The Seventh Secret (22 page)

Demke stepped aside as the three completed their descent and now clustered within earshot.

"You're sure it was Emily Ashcroft?" said the older man. "I shot a whole roll of her and the two men, right up to their getting into the jeep."

The heavier woman spoke up. "James, I could recognize her the way I can recognize you. It was the woman on the telly, on the BBC, I'm positive."

"Right," said the older man, patting his camera. "At least we got one celebrity on this trip. Well, sort of a celebrity."

Listening, Werner Demke tried to recall the name of Emily Ashcroft. It rang a bell dimly. All at once, loudly. Of course, Ashcroft, the father, had been killed in a hit-and-run off the Ku'damm some days ago, and his daughter was here to finish the Hitler biography.

Instantly, Demke saw the possibility of a story.

He eased up to the British trio and politely interrupted them. "Forgive me. I couldn't help but overhear you—that something was going on down in the East German Security Zone. Just out of curiosity, I'd like to know what I missed."

The heavier woman said proudly, "You missed one of our British television celebrities. There she was, down there in the middle of all those watchtowers and communist guards with two men."

"That's strange," said Decoke. "No one has been allowed in there, except soldiers, in years."

The older man had elbowed closer, patting his camera once more. "I'll tell you what she and her friend were doing. I saw them around that heap of dirt that everyone says is where Hitler and his lady hid before they killed themselves. The Ashcroft woman and one of the men were marching on the heap and talking steadily. Then they came down off it and started looking around on one side—"

"The Chancellery garden," Decoke murmured in an undertone.

"Whatever it was. They stood there talking, when another man joined them. After a while, they all walked to a jeep and were driven off." The older man brandished his camera. "I got it all. A nice souvenir."

Werner Demke's mind was in high gear. "You got pictures of the three of them?"

"A whole roll."

Decoke swallowed. "How'd you like to sell that roll?" The older man was startled. "Sell it?"

"Yes, I'd like to buy the roll."

The older man shook his head vigorously. "I'm taking pictures of our trip for my photo album, and I don't want to lose them."

"You wouldn't lose them," said Decoke with haste. "You'd still get a set of the prints. I guarantee it. It's just that I want a set, too." He wondered how much he had in his wallet. Maybe a hundred marks. It was a gamble. Ascher might reject the whole thing. On the other hand, Ascher might be impressed. "I'll give you a hundred marks for the negatives and first set of prints."

The older man was shaking his head again. "No."

The heavier woman had pushed herself in front of the older man, obviously her husband. "Wait a minute, James, hold on." She confronted Demke. "What's this about? Who are you?"

"I'm a reporter on a German newspaper," Decoke said. "You may have stumbled on an incident that could be a minor bit of news. It has been a long, long time, so far as I can remember, since anyone was let into that East German Security Zone to look over the remains of Hitler's bunker. The fact that Miss Ashcroft was there gives the photographs a certain amount of curiosity value. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe my editor won't want to use any of the pictures. Nevertheless, it is worth all the money I have on me to at least let him see them. You'd gain a hundred marks and get a set of the pictures, besides."

The heavier woman was considering the proposition. "How much is a hundred marks?" her husband was asking her.

She whispered to him. The older man's eyes blinked. "For just this roll?" he said.

The heavier woman grabbed the camera away. "All right, young man, you can have the roll. Let's see your money and a receipt first."

L
ate the next morning, Evelyn Hoffmann was in their familiar rendezvous place, the private table in the rear of Mampes Cute Stube, and she had already ordered
Bratwurst
and beer for Chief Wolfgang Schmidt and a
gemischter Salat
and tea for herself.

This meeting was unusual. For years they had met once a week, to enjoy each other's company, speak of the old times, exchange gossip. The routine was unvarying. Yet, early this morning, the message had come from Schmidt summoning her to a meeting an hour before noon, even though they had seen one another just a few days ago.

Strange.

Coming to the Ku'damm on the bus, she had speculated on the reason for the sudden meeting. Nothing of an urgent nature occurred to her. Yet, because it was unexpected, the message gave her some sense of urgency. As a result, she had found herself downtown almost an hour early. The choices were to go to the restaurant and wait, or to window-shop, or to drop in on Liesl and Klara to pass the extra time.

She had turned off at Knesebeckstrasse and walked over to. the Fiebig apartment to look in on her close ones. Entering, she had realized a rare omission. In her confusion, Evelyn had forgotten to bring Klara a small gift of some kind. But then Klara was not there. Liesl was alone, and Evelyn was relieved. It was difficult to speak of the early days in front of Klara, and it was impossible to do so when Franz was present. He was a young radical who detested Germany's modern past, the Germany that had been Evelyn's glory. She and Lies' had learned quickly never to discuss those early days in front of Franz or even Klara.

"This is a surprise," Lies! had said. "What brings you here today?"

Waving off the Fiebigs' part-time housekeeper, Evelyn had rolled Liesl's wheelchair into the living room while telling her about Schmidt's message. Evelyn had been eager to talk to Liesl, and had barely begun to do so when she heard the scraping of a key in the front door.

"Klara," Lies! had explained. "She had an appointment with the obstetrician this morning."

Klara had come through the front door full of high spirits, but had also shown surprise at Evelyn's presence. "Aunt Evelyn! How good to see you." She had kissed Evelyn warmly. "What's the occasion?"

"I have to meet someone shortly," Evelyn had said vaguely. "More important, what did the doctor say?"

