The Bear's Tears (53 page)

Massinger rang the bell. Immediately the security loudspeaker
enquired his name. Then the lock was released, and they entered a wide
hallway, elegantly carpeted, small tables dotting it as if items left
over, superfluous. Wealth announced itself quietly and firmly in the
hall and on the staircase. Massinger clutched Margaret's elbow more
tightly, brushing down his ruffled hair with his other hand. Paintings,
furniture, tables, sofas.

The door opened as they reached the head of the stairs. The
woman,
white-haired and perhaps sixty, was four or five inches taller than
Aubrey. Perhaps Castleford's height - almost as tall as himself,
Massinger realised. Yes, she and Castleford would have made what would
have been described as 'a handsome couple'. But Clara Elsenreith had
preferred Aubrey, hadn't she… ? She was dressed in a shirt and trousers
perhaps too young in style but worn with definite confidence, even
panache. Her eyes were intelligent, quick to observe. She smiled,
introducing herself.

"I am Clara Elsenreith. You are the Massingers. Please come in."
Her
cool voice might have been that of a receptionist. A young maid took
their coats and disappeared with them. The walls of the reception hall
were crowded with paintings, some of which Massinger recognised. There
were many he felt he could give a current, and heady, valuation. Even
almost forty years later, the sense of wealth clashed with the image he
had had of Clara Elsenreith, bereft and penniless and an expert
exploiter of men. She waved them through double doors into a long,
high-ceilinged drawing-room. Gold leaf, gilding, and a wealth of
paintings and ornaments. A high marble fireplace and tall windows
through which the bulk and the towers of the cathedral could be seen.
The room was warm.

She indicated deep, comfortable chairs while she perched
cross-legged, hugging her knee like a much younger woman, on a
high-backed, delicate chair covered with some heavily embroidered
material in blue and gold. Her shirt was chocolate-brown silk and her
beige trousers were elegantly tailored. On her small, narrow feet were
flat gold slippers. She seemed to watch them with amusement. There was
no reluctance in her.

"I've ordered coffee," she announced after a few moments.

"Thank you," Margaret replied. Massinger sensed that the woman
regarded them from a lofty superiority, as if they were two distant
country cousins who had arrived in the city for a first visit.

"It was good of you to see us at such short notice," he offered.

Clara remained silent while the maid brought the coffee. Modern
Rosenthal for the service, the coffee-pot silver and old and valuable.
Then, when the maid had been dismissed, she said, "I was curious.
Especially since I knew that dear Kenneth was also coming to Vienna -
and at the same time. I don't believe in coincidences…" Her English was
throatily-accented so that it sounded almost false, the trick of an
actress. "Do you?" She seemed pleased with Margaret's discomfiture and
shock, as if it represented the last piece in a complex puzzle she had
just solved. She nodded to herself as if to confirm Massinger's
impression.

"He's coming here —?"

"He is a - regular visitor, Frau Massinger. A very old friend."

Margaret looked at Paul, her face suggesting she might flee from
the
room at the slightest suspicion of Aubrey's arrival outside the door.
He tried to smile to calm her fears, but it was evident his expression
did no good. She violently resented the information that Aubrey was on
his way. She wanted only the truth, and he was synonymous with evasion
and lies - and the woman was his potential ally. Massinger himself
realised he should have considered this a bolt-hole to which Aubrey
might run, if he ever had the chance. And, he added to the thought,
there was a truth here, somewhere, even if it existed only in the
woman's memory. Was it a truth dangerous to Aubrey?

His eyes roamed the drawing-room. The apartment was larger than
their home in Wilton Crescent, more richly appointed.

"You're wondering," Clara Elsenreith announced, following his
gaze.
"I began with the shoe-shop on the ground floor. Then other shops, then
small manufacturers. The shops sell my designs, clothes and shoes made
by my companies… all over Europe."

Massinger nodded, apologising for his curiosity. The woman
seemed
uninterested. She continued: "You are Kenneth's friend -I know of you.
I understand what you must have been trying to do… but I understand
what interests your wife, also."

"Will you tell me the truth?" Margaret blurted, the
shoulder-strap
of her handbag twisted in her hands. Her face was sharp, urgent,
demanding.

