The Grave of Truth (23 page)

‘Yes, one on the street and one inside,' Father Grunwald answered. ‘I couldn't see the one in the car … I didn't look at them, I was in a hurry.'

‘Yes, of course you were. But you've been a great help already. You noticed the car, and the colour and the make, and now we are sure you were attacked by two men, not one. Don't you see how much that helps us?'

‘I hope so,' the priest said. ‘This has been a dreadful experience. I'm not able to stand shocks like this. Why would anyone want to rob
me
? I'd nothing but a few marks and my old watch.…'

‘I don't think they did want to rob you,' Holler said quietly. ‘I think they wanted to get someone into the convent in your place. The theft of your wallet and your watch were just done to hide the true motive.'

‘Why?' Father Grunwald's eyes rolled from Holler to the inspector, who hadn't spoken. ‘Why would anyone want to go to the convent instead of me? Maybe they wanted the chapel plate—there are some very valuable silver-gilt candlesticks and a chalice … How did they know I went to the convent on Thursdays?'

‘Perhaps you told them,' Holler suggested, ‘without realizing there was any harm. Who did you see that week, apart from the people you see normally? Did anyone telephone you, or call on you—'

The old man frowned again; he had been sedated to take the edge off the shock. He didn't know but his blood pressure had dived as a result. He felt sleepy and frightened at the same time. But also angry. Very angry with whoever had knocked him down and taken his few marks.…

‘Only a man wanting instruction,' he said at last. ‘I sent him away; I'm too old for converts now. I told him to go to his own parish priest.'

‘Do you get many inquiries like that?'

He looked at Holler's grave, sympathetic face. ‘Why, no. No, I don't think it's happened to me since I retired there.… But this man said Reverend Mother had recommended him.…' He didn't finish the sentence and his eyes opened wide with alarm. ‘You don't think it was him who—'

‘I think it's very likely,' Holler said. ‘Now you can really help us. What did he say to you. Did he ask questions about the convent?'

‘Yes, yes,' the old man nodded. ‘I didn't think about it, but he asked me when I went there and whether I'd have enough time to look after his instruction and I saw I could make an excuse and I told him.…'

‘Now tell me what he looked like?' Holler said.

‘He had grey hair,' Father Grunwald said. ‘He was rather ordinary, middle-aged and he could have come from the East. He wasn't a Bavarian, not with that accent.… I didn't like him much. I didn't want to instruct him. People have made up their minds about religion by that age, I think.… Glasses? No, he didn't have glasses—or a moustache or anything. Rather a heavy man, and quite tall.…'

‘But not the man you half noticed in the street, getting out of the Opel?'

‘No, no, I'd have remembered him. That one was young with fair hair.'

Holler stood up. ‘Thank you, Father Grunwald,' he said. ‘I won't tire you any more. You've given us a great deal to go on. I'm sure we'll find whoever did this to you. Take care and get well soon. Good-bye.'

The Munich police started with the cheap boarding houses and then the commercial hotels; they were looking for two men, one grey-haired, well-built and tall, his companion young and blond. The registers revealed nothing, until they came to a modest
pension
. The detective found two names on the register, both having left on the day of the attack on Father Grunwald. The proprietor, a middle-aged woman who ran the place with her married daughter, described the two men.

‘Very nice gentlemen, both of them. They kept to themselves and they only ate breakfast with us. I told them we did a nice evening meal, but they always went out. Then the older one paid the bill on Thursday and they left about—oh, four o'clock, I think.' The register was made out in the names of Kesler and Franconi. Nationality Swiss, with two addresses in Geneva. The detective produced a small folder and laid it on the reception desk. There were sections of the human face, all interchangeable. ‘I'll put one together and you tell me what's wrong with it,' he said. The woman shook her head. ‘No, the nose is wrong. It wasn't hooked, it was a bit blunt.'

Twenty minutes later the Munich detective had assembled two identikit pictures of the men who had stayed at the
pension
. Holler set off with them to see Father Grunwald. When he came into the ward he stopped; there were screens round the bed. A young doctor came out and Holler went up to him. ‘Is anything wrong with the priest? Here's my card.' The doctor glanced at the police ID with its photograph of Holler in a little plastic window. He shook his head. ‘He had a heart attack about half an hour ago. We've tried everything, but I'm afraid it's no use. He's dead.'

