Schreiber's Secret (16 page)

“
Schnell! Schnell
!
Guards, hurry them up.” The stentorian voice of Hans Schreiber echoed through the trees, their branches almost seeming to wilt in servile deference to the black-garbed arbiter.

Soferman summoned what little energy he still possessed and flung himself into a small clump of bushes at one end of the ditch. This time, instead of gasping for air, he reduced his breathing to the barest minimum. He knew that the slightest movement would bring a most terrible retribution.

“Stand by your shovels,” came the familiar refrain.

Soferman peered through the leaves with morbid fascination as another group of men shuffled to their positions, as gullibly as he had. For the mind refused to believe the worst. Instead, it embraced every opportunity to indulge in wishful thinking, to believe in the sanctity of life even when death was inevitable.

“When I give the order, you will begin to cover the bodies,” Schreiber told nineteen more doomed inmates of the Small Fortress.

As the Nazi boomed out the order to fire, Herschel Soferman screwed up his eyes and prayed that no loose bullets would find his refuge. He trembled as the withering hail cut the prisoners to the quick, allowing them no time to protest at the duplicity of their tormentors.

“Cover them with lime,” declared Schreiber, “and we’ll come back tomorrow to finish the job.”

The smell of cordite hung heavily in the air as Soferman opened his eyes. His heart leapt into his mouth as he saw Schreiber approaching the ditch. If he inspected it too closely he might notice that one Jew was missing.
A very special Jew. His erstwhile favourite Jew.

Hans Schreiber neared the ditch of death and then veered suddenly to his right until he was standing only a yard from the bushes that protected the man whom he supposed to be dead. The Obersturmführer took out a small pink handkerchief and put it to his nose. Soferman could smell the heady scent of lavender as it wafted through the air to season the stench of death. The drumming in his ears seemed to pound even harder. He willed Schreiber to move away.

“So,” said Schreiber at last, “let’s go. Tomorrow we shall have more fun.” The six guards laughed heartily along with their mentor.

Soferman watched the monster and his henchmen march away from the copse, daring to move only once the canorous chirping of the birds had begun to replace the evil prattle of murderers.

CHAPTER 7

Mark Edwards snubbed the lift to the fifth floor. Instead, he bounded up the two flights of stairs to th
e
Mai
l
’s offices. Breathless, he raced into the features section. Grabbing a startled Danielle by the arm, he implored her to find a side room where they could talk. Danielle, shrugging her shoulders at her colleagues, led him into an empty office.

“For God’s sake, what’s happening, Mark? You look like you’re about to have a fit.”

“Dani,” he gasped, trying to regain his breath, “all hell’s broken loose.”

“Now calm down and tell me what’s going on.” She could hardly restrain her own eagerness.

“Howard Plant.”

“The software man?”

“Yes. The old poof’s been murdered. At his home in Chigwell.”

“What!” Danielle exclaimed. “We only ran a feature on him a few weeks ago.”

“That’s not all,” Edwards went on excitedly. “Bob Webb says it’s the same modus operandi as your uncle’s. What’s more, they found an SS dagger near the body. The bloody Yard’s been sitting on this all night, and you know why?” Danielle shook her head.

“Because, as they say, a man is helping them with their enquiries.”

“You mean they think they’ve got the killer?”

“They’re not saying that officially yet. But Webby thinks it’s an open and shut case. But until they charge anyone, I’ve got a free hand.”

“What do you mean?” asked Danielle, feeling a sudden urge to support herself on the room’s large grey desk.

“I mean, darling, that besides writing about the murder, I’m going to write about my anonymous caller and about this Schreiber character. It may be the only chance I get. Once it all goe
s
sub judic
e
I’ve had it.”

Feeling a sense of elation and with the adrenalin pumping wildly, Edwards clasped her to him and gave her a long hard kiss on the lips. “Dani,” he blurted, “I love you.”

Danielle watched in shock as her lover then wheeled away and raced from the room. It was the first time he had uttered the three words that were the most potent in the English language. In any language, for that matter. She was not sure whether he meant them or whether they were a consequence of the excitement he was feeling over the story. Nevertheless, her own heart had begun pounding in response to his outburst. She at once felt the heady brew of elation and apprehension.

Two hours later, Mark Edwards was sitting back in his chair and admiring his front-page lead.

SS dagger and second ‘HS’ note found near body

MAN ARRESTED AFTER HOWARD PLANT

DIES IN COPYCAT SWASTIKA MURDER

by
Mark Edwards

A man
is expected to be charged later today with last night’s brutal murder of Jewish software billionaire Howard Plant.

In a carbon copy of last week’s murder of Barkingside taxi driver Joe Hyams, Mr Plant was found dead in the grounds of his palatial Chigwell mansion. Police said he had been shot through the nape of the neck and a swastika had been carved into his forehead. A bloodstained SS dagger was found near the body. The letters “HS” were inscribed near the hilt. Also found was a typewritten note with the same message as that found on the body of Joe Hyams: “Just for you – HS”.

Detective Inspector Bob Webb, leading the police murder team, said Mr Plant was found by his butler and long-time companion, Mr Richard Bates. He said Mr Bates had helped police with their enquiries and had been ruled out as a suspect in the case.

Police said a man
is expected to be charged later today.

Besides being fabulously wealthy, Howard Plant was also a leading Gay activist and donated large sums towards promoting Gay rights. He
also ...

Edwards switched his gaze to the box that had been placed alongside the main story:

ANONYMOUS CALLER TELLS ME MYSTERIOUS ‘HS’

IS SS BEAST HANS SCHREIBER

by Mark Edwards

Following news of the brutal killing of Howard Plant, I can now reveal that an anonymous phone caller has informed me that the HS referred to in the death notes is an SS officer named Hans Schreiber. The caller rang me shortly after the murder of Joe Hyams. He said Schreiber was known as the “Beast of the Small Fortress” in Theresienstadt, a town near Prague used for the transit of Jews on their way to the Nazi death camps. He said he was convinced that Schreiber was in England and had murdered Hyams.

