The Seventh Secret (26 page)

Apparently Schmidt had been notified by the Kempinski concierge of what had happened last night and was ready for Foster.

Signaling Foster to a pull-up chair, he drew a yellow pad into the writing position and selected a ball-point pen out of a holder.

"I have a sketchy idea of what occurred yesterday evening in suite 229 of the Bristol Kempinski," said Schmidt. "At eight in the evening, wasn't it?"

"Give or take a minute or two."

"Very well," said the chief of police. "I think I'd better hear in your own words exactly what happened. Try to omit nothing, no matter how seemingly inconsequential."

As Foster spoke in a factual monotone, Schmidt industriously made notes on his yellow pad.

When Foster concluded his account, Schmidt looked up. "You're sure he brandished a knife?"

"I have the knife right here," said Foster. During the evening with Emily, he had gone into the bathroom to retrieve the knife from the floor, wrapped it in a hand towel, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. This morning he had transferred the knife to his portfolio. Opening his portfolio, he brought out the wrapped weapon and placed it on the chief's desk.

Schmidt removed the towel, gingerly took the sharp blade by its tip and held it up. "An ordinary hunting knife, with a common brand name. There must be millions of these in circulation. I'm afraid the brand name won't tell us much. Still, there may be some fingerprints."

"I could have smudged them. I picked up the knife with my bare hand. I wasn't thinking."

"Then we'll have to fingerprint you, too, for comparison. Let us hope you left one clear print of the attacker," said Schmidt. "I'll turn this weapon over to be -dusted." He replaced the knife in the towel, and pushed the towel aside. "The assailant? Can you describe him?"

"Not well, I'm afraid. Everything happened so fast. He was much shorter than I am. Perhaps five feet seven or eight. I threw him over my shoulder, and I can guarantee you he was heavy and muscular. I'd guess one hundred eighty pounds. He had black hair, dark eyes, wide flat nose. Somewhat swarthy."

Schmidt was writing. "A German, you think?"

"I have no idea."

Schmidt put down his pen, and sat back in his low swivel chair. "The intended victim, Emily Ashcroft," the chief said, "can you tell me more about her?"

"What would you like to know?"

"If to your knowledge, she has any enemies in West Berlin?"

"Enemies?" repeated Foster. "She doesn't know anyone here, not really. She's a scholar from England, absolutely harmless. I can't imagine anyone having any reason whatsoever to harm her."

"So, she's here as a tourist then," Schmidt said offhandedly.

Foster considered his reply. If he wanted help, he had better be truthful. "No, not really as a tourist," he said. "She and her father were writing a definitive biography of Adolf Hitler together. Her father, Dr. Harrison Ashcroft, was killed in a traffic accident in Berlin—"

"I thought the name sounded familiar," Schmidt interrupted. "I spoke to his daughter on the phone. I remember investigating the unfortunate accident."

"—and then Emily Ashcroft came to Berlin alone to follow some leads she had on Hitler's last hours."

"What more could there be to find out?" Schmidt said with a shrug. "Everyone knows Hitler committed suicide in his bunker in 1945. The Soviets proved it."

"Well, Miss Ashcroft is a thorough historian. She wants to verify all the details. There is a possibility Hitler survived and got away."

Schmidt emitted a hoarse laugh. "Yes, I know all those wild rumors. The last one I heard was that Hitler was smuggled out of Germany and taken by U-boat to Japan." He laughed again. "Maybe Miss Ashcroft should go and research in Japan."

Foster found himself annoyed by the chief of police's mockery. Instinctively he began to dislike this bull of a police officer. "Someone did deliberately try to kill her here in Berlin," Foster said unsmilingly. "I'm told there are still old SS veteran groups around West Germany who worship Hitler and the good old days under him. As you must know, yesterday Miss Ashcroft's photograph appeared in one of your Berlin newspapers. She was seen in the East Zone visiting the site of the bunker. Maybe one of those SS veteran groups noticed her, didn't want any foreigner meddling around with Hitler's heroic finish, and decided to interfere with her search."

Schmidt's beefy countenance was solemn once more. "It is a possibility, but an unlikely one. True, there is a handful of Nazi dreamers around, neo-Nazis who re-member the glory of the Third Reich. My department is always on the alert to find them. But the diehards are very few, very advanced in years, and totally ineffectual. Still, there might be one lunatic among them."

"And maybe such a lunatic hired someone to liquidate Miss Ashcroft."

Schmidt sat straight. "With that possibility also in mind, Mr. Foster, we will continue to infiltrate the neo-Nazi groups in this area and find out whether they are up to anything. But truly, this is not a source I would worry about."

"What should Miss Ashcroft worry about?" persisted Foster. "Someone did try to kill her last night."

"What happened sounds like an unmotivated attack by a deranged sadist. However, you are correct. An attack was made on a distinguished foreign visitor, and it is our duty to apprehend her attacker and bring him to trial. I myself will be in charge of the search." With effort, the chief of police heaved himself out of his seat. "You can assure Miss Ashcroft that she shall receive special protection from this day on. I am immediately going to arrange for the hotel to take better security measures for the length of her stay in Berlin. She will no longer have to fear the recurrence of a similar incident, that I promise." Schmidt stood up. "Meanwhile, I'll have someone meet you at the elevator to take fingerprints. Please inform Miss Ashcroft we will be vigilant."

"I will. Thank you, Chief."

But leaving the police station, Foster was still filled with a sense of distinct unease.