‘I'm sorry,' Holler said. He spoke to the Munich inspector who accompanied him as they ran down the steps into the street. ‘That was our best witness. Now the only person who can really identify him is Reverend Mother Katherine.'

‘She'll be better than poor old Father Grunwald,' the policeman said.

‘I'm not so sure,' Holler said. ‘But at least I'll get a chance to see her and ask some of the questions.… Let's get back to the office.'

He settled himself behind a borrowed desk, lit a cigarette and began to make notes. He wrote at random, setting down whatever came into his mind. He made no attempt yet to arrange the interview with the Reverend Mother. There were other points he wanted to clear first. The cigarette burnt down to its filter in an ashtray. The page became crowded with items, and names. Holler read them, adding here and there or sometimes crossing out. Herbert Schmidt. Otto Helm. Two men had visited Schmidt, and one of them had killed him. One man had been seen in the vicinity of Helm's house before it was set on fire. He reached for the telephone and spoke to his office in West Berlin.

‘Give me a description of the man seen walking his dog—that's right, three separate people came forward. Yes.' He listened, writing it down. Young. Fair-haired. Medium height. His pen scored underneath each word. ‘Good, now get the Schmidt file. The two men who were with him when he died.… No, I'll hold on.' The minutes went by; he sat with his eyes closed, thinking.

‘Hello—yes, you have. Good. Give it to me.' There followed a description of the two German gentlemen, said to be army officers, that Herbert Schmidt's cousin had let in to see him. Grey-haired, heavy-built. Younger, blond hair.

He hung up. In Berchtesgaden they had passed themselves off as Germans. In Munich they registered as Swiss. The old priest had detected an accent in his caller which placed him well to the east of Germany. The picture was taking shape, like a finished section of a larger jigsaw puzzle. They had identified Father Grunwald and the older one had substituted himself to get into the convent. From what Heinrich Holler knew of the Reverend Mother, she would never have called the police unless she felt her community was threatened. The chain of coincidence was too long to be credible except for the one, vital link between the men who had murdered two survivors of the Bunker and the imposter who had run out of the convent. Gretl Fegelein. Holler had a feeling of exhilaration when he wrote that name down and read it aloud. The men who had killed Helm and Schmidt were also trying to get to Eva Braun's sister.

And so were Max Steiner and Minna Walther. He had the address of their hotel, which Minna had given him. He put a call through and asked to speak to Max.

‘This is Holler speaking. I'm in Munich. Listen, I haven't time to explain but I don't want Frau Walther going to the convent. What? She has! Damnation—No. Never mind. Call me when she comes back later.'

A shaft of sunlight had settled on the picture hanging above the fireplace; it was a sentimental reproduction of the Sacred Heart. Minna studied it while she waited in the convent parlour. The Christ was a beautiful Aryan, with blue eyes and softly waving chestnut hair, one sensitive hand pointing to the allegory of his love and suffering on account of mankind, a heart surrounded by a crown of thorns, enclosed in a nimbus of light. She wondered whether the artist had realized how anti-Semitic he was being when he painted the original. Jesus, of the House of David, had never looked like that. She heard the door behind her open and she turned. The nun came towards her, one hand resting lightly on the silver cross she wore round her neck. She wasn't as tall as Minna but she gave the impression of height.

‘Frau Walther?' The accent was the twin of Minna's East German pronunciation, with the clipped Prussian vowels. Minna stared at her; at last she found words. The formality gave her time to recover from the shock of recognition.

‘Reverend Mother Katherine. It's very kind of you to see me.'

The nun smiled and sat down on one of the stiff little chairs. ‘I'm only too delighted to see General Ahrenburg's daughter,' she said.

Minna thanked her. The two women were facing each other across the polished table where Kesler had left his hat.

‘But you wouldn't see my husband,' she said. ‘He wrote to you many times.'

‘I know he did,' Mother Katherine nodded. ‘But there was no way I could help him. I don't think I will be able to help you either. Before you come to the point of your visit, how are your family?'

‘My mother is very well; my father died four years ago. And you know what happened to my husband.'

‘I do. We had a special Mass said for him.'

‘That was very kind,' Minna answered. ‘But you could have seen him and helped him, Mother Katherine. He was a good and brave man, and he loved Germany. As the daughter of Baron von Stein, don't you feel responsibility towards your country any more?'

