It was a long, low gray concrete building, built back-to-front, referred to by British newspaper correspondents in Bonn since it was built as “the vacuum-cleaner factory.” Miller swung off the road and parked in one of the slots provided for visitors.
He walked through the wooden-framed glass doors and found himself in a small corridor on his left, behind which sat a middle-aged receptionist. Beyond her was a small room inhabited by two blue-serge suited men who bore the unmistakable stamp of former Army sergeants.
“I would like to speak with the press attache, please,” said Miller, using his halting school English.
The receptionist looked worried. “I don’t know if he’s still here. It is Friday afternoon, you know.”
“Please try,” said Miller, and proffered his press card.
The receptionist looked at it and dialed a number on her house telephone.
Miller was in luck. The press attaché was just about to leave. He evidently asked for a few minutes to get his hat and coat back off again. Miller was shown into a small waiting room adorned by several Rowland Hilder prints of the Cotswolds in autumn. On a table lay several back copies of the Taller and brochures depicting the onward march of British industry. Within seconds, however, he was summoned by one of the ex-sergeants and led upstairs and along a corridor and shown into a small office.
The press attaché, he was glad to see, was in his midthirties and seemed eager to help. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
Miller decided to go straight into the matter. “I am investigating a story for a news magazine,” he lied. “It’s about a former SS captain, one of the worst, a man still sought by our own authorities. I believe he was also on the wanted list of the British authorities when this part of Germany was under British administration. Can you tell me how I can check whether the British ever captured him, and if so what happened to him?”
The young diplomat was perplexed. “Good Lord, I’m sure I don’t know. I mean, we handed over all our records and files to your government in nineteen forty-nine. They took over where our chaps left off. I suppose they would have all these things now.”
Miller tried to avoid mentioning that the German authorities had all declined to help. “True,” he said. “Very true. However, all my inquiries so far indicate he has never been put on trial in the Federal Republic since nineteen forty-nine. That would indicate he had not been caught since nineteen forty-nine. However, the American Document Center in West Berlin reveals that a copy of the man’s file was requested from them by the British in nineteen forty-seven. There must have been a reason for that, surely?”
“Yes, one would indeed suppose so,” said the attaché. He had evidently taken in the reference to Miller’s having procured the cooperation of the American authorities in West Berlin, and furrowed his brow in thought.
“So who on the British side would be the investigating authority during the Occupation-I mean, the administration period?”
“Well, you see, it would have been the Provost Marshal’s office of the Army at that time. Apart from Nuremberg, which were the major war-crimes trials, the separate Allies were investigating individually, although obviously we cooperated with each other. Except the Russians. These investigations led to some zonal war-crimes trials-do you follow me?”
“Yes.
“The investigations were carried out by the Provost Marshal’s department, that’s the military police, you know, and the trials were prepared by the Legal Branch. But the files of both were handed over in nineteen forty-nine. Do you see?”
“Well, yes,” said Miller, “but surely copies must have been kept by the British?”
“I suppose they were,” said the attaché. “But they’d be filed away in the archives of the Army by now.”
“Would it be possible to look at them?”
The attaché appeared shocked. “Oh, I very much doubt it. I don’t think so.
I suppose bona fide research scholars might be able to make an application to see them, but it would take a long time. And I don’t think a reporter would be allowed to see them-no offense meant, you understand?”
“I understand,” said Miller.
“The point is,” resumed the attaché earnestly, “that, well, you’re not exactly official, are you? And one doesn’t wish to upset the German authorities, does one?”
“Certainly not.” The attaché rose. “I don’t think there’s really much the embassy can do to help you.”
“Okay. One last thing. Was there anybody here then who is still here now?”
“On the embassy staff? Oh, dear me, no. No, they’ve all changed many times.”
He escorted Miller to the door. “Wait a minute, there’s Cadbury. I think he was here then. He’s been here for ages, I do know that.”
“Cadbury?” said Miller.
“Anthony Cadbury. The foreign correspondent. He’s the sort of senior British press chap here. Married a German girl. I think he was here after the war, just after. You might ask him.”
“Fine,” said Miller. “I’ll try him. Where do I find him?”
“Well, its Friday now,” said the attaché. “He’ll probably be at his favorite place by the bar in the Cercle Frangais later on. Do you know it?”
“No, I’ve never been here before.”
“Ah, yes, well, it’s a restaurant, run by the French, you know. Jolly good food, too. It’s very popular. It’s in Bad Godesberg, just down the road.”
Miller found it, a hundred yards from the bank of the Rhine on a road called Ann Scbwimmbad. The barman knew Cadbury well but had not seen him that evening. He told Miller if the doyen of the British foreign correspondents’ corps in Bonn was not in that evening, he would almost certainly be there for prelunch drinks the following day.
Miller checked into the Dreesen Hotel down the road, a great turn-of-the-century edifice that had formerly been Adolf Hitler’s favorite hotel in Germany, the place he had picked to meet Neville Chamberlain of Britain for their first meeting in 1938. He dined at the Cercle Franqais and dawdled over his coffee, hoping Cadbury would turn up. But by eleven the Englishman bad not put in an appearance, so he went back to the hotel to sleep.
Cadbury walked into the bar of the Cercle Frangais a few minutes before twelve the following morning, greeted a few acquaintances, and seated himself on his favorite comer stool at the bar. When he had taken his first sip of his Ricard, Miller rose from his table by the window and came over.
“Mr. Cadbury?”
The Englishman turned and surveyed him. He had smooth-brushed white hair coming back from what had evidently once been a very handsome face. The skin was still healthy, with a fine tracery of tiny veins on the surface of each cheek. The eyes were bright blue under shaggy gray eyebrows. He surveyed Miller warily. “Yes.”
“My name is Miller. Peter Miller. I am a reporter from Hamburg. May I talk with you a moment, please?”
Anthony Cadbury gestured to the stool beside him. “I think we had better talk in German, don’t you?” he said, dropping into the language.
Miller was relieved that he could go back to his own language, and it must have showed.
Cadbury grinned. “What can I do for you?”
Miller glanced at the shrewd eyes and backed a hunch. Starting at the beginning, he told Cadbury the story from the moment of Tauber’s death. The London man was a good listener. He did not interrupt once. When Miller had finished he gestured to the barman to fill his own Ricard and bring another beer for Miller.
“Sputenbrau, wasn’t it?” he asked.
Miller nodded and poured the fresh beer to a foaming head on top of the glass.