“They thought I was General Schellenberg,” I said.
“Not unreasonably, I’d have thought. You were driving his car, after all. You’re a lucky fellow, Gunther. After interrogating you, they’d have killed you for sure. The Americans like to shoot people who they perceive to be a threat. But only after they’ve beaten the shit out of them first. They think Europe is like the Wild West, I expect. Last year they were behind the murder of some French Vichy admiral called Darlan.”
After a while we started up a winding road and soon I could see Lake Zurich below and behind us.
“Where are we going?”
“A safe house just a few kilometers outside Zurich, in Ringlikon, near the foot of the Uetliberg. You can go back to the Baur when we’re sure we’re all in the clear for this. The safe house is not much of a place but the fellow who owns it is a Swiss-German dairy farmer who’s owned it since before the last war.”
The house in Ringlikon was a three-story, half-timbered farmhouse-style building beside a field of brown Swiss cows. What else do you expect to find in a Swiss field? In a shed beside the house, a large bull was standing by himself. He looked cross. I expect he was keen to get among the cows. It was a feeling with which I was familiar. We parked the cars and went inside the house. There was a lot of wooden furniture and pictures that looked like they’d been there a hundred years. The Swiss flag over the back door was a nice touch. But almost immediately I spied a bottle of schnapps on the kitchen shelves.
“I could use a drink,” I said.
“Good idea,” said Scarface, and he fetched the bottle and some glasses. “My hands are still shaking.”
“I’m grateful to you both,” I said. “And to our host, whoever he might be.”
“He’s away right now. Delivering milk to some of his customers. But you’ll meet Gottlob later, perhaps. He’s a good Nazi.”
“I can’t wait.”
The Gestapo man held out his hand. “Walter Nölle,” he said.
We shook hands, toasted each other with schnapps, and for a while at least, behaved like we were friends. Half an hour passed before I said, “Where’s the other fellow? The one who was driving my car.”
“Edouard — he’ll be here in a minute. Probably sending a message on the radio.” He glanced at his watch. “We usually clock in around this time.” He poured some more schnapps. “So what did you tell the Amis?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I told them it was a case of mistaken identity so I could hardly answer questions they’d set for Schellenberg. I think they were planning to get rough this afternoon. Which doesn’t bear thinking of. There’s nothing worse than being asked questions to which you just don’t know the answers. But I’m sure you know all about something like that.”
“Someone in the Swiss police obviously tipped them off,” said Nölle. “About the car.”
I nodded. “That’s the way it looks.”
“Did General Schellenberg tell you why he’s exporting a car to this Swiss Wood Syndicate?”
“He’s a general,” I said. “He’s not in the habit of explaining himself to a mere captain.”
Nölle let out a deep sigh.
“Look here, Gunther,” he said, “we’re going to have to make a full report on what we did today, to our superiors in Bern. You’re a cop. You understand how all that works. Our superiors won’t be at all happy that we’ve shot three Americans in Zurich. The Swiss are going to make a real stink about this. Because even without any evidence, the Americans will almost certainly point the finger at us. I’ve got to give my boss a full explanation for why we did what we did — for rescuing you — and somehow I don’t think the fact that you’re a fellow German is going to satisfy him. So, anything you can tell us will be gratefully appreciated. Anything at all. But we’ve got to tell those bastards in Berlin something.”
He paused.
“All right, perhaps you can tell us why Goebbels sent you all the way down here to see Dalia Dresner? Is he fucking her? Is that it?”
“I’m sorry. Don’t think I’m not grateful, but my lips are sealed. I’d like to help you out here. Really I would. As far as I know the minister wants her to star in a new movie called Siebenkäs, based on some crappy novel of the same name. In his capacity as head of the UFA film studios in Babelsberg. Nothing more. Schellenberg oiled the wheels for my trip. That’s all.”
“Goebbels sent you all the way here, just for that? Christ, that’s a nice trip. He must be fucking her.”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Look, as far as I can determine, the Swiss manufacture wooden barracks for the German Army and the SS. The car was meant to sweeten some deal the SS has going with the Swiss, that’s all.”
“The SS, you say?”
“Yes. But I don’t think it’s much of a secret.” I frowned. “Unless.”
“What?”
For a moment I thought of the camp at Jasenovac.
“I was just thinking that some of those wooden barracks must have been used to help build German concentration camps. For the SS. Places like Dachau and Buchenwald. I mean, it stands to reason that with the German Army on the move and living under canvas or in cities it’s conquered, there’s less of a need for them to have wooden barracks. Concentration camps need wooden barracks, right? It just occurred to me that the Swiss might be a little embarrassed if this became public knowledge. Which would certainly help to explain the murder of Dr. Heckholz last year.”
I pictured the scene in the lawyer’s Wallstrasse office, in Berlin-Charlottenburg: Heckholz’s body lying on the white floor, his head surrounded with a halo of blood after someone had smashed it in with a bronze bust of Hitler. No wonder I hadn’t read the crime scene properly — I’d been much too concerned with being amused at the idea that Hitler had killed the man. I’d ignored the fact that instead of writing the name of his killer with his own blood, Heckholz had used it to make a cross on the white floor — a white cross in red blood.
“Of course,” I said again. “It was a Swiss flag he was trying to make with his own blood. It wasn’t Schellenberg’s people who killed him. It was the Swiss. That’s what he was trying to tell us. That Meyer, or more likely that other fellow who was with him — Leuthard — must have killed him. They went to the German Opera that night, which is just around the corner. Leuthard claimed he’d slept all the way through act three of Weber’s The Marksman. He must have killed him then. To stop Heckholz from exposing what the Swiss had been up to in association with Stiftung Nordhav; to stop him from going to the international press.”
“I’m delighted for you,” said Nölle, “but none of this helps me. I’m supposed to find out what the hell you’re doing down here. If Schellenberg is a traitor. If he’s seeking to make a secret deal with the Allies on Himmler’s personal instructions. That’s what I want to know. And if Goebbels is having an affair with Dalia Dresner. So far you’ve told me fuck-all. That won’t do, Gunther. That won’t do at all.” He shook his head. “I’m asking you nicely. Please. Tell me everything you know. Given the fact that I just saved your life, it’s the least you can do.”