Clara considered. "What truth?"

"About my father —"

"Ah, then what about him?" She seemed amused at Margaret's
anguish.
Massinger suspected a deep dislike of Castleford behind the cool eyes.
At twenty or twenty-two, she would have been very beautiful, very
desirable. A confident, challenging air of sexuality surrounded her
even now. "There are things… no, leave that. You wish to know what
happened to your father? He died."

"And —?"

"I know no more than that. If I did, it would not be my business
to
tell you."

"Then you do know more —!"

"I said I did not." Her tone quelled Margaret's outburst. Clara
was
used to obedience.

"You knew my father?" Clara nodded. "You were his - lover?" Hope
was
more evident than condemnation; the need for comfort paramount. Yet
Massinger remained sitting in his chair, separated from her, little
more than an observer or witness. There was no part for him to play in
the present scene.

"No, I was not," Clara said, smiling.

"But —"

"You believed I must be." She shrugged. "Perhaps I might have
become
his mistress, had I not already met Kenneth." She brushed her hands
absently through her hair. "Kenneth was able to arrange matters for me
to leave Berlin. Later, he arranged my papers here. He was able to help
in many ways. Your father was more powerful, yes - but the choice was
not left to me. Your father disappeared - died, we now know."
Everything was announced in a cool, unmoved voice. Massinger could not
decide whether or not the woman was acting the part they expected her
to play - heartless gold-digger, living on her wits. He felt she had
been attracted towards Castleford's usefulness, but… ?

"You didn't like Castleford?" he asked gently.

"Liking did not come into it, not in those days, in that place."

"Nevertheless, something repelled you. What was it?"

"Possession," she announced, suddenly ruffled, looking hard at
Margaret.

"Aubrey and my father hated one another?" Margaret asked.

"They did."

"And you - you were the cause. Possession, you said."

"No - I would flatter myself if I were the cause. In your
father's
case, perhaps… but," she added, turning to Massinger, "you know
Kenneth. Passion would not disturb him so much, I think?"

Massinger shrugged by way of reply.

"It must be that!"

"Why must it?" Clara asked Margaret. "Why? Kenneth's dislike of
your
father was - professional. He interfered in Kenneth's work."

"And Aubrey killed him." Margaret had shifted her point of
vantage.
Now, it was rivalry, professional animosity.

Clara seemed to look to the far end of the drawing-room, towards
an
alcove. Massinger followed her gaze. An illusion that Aubrey was
standing there was powerfully clear to him. The illusion stepped into
the room. It was Aubrey, old and tired and wearing a silk dressing-gown
below which pajama trousers appeared. He was, however, shaved and
groomed. He appeared fully at home in Clara Elsenreith's apartment.

"Paul," he acknowledged quietly. "Mrs Massinger, I —"

"You?" It was like a curse.

Clara was mysteriously shaking her head in vehement denial, or
to
indicate that Aubrey was mistaken in revealing himself. Aubrey came to
Margaret's chair, and studied her. She glared at him, then her gaze
turned aside. Aubrey continued to study her for some moments, then
turned to Massinger. His expression was kindly, sadly-wise.

"Is your wife ready for the truth she has come to hear?" he
asked
Massinger.

"Yes!" Margaret snapped in a hoarse voice.

Massinger pondered, then slowly nodded. Clara looked at her
watch.

"Kenneth - I have appointments this afternoon. I must change. My
apartment is at your disposal." Clara's lips demonstrated a fleeting
smile. Aubrey nodded. It seemed that something passed between them,
brief and secret like a coded message; it appeared to be affection, at
least.

"Very well, my dear. It's my responsibility, anyway. I must
explain
everything. I need the help of these people, both of whom are dear to
me."

"Then be careful," Clara warned.

"No, the time for caution is past. You run along, my dear."

Clara left the room with only a brief nod towards the
Massingers.
Surprisingly, she lightly pecked Aubrey's cheek. The old man seemed
warmed by the gesture. He lowered himself onto the sofa as the door
closed behind Clara, his gaze directed at Margaret. Then, without
preamble, he began talking.

