The Second Victory, page 18
Now and again they spoke to him, gently, respectfully, as to an honoured colleague. When they needed advice he gave it to them. When there were gaps in the records he supplied them out of his own card-index memory. And all the time he knew that the schedule they were building would be the text of his own indictment.
Yet he was calm about it, almost content.
It was as if he had come to a crisis, survived it, and lived thereafter in a state of syncope, a suspension of all effort and all emotion.
The crisis had come on his journey to Zürich. He had left cheerfully enough, convinced that in the week at his disposal he could sort out his affairs, to leave himself comfortably rich and preserve his standing with the Allied authorities. It was a move he had prepared a long time, and-, even at the worst, the salvage would be handsome.
In Zürich he had met a woman. She was charming, witty, willing, and recently divorced from a wealthy exporter. Kunzli was a cool philanderer and the affair had been simple to begin. Its ending had shocked him profoundly.
After their first night she had left him, dry-eyed and bitter, and her last words had rung in his ears ever since:
“It was like mating with a corpse. I hate you for it and I hate myself!”
In the past he had found pleasure in the fear he inspired in the wives of Party men and the daughters of generals. It was all part of his revenge. But this one was different. He had no need to revenge himself on her. He had even looked to her as the beginning of new free life, the first fruits of the waiting years.
Then, suddenly, he understood. There would be no fruit, ever again. The tree was barren. The taproot was cut. The sap of passion would never run again. There was only the figment of life, the dead symbol, stark and leafless, better cut down before it became a mockery.
Despair is a strange sin, committed in a strange fashion. Sepp Kunzli surrendered to it in the sad passionless hours of his second morning in Zürich. He saw quite clearly what his end must be, and, like the tidy fellow he was, he set himself to prepare for it.
He met his bankers, arranged for the liquidation of his safest assets and their payment into an account in the name of Anna Kunzli. Then he gathered all his remaining papers together and took them back to Bad Quellenberg. When the inquisitors came, he launched them on their investigations and sat back calmly to await the outcome.
To his niece he presented the same mask of courteous indifference. He neither forbade nor encouraged her work with the displaced persons. He was content to drift through the empty days towards the blank, inevitable future.
The thing that puzzled him now was how he had come to this vacuous state. Other men he knew had lied and cheated and lusted and killed and intrigued and had still retained their taste for living. They still had goals to reach, desires to satisfy. Some of them arrived at love—or a fair copy of it. They still had fears. They still had moments of exaltation.
Yet he, the sanest and soberest of them all, had lost, somewhere along the way, the key to life. Perhaps he had never had it. Perhaps it had dropped out of his hand the day his wife had died. Perhaps this was a reason for her dying—that she knew he was dead already. Now it was all so long ago, so hard and fruitless to remember.
Far back in the house he heard the shrilling of the bell that announced a caller at the iron gate. He stopped his pacing and looked down towards the road. A few moments later Bürgermeister Max Holzinger came hurrying up the steep path.
Kunzli beckoned him on to the terrace and greeted him with a distant smile:
“Grüss Gott, Herr Bürgermeister! This is a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”
Holzinger cast a quick nervous glance inside the study.
“A word in private, Herr Doktor. A personal matter.”
Kunzli took his arm and led him off the balcony to a sunlit lawn where rustic chairs were set about an iron table.
“Sit down, Herr Bürgermeister. Let’s be comfortable. Now…?”
Holzinger coughed and fidgeted unhappily. He was never an eloquent man, but now he was tongue-tied with embarrassment. Kunzli encouraged him with gentle irony:
“Come, my friend! Out with it! Times are bad for all of us. Why should we be uneasy with one another?”
“Well then…” The Bürgermeister took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “You—you know the investigations that are going on—into property, into Party affiliations?”
“None better,” said Kunzli dryly.
“You know that I—well, that my record has been at least fairly clean.”
“Cleaner than most.” Kunzli nodded agreement. Then he smiled with a hint of the old malice. “With luck you might hold your job.”
“I—I am less concerned with that than with my reputation. You will understand that I am in a delicate position. The Occupation authorities trust me. Colonel Hanlon has been a guest in my house.”
“And your daughter works for him.”
“That’s right.”
“Fortunate for you—and for her.”
“Quite. But…” Holzinger tugged at his collar.
“But a trifle in discreet of Hanlon. Is that what you mean?”
“Not at all, not at all,” Holzinger assured him hastily. “There is no question of a liaison. Everything is very correct and official.”
Kunzli cocked a sardonic eye at his visitor.
“Any hopes of marriage?”
“The…the subject has not been raised. Later, one might hope, perhaps…”
“Then why so sad, Herr Bürgermeister?” Kunzli put it to him bluntly. “You have more reason than most of us to be glad.”
Holzinger told him, stammering:
“There—there is this question of my house. The title, as you remember, was transferred to my wife on a pre-dated deed. If that were to become known…”
Kunzli eyed him coldly.
“How should it become known, my friend, since you and I are the only ones who know it—and the witnesses were unaware of its contents?”
“I—I thought you might give me your assurance…”
“Would it make you any more secure? Would it?”