The caller, who had a German accent and sounded very afraid, claimed he was a survivor of the Small Fortress and that Schreiber’s favourite method of killing a victim was with a bullet through the nape of the neck. He would then carve a swastika in the prisoner’s forehead. The caller said Schreiber also used this method to finish off prisoners who had lost gladiatorial contests that he had arranged.

The caller demanded that I respect his anonymity and I decided not to report this matter until I had undertaken some research of my own. I can now reveal that there was indeed an Obersturmfüher Hans Schreiber who served in a Totenkopf, or Death’s Head, division of the SS. His number was ...

Edwards put the newspaper down and leaned back in his chair.

“If you were a Yank you’d get a Pulitzer for this,” said Jim Pottage, waddling towards him with a sheaf of news copy. “Abso-bloody-lutely brilliant, old man.”

“Thanks, Jim. You’ve also been great on backup. I mean it.”

“Mind you,” said Pottage, his West Country drawl exacerbated by a lunchtime tipple, “I
be thinking that the shit’s going to hit the fan soon.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean old Webby ain’t going to be too pleased you didn’t give him the lowdown on this ’ere caller.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Jim. He’s probably going to wrap it all up later tonight. It’s not as if they’re still searching for someone. I mean
,I had to get the story in before it goe
s
sub judic
e
.”

Pottage pulled at his purplish bulb of a nose. “Be a real hoot if this bloke they arrested is this Schreiber character.
Odds on he’s using an alias. Have you any idea who he might be?”

“No, the police are being cagey. My money would have been on his poof companion. You know, the butler did it, and all that.”

“But his bum-boy’s been ruled out,” said Pottage. “My money’s still on the queer connection, though. It’s ...” His observations were cut short emphatically by the telephone. “Here we go,” he laughed, “probably the Nobel people wanting to confirm your nomination for the literature prize. Hello, Pottage here ... just a minute.” The older man passed the phone to Edwards.

“It’s the scarlet woman,” he winked.

Edwards took the phone. “Hi, Dani, how’s it going?”

“Thanks, Mark,” she said simply.

Edwards, thinking she was referring to his words of endearment, sought to reassure her. “I meant what I said, darling.”

There was a pregnant pause before Danielle answered. “Oh, no. I-I didn’t mean that. I meant thanks for not mentioning Henry Sonntag in your sidebar.”

For a moment Edwards was nonplussed. Then he whistled. “Shit. I forgot all about him. Of course, you mentioned he’d been in that Small Fortress place. Jesus, what a balls-up. Listen, give me his number. It’s too late for today’s edition but if the police don’t charge anyone tonight I might be able to write something about him tomorrow. I ...”

“
Mark ...” Danielle cut him short.

“Yes, darling.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t contact him. Please. He’s been through enough already. The police have got their man, so there’s no point.”

Edwards hesitated. What she was asking went against all his reporting instincts. “You’ve really got something going for this man, haven’t you?” he said, regretting the words instantly.

“You know how we Jews close ranks,” said Danielle indignantly.  He heard a click. “Shit!” he exclaimed, and slammed down the phone. His gaze was met by Pottage’s raised eyebrows. “Lovers’ tiff?” smiled the older man. “Don’t worry, she’ll get over it.”

“Damn it,” Edwards muttered, as the phone rang again. “Hello,
Dani ...”

“Mr Edwards,” came the familiar fearful voice, “who have the police arrested? Is it
him? Is it Schreiber? You must tell me.”

The reporter’s mind was racing. He pushed all thoughts of Danielle aside. This meant that his anonymous caller was definitely not the police suspect.  “I don’t know,” he answered. “The police will probably name him tonight.”

“Please, Mr Edwards. I must know if this is Schreiber.”

“Look, whoever he is, he probably won’t be using that name. Anyway, you could be a vital witness. Please let me know how I can get hold of you.”

“I can’t, Mr Edwards,” the harsh Germanic voice said. “I can’t until I know that it really is Schreiber behind bars. You must understand me.” Edwards sighed heavily. The man sounded petrified. It was useless trying to persuade him to cooperate, and the reporter did not know what else to say.

“There is a way I can help you,” said the caller, breaking the silence.

“How?”

“Only after you publish the accused man’s photograph.”

“We can’t.”

“What do you mean?” asked the caller, a note of panic entering his voice.

“I mean no one can. The case i
s
sub judic
e
. No photographs or information likely to be detrimental to a defendant can be published. Just his name, age and the town he’s originally from.”

“But you can pull strings, Mr Edwards.”

“Maybe,” said the reporter, thinking on his feet. He did not want to lose contact with this strange man.

“I will promise you every cooperation, Mr Edwards, if you let me know this man’s name and send me a photograph.”

“Firstly, the man’s name will be on TV, radio, and plastered all over the papers as soon as the police charge him. Secondly, how can I send you the photograph if I don’t know where you live?”

“I will think of a way, Mr Edwards.”

“Okay, we’ll play it your way. Give me a call this time tomorrow. Either on this line or my mobile.”

“Mr
Edwards ...”

“Yes.”

“No police, Mr Edwards. You must promise me that you will not involve the police.”

The reporter took a deep breath. He knew he was already in enough trouble with the police. What might previously have been a case of a hoax caller was now a case of withholding evidence. With the arrest, the stakes had moved up a gear. Yet he had always respected anonymity in the past and his sources knew they could rely on him. “Okay,” he sighed, trying to sound convincing, “as long as it’s clear that you will come forward if the man in the photograph is who you claim it is.”