Schreiber's Secret (15 page)

“Fantastic, Dieter,” Edwards replied excitedly. “How did you do it?”

“Elementary, my dear Edwards.”

“Listen,” said the reporter, “did you find out if this particular Schreiber had any connection with Theresienstadt?”

“I’m trying, Mark, I’m trying. Unfortunately, there is so little written about the Small Fortress. There used to be a Small Fortress Association in a place called Littlehampton ...”

“Sussex.”

“Yes. But it doesn’t exist anymore. They must have all passed on.”

“Keep looking.”

“I will, Mark, I will. What about your end? Anything new from the police or that mysterious caller?”

“Nothing, Dieter, sorry.”

“Let’s compare notes soon, Mark, okay?”

“Sure. I’ll give you a ring as soon as there are any new developmen
ts. Thanks once again, Dieter. Bye.”

Edwards, his heart pounding, pressed the talk button again. He was already formulating the next day’s lead in his mind. He’d have to run the gauntlet from Webb, but the DI could not expect him to pass on this opportunity. Rejuvenated by Müller’s call, he sprang out of bed, paced around the room for a few minutes, and then made for the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water and ran his wet fingers through his hair. He desperately wanted to speak to Danielle, but he knew she would be spending the night with her inconsolable aunt.

The phone rang again.

“Damn it,” he muttered, “who can that be?”

He strode back into the bedroom and picked up the mobile. “Hello, Edwards.”

“M-Mr Edwards.”

The reporter sat on the side of his bed. It was the anonymous caller and he was obviously distressed. “Yes, yes. What’s the matter?”

“I am frightened, Mr Edwards. I am so frightened.”

The man was sobbing, and Edwards felt at a loss as to how to react.

“Look, whoever you are, try, er, try to compose yourself. What’s happened?”

“He is going to kill again. I know it. He will kill again and again until he finds me. He is evil. Please protect me, Mr Edwards. Please protect me.”

“How can I protect you when I don’t even know your name or where you live?”

“I can’t, Mr Edwards. I am too afraid. I lost my faith in humanity fifty years ago.”

“I can arrange it so you’ll get round-the-clock police protection.
You see, I believe you. I know that Hans Schreiber existed.” There was a long pause. “Hello, hello ... are you still there?”

“Thank God,” came the whispered reply. “The whole world must know his name and what he did.”

“Can you give me any more details?” the reporter asked, flicking over to a fresh page in his notepad. Again there was a long silence.

“He was an animal, Mr Edwards.” The voice was low and bitter. “He would take a special delight in making a spectacle of killing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you ever see the fil
m
Spartacu
s
, Mr Edwards?”

“Yes, of course. With Kirk Douglas.”

“For Hans Schreiber the Small Fortress was a Roman arena. He would arrange gladiatorial contests ...”

“Go ahead, sir, I’m listening.” Edwards gripped the mobile hard.

“Schreiber would pit one Jew against another and make them fight to the death.”

“What?” the reporter gulped.

“I know this,” the caller continued. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

Edwards sat on the bed transfixed. His hand refused to write. His head was full of a thousand terrifying images of the worst excesses of ancient Rome.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” he stuttered.

The stranger’s voice suddenly became calmer. “He enjoyed it. He actually enjoyed watching men kill one another. I think he enjoyed it more than killing them himself.”

“Now listen, please. Please do as I ...”

“I cannot, Mr Edwards. I will call you again.”

“No, don’t go ...”

Clic
k
.

“All right, calm down,” snapped Bob Webb. “For God’s sake, calm down!”  The manservant stood trembling by the twisted body of his late employer and whimpered, not because of the grotesque manner in which his benefactor had met his end, but because he was about to be put out into the street. Knowing Plant as he did, he was sure that a will, if there indeed
was one, would contain no provision for him. It had always been a case of enjoying the good life while it lasted. Richard Matthew Bates was crying because he was feeling sorry for Richard Matthew Bates.

