Schreiber's Secret (14 page)

“Maybe I should give him a ring,” said Edwards, the crime reporter’s inquisitiveness rising to the fore.

“No, Mark,” she said firmly. “I promised him. I like the man. I don’t want you barging in like a bull in a china shop. He’s suffered enough.”

“I can be diplomatic, you know,” he said in a hurt tone.

“I’m sure you can, darling, but let’s just try to get some more information before we jump to any conclusions.”

Edwards nodded in agreement. Only two things were uppermost in his mind. He was hoping that Dieter Müller would find something on Schreiber. More importantly, he was praying that his anonymous caller would continue to ring him.

CHAPTER 6

Howard Plant was the sort of man whose favourite perfume epitomized his psychological makeup. He doused himself in Calvin Klein’s Obsession, hardly the subtlest of fragrances, with the passion of one who believed that natural body odours were an affront to olfaction. Plant’s other obsessions were myriad: fast cars, large houses, small boys,
money. But not necessarily in that order. Howard Plant was not a very nice man. Unsurprisingly, therefore, Howard Plant tended to have more enemies than the Leader of All the Russias.

“Bates!” he bellowed. “Bates, where are you?”

“Coming right away, Mr Plant,” came the effeminate reply. The squeaky voice emanating from the kitchen carried nuances both of obeisance and sarcasm. For Richard Bates, a gangling and prematurely bald leech, was nothing if not used to his master’s idiosyncrasies. Ten years of catering to Plant’s every whim, from the procuring of various new “toy boys” to allowing even the occasional sexual violation of his own body, meant that Richard Matthew Bates had earned the right to share in some of the multi-millionaire’s extravagances. If ostentation was the mark of the insecure, then Howard Plant was a brightly hued dragonfly, darting to and fro in a desperate attempt to impress the world. The biggest house in Chigwell, two Rolls-Royces, three Lamborghinis, two Maseratis and the odd Ferrari made it clear that Plant enjoyed being the oldest “Essex boy” in the county. Despite his proclivities, he had become the darling of the press thanks to a burgeoning software company that was the Great English Hope, expected to counter the Microsoft explosion. Plantware was gobbling up the market like a deranged Pacman.

“Here it is, here it is,” the manservant said soothingly as he entered the TV room where his master lay naked and spread-eagled on the floor, his large genitalia grotesque appendages to what was in effect a slight and somewhat emacia
ted frame. The man was a middle-aged weasel, and although Bates was used to seeing his boss naked, he believed fifty-year-olds were better satiated under the sheets and with the lights out.

Plant continued with his gentle callisthenics as Bates placed the tray gently on a side table. The tray held the usual selection of vegan supper dishes and vitamin supplements.

“Did you blend the carrots with the tomato juice, Master Bates?” asked Plant in time-honored, fashion. Plant’s continual use of the honorific as a synonym for “masturbates” had become a repetitive form of verbal torture for Bates, assuaged only by the luxury of a lifestyle that most other servants would envy.

“Yes, sir,” sighed the hireling.

“Did you make sure you extracted all the pips from the fresh orange juice. I found one in there the other day.”

“Yes, Mr Plant.”

“Good, Bates. Now run along and get my clothes ready. My visitor will be here shortly. It’s Henry Sonntag. He’s been here before. Lives up the road, on the border with Abridge. You remember him, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Nice chap.”

“Well, he’s going to be in a for a bit of a shock tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I haven’t been too satisfied with his performance lately.”

“Funny, I thought you always swore by him,” said the servant, who knew full well that Sonntag had helped make Plant very rich.

“No, not any more. I think I’ll dump him.”

Richard Bates paused. He had always believed that Jews did not do this kind of thing to their own. Still, if there were going to be any fireworks, he did not want to be around. He had other plans for the evening.

“Er, Mr Plant ...”

“Yes,” said Plant, tucking into his health food supper.

“May I, er, take an hour off after Mr Sonntag arrives?”

“Perhaps. Where are you going?”