Zimmermann switched on his answering machine - his secretary was
still at lunch and he had been out of his office for almost an hour -
and listened to the familiar voice. Only its content was unexpected;
disturbing and enraging. It was the Chancellor's senior private
secretary.

"The Chancellor wishes you to take a week of the leave at
present
due to you, Herr Professor. This unfortunate matter of the suicide of a
prisoner only hours after you interrogated her must be properly
investigated. The woman's lawyers and family are prepared to make an
embarrassing public display of their feelings - and of their suspicions
that the nature of your questions disturbed the balance of her mind…"

The message continued. There was no order for him to present
himself
to the secretary or the Chancellor or to make himself available to any
investigation. He was to be away from the scene until the fuss died
down. There was no reference to any connection between the suicide of
Margarethe Schröder in Cologne and the burglary of his apartment. A
public fuss concerning a senior officer of the government, albeit one
unelected, was the only thing of significance.

Zimmermann remembered another answerphone, years before, and the
message that his wife had died in hospital coming hesitantly from it in
an official voice. It had been late, he had been dog-tired, ready for
bed, knowing he should not avoid the private room for another night and
day where she was slowly, certainly dying - and then there had been the
message. The pain and the guilt had been equal and immediate. The guilt
had remained while the pain eased during the months after the funeral.

Now, this message was meaningless. Sufficient only to raise a
small
anger. It was also a rope that tied him to a chair, immobilising him.
He would be unable to assist Massinger and Aubrey now, he realised that.

Someone had killed Schröder; someone had burgled his flat. KGB,
or
KGB-linked — had to be. They were worried, and it wasn't Aubrey they
wished to protect. It had to be Babbington.

Where was Aubrey? his thoughts demanded as he switched off the
voice
that had now become unctuous and only served to remind him of his guilt
at the lonely death of his wife - the coma she was in did not excuse
him, the fact that she would not have spoken, would not have
recognised, not even known him…

Where was Aubrey? If he could talk to Aubrey, he might still be
able
to help.

Otherwise - nothing.

"I went into the Russian Sector of Berlin to meet Clara's
husband,"
Aubrey was saying. "Karl Elsenreith, formerly of the SS - Amt VI, to be
exact, the department concerned with foreign intelligence under
Schellenberg - and now working for new masters. The Russians. For a
department of the NKVD." Aubrey studied his audience for a moment, then
continued to recite his narrative towards the high ceiling and the
long-chained chandelier. "Karl Elsenreith dared not return to the
Allied Zone, or to the West. He was a native Berliner and his part of
Berlin, or what remained of it, was occupied by the Russians. As for
his wife, I am sure he thought it an inconvenience that they had become
separated - but he had found consolation for his loss elsewhere."

"The Russians trusted him?" Massinger asked.

"They used him. They appreciated his talents. He had a
comfortable
flat, a mistress, an income, and an immunity from his former life and
associates. In fact, his only problem was that some of those less
savoury old friends, senior officers, kameraden, popped up
now and again, asking for help. Money, papers, passage out of the
Russian Sector, the Russian Zone of Germany. What could he do? He could
never be certain the organisation might not destroy him. if he refused…
so, he began to help. On my - final visit to the Russian
Sector, I went at his request."

Aubrey paused and Massinger, after looking at Margaret, asked:
"Why?"

Margaret flinched. She had half-turned in her chair, away from
Aubrey. She seemed sunk in some private world of her own.

"He had heard of my - association with Clara. Evidently, he
still
cared something for her… or so I thought when I received his message.
He promised me - certain valuable information if I guaranteed I would
do everything in my power to help her, look after her. But he could
not, dare not come out - so I crossed into the Russian Sector."

"And —?"

"It was a trick. I was blinded by the chance of success, and by
the
nobility I envisaged for myself making promises about my mistress to
her Nazi husband!" Aubrey was mocking himself. Then he added:
"Elsenreith was a charming, attractive, poisonous young man. I saw why
Clara had been attracted to him, even though he no longer wore that
obscene and glamorous uniform - and then I saw why he had really asked
me to come. I was becoming too much of a nuisance to the Russians in
matters of intelligence. They wanted me removed from the board - once I
had given them all the names in my head, of course."