‘I have another identity,' the nun answered. ‘I have a new name, and new loyalties. What happened to my father is perhaps a little worse than what happened to your husband. If I have come to terms with that, I know the real meaning of patriotism. You're not a Catholic, but I'm sure you understand the principle of obedience to a higher power.'

‘There is no higher power in this convent than you,' Minna said. ‘I know enough about Catholics to know that. Why are you protecting Gretl Fegelein? You, of all the people in the world.'

‘I have never heard of Gretl Fegelein,' the Reverend Mother said.

‘You're not supposed to lie,' Minna said. ‘It's a sin, isn't it? And you can't lie to me, Freda, because we've known each other too long.'

‘Don't call me that,' she interrupted. ‘My name is Katherine Ignatius; there is no such person as Freda von Stein.' She made a movement as if she were going to get up, and Minna leaned towards her quickly.

‘We were friends once,' she reminded her. ‘When we were children—you remember how my mother and father comforted you and your mother? You stayed with us until the Russian advance, didn't you—then we all fled together. Your father and mine were close friends. So close that he wouldn't involve Papa in the bomb plot because he felt it was going to fail, and he knew the penalty.'

She paused; Mother Katherine had stayed in her chair; under the grey nun's veil, her face was very pale.

‘I remember your father very well,' Minna went on. ‘He was always so kind to me. They strangled him with piano wire, hung up on a meat hook. Hitler watched the cine film. Maybe Gretl Fegelein was there. Have you asked her, Freda?'

‘What do you want?' The nun's voice was low. ‘Why does anyone want to bring up the past?'

‘Why do you and your Church want to hide it?' Minna countered. ‘Other people are looking for that woman, not Germans, but our enemies.'

‘I know they are,' Mother Katherine answered. ‘One of them came here, posing as a priest. He asked for her, and I told him I'd never heard of her. Then I knew that there was danger. Danger to my community. That's why I agreed to see you, Minna. I can't have my nuns put at risk. Why, after all these years, should Eva Braun's sister be of interest to anyone?'

‘If you'll let me see her,' Minna said. ‘I'll tell you. Or she can tell you.'

The Reverend Mother stood up. ‘Come with me,' she said.

Albert Kramer poured himself a Steinhaeger. He liked a schnapps when he came back from his office, and he experimented; he decided that the old favourite, a Manhattan, was the one he liked the best. He was in a buoyant mood; he examined himself in the mirror above the fireplace in his drawing room, and felt satisfied.

He had spent a long afternoon with certain members of the Bundestag discussing his proposal to stand for election; he dropped hints that Frau Walther would endorse him as a candidate to take her husband's place. The idea was very well received. He was encouraged and assured of support. He had remembered to send flowers to Minna, as part of the campaign, but he was surprised when she didn't acknowledge them.

He wasn't a man to be rebuffed easily. He rang the house in Hamburg and was told she had gone away. Yes, the flowers had arrived, and Frau Walther had been there, but the housekeeper didn't know the date of her return. She had gone to Munich. Kramer felt annoyed, and then dismissed it. Minna would come round; it added spice to his pursuit of her. She was unaware that she was his quarry in more than a personal sense. She didn't know that he knew what was in those papers of her dead husband and, thanks to Mühlhauser, he had information of his own.

The immensity of the secret had made him reckless. He dreamed dreams of power and greatness, and the echoes of salutes shouted from ten thousand voices in one uniform cry rang through his memory and brought a flush of excitement to his face. He felt tuned and fit like an athlete before a race, and his sexuality was at a high pitch. He needed women regularly, but he had been careful not to get involved in an affair in his own social circle. He didn't want scandal or attachments. He used a reputable agency to supply him with girls. He had found one in particular very pleasing; she matched his exultant mood. He had made a call when he got home, and arranged for her to come. His staff were discreet; they knew when he entertained a lady to dinner, that they were not to gossip if she stayed the night. Or left in the small hours. Kramer didn't usually give the girls dinner until he was sure they were amusing companions. Then he liked to play the host. It made the sex more enjoyable if he could dominate the girl as a person, rather than an object who took her clothes off, pocketed her fee, and left. That annoyed Kramer because it was impersonal, and he felt it a reflection upon his masculinity. He liked to play with the girls over the dining table, miming the seduction agreed beforehand. The girl he had booked for that night was ideal for the purpose. He had showered and changed, ordered a good dinner with some of his better wine, and was drinking his cocktail in self-admiration before she arrived.