Journey to Munich (10 page)

“Shall we walk into the gardens? It is not too cold, and they are particularly lovely, I think, when fewer people are here.”

Maisie smiled. “Perhaps for a short while. I would like to return to my hotel to rest before I venture out again today.”

Berger led the way to the Hofgarten, again giving Maisie what amounted to a history lesson on the way. But as they entered the garden, his tone changed. “Miss Donat, you have been busy while in Munich.”

Though she felt anxiety grip her stomach, Maisie revealed no sign of alarm. She wondered what information Berger had been given of her movements, but she replied with honesty, imagining her father in Leon Donat's place. “There has been a lot of waiting. I am very anxious to see my father, and to take him home. He is not a young man, and being in prison will have had a poor effect on his health.” She paused, looking straight into Berger's eyes. “Prisons are not designed to enhance well-being.”

Berger stopped, pointing out another aspect of the garden to which Maisie should pay attention. Then he returned her direct gaze.

“You have visited Schwabing, Fräulein Donat?”

Maisie shrugged. “I had time on my hands, and I heard it was an interesting area, full of artists in their studios.”

“Yet you did not visit an artist or a studio. You visited a woman of poor morals.”

Maisie continued to look straight at Berger as she answered, though in truth, she was unsettled. “I visited the daughter of friends of my father. They are people of influence who are worried about the young woman, and they want her to come home. I was asked to intercede on their behalf—women of her age are not always disposed to follow the dictates of their parents. Frankly, I had little faith in my ability to influence her to return to England—she likes it here. But I promised I would try.” She took a breath. “And if you are about to ask how the parents knew I was leaving for Munich, when I have told no one and wanted only to come here to be reunited with my beloved father, then I can only tell you that the father of the girl is a powerful man who is very good at procuring information.”

After what felt like a long delay, Berger responded, “Yes, I understand.” Then he walked on, once more assuming the role of tour guide, an officer in a black uniform who knew so much about the wealth of past aristocracy, yet was acting upon orders from a man who claimed to represent the ordinary people. Maisie wondered what Maurice might make of the imbalance.

Berger accompanied Maisie on her return to the hotel, giving his signature short bow as he bid her good-bye.

“I did not specify a time for your appointment tomorrow morning, Fräulein Donat. I will ensure your consulate is informed that I expect to see you again at noon. As it transpires, I am not making the journey that was originally planned; I am needed here in Munich. You will have plenty of time to present your papers to the Kommandant at Dachau, to be reunited with your father, and to proceed with him to the station for the train to Paris. You must of course leave Munich as soon as possible following your father's release.”

“I am looking forward to it, Major. Very much.”

He clicked his heels, extended his hand upward, and repeated the words she had come to despise: “Heil Hitler.”

He had turned before she could lift her hand in response. She closed her eyes and exhaled, pausing before entering the hotel. She wondered if his speedy departure had been deliberate, giving her the opportunity not to salute his leader.

“Maisie.”

The voice was low, and came from her right.

Moving with speed, Maisie took Elaine Otterburn's arm and with a firm hand led her away from the hotel entrance.

“Never, ever do that again. You must not call me by my name in this country, ever.”

“I'm sorry, I—”

Maisie looked Elaine up and down. She was ill-kempt, and as she pulled her coat around her, a flap of her dress peeped through, showing stains, as if some dark liquid had been spilled on the silk. Kohl was smudged under her eyes, and her hair had not seen a brush or comb that day. Her stockings were laddered, and she seemed unsteady on her feet.

“Elaine, we cannot go into the hotel. Wait—let me get a taxicab, and we'll go to your flat.”

“No, we can't go there.”

“What do you mean?”

“We just can't.”

Maisie paused. She felt goose bumps across the skin at the nape of her neck.

“Elaine, everything tells me that we must return to the flat, now, before anyone else ventures in.”

M
aisie slipped her arm through Elaine's.

“Talk to me about anything, Elaine. We must look like two friends meeting for a cup of coffee, or going about our errands for the morning.”

