The man, Eduard Roschmann, was recognized on the streets of the Austrian town by a former inmate of a concentration camp, who alleged Roschmann had been the commandant of the camp in Latvia. After identification at the house to which the former camp inmate followed him, Roschmann was arrested by members of the British Field Security Service in Graz.
A request has been made to Soviet Zonal headquarters at Potsdam for further information about the concentration camp in Riga, Latvia, and a search for further witnesses is under way, the spokesman said.
Meanwhile the captured man has been positively identified as Eduard Roschmann from his personal file, stored by the American authorities in their SS Index in Berlin. endit. Cadbury.
Miller read the brief dispatch four or five times. “Christ,” he breathed. “You got him.”
“I think this calls for a drink,” said Cadbury.
When he had made the call to Memmers on Friday morning, the Werwolf had overlooked the fact that forty-eight hours later it would be Sunday.
Despite this, he tried to call to Memmers’ office from his home on Sunday, just as the two men in Bad Godesberg made their discovery. There was no reply.
But Memmers was in the office the following morning at nine sharp. The call from the Werwolf came through at half past.
“So glad you called, Kamerad,” said Memmers. “I got back from Hamburg late last night.”
“You have the information?”
“Certainly. If you would like to note it?”
“Go ahead,” said the voice on the phone.
In his office Memmers cleared his throat and began to read from his notes.
“The owner of the car is a freelance reporter, one Peter Miller.
Description: aged twenty-nine, just under six feet tall, brown hair, brown eyes. Has a widowed mother who lives in Osdorf, just outside Hamburg. He himself lives in an apartment close to the Steindamm in central Hamburg.” Memmers read off Miller’s address and telephone number. “He lives there with a girl, a striptease dancer, Miss Sigrid Rahn. He works mainly for the picture magazines. Apparently does very well. Specializes in investigative journalism. Like you said, Kamerad, a snooper.”
“Any idea who commissioned him on his latest inquiry?” asked the Werwolf.
“No, that’s the funny thing. Nobody seems to know what he is doing at the moment. Or for whom he is working. I checked with the girl, claiming to be from the editorial office of a big magazine. Only by phone, you understand. She said she did not know where he was, but she expected a call from him this afternoon, before she goes to work.”
“Anything else?”
“Just the car. It’s very distinctive. A black Jaguar, British model, with a yellow stripe down the side. A sports car, two-seater, fixed-head coupe, called the XK one-fifty. I checked his local garage.” The Werwolf digested this. “I want to try and find out where he is now,” he said at length.
“He’s not in Hamburg now,” said Memmers hastily. “He left on Friday about lunchtime, just as I was arriving. He spent Christmas there. Before that he was away somewhere else.”
“I know,” said the Werwolf.
“I could find out what story he is inquiring about,” said Memmers helpfully. “I did not inquire too closely, because you said you did not want him to discover he was being asked about.”
“I know what story he is working on. Exposing one of our comrades.” The Werwolf thought for a minute. “Could you find out where he is now?” he asked.
“I think so,” said Memmers. “I could call the girl back this afternoon, pretend I was from a big magazine and needed to contact Miller urgently. She sounded a simple girl on the phone.”
“Yes, do that,” said the Werwolf. “I’ll call you at four this afternoon.”
That Monday morning Cadbury was down in Bonn, where a ministerial press conference was scheduled.
He rang Miller at the Dreesen Hotel at ten-thirty.
“Glad to get you before you left,” he told the German. “I’ve got an idea. It might help you. Meet me at the Cercle Frangais this afternoon around four.” Just before lunch Miller rang Sigi and told her he was at the Dreesen.
When they met, Cadbury ordered tea. “I had an idea while not listening to that wretched conference this morning,” he told Miller. “If Roschmann was captured and identified as a wanted criminal, his case would have come under the eyes of the British legal officials in our zone of Germany at the time. All files were copied and passed between the British, French, and Americans in both Germany and Austria at that time. Have you ever beard of a man called Lord Russell of Liverpool?”
“No, never,” said Miller.
“He was the Legal Adviser to the British Military Governor during the occupation. Later he wrote a book called The Scourge of the Swastika. You can imagine what it was about. Didn’t make him terribly popular in Germany, but it was quite accurate. About atrocities.”
“He’s a lawyer?” asked Miller.
“He was,” said Cadbury. “A very brilliant one. He’s retired now, lives in Wimbledon. I don’t know if he’d remember me, but I could give you a letter of introduction.”
“Would he remember so far back?”
“He might. He’s not a young man any more, but he was reputed to have a memory like a filing cabinet. If the case of Roschmann was ever referred to him to prepare a prosecution, he’d remember every detail of it.
I’m sure of that ” Miller nodded and sipped his tea. “Yes, I could fly to London to talk to him.”
Cadbury reached into his pocket and produced an envelope. “I’ve written the letter already.” He handed Miller the letter of introduction and stood up. “Good luck.”
Memmers had the information for the Werwolf when the latter called just after four.
“His girl friend got a call from him,” said Memmers. “He’s in Bad Godesberg, staying at the Dreesen Hotel.” The Werwolf put the phone down and thumbed through an address book.
Eventually he fixed on a name, picked up the phone again, and called a number in the Bonn-Bad Godesberg area.
Miller went back to the hotel to call Cologne airport and book a flight to London for the following day, Tuesday, December 31. As he reached the reception desk the girl behind the counter smiled brightly and pointed to the open seating area in the bay window overlooking the Rhine.
“There’s a gentleman to see you, Herr Miller.” He glanced toward the groups of tapestry-backed chairs set around various tables in the window alcove. In one of them a middle-aged man in a black winter coat, holding a black Homburg and a rolled umbrella, sat waiting.
Miller strolled over, puzzled as to Who could have known he was there.
“You wanted to see me?” Miller asked.
The man sprang to his feet. “Herr Miller?”
“Yes.”
“Herr Peter Miller?”
“Yes.
The man inclined his head in the short, jerky bow of old-fashioned Germans. “My name is Schmidt. Doctor Schmidt.”
“What can I do for you?” Dr. Schmidt smiled deprecatingly and gazed out of the flowed under the fairy lights of the deserted terrace.
“I am told you are a journalist. Yes? A freelance journalist. A very good one.” He smiled brightly.
“You have a reputation for being very thorough, very tenacious.” Miller remained silent, waiting for him to get to the point.
“Some friends of mine heard you are presently engaged on an inquiry into events that happened-well, let us say, a long time ago. A very long time ago.” Miller stiffened and his mind raced, trying to work out who the “friends” were and who could have told them. Then he realized he had been asking questions about Roschmann all over the country.