“Now let me get this straight,” boomed Webb gruffly. “You left the King’s Head to walk home about fifteen minutes ago. It took you five minutes to reach the front gates and you found Mr Plant where he’s now lying, about fifteen yards down the path from the gates.”

“Yes,” Bates squeaked.

“Is there anyone at the pub who can vouch for you being there?”

“Yes, of course. Ask any of the barmen. They all know me.” Bates knew he was squirming, but he was damned if he was going to divulge the name and address of his newfound friend. He did not want the fresh meat spoiled.

“Now you garbled something before about leaving Mr Plant with a guest.”

“Guv!”

Webb looked over his shoulder as Detective Constable Jim Sims, his ruddy face streaked by the rain, entered the hall. “Wipe your shoes, Jim, there’s a good lad. You look like you’ve been working on a farm.”

“Yes, guv,” said Sims apologetically. “It’s starting to rain heavily. Everything’s muddying up. But look what we’ve found already.”

Webb took the transparent plastic bag and smoothed it against the object inside. It was clearly a dagger, displaying the runes of the SS on the hilt and some kind of German motto along the blade. The tip was tinted with blood. But what concerned Webb most were the initials HS carved on the hilt between the Nazi winged eagle and swastika emblem and the runes.

“And there’s also another note,” said Sims, handing his boss a second plastic bag.

Webb stared intently at the printed message. It was the same as the first, but with a rider: “Publish this note and maybe I will stop enjoying myself killing Jews”.

The gangling DI took a deep breath and turned round to face the ashen-faced manservant. “Does this mean anything to you?” he said, showing him the knife.

“N-No,” stammered Bates. “Oh, look at the blood. I feel faint.”

“Before you pass out, Mr Bates, you were saying that you left your boss in the company of a stranger.”

“Well, not exactly a stranger. It was Henry Sonntag, Mr Plant’s financial adviser. They were discussing business.”

“Where is this Sonntag now?”

“He must have left before I got back,” came Bates’s tremulous reply. “Oh dear.”

“What, Mr Bates?”

“They were having a bit of an argument ... over money. I – I – oh
dear ...”

“Yes, Mr Bates?” said Webb, becoming increasingly irritated.

“I thought he was joking ...”

Webb’s imposing eyebrows lifted and his steely eyes bored into the manservant’s.

“Just before I went out, I thought I heard Sonntag say he could kill Mr Plant. They were arguing about some commissions that Sonntag said Mr Plant owed him. I thought it would all blow over. Oh dear.”

Webb pursed his lips. He felt like throttling the queer. “Right, Mr Bates. What does this Sonntag look like?”

“He’s about six feet tall with thinning yellowy-white hair. Must be in his seventies. He’s a German Jew, I think.”

Webb’s ears pricked. The word “German” had set the alarm bells ringing.

“Where does he live, this Sonntag?”

“He lives about three miles away, off the main Abridge road,” said Bates, moving shakily towards the telephone table to his right. “I think his address and telephone number are in Mr Plant’s telephone book here.” The manservant picked up the leather directory. “Yes, here it is.”

Webb ripped out the page. He knew the country lane in question and the few detached house along it. “Jim, you come with me. Get Fairbrother in here to look after Mr Bates. Give these to Swanson for safe keeping.”

“Right away, guv,” said Sims, taking the two plastic bags. Webb loped out towards his car, its blue light playing intermittently over the dark rain soaked bushes. He strode towards his colleagues, who had set up arc lights by the body further down the path. He felt elated, certain he was on the verge of some kind of breakthrough. The poof was a suspect and so was the character named Sonntag. Something was telling him he should put his money on the latter.

The detective inspector climbed into the passenger seat of his new Ford Mondeo. Within seconds his subordinate was at the wheel. “How long will it take you to get there, Jim?” he asked.

“Seven minutes for an ordinary driver, three for me.”

“Step on it then, Jim lad.”