She hailed a taxi, and had the driver drop them on a side street not far from Elaine's lodgings. After checking that no one was there—the other young women with rooms in the house were out, and the landlady appeared not to be present—Maisie followed Elaine up the stairs. At the top she had to take the younger woman's arm for fear that she would stumble.

“Elaine, try to have some control. Whatever happens, we must contain ourselves.”

Elaine looked at Maisie, her head shaking—not to counter her words, but as if she were cold to the bone. She said nothing, but nodded, forcing some measure of dominion over her body. She passed her keys to Maisie, her fingers barely able to keep them in her hand.

Maisie slipped the door key in the lock, turned the handle, and took a deep breath, afraid of what she might encounter. She pushed the door open and gasped. The room looked as if a madman had been released within its walls. Bedclothes had been ripped from the mat
tress and thrown on the floor. Clothing was strewn atop the pile of linens. Cups left on a tray on the chest of drawers had been smashed. And across the mirror in red lipstick was scrawled the word
Hure
.
Whore
.

Maisie looked at Elaine, at the contusion across her cheekbone, her laddered stockings, and the blood on her torn dress. She asked no questions. “Close and lock the door. We must set about cleaning up.”

“I was going to telephone the police, but—”

“It would be best if you didn't.”

Maisie found a bowl, which she took to the kitchen along the landing, bringing it back filled with water. She had a cloth over her arm, pulled from a makeshift line over the sink where the young women had hung their silk stockings to dry. When she returned to the room, Elaine was sitting on the edge of the bed, the torn robe she'd picked up from the floor held tight in her hands.

“Who would have done this?”

“First, we must sort out your room,” said Maisie. “Then you can tell me what happened. If I thought the police would have any interest, I would leave everything as it is. But I can tell there is nothing here to give us any clue as to the identity of the person who did this, except that.” She pointed to the mirror. “And I want to get rid of it.”

Elaine gasped, tears falling anew as she choked her words. “You think Luther is dead? Do you think he is dead?”

Maisie placed the bowl of water on the dressing table and put an arm around Elaine. “Until you tell me the whole story, I cannot say. Now then, there will be time for tears later, Elaine. We must get on, and then you can describe everything that happened. If you sit down to tell your story amid all this clutter, your ability to think back with clarity will be diminished by what is about you; you must be in a place
that is clear. I cannot take you onto a hilltop or put you in a field, but I can get this room cleaned. Come, there is work to be done.”

Maisie scrubbed the mirror while Elaine picked up clothing, folding each item and placing it in a drawer. Maisie kept an eye on the younger woman as they worked. She knew that the destruction of Elaine's home—and for better or worse, it was her home—was meant to undermine her, to make her feel unsafe—and with a bitter twist, given the slur writ large across the mirror. If Elaine now felt less than secure, it was with good reason. Sweeping shards of china cups into a paper bag, Maisie stopped to inspect a long seam of lipstick, powder, and kohl pressed into a floorboard, as if someone had ground the thick red substance into the grain of the wood, compounding the damage with the powder and inky kohl. This was not just destruction but a deliberate act of cruelty, as if the perpetrator wanted nothing more than to destroy Elaine Otterburn's charm—her wide eyes, big smile, and hearty laugh.

Soon the women had finished cleaning and stood back to survey the results. Elaine's face was streaked with tears. “It's never been this neat and tidy.” She attempted a smile, but began to weep once again.

“Sit down for a moment, Elaine.” Maisie left the room, emptied and rinsed the bowl, and refilled it with cold water. She searched the small kitchen until she found an unsoiled cloth, and returned to the room. She steeped the cloth in water, wrung it out, and gave it to Elaine. “Press this across your eyes—it will diminish the swelling. And now tell me what happened.”