“The King’s Head. I’m meeting someone there.”

“Does he have a friend?” asked Plant lasciviously.

“Maybe. I’ll ask him for you.” Bates knew how to hook his master. If the truth be known, Plant was like putty in his hands.

“Okay,” said Plant, wiping along his pencil thin moustache and the corners of his rubbery mouth with a red serviette, “but don’t be gone too long. It’s not your usual night off.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll go and prepare your clothes.”

Plant continued his naked callisthenics for the next ten minutes while his trusty manservant prepared a charcoal-grey Armani suit and a handmade white shirt from the Burlington Arcade. Bates could never understand why his master insisted on dressing formally to receive his business cronies in his own home. The man frolicked naked one minute and dressed to the hilt the next. Still, he thought, rich men usually exercised their right to do whatever they damn well pleased.

“Here are your clothes, sir,” he said. “Shall I dress you?”

Howard Plant growled an affirmative and then stood transfixed with arms outstretched as his manservant dressed him speedily and skilfully. Within a few minutes, the man who had gone from rags to riches in less than a decade was preening himself before his hall mirror. “Dapper” was how the newspapers labelled him, and dapper he was. He accepted the various labels with equanimity, for image was no strange bedfellow to vanity.

“Ah, it must be Sonntag,” he called out as the doorbell sounded. “Bates, be ready to fix our guest a stiff drink. I think he’ll be needing it.”

Plant opened the front door himself. “Ah, Henry, my good friend,” he enthused. “I hope you didn’t get lost on your way from the front gate.”

“Still the same old jokes, eh, Howard?” smiled Sonntag.

“Come in, come in.” Plant took his guest by the arm with all the bonhomie of a Black Widow and led him into a drawing room festooned with Old Masters.

“There’s lots to talk about. Bates, fix Henry’s usual. Never forgets a face and never forgets a drink to go with it, does our Bates.”

“Yes, sir. Whisky and dry on the rocks, wasn’t it, Mr Sonntag?”

“Well remembered, Bates,” said Sonntag, handing the manservant his coat.

Plant ushered his guest towards a Regency chaiselongue.

“Terrible goings-on, eh?” he muttered.

“You mean the murder?”

“Yeah. Must bring back memories of the war for you. Must have been a fascist bastard.”

“They never really go away, Howard.”

“Yeah, I know. But who would have thought that this kind of thing could happen in our own back yard. It’s a fucking disgrace.”

“I’m sure the police will catch the man responsible,” said Sonntag, trying to calm the fear that had crept into the younger man’s voice.

“I tell you, I’m dead scared, Henry. No Jew is safe while this nutcase is on the loose. A cab driver
,
noc
h
. Maybe next time he’ll go upmarket.”

“Calm down, Howard. You know my
philosophy ...”

“That the only time someone should worry is when a gun is held to his head.
Yeah, sure, Henry. Go tell that to Joe Hyams. Talking about dangerous weapons, Henry, how go the markets?”

“Up and down,” said the older man. “You know how it is.”

Howard Plant certainly did know. Of late it had all been down. He was convinced that his guest was getting too old for the job. “Sit down, my friend. Sit down.”

Bates, having hung Sonntag’s coat on an ornate baroque stand in the entrance hall, sidled into the room towards the drinks cabinet. He kept his gaze averted but his ears open. Having been forewarned, he was eager to hear Sonntag’s reaction.

“Ah, thank you, Bates,” said Plant, taking his usual whisky and dry on the rocks. “Bring us some peanuts, will you.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Now, Henry,” said Plant, turning towards his guest. “You know me. I’m not one to bandy words.”

Henry Sonntag smiled. He knew what was coming next. It was the Italian job. The Italian government had collapsed once again, only this time he had missed out by a whisker on making a killing.

“My dear Henry,” the weasel continued, “you’ve lost me a lot of money this week.”