Sims swung the Mondeo out of the late Howard Plant’s driveway with a vengeance. Neither man spoke as they sped along the A113. Sonntag’s home was just inside the border that separated the Met from the Essex constabulary. Webb was glad. He did not want any country yokels in on this one. The detective felt the familiar surge of adrenalin through his veins. The prospect of an arrest was what kept every good copper on his mettle. He just hoped this Sonntag character was still at home.

Sims switched off the blue light and the headlights as he swung the car into the short driveway of Henry Sonntag’s home. Both men were relieved to see that the house was ablaze with light. They had every reason to believe that their suspect was present.

Three times Webb pressed the white ceramic button that was set into an oval brass plate to the left of the oak door. Three times he could hear the bell ring from within, yet there was no sign of any life.

“Okay, Jim,” he said, exasperated, “force it.”

Sims tested the door. He prided himself on being able to make a forced entry using the minimum of force. The owner had thankfully not engaged the mortise lock and ordinary Yales were a piece of cake. Within seconds both men were inside.

“Phew, pretty lavish, eh, guv?” Sims whispered.

“Par for the course round here, Jim ... Ssh.” Webb suddenly put his forefinger to his lips. Both men listened intently. They could hear the sound of running water. Someone was having a shower. Suddenly they heard a voice singing.
In German. “Bloody awful language,” the big man muttered.

“Shall we go up, guv?”

Webb nodded and placed his foot firmly on the first step of a large spiral staircase leading to the upper floor. For two big men they made surprisingly little noise as they ascended.

“We’ll have a look around before we confront him,” Webb whispered. 
The singing, a croaky baritone, continued to emanate from a room to their right as they reached the top of the stairs. The detective inspector motioned to Sims to stay by the bathroom door while he went to investigate the three rooms to the left of the central balustrade. He quietly opened the first door, his sweaty palm luxuriating in the coolness of the round gold-plated doorknob. It was a broom cupboard. Moving along to the second door he sent a furtive glance towards Sims before opening it. He could see right away that it was the main bedroom.

Bob Webb entered Henry Sonntag’s bedroom and came face to face with further proof that he had indeed found his man. On the bed was a large brown
suitcase which its owner was clearly in the process of packing. Some shirts and a pile of underwear lay next to it. To the left of the suitcase was a European Community passport and a British Airways airline ticket. The detective inspector opened the passport and stared at the photograph of Henry Sonntag. Pretty distinguished-looking guy, he thought. He noted with interest that Sonntag’s place of birth was given as Berlin.

Webb placed the passport back on the bed and picked up the flight ticket. The fact that the destination read “Rio de Janeiro” hardly surprised him. Forget Colin Smith and his bunch of yobbos. This was their man, all right. He replaced the ticket and left the room. Motioning to Sims to stay where he was, he then walked into the third
room which was facing him at the end of the landing. The room was cold and musty. He groped for the light-switch.  “Jesus H. Christ,” gasped the policeman as the room flooded with light. Nothing in his previous experience had prepared Detective Inspector Robert William Webb for what now confronted him.

Theresienstadt

In the split second between Schreiber wishing him farewell and the staccato chatter of the machineguns, Herschel Soferman made and acted on a decision intended to give him the only possible chance of survival. Throwing himself headlong into the ditch of putrefying flesh, he barely had time to gag on the olid stench before another body hit him full force in the back. Slipping into welcome oblivion, Soferman thought he heard Schreiber berating his men for forgetting to bring the quicklime.

When the Jew regained consciousness it was not his olfactory sense that was first assaulted, but that part of the brain that triggers panic. Oxygen, the very stuff of life, was being denied him. Squirming with all his might, he tried desperately to shift the heavy weight that was crushing him.  It was only when he had manoeuvred free of the corpses and taken a deep lungful of fetid air that the subsequent rush of adrenalin enabled him to clamber from the ditch. He hardly had time, however, to savour the most intoxicating elixir that life has to offer: freedom coupled with the knowledge that one has cheated death.