Elaine's chest heaved with sobs. She pulled away the cloth and turned to Maisie, one eye clear of kohl, the other still smudged, as if half her face were that of an angel, the other touched by darkness—a theater harlequin. “We'd been drinking, so I was rather squiffy, but
we were always like that. Luther—his name is Luther Gramm—isn't much older than me. He never wanted to do what he was doing in the Schutzstaffel, but it was the right thing, he said. He'd been an apprentice architect before he went into uniform. He enjoyed a good time.” She paused, wiping her eye and looking at the black smudge across the cloth. “We'd been to a club, lots of laughing, lots to drink, you know, and we danced the night away. I liked him, really I did. We got on well together.” Elaine began to cry again.

“Go on, Elaine. Until I know the whole story, I do not know if I can help you.”

“But you must. You must help me. I'm all alone, and now this has happened.”

Aware that the woman was panicking, Maisie softened her own voice. “Tell me what happened, Elaine. You must go on. We might not have much time.”

Elaine swallowed her tears and wiped the cloth across her mouth. “Luther told me he knew a place, an alley where lovers go. You see, the old
Frau
downstairs would chuck me out if she knew I'd had a man up here. I've been pushing my luck a bit, and we were taking chances going back to the house where the officers are lodging.” She covered her face with the cloth, leaned into it, and then sat up, dropping the cloth into the bowl of water. “I was a bit scared, to tell you the truth. There wasn't much light, except a bit from the houses, and it was a damp place, smelly. I don't think I could find my way there again, to tell you the truth. But Luther insisted and dragged me down there, and we began, you know, to kiss.” She stopped speaking.

“Go on, Elaine,” said Maisie, her voice low.

Elaine sighed. “We were in a doorway. We didn't think anyone could see us. Then we heard a motor car, and there were headlamps coming toward us. Slowly. Really slowly. I wondered how the motor car
could even get down the alley—there must have been only a foot either side of it, if that. And there was a man walking in front of the car—I remember thinking that he looked like one of those men they have at funerals, walking in front of the hearse as if to pace it out, so the horses don't gallop off and everyone remains respectful. What do they call them? Escorts? Something like that.” She paused, reached for the cloth, wrung it out, and pressed it to her eyes, as if to block out the images that came with her words.

“I'm still listening, Elaine.”

“Then everything seemed to happen very fast, except no one rushed. The man wasn't in a hurry. One minute we were there, in the doorway, Luther with his arms about me, and then the man was there—no farther away than you are now. And it was almost as if I were no one, as if I didn't exist. Luther was about to say something. He opened his mouth to draw breath, and then the man seemed to jam something into his ear. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. My voice had gone, so I went to hit the man to try to get him to stop hurting Luther, but he drew back his hand and knocked me hard, really hard, against the wall. Everything seemed to move before my eyes. I tried to come to my feet, but my legs had buckled under me and I just couldn't get up, I was so dizzy. But I could still see them. I could see everything, because the headlamps on the motor car were pointed right at the man and Luther. I couldn't move my arm, it hurt so much, but I kept trying to lever myself up to help Luther. That's when I saw him, the man, holding Luther's nose and mouth at the same time, pressing his lips together, sealing his nostrils, so he . . . until he . . . suffocated to death, I suppose. I saw him shudder, and his eyes, which were really wide, looking at the man as if he knew him, and then he stopped moving. Then the man let go, and I must have gone spark out. I came to eventually. It was still dark. Luther was gone, the motor car
was nowhere to be seen, and there was no sign of the man. A couple of drunks passed, calling me names and trying to grab me, but I managed to get to my feet. I didn't know what to do, so I came back to my room and discovered it completely turned over. I covered myself with my coat and ran out. I waited for a long time in a small park near here, hiding until I could come to find you. I guessed you would be at that hotel. I don't know how—I just guessed. I mean, it's one of the best in Munich.”

Maisie's tone was soft when she spoke. “Elaine, finish washing yourself and pick out some plain clothing—nothing bright, nothing to attract attention.”

“How did he die?”