Holzinger was sweating now. The matter was in the open, but he had bungled the diplomacy. Kunzli was baiting him. Later he would set a price. The next question startled him even more.
“Why should I want to betray you, Herr Bürgermeister?”
“Please! “Holzinger held up a shaking hand in deprecation. “I did not mean that.”
“You did,” Kunzli told him mildly. “And you should not be ashamed to admit it. There was a time when it might have flattered me.”
Holzinger said nothing. He was trying to read the thoughts that went on behind the metallic, spider’s eyes. Kunzli let him sweat a few moments longer, then an idea seemed to strike him. He said briskly:
“I’ll make a deal with you, Holzinger.”
Holzinger winced. This was the moment he had dreaded. He asked uncertainly: “What sort of deal?”
“I shall give you my solemn word of secrecy, in return for a small favour—a personal favour.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple. I’d like you to ask my niece to dinner, very soon—and have her stay the night with you.”
“Is that all? I mean…it would be a pleasure in any circumstance, but…”
“In the present circumstance, it would be the biggest favour you could do me.”
“May I ask why?”
“Better you didn’t, Herr Bürgermeister.”
And, for the first time in all the years of their acquaintance, Holzinger knew he was getting the truth from Sepp Kunzli. In a secret, shamefaced fashion, he was very glad of it.
To Father Albertus spring brought a new labour—the visitation of his flock. During the winter he was cut off from many of them. He was too old and too frail to make the rounds of the outer farms and the isolated communities in the back valleys.
But when the sun shone and the tracks were dry, and his tired heart beat a little more strongly, he was able to move more freely, sometimes on foot, sometimes riding on a peasant cart.
He had much to do. There were children to be baptised, confessions to be heard, sick folk to be comforted with the Sacraments, bundling couples to be churched. In the outlying villages he would lodge in one of the farmhouses and say Mass in the big living-room where the onions and the smoked hams and black sausages hung from the blackened rafters.
This was his own interpretation of the allegory of spring: the sap of grace beginning to flow again, from the root which was Christ through the trunk which was the Church, out into the spreading branches which were the scattered community of the faithful. Some of the branches seemed dead; and this was a sadness to him. But he never lost hope for them, or ceased to pray. Spring had its miracles every year. Buds broke out on the driest twigs. The oldest trunks pushed out young branches. And on the roughest scree slopes the gentian found room to grow.
On this bright afternoon, while Rudi Winkler was stepping out to see the town and Mark Hanlon was hurrying down for his conference with Meinhardt Huber, the old priest was coming home from a two-day tour of the southern area of his parish.
The woodcutters had given him a lift to the top of the rise. Now he was strolling quietly down a narrow track that gave on to the Mozartstrasse. Sometimes he stopped to feed the birds with a handful of crumbs from his pocket, or coax the little grey squirrels that clung to the treeboles and stared at him with bright, wary eyes. The sound of water was all about him, and the low hushing of the wind through the new foliages. The peace of it seeped into him, the warmth stirred his ageing blood. Life was renewing itself, hope too. Flowers would grow out of the mouths of dead men. Children would play on the charnelheaps and never know that they were there.
When he came out into the Mozartstrasse he stopped and looked up at a small chalet of yellow pine with a trim terrace of lawn in front of it. He fished in his pocket and brought out a small notebook, the register of his parishioners. The entry for this house said simply: ‘R. Winkler. Visitor. Religion unknown.’ He looked up again and saw that the front door was open and the curtains looped back from the windows. He slipped the notebook into his pocket, opened the gate and walked up the stone steps.
When he came to the door, he knocked lightly. There was no answer. He knocked again and waited a moment, then he walked inside.
The first thing he saw was the housekeeper, scared and gaping, framed in the doorway that led to the kitchen. Then he saw the man lying on the bed. He was sleeping, with his face turned to the wall, so that Father Albertus saw the dressings on his cheek and the new skin growing round them.
He turned to the housekeeper and demanded in a low voice:
“How long has he been here?”
She was too frightened to lie and she told him.
“Since St Nicholas’s Day. The Herr Doktor has been caring for him. I had nothing to do with it, Father. I am only a servant here and…”
He silenced her sternly.
“Hush, woman! You have nothing to fear from me. Leave us.”
“But the Herr Doktor…”
“Leave us!”
She went out, closing the door behind her, and Father Albertus sat down to wait until the sleeper should wake again. Silently he began to pray: “Open Thou my lips, O Lord, and set wisdom on my tongue.…”
Rudi Winkler leaned on the parapet of the bridge and looked down at the waterfall that plunged down from the crags and cut clean through the centre of the town. It was swollen now with the melting snows and the thunder of it filled the street and the spray was flung up in a fine mist between the blank walls of the buildings.
There was something hypnotic in this tumult of water and he stood there a long time, watching the patterns of foam and the tossing of the spume about the rock faces. Then he had the uneasy feeling that someone was watching him.
He looked up and saw another man, half a dozen yards away, standing with his back to the water, studying him intently.
He was thin as a beanpole and his clothes hung on him loosely. He had a long bony face and sunken eyes and a shock of hair that stood straight up on his head like a birch broom.
