Paving the New Road (12 page)

It was only a few minutes till the brown-shirted officers of the SA made their entrance. Tables were cleared for them and the round man with the accordion continued to play.

One of the SA men was arguing with the night spot’s owner. Rowland cut across the floor with Edna to listen—not an easy feat during a polka. He could only get close enough to hear the Brownshirt shout
“Juden!”
while the proprietor shook his head emphatically and pointed to the accordion player. He realised then. Rowland pulled Edna close and whispered in her ear. “The band members, they’re Jewish.”

Her eyes widened. “Surely that’s not illegal?”

“I don’t think so,” Rowland replied. “I think they’re just trying to start trouble.” He glanced at the floor full of apparently sedate polka dancers. “Perhaps we should find Milt.”

Milton was working his way through another stein of beer. He hailed them merrily as they approached the table. “Robbie, I hope you’ve been treating my sister as a gentleman should.”

Rowland smiled. “I’ve tried, but she won’t stop flirting with me.”

Milton swung an arm around his shoulders. “Sadly, mate, it’s not just you. We’re thinking a nunnery might do the trick.”

“I want to go.” Edna glanced at the SA men, who were now gathered at the bar, drinking. “Can we go?”

Clyde looked down at the beer he had only just started drinking. “Right now?”

Milton drained his stein. “Yes, very well. This music is getting on my nerves, anyway.”

They weren’t the only ones to leave at that time and so they had to walk a fair way on a night that was sharp and clear and cold, before they found a motor cab to take them back to the Vier Jahreszeiten.

In the privacy of the Ludwig suite, Rowland handed Edna a glass of sherry. “Drink this, Ed. You look chilled to the bone.”

The sculptress took the glass in both hands. She did feel cold, but she wasn’t sure it was anything to do with the chill of the night air.

Milton watched her thoughtfully. “You remember last year, when Campbell’s thugs were running around Sydney belting every Communist they could find?”

Edna nodded.

“And when Hardy’s mob tried to tar and feather me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, the SA is no different, Ed. Cowardly thugs doing the bidding of their fascist masters.”

Edna shuddered. “I don’t know, Milt. I think they might be different.”

Milton shook his head. “That’s because they’re speaking German … all that slurping makes them sound more sinister. But they’re little different to the New Guard … and they won’t win.”

Alois Richter’s villa was on Schellingstrasse, near the centre of Munich. Most of the buildings were multistorey blocks, commercial concerns and apartments. The motor cab driver was at pains to point out number 50, which once housed the offices of the Nazi Party. Rowland translated for the others.

Eventually the motor cab pulled into the gated driveway of a grand villa among the commercial premises. Window boxes overflowing with geraniums gave it away as a residence among the businesses which occupied Schellingstrasse. The building had stark, simple lines, its façade inlaid with plaques featuring woodland scenes. The door was flanked with classical columns, and the grounds were neat and compact.

Richter was expecting them—well, Robert Negus, at least. He glanced at the letter of introduction which Somerset Maugham had provided Rowland, and welcomed them all warmly. Richter himself was an interesting figure. Small and slim, he greeted them wearing a deep green, shawl-collared smoking jacket and a purple fez. The hair visible at the base of the fez was improbably black and the skin around his eyes was creased with years and laughter. He carried a black Scottish terrier in his arms, which made shaking hands a little difficult.

Rowland addressed him in High German at first, but Richter spoke English, and graciously elected to do so. He complimented Milton on the cummerbund-cum-cravat the poet had once again
chosen to wear. He gushed over Edna in both English and German and demanded they all come in, showing them into an elegant sitting room, furnished in a florid Victorian style. There he placed the Scottish terrier onto the silk-upholstered couch and made sure the creature was comfortable.

“Tea, Frau Schuler, we must have tea,” Richter shouted into a hallway.

He turned, beaming, his smile fading as his eyes moved systematically over each of the men. He walked slowly around Rowland, who was beginning to feel quite awkward. Finally Richter snorted. “English tailors,” he said, peering closely at Rowland’s lapel. “One of the better ones, of course, but still unimaginative, conservative. With your height you could wear the double-breasted jacket … Why is a young man like you wearing a waistcoat?”

Milton grinned, delighted. Clyde fiddled nervously with his tie.

“Are you a tailor, Mr. Richter?” Edna asked, walking across the room to an old manual sewing machine displayed in the corner.

“My first machine,” Richter said proudly. “Just a relic now, of course, but she has been with me since the beginning.”

A greying matron with an operatic bearing entered, wheeling a traymobile laden with tea and cake, which she set out on the low marble-topped table in the centre of the room.

“Sit, sit …” Richter invited, motioning them towards chairs. “Frau Schuler has been with me from the beginning too … she has looked after this poor widower since the war.”

“Your wife died during the war?” Edna asked softly.

Richter’s voice thickened. “
Gott hab sie selig.
I was the soldier but it was my darling wife and our beautiful daughter who died.”

“Oh how dreadful, how very sad …”

Richter smiled at the sculptress.

“He who has not tasted bitter does not know what is sweet,” he said, with resigned sorrow. “It was a long time ago now,
Leibchen
. Fourteen years … I began again. Poured my grief into every stitch, every seam. Now I have five factories, over a hundred workers.” Richter paused to feed a bit of cake to the terrier, crooning as it gagged on the cream.

“You have done rather well,” Edna said quietly, deciding to pour the tea as Frau Schuler had left and Richter’s hands were full. She found a little room on the end of the couch occupied by the terrier and perched there as she poured. “You must be a very fine tailor, Mr. Richter.”