F
oster followed Rudi Zeidler through his sprawling well-appointed one-story home located about a half mile west of Grunewald.

Zeidler, wearing a white sport shirt, white ducks, and tennis shoes, was as tall as Foster, but lankier, bonier, a sprightly man in his sixties. His English was excellent, and he used it to describe various pieces of sculpture and French expressionist painting as they passed through his ultramodern house filled with oiled teak Danish furniture.

At the rear, they came into an airy studio, awash with the sun that was pouring in through a skylight. Except for a flat-topped desk and several web-backed tubular chairs, the studio was furnished only with tables used for 'pinning down design plans.

Zeidler took in the room with a wave of his arm. "Part of my work suite," he said. He indicated the tables. "I still keep my hand in with some architectural commissions from time to time." He jerked a chair back for Foster to sit in, and himself went behind the metal desk. Foster noticed that the single piece of equipment on the desk was a green computer.

"So," said Zeidler, "your book is on German architecture. Do you want to tell me about it?"

"I'd prefer to show it to you," said Foster, lifting up his portfolio. He handed it over to Zeidler. "You can see it's called
Architecture of the 1000-Year Third Reich
. What was done and what was planned but never done. You don't have to bother going through the whole book. That's just to give you an idea of what I've got. Also, to give you an idea of what I haven't got."

Zeidler had started flipping the pages of photographs and drawings in the portfolio. Without looking up, he said, "What haven't you got?"

"The buildings and designs you contributed to Albert Speer and Hitler, when you were Speer's associate. From what you told me on the phone it must have been a crazy time."

"Very crazy," Zeidler confirmed, as he remained absorbed in the portfolio. He finished it, closed it, and handed it back to Foster. "Yes, you seem to have everything except what I did."

"I want this book to be complete, Mr. Zeidler. I need to know what you did."

"Little enough. But still, of some importance."

"As far as I've been able to learn, you designed and constructed seven buildings for Hitler."

Zeidler moved his skeletal head in assent. "Seven exactly."

"I was not able to find photographs or even designs of any of them in Speer's papers."

Zeidler wrinkled his pointed nose. "Speer was not exactly proud of them. So he kept no copies. You would not find them anywhere else because they were meant to be secret."

"Secret? Why?"

"Because the structures were hidden underground headquarters for Hitler as he moved about Germany during the war," said Zeidler.

"They were actually kept secret?" Foster asked.

"Well as much as anything can be kept secret on construction jobs," said Zeidler. "After all, there are always a fair number of people involved in every construction. There are the laborers, although in most cases Hitler assigned each task to slave laborers—Jews, Poles, Czechs—and they were executed after the task was done. Once we were finished, Hitler moved a Wehrmacht general and staff members into each underground. The existence of these subterranean structures was not known to the Reich's enemies until the war was over. "

"And those are the ones you designed and built?" prompted Foster.

"Every one of them," said Zeidler with a degree of pride.

"Do you have photographs of them?"

"Unfortunately, very few. When built and in use, I remind you, they were secret. As the war was being lost, and Germany overrun, Hitler ordered some of these bunkers evacuated and blown up. Others were discovered by the Russians, British, Americans, French, and destroyed. I may have a few pictures showing the ruins. But they hardly indicate the original architecture. I can send you what I do have. Where are you staying?"

"At the Kempinski."

"You shall receive them in a day or two." He had pulled open a drawer of his metal desk, taken out a piece of paper, and jotted a note. Then, feeling around inside the drawer, he removed a white-rimmed yellow Meerschaum pipe and a leather pouch. Filling the pipe, he asked, "You don't mind, do you?"

From a pocket of his sport jacket, Foster extracted his own worn briar pipe and a packet of tobacco. "I'll join you."

Zeidler pushed his pouch toward Foster. "Try some of my Dutch tobacco. Quite mellow."

Stuffing the tobacco into his pipe, Foster said, "If you don't have adequate photographs of your handiwork, perhaps you have the original designs of those seven underground structures?"

"I was about to mention the designs," said Zeidler with enthusiasm. "Those I do have, all seven of the original blueprints."

"Well, they would certainly do as well as any photos," said Foster. "That is, if you'll permit me to reproduce them in my book. They would complete my project. "

Zeidler was having trouble keeping his Meerschaum lighted. At last, he managed. After a few puffs, he said, "No problem. You would like to see them now?"

"If you please."

Zeidler nodded. "I can retrieve them from my storage room. Let me see where they are. I have everything inventoried in my computer." He slid his chair along the desk to the computer. "There they are—Underground Bunkers. I'll be able to find them quickly. Give me no more than five minutes." He was already on his feet and heading into an adjacent room.

Foster sat back, pleased that his search had come to a successful conclusion. Those underground bunkers, properly captioned, would make a dramatic climax for his architectural survey. Briefly, he thought of the strange creature who had ordered this underground string of bunkers built. One could understand the ones that had been constructed in the latter days of the crumbling Reich as protection against Allied bombings. But the others indicated that Hitler had been an animal of the night, a creature of darkness, who wanted to burrow deep inside the earth far from the havoc and destruction he was creating above ground.

Contentedly, Foster blew smoke rings, awaiting the illustrations for his project.

In a few minutes, Zeidler returned, carrying tubes of blueprints under one arm. "Here we have them, all seven," he announced. He placed them on his desk. "Come closer. I'll show you what they are."

Foster jumped up, emptied his pipe into an ashtray, and went around the desk to stand beside Zeidler, as the German removed the first blueprint from a tube and began to spread it out.