Winkler tried to outface him, but he went on staring. The little Bavarian shrugged with annoyance, turned away and walked up the street in the opposite direction, conscious of the bleak eyes fixed on his retreating back.
After a while the shock-haired fellow moved off too. And when he came to the Bella Vista he gathered his friends about him and told them:
“The Butcher’s in town! I saw him with my own eyes.”
CHAPTER 14
IN THE shabby office at the 121st Feldlazarett, Mark Hanlon conferred with Reinhardt Huber.
The Doktor was angry. His broad good-humoured face was clouded, his mouth was grim. As he talked he toyed restlessly with a steel paperknife, now scoring the blotter, now thrusting it, like a scalpel, at Hanlon’s intent, sober face.
“I told you once, my friend, I have no local loyalties. I don’t belong to this town. My world is inside the walls of this hospital. So I am not concerned to make myself an informer for you or anyone else. If this were any other sort of theft, I should deal with it as a military matter or hand it over to Fischer. But this…this is a vile thing. You know how little we have here—how men wake under the knife because I must ration anaesthetic. How I must reserve the sulphas and the penicillin only for extreme cases and let the others fight out their pain for weeks and months. When the little we have is pilfered, then I begin to think of the thief as a murderer. I call on you. Do you understand?”
“Partly.” Hanlon was non-commital. “I still point out that in the absence of other circumstances Fischer is the man who has jurisdiction.”
“To hell with Fischer!” Huber exploded. “Fischer’s in this too, up to the neck.”
“If you can prove that,” Hanlon said with a grin, “I’ll be happy to move in.”
“Right!” Huber slammed down the paperknife and heaved himself out of his chair so that he stood towering over Hanlon, a big angry man, hurt and ashamed. “Here are the proofs. First, the thefts have been taking place over a long time.”
“Since when?”
“The first losses were noticed just after St Nicholas.”
“Why didn’t you do something about it then?”
Huber shrugged unhappily.
“It was the first time. We could not be sure it was theft. The quantities were small—a quarter of a litre of ether, antiseptic solution, as mall quantity of sulpha powder. They could have been explained by a careless stocktaking. After that, as you know, things began to be much harder to get. You helped us over the worst. But the small unexplainable losses were there—all in the same categories. Anaesthetic, antiseptic, dressings. Now”—his stubby finger thrust emphatically at Hanlon—‘second, the inroad begins on the last and most precious commodity of all. Two capsules of penicillin were taken from the refrigerator. There is no doubt about this one, believe me.”
“Do you know the man who took them?”
Huber nodded.
“This time, yes. A wardmaid saw him leaving the dispensary at a time when he had no right to be there.”
“Have you questioned him?”
“Not yet. I should like you here for that.”
Hanlon frowned and shook his head.
“Not without a reason. Why do you want me to handle it?”
Huber gave it to him, succinctly.
“Our thief has a mistress in the town. Her husband is a patient of ours—incurable, poor devil. She comes to visit him and goes home with a bedfellow…”
“What’s her name?”
“Gretl Metzger. She holds one of the tobacco licences here.”
“We’ve got nothing on her in our books.”
“I don’t think anybody has,” said Huber with a weary grin. “But the liaison is significant. It becomes more significant when you know that Gretl Metzger is an old flame of Karl Adalbert Fischer.”
“Can you prove that?” Hanlon shot it at him sharply.
“It shouldn’t be hard. It’s a small town. Everybody knows the smutty bits about everybody else. So now we have it. Our thief, his girl friend, Karl Fischer and a handful of drugs in three categories—where do they all point?”
“To my first guess, “said Hanlon tersely. “Fischer’s shielding a murderer and someone’s trying to do a plastic on his face. There are no medical supplies on the open market—this is the only way he can get them. Fischer’s been using the Metzger woman to seduce your staff.”
“Right again, my friend!” Huber eased himself back into the chair. “Now do you handle the case?”
“I handle it.”
“Good,” said Huber. “And you also pay me for information received?”
Hanlon looked at him in surprise. The request was so blunt and yet so alien to the man’s character. Huber’s mouth relaxed into a wry, unhappy smile.
“You are going to replace my drugs, Hanlon, and you are going to increase my supplies. I’m not very proud of myself, you see. I’m selling out my countrymen to the Occupying Power. I want to see a profit in it—for my boys at least.”
“You’ll get your supplies,” Hanlon told him quietly. “And I don’t think you should blame yourself. Why should a killer be saved when twenty men die of shock or septicemia because their supplies have been stolen?”
“No reason at all,” said Huber bleakly. “But I’m a doctor, not a judge.”
“Like it or not,” said Hanlon grimly, “we’re all judges. You’re better off than I am. I’m the hangman too…”
“The price of victory,” said Huber with thin humour.
“It buys nothing but a headache,” Hanlon told him sourly.
“And the Mayor’s daughter.”
He said it with a smile, but it took Hanlon like a smack in the mouth. His face flushed and he thrust himself out of his chair and stood staring down at Huber. Anger boiled over in a stream of passionate abuse:
