“That’s a nice speech, General. If it wasn’t for all the other stupid generals who screw things up for the ordinary Fritz, I might start to think I’d misjudged you entirely. The generals at Verdun and Arras and Amiens. Not to mention all those incompetent generals who’ve tried and failed on many occasions to kill Adolf Hitler. You’ll pardon me if I don’t kiss you on the cheek and give you the Knight’s Cross with oak leaves.”
Despite what I said I was feeling a little sick that I’d perhaps set back important negotiations that might have put a swift end to the war.
“Is it true, Schelli?” asked Meyer. “Are these barracks we’re exporting to Germany being used to house Jewish slave labor?”
“Probably, yes. But that shouldn’t be your concern, Paul. I really thought it best you didn’t know on the principle that what you don’t know can’t hurt you. Look, everything you said remains fundamentally true. If Switzerland is going to survive as a neutral it needs German money to pay its way. Listen to me, Paul. There is a greater good here. That’s what you have to remember. Trust me. What we have planned can still be achieved.”
“After what Captain Gunther just told me, how can I go on trusting you now?” asked Meyer.
“Because I can prove my loyalty to you as a friend,” insisted Schellenberg, “and as a friend to this country. Hidden inside Gunther’s Mercedes is quite a lot of gold. As a sign of the Reichsführer’s good faith. And not only that. Inside the exhaust pipe is something that should put you in very good odor with General Masson — for that matter with everyone in the Swiss intelligence community. Even Reichsführer Himmler doesn’t know anything about this. I’ve brought you the crown jewels, so to speak, Paul. Or rather more accurately, Gunther has. That car he just drove here from the factory in Germany contains secret plans that were drawn up by the Army High Command on Hitler’s orders, for the possible invasion of Switzerland. I’ve betrayed my country, in order to save it. That’s what I’ve done, Gunther. Can you honestly say the same?”
Thirty-six
I had to admit Schellenberg had me there. To the best of my knowledge I’d never committed treason. But there’s a first time for everything.
“For Germany and for you, General Schellenberg, I volunteer,” I said. “How can I help?”
“You can start by telling me what the fuck’s been going on?” He shook his neatly combed head with exasperation. “Clearly something’s been going on. Your attitude. That gun. Your cryptic remarks about the car. Tell me the gold is still there.”
“It’s still there. I told you. The car is fine.”
“But?”
Feeling slightly ashamed of having misjudged Schellenberg so profoundly, I told him everything while he and I and Meyer walked back to the car.
“Can’t be helped,” said Schellenberg. “Their three will cancel out our three. That’s the way these diplomatic things usually work. With any luck this whole thing will blow over and we can start the tricky business of negotiating the negotiations. The plans? They’re still there, too?”
“The Gestapo found the gold, but nothing else. But it’s all there. Everything. Don’t worry.”
“And you’re sure they didn’t have time to send a message to Berlin telling them what they’d found?”
“Quite sure.”
“Because that would be just the evidence Kaltenbrunner needs to bring down Himmler. And by extension, me. But he’d certainly settle for me if he couldn’t nail Himmler.”
“Somehow I just don’t see the Reichsführer as a peacemaker,” I said.
“Did you ever hear of an American gangster called Arnold Rothstein?” he asked.
“Vaguely, I think.”
“In 1919, Rothstein made a huge bet that the Chicago White Sox, who were the overwhelming favorites, would lose the World Series. And he won that bet because he’d bribed some White Sox players to lose. A couple of years later, Rothstein bet a huge sum on a well-fancied racehorse called Sporting Blood after he made sure that the other favorite was scratched from the race at the very last minute. What I’m saying is that there was nothing sporting about Mr. Rothstein. Like any high-stakes gambler, he much preferred a sure thing. Himmler’s no different. Only in this case he’s betting on both horses. If Hitler wins, Himmler wins. And if Hitler loses, Himmler wins again.” Schellenberg shrugged. “Of course, if Hitler does win then the Reichsführer will need to prove his loyalty to the leader. Which means I’m dead. You see? Not only am I a useful emissary in this whole affair, I’m a useful scapegoat if things go wrong. Me. Eggen. And you, Gunther, if we’re ever found out.”
“Point taken, sir.”
“Drive the Mercedes into the garage,” said Schellenberg.
Meyer didn’t have an inspection pit, but he did have a garage ramp, and as soon as we’d retrieved the gold bars from underneath the rocker plates, I drove the Mercedes up the ramp. Meyer handed Schellenberg a hacksaw and he started to cut through a section of the car’s exhaust pipe.
“By the way, Captain Gunther,” said Meyer. “Call it professional curiosity, but before I forget, you said it was only yesterday you realized who killed Dr. Heckholz. How did you work out that it was Leuthard who killed Heckholz and not Schelli’s men?”
I described how the dying Heckholz had made a Swiss flag out of a pool of his own blood on a white floor.
“That was clever of you,” he said.
“Not really. You see, it took me a whole year to think of that. Which doesn’t say much for my powers of detection. Sometimes a stupid man is only a couple of good guesses away from looking clever. The same is true in reverse, of course. But there’s that mark against me and now this. I mean, the way I’d figured, the general here was in this whole thing for himself. I’m used to that, you see. The fact is, everyone in Germany is looking after himself these days. Me included. It’s become a national pastime. Anyway, the truth is, Paul, I’m feeling about as clever as a man with the brains of a potato. So the next time you’re writing a detective story, see if you can work out a way of making your hero look stupid. It’ll be much more realistic that way.”
“A stupid detective? That could never work. Readers wouldn’t like it. That’s much too like real life for the readers of detective stories. The writers, too. No one wants realism, Bernie. They get enough of that at home and when they read the newspapers. They read books to escape from real life, not to be reminded of it. Take my word for it, realism plays very badly in modern fiction.”
I grinned. “I guess you know your business. But I know mine, too.”
“Do you read much, Bernie?”
“Some. There’s not much else to do at night in Germany, these days. Provided the electricity is working.”
“What do you enjoy reading?”
“History, mostly. But not as much as I enjoy watching a general getting his hands dirty.”