“I suspect an initial tight clasp to the neck weakened him, even though he was a young man and robust. Then a sharp object—something akin to a metal knitting needle—was pushed into his ear. You need a strong man to do that, but I believe either the shock killed Luther, or after rendering him useless and you unconscious, the killer disabled him enough to hold his nose and mouth closed, so he suffocated. I doubt there was much blood.”

Maisie could hear Elaine pulling out fresh clothing, each movement marked by sobbing. She heard items being dropped. The young woman was losing control of her hands, the shock once more taking hold in waves. But Maisie was looking around the room, wondering why Luther Gramm, a young officer of the feared Schutzstaffel, might be a target. Perhaps it was not the man but the woman who had been in the crosshairs: the woman who was now heaving great sobs, gasping for air as if her lungs were compromised. If that was so, then time was even more limited than she might have imagined; Elaine could be framed for a crime she did not commit.
Or did she?
The words seemed to ricochet into Maisie's mind, but she brushed them aside. For now.

“Elaine, we must get out of here immediately.”

“Why? Who do you think knows?”

“I think there is some connection here that I cannot quite see, and it's possible that you were the intended victim, but not in the way either of us might imagine. I have to get you out of here. Are you dressed?”

Elaine stepped out from behind the screen. She wore a plain dark green costume: a jacket and a skirt with a hemline between ankle and knee. A silk scarf was knotted at her neck; her blond hair was brushed back and topped with a hat, its brim somewhat wider than presently fashionable. Her polished black shoes were simple, and she carried a black handbag and a dull maroon and green paisley carpet bag, as if she were an office girl going to spend an evening with a friend.

“You have your passport and identification documents?”

“Yes, Maisie.”

“Now, then, I want you to write a note to whichever of these friends is your favorite pal, with yesterday's date, and slip it under her door. Tell her you decided to go away for a few days, and to tell anyone who might come to the house to visit you that you are not at home. When you've done that, we leave.”

Maisie checked her reflection in the mirror on the back of the door and took one more glance toward Elaine. Her head down, the young woman was finishing the letter as Maisie instructed.

“Right—now lock the door and let's get away from this house. We cannot delay. I want you on an aeroplane bound for London as soon as possible.”

Elaine slid the letter under Pamela's door, and they made their way downstairs, tiptoeing past the landlady's rooms, and out into the chill Bavarian air.

“March winds doth blow,” said Elaine.

“Come, let's walk to the bus stop.”

“I don't think I have ever been on a bus here.”

“Now's your chance to mix with the ordinary people, then.”

Steering them to seats at the back of the bus, Maisie looked around and out of the windows, her eyes lingering for a second on each person on the street behind them. There was a street sweeper clad in old corduroy trousers, the fabric distinctive for the way it bagged around his knees. His jacket was patched, and he wore fingerless gloves and a knitted cap. His boots seemed heavy on his feet as he swung his broom back and forth, back and forth, marking the rhythm of his day. She saw shop girls and soldiers, men in suits and women with their coats wrapped around them, scarves pulled up. March winds indeed doth blow, even in Bavaria, thought Maisie, wishing her day could have been so ordinary. A good dose of ordinary would be welcome.

“Before we go any further, Elaine, if you say my name, or refer to me, I am Edwina Donat. Is that clear? Do not expect an explanation—do not think for one moment that this is a game. I want you only to remember that name, and forget that I am Maisie Dobbs.”

“Not Maisie Compton, then, or Mrs. James Compton? And what about Margaret, Lady Compton? I bet I got that wrong—these darn English titles befuddle the little Canadian girl.” Elaine's voice had an edge to it. “But I would have thought you would be proud to bear your husband's name.”

Maisie looked at Elaine, aware of the lurching of the bus as it stopped and started and took on new passengers. “I was more than proud to bear my husband's name, Elaine. But after he died, it was another knife to the heart every time the words left my lips, because he was no longer there.” She looked away for a moment. “Elaine, can you remember anything about the man who—”

She looked around. Other passengers were reading, or just looking
out of windows, or chatting to their neighbors. The nearest were some three rows away, out of earshot. “Who did that to your friend?”