"Everything's perfect," she had said, her eyes glowing. Then she grimaced. "But I am to expect morning sickness." She had started out of the room. "I have to change, and go to the kitchen. Franz is coming home for lunch. He wants to hear the latest news. I hope you'll wait to see him, Aunt Evelyn."

Evelyn had already come to her feet. "Thank you, dear. I wish I could, but I can't. I must keep my appointment." Above all, she had wanted to get away before Franz Fiebig appeared.

She had succeeded in escaping.

Now she was at the restaurant table awaiting Police Chief Wolfgang Schmidt's arrival.

The salad and rolls and tea, which she had ordered for herself, and the beer for Schmidt, came first. She had finished sweetening her tea, and was about to reach for a roll, when she became aware that the burly Schmidt had arrived, was looming over her, taking her hand and kissing the back of it.

"How are you, Effie?" he asked, settling his big bulk at the table across from her.

"Fine, fine, Wolfgang," she replied. "Just wondering about your message."

"Didn't want to give you a fright," he said. But there is something I felt I had to discuss." He tasted his beer, then gulped it down. "I'm a little pressed for time this morning, so I can't stay too long. Still, this is important."

"What is?" Evelyn wanted to know. "What's so important?"

"This," Schimdt said. He yanked a folded tabloid from his jacket pocket and began to unfold it. "This morning's BZ. I didn't think you'd see it."

"You know I rarely look at it."

"Today you should," he said, turning back the first and second page, and handing the paper to her so that she could see the third page. "That photograph covering the top half. Have a look."

Evelyn had the tabloid in hand, and she stared at the large photograph with curiosity.

It was a clear picture taken from the Potsdamer Platz observation platform in West Berlin and it was focused on the dirt mound that covered the old
Führerbunker
. Three persons could plainly be seen in this blowup, a young woman and two elderly men having a conversation beside the mound of the bunker.

The headline read: WILL THEY BE DIGGING FOR HITLER AGAIN? She heard Schmidt speak. "Read the caption, Effie."

Her eyes went down to the caption. Swiftly, she read it. The three persons in the photograph were identified as Emily Ashcroft, the prominent British historian who was in Berlin to complete the definitive biography of Adolf Hitler; Herr Ernst Vogel, a onetime SS honor guard who had been a sentry at the
Führerbunker
in its final days; and Professor Otto Blaubach, an East Berlin authority on the Third Reich and a deputy prime minister in the East German government. The story went on to state that these were the first visitors to the site of the historic
Führerbunker
in at least a decade, and it speculated that there was every possibility that Miss Ashcroft was examining the site as a prelude to one more excavation of the area in search of a new clue to the Führer's end.

Evelyn raised her head, momentarily bewildered. "This is the young lady you told me about the other day?"

Schmidt crushed a cracker in his hand and downed the crumbs. "Emily Ashcroft, the British historian who checked into the Kempinski. I thought you should know she is going ahead."

Evelyn did not hide her concern. "Do you think she'll get permission to dig?"

"Her father did just before his fatal accident. So I'm guessing that she will. That fellow in the photograph, Blaubach, he's a big shot in the East German government. He could arrange it."

"But why dig now, so long after? Everyone in the world knows that the Führer and Eva Braun died in the bunker and were buried there."

"Evidently everyone doesn't believe it, Effie."

Evelyn was studying the photograph once more. Shaking her head, she said, "It's crazy. I wonder what she is looking for?"

"It does not matter," Schmidt said, retrieving the newspaper, folding it, shoving it into his pocket. "I just wanted to reassure you, Effie, in case you heard about this. I promise you there will not be an excavation at the bunker, no more digging into the past."

"You promise?"

Schmidt lifted his bulk out of the chair, his fat lips curled into a smile. "I promise. You need not be concerned about Miss Ashcroft again."

F
or Emily, it had been a busy morning in her suite at the Kempinski.

The courier package of files, sent by Pamela from Oxford, had finally arrived. The top folders contained information devoted to Hitler's career as an artist and the rest were photographic files of all the government buildings constructed in major German cities under Hitler. Emily wasted no time in telephoning the Palace Hotel to learn whether Nicholas Kirvov had checked in. He had, and Emily was soon speaking to him on the phone.

"I have the material from Oxford," she said. "Maybe It will tell you more about the building in your Hitler painting."

"How kind you are," Kirvov said. "Are you free for lunch? We can have it here in the Grillroom restaurant, if you like. Then we can go through the files together."

Emily made the date. No sooner had she hung up than the telephone sounded. She picked up the receiver.

It was Rex Foster, and Emily felt a girlish delight in hearing his voice.

"I suppose it is none of my business," he was saying, "but where were you last night? I must have called a half dozen times."

She was pleased. "I was out inspecting the excavation site until near dinnertime. After that, I had dinner with the man who is going to head the dig for me—presuming I get permission. I spent the evening with him and his wife, telling them what I'd seen at the bunker site." She paused. "Why were you calling me? Oh, I suppose it was to find out whether I could help you locate the architect Zeidler."

"No, Emily, that's not why I called you. I just wanted to know how you were—maybe see you if you were free—"

"If you want to know how I am, why don't you come along with me to the Palace Hotel? I'm having lunch there with Nicholas Kirvov. Remember? Curator of the Hermitage in Leningrad. I'm going to try to help him with that Hitler painting of his. You could help, too. Bring along your portfolio of Third Reich architecture. Besides, you might enjoy meeting Kirvov. You have a lot in common."