m never going to see him again, am I?”
“Yes,’he said.
No, he thought.
IT was a relief to leave the dark and sickly room and escape into the fresh air. The Gestapo men were still sitting in the BMW. They watched him leave. He hesitated for a second, and then turned right, towards the Botanischer Garten railway station.
Four security guards!
He could begin to see it now. A meeting at Buhler’s villa on Friday morning, attended by Buhler, Stuckart and Luther. A panicky meeting, old men in a sweat of fear- and with good reason. Perhaps they had each been given a separate task. At any rate, on Sunday, Luther had flown to Zurich. March was sure it was he who must have sent the chocolates from Zurich airport on Monday afternoon, maybe just as he was about to board another aircraft. What were they? Not a present: a signal. Was their arrival meant to be taken as a sign that his task had been completed successfully? Or that he had failed?