He waved away the compliment. “The tailoring is my business, its success is God’s.” He heaved the terrier onto his lap and sat beside Edna, inviting her to stroke his dog. “But
Dankechön,
Fräulein,” he added, “for that acknowledgment, which, sadly, I do not get from my peers.”

“Jealousy and quivering strife therein a portion claim,” Milton contributed, nodding knowingly.

“You speak like a poet, Mr. Greenway,” Richter said delighted.

“Wordsworth, to be precise,” Rowland muttered.

Richter misheard him. “Yes, your words have worth and insight, Mr. Greenway. The clothing industry can be very vicious and unkind.”

Milton smiled, accepting the accolade triumphantly.

Edna leaned over to Richter and whispered. “I’m sure they must just be envious.”

Richter laughed. “Envy eats nothing but its own heart … And business has been good under the Nazis. Germany is booming again … not since before the war have we been so prosperous.”

Rowland noticed the framed picture of Richter shaking hands with a man in uniform, just below the large portrait of Adolf Hitler
that seemed to hang in both public buildings and private homes. “You do business with the National Socialist Party, Mr. Richter?”

“We supply many uniforms to the Reich,” Richter replied. “If not for Hugo Boss and his inferior products we would have the contract solely.” He lifted his dog onto Edna’s lap and proffered his arm to Rowland. “Feel that fabric, Herr Negus. See how well the sleeve sits … note the invisible stitching.” He threw his hands up in disgust. “Hugo Boss uses cheap thread and his buttons are insecure. For this reason, he undercuts. I just hope the officers of the SS are proficient with needle and thread for they will be refixing their buttons!”

“I’m sure they’ll return the contract to you as soon as they realise, Mr. Richter.” Edna attempted to soothe the irate tailor. “I know I hate sewing buttons.”

Richter sniffed. “Perhaps I do not want that contract anymore. Hideous design!” He shook his head. “Entirely black … no colour, no style whatsoever … Now, if we had taken the red of the armband and used it for a jacket … that would have been a uniform … but no! Himmler wants black. Pah! Of course Hugo tells him it is the height of couture … simpering
Schwein
!”

For several moments there was silence as the Australian men searched for an appropriate response and Edna patted the indifferent dog.

The pause seemed to jolt Richter out of his invective. “I apologise … you did not come to hear of disreputable tailors. You are here on a mission more sombre, and one which saddens me deeply. My most heartfelt commiserations, Mr. Negus.”

“Thank you, Mr. Richter.”

“It was a great shock, you know,” Richter said. “To see Peter again after all these years and then …” He bit his lip and did not go on.

“What exactly happened?” Rowland asked. “We have not been told a great deal.”

“You do not know?” Richter looked at him, shocked and grieved. “It was terrible, just terrible … A tragic miscalculation, you see. Peter was not used to how cold the water can be here. The Starnberg is a glacial lake and, as warm as the day may seem, the water can cause a body to cramp and sink.”

Rowland spoke gently, for the man was obviously becoming distressed. “He drowned in a glacial lake?”

“Yes, the Starnberger See … it is about fifteen miles from here. I have a house quite near Berg Castle where I holiday at times. Peter had joined me there, but I was forced to return to attend to a problem at the factory …”

“He went swimming?” Clyde prompted.

Richter sighed. “So it seems … I have a copy of the police report somewhere.” He stood and began to rummage through the papers stacked neatly on the sideboard.

He paused to study Rowland. “And you, young man—did you know Peter well?”

Rowland elected for a half-truth. “I’m afraid I didn’t know him at all, Mr. Richter. Mrs. Bothwell is a cousin of my mother’s … and as I was coming to Munich anyway …”

“Oh, I see. And what is your business here, Mr. Negus?” He paused to smile at Edna. “What brings you and your so charming companions to Munich?”

“We are art dealers—here to buy paintings. It is a good time to buy.”

Richter seemed to accept this readily. “Yes, a great deal of art has become available lately … Jews selling up to leave.” He frowned as if the situation did not entirely meet with his approval. “Ah, here it is!”
He handed Rowland a large sealed envelope. It was quite heavy. “I believe some of Peter’s personal possessions are in there too … The rest of his belongings have been repacked into his trunk.”

“Perhaps you could arrange for them to be sent to our hotel,” Rowland began, as he took a calling card from his pocket. “We’re staying at the Vier Jahreszeiten.”

“The Vier Jahreszeiten!” Richter exclaimed. “Well, that will not do! The place is crawling with Brownshirts … ill-bred thugs, not the kind of men with whom a gentleman such as yourself would choose to share accommodations.”

“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Richter, but the hotel is very comfortable.”

“No, it will not do!” Richter was adamant. “You must stay here. There is much room here … I will tell Mrs. Schuler.”

“We couldn’t possibly impose,” Rowland protested.

“No, you must stay … See, Stasi has already fallen in love with Miss Greenway.” Richter pointed to the dog who, aside from the barest movement of its ear, looked as though it might have expired. “If you take her away, he will pine!”

Rowland laughed. “Miss Greenway seems to have that effect, but we have business associates who will look for us at the hotel.”

Richter sighed. “Ah, of course. Forgive me … I am a stupid, lonely man trying to stave off old age by playing with young people.”

“We would much rather stay with you and Stasi, Mr. Richter,” Edna said, taking the dog into her arms. “I don’t care much for the SA either.”

9

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