There was a pregnant pause while Sonntag considered his reply. The little man was irritatingly avaricious and had been spoilt by too many years of unbridled prosperity. “You know the old adage, Howard: what goes up can also come down. Not every day is Christmas. You are still way ahead in the game.”

“True, true. But when I lose a couple of million, it really hurts.”

“How much have I made for you over the years, Howard?”

Plant squirmed. He hated being in debt to anyone. He hated paying anyone. He especially hated the ten per cent merchants. Sure, they made him a lot of money. Millions. But while to lose a million might be considered an accident, to lose two million was carelessness. “I don’t know, Henry. I don’t keep count.”

The beady hazel eyes narrowed in contempt. Sonntag knew that if anyone kept a constant vigil on his finances, it was Howard Plant. “By my reckoning, my trading for you over the years has earned you at least thirty million.”

Whereas Howard Plant’s lupine features betrayed little emotion at the enormity of the figure, the baldheaded eavesdropper in the next room whistled sharply under his breath. Bates glanced at his watch. He was torn between the prospect of a good old-fashioned altercation and the possibility of setting up a seduction.

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Plant. “But time moves on, Henry. No one can afford to live on past glories.” Then, after a short pause, he continued, “We all have to retire sometime.”

So that’s it, thought Sonntag. The big shove. The little weasel couldn’t take a downturn. So be it. There were plenty of other fish, albeit not quite so fat. As long as the little bastard settled his account. “So, Howard, you want to dispense with my services.”

Plant cleared his throat nervously. “Well, maybe it’ll do both of us some good. You know, pastures new, so to speak.”

“Okay, Howard,” said Sonntag, the contempt in his voice now clearly discernible, “we’ll settle up here and now. You owe me a million in unpaid commission.”

“Ahem. I, er, don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s nothing in writing.”

“There’s never been anything in writing, Howard.” Sonntag’s words, delivered slowly, were heavy with sarcasm.

“Yeah, I know,” the little man squirmed. “Come on, it’s not as if it’s costing you personally. What you’ve never had, you never miss. You’ve earned a fortune from playing with my money.”

Henry Sonntag felt a sense of hatred the like of which he had not experienced since Theresienstadt. “You English Jews are all the same. Always complaining. No patience to wait for an upturn ... I could kill you for this.”

Howard Plant sank further into his armchair and spread his palms. “Now, now, Henry,” he cajoled. “Take things easy. We can talk this through.” Neither protagonist heard the front door close. Richard Matthew Bates had a more pressing need than to listen to the bickering of rich men.

About five miles away, Mark Edwards was propped up in bed perusing his weekly issue o
f
Tim
e
magazine. He had decided to have an early night and thought a little light reading might help him doze off. However, apart from a few lines on the murder in the review-of-the-week section, he could not concentrate on anything. His mind was juggling with three images, only two of them morphologically definable. The third was a phantasm, a collage of the haunted features of concentration camp victims. The anonymous caller kept invading his thoughts of Danielle and Dieter Müller. Was he sinner or sinned against? Would he call again? Would Müller find anything on this mysterious Hans Schreiber?

Turning his head, he stared at his mobile telephone and the regular apparatus lying next to it, the number of which he divulged only to close friends. Edwards found himself willing the mobile to ring with the intense concentration of a practitioner in telekinesis.

It did.

The reporter’s heart leapt into his mouth. For a few seconds he sat ossified. “Hello,
hello ...” he said at last, fiddling with the talk button.

“Hello, Mark, this is Dieter. You sound out of breath.”

“Oh, hi, Dieter. I – I just got in.”

“I’ve got some important news for you. Have you got a pen?”

“Hold on a minute,” said Edwards, grabbing the pen and notepad he always kept by the bedside phone. “Fire away.”

“In th
e
Dienst Heerliste der WaffenS
S
there is a listing for an Obersturmführer Hans Schreiber. His SS number was 675951. His date of birth was 10 June 1922. He was accepted into the SS on 15 July 1940. There were about twenty Schreibers in the listings, but only three named Hans.”