‘We’ll be starting in a moment or two.’
‘I’ll be right there,’ I said, and, leaving the window a couple of centimetres open, I flushed the toilet and went back to rejoin the rest of the guests.
Another man had come into the room, and I realized that this must be Weisthor. Aged about sixty-five, he wore a three-piece suit of light-brown flannel and carried an ornate, ivory-handled stick with strange carvings on its shaft, some of which matched his ring. Physically he resembled an older version of Himmler, with his small smudge of a moustache, hamster-like cheeks, dyspeptic mouth and receding chin; but he was stouter, and whereas the Reichsführer reminded you of a myopic rat, Weisthor had more of the beaver about his features, an effect that was accentuated by the gap between his two front teeth.
‘You must be Herr Steininger,’ he said, pumping my hand. ‘Permit me to introduce myself. I am Karl Maria Weisthor, and I am delighted to have already had the pleasure of meeting your lovely wife.’ He spoke very formally, and with a Viennese accent. ‘In that at least you are a very fortunate man. Let us hope that I may be of service to you both before the evening has ended. Otto has told me of your missing daughter Emmeline, and of how the police and our good friend Rolf Vogelmann have been unable to find her. As I said to your wife, I am sure that the spirits of our ancient German ancestors will not desert us, and that they will tell us what has become of her, as they have told us of other things before.’
He turned and waved at the table. ‘Shall we be seated?’ he said. ‘Herr Steininger, you and your wife will sit on either side of me. Everyone will join hands, Herr Steininger. This will increase our conscious power. Try not to let go, no matter what you might see or hear, as it can cause the link to be broken. Do you both understand?’
We nodded and took our seats. When the rest of the company had sat down, I noticed that Himmler had contrived to be sitting next to Hildegard, to whom he was paying close attention. It struck me that I would tell it differently, and that it would amuse Heydrich and Nebe if I told them I spent the evening holding hands with Heinrich Himmler. Thinking about it then I almost laughed, and to cover my half-smile I turned away from Weisthor and found myself looking at a tall, urbane, Siegfried-type wearing evening dress, with the kind of warm, sensitive manner that comes only of bathing in dragon’s blood.
‘My name is Kindermann,’ he said sternly. ‘Dr Lanz Kindermann, at your service, Herr Steininger.’ He glanced down at my hand as if it had been a dirty dishcloth.
‘Not the famous psychotherapist?’ I said.
He smiled. ‘I doubt that you could call me famous,’ he said, but with some satisfaction all the same. ‘Nevertheless, I thank you for the compliment.’
‘And are you Austrian?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘I like to know something about the men whose hands I hold,’ I offered, and grasped his own firmly.
‘In a moment,’ said Weisthor, ‘I shall ask our friend Otto to turn off the electric light. But first of all, I should like us all to close our eyes and to breathe deeply. The purpose of this is to relax. Only if we are relaxed will spirits feel comfortable enough to contact us and offer us the benefit of what they are able to see.
‘It may help you to think of something peaceful, such as a flower or a formation of clouds.’ He paused, so that the only sounds which could be heard were the deep breathing of the people around the table and the ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece. I heard Vogelmann clear his throat, which prompted Weisthor to speak again.
‘Try and flow into the person next to you so that we may feel the power of the circle. When Otto turns off the light I shall go into trance and permit my body to be taken under the control of spirit. Spirit will control my speech, my every bodily function, so that I shall be in a vulnerable position. Make no sudden noise or interruption. Speak gently if you wish to communicate with spirit, or allow Otto to speak for you.’ He paused again. ‘Otto? The lights, please.’
I heard Rahn stand up as if rousing himself from a deep sleep and creep across the carpet.
‘From now on Weisthor will not speak unless he is under spirit,’ he said. ‘It will be my voice you hear speak to him in trance.’ He turned off the light, and after a few seconds I heard him return to the circle.
I stared hard into the darkness at where Weisthor was sitting, but try as I might, I could see nothing but the strange shapes which play on the back of the retina when it is deprived of light. Whatever Weisthor said about flowers or clouds, I found it helped me to think of the Mauser automatic at my shoulder, and the nice formation of 9mm ammunition in the grip.
The first change that I was aware of was that of his breathing, which became progressively slower and deeper. After a while it was almost undetectable and, but for his grip, which had slackened considerably, I might have said he had disappeared.
Finally he spoke, but it was in a voice that made my flesh creep and my hair prickle.
‘I have a wise king here from long, long ago,’ he said, his grip tightening suddenly. ‘From a time when three suns shone in the northern sky.‘ He uttered a long, sepulchral sigh.’ He suffered a terrible defeat in battle at the hands of Charlemagne and his Christian army.’
‘Were you Saxon?’ Rahn asked quietly.
‘Aye, Saxon. The Franks called them pagans, and put them to death for it. Agonizing deaths, that were full of blood and pain.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘It’s difficult to say this. He says that blood must be paid for. He says that German paganism is grown strong again, and must be revenged on the Franks and their religion, in the name of the old gods.’ Then he grunted almost as if he had been struck and went quiet again.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Rahn murmured. ‘Spirit can leave quite violently sometimes.’
After several minutes, Weisthor spoke again.
‘Who are you?’ he asked softly. ‘A girl? Will you tell us your name, child? No? Come now–’
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Rahn. ‘Please come forward to us.’
‘Her name is Emmeline,’ said Weisthor.
I heard Hildegard gasp.
‘Is your name Emmeline Steininger?’ Rahn asked. ‘If so, then your mother and father are here to speak to you, child.’
‘She says that she is not a child,’ whispered Weisthor. ‘And that one of these two people is not her real parent at all.’
I stiffened. Could it be genuine after all? Did Weisthor really have mediumistic powers?
‘I’m her stepmother,’ said Hildegard tremulously, and I wondered if she had recognized that Weisthor should have said that neither of us was Emmeline’s real parent.
‘She says that she misses her dancing. But especially she misses you both.’
‘We miss you too, darling.’
‘Where are you, Emmeline?’ I asked. There was a long silence, and so I repeated the question.
‘They killed her,’ said Weisthor falteringly. ‘And hid her somewhere.’
‘Emmeline, you must try and help us,’ said Rahn. ‘Can you tell us anything about where they put you?’
‘Yes, I’ll tell them. She says that outside the window, there’s a hill. At the bottom of the hill is a pretty waterfall. What’s that? A cross, or maybe something else that’s high, like a tower is on top of the hill.’
‘The Kreuzberg?’ I said.
‘Is it the Kreuzberg?’ Rahn asked.
‘She doesn’t know the name,’ whispered Weisthor. ‘Where’s that? Oh how terrible. She says she’s in a box. I’m sorry, Emmeline, but I don’t think I can have heard you properly. Not in a box? A barrel? Yes, a barrel. A rotten smelly old barrel in an old cellar full of rotten old barrels.’
‘Sounds like a brewery,’ said Kindermann.