The Night of the Generals (21 page)

5

"It's five-thirty, Monsieur!"

The voice seemed to bore a hole in Hartmann's ear-drums, which roared as though he were submerged in a millstream.

The voice came again. "Wake up, Monsieur. It's five-thirty!"

"So what?" It dawned on Hartmann that he was in a hotel room. Slowly, painfully, he began to remember the nightmare drive through Paris, the soul-destroying hours of waiting, the sight of Tanz swaying like a steel mast, the stark naked general's daughter in his bed, the uncorked bottle in the leather case entrusted to him.

The bottle now lay on his bedside table, empty. Undeterred, the porter gave tongue once more: "It's five-thirty, Monsieur. You have to call the General at seven sharp."

"Damn it all. I can get in at least another hour's sleep before then."

"Monsieur is forgetting the preparations."

"What on earth has that got to do with you?"

"We have our orders, Monsieur."

Arrangements à la Sandauer were functioning perfectly. The night porter had received written instructions from the day porter, who had received them from the manager, who had in turn received them from Sandauer himself.

The main points from "Special Directive regarding Suite No. l2 for the duration of its use by General Tanz (hereinafter referred to as "The Guest')" were as follows: "No hotel employee is to enter the suite while it is occupied by The Guest except when expressly and directly requested to do so by The Guest or his personal orderly.

"The Guest's personal orderly (at present Lance-Corporal Hartmann) is to be woken at 5.30 a.m. and served with breakfast immediately.

"Between 6 and 7 a.m. The Guest's personal orderly will be allocated a manservant and chambermaid. They will take their orders directly from the orderly, who is the only person permitted to enter The Guest's suite."

Hartmann was acquainted with these and other details when he joined the porter in the hall. The latter regarded him with grave concern.

"I admire your composure, Monsieur."

"I feel absolutely ghastly," Hartmann groaned.

"Never mind, Monsieur, your coffee's ready."

Hartmann was the only guest in the hotel to be up at this hour, so he breakfasted in solitary state. He filled himself with scalding coffee, plastered his croissant with butter and jam and devoured it, meanwhile studying the special instructions issued by Sandauer's department. It didn't need much imagination to grasp what lay ahead.

Accompanied by a silent but curious valet and chambermaid, Hartmann betook himself to Suite No .12. Here he gathered up the General's scattered clothes and issued his orders.

"Kindly brush and iron the suit and remove any stains. The shoes must be cleaned and highly polished--but make sure you take the laces out first. You, Mademoiselle, will carry out general cleaning duties."

Hartmann spent the next half hour cleaning and polishing an attaché case and two briefcases belonging to the General. He used two woollen cloths and half a tin of Glissando, a special high-grade leather polish which he found in a box marked "C". A list headed "Cleaning Materials and Accessories" was pasted to the inside of the lid.

On the stroke of seven Hartmann presented himself at the door of Tanz's bedroom, having set his watch not by any old church clock but by the Grossdeutscher Rundfunk's time signal. He knocked discreetly and heard the General's low but penetrating voice bid him enter.

Tanz was standing at the bedroom window, his sinewy frame swathed in a brown dressing-gown of some strong, coarse material. In one hand he held a lighted cigarette, in the other a pocket-watch. He nodded approvingly.

"Seven o'clock, sir."

"Seven o'clock and thirty-seven seconds, Hartmann. Always try to be as accurate as possible in your statements."

Tanz looked as though he had enjoyed a long and refreshing night's sleep. His short white-blond hair was carefully combed and his eyes sparkled with the cold fire of cut diamonds.

"My bath, Hartmann. Thirty-one degrees."

Hartmann disappeared into the bathroom, noting as he went that the General's bed had been stripped and tidied. The pillow bore traces of saliva but looked smooth and virtually unused. Warm summer air streamed in through the wide open windows. It was as though the preceding day and night had never been.

Hartmann ran a mixture of hot and cold water, gauging the temperature by means of a thermometer which he found lying on the edge of the bath. He put out a new piece of soap, checked the hand-towels and bath-towel, straightened the bath-mat and satisfied himself that the mirror above the basin was free from splash-marks. As he did so he saw the reflection of General Tanz standing motionless in the doorway, watching him.

"Have you anything to tell me, Hartmann?" There was a hint of urgency in the General's tone.

"No, sir."

"All's well, then?"

"Yes, sir."

Tanz detached himself from the door-frame and took two paces towards Hartmann. He halted in the middle of the bathroom. The noise of running water robbed his voice of none of its incisive clarity.

"I insist on absolute frankness, Hartmann."

"Yes, sir."

"Well?"

"You're a man, sir. All men have certain things in common."

"Go on."

"Well, in the General's place I shouldn't have hesitated to visit places of entertainment either. After all, we're in Paris, and the General is on leave."

"That has nothing to do with you, Hartmann."

"No, sir."

"Your job is to carry out orders. Nothing else matters. Watch the bath."

Hartmann brought the bath water to a temperature of thirty-three degrees--two degrees above the required level-calculating that it would have dropped by the time Tanz had disrobed and climbed in. Tanz registered his every move like a time-and-motion expert.

"In the meantime, see to my breakfast," he commanded. "Black coffee without sugar, five raw eggs in a glass with salt and pepper, two slices of ham, one cooked, one raw, and a treble measure of cognac--my favourite brand."

While Hartmann waited next door the General bathed and dressed. Then, with Hartmann stationed against the wall by the door, immobile as a piece of furniture, he began his breakfast. He did not speak again until he had drained his first cup of coffee.

"We shall be leaving at nine, Hartmann. In the meanwhile you can check the condition of the car--and don't forget to replenish the contents of my briefcase."

Hartmann produced a stereotyped "Yes, sir," judging it inexpedient to say more. He would have welcomed any opportunity to leave the room, but Tanz made no final gesture of dismissal.

"Hartmann," he said, stirring his glass of raw egg, "I'm not wholly dissatisfied with your performance so far. You possess certain qualifications, and I only hope that you continue to live up to them. How does your programme for today look?"

Thanks to Sandauer, Hartmann had worked out his schedule with due attention to detail. "My suggestions are as follows, sir. This morning, the Greek and Egyptian Collections in the Louvre. This afternoon, the Military Museum, the Palais Chaillot and possibly the Balzac and Rodin Museums as well, depending on the amount of time available."

"That doesn't sound bad." Tanz rose to his feet, slender-hipped as a dancer, and leaving his eggs and coffee vanished into the bedroom. He returned carrying a bunch of postcards, which he tossed on to the table. They spread out like a fan.

"What do you think of those, Hartmann?"

Hartmann didn't know what to think of them. They were the cards which Tanz himself had selected during his visit to the collection of Impressionists in the Jeu de Paume the day before. They were all reproductions of paintings which he had personally examined with a certain degree of interest.

Hartmann remarked diffidently: "Of course, sir, they're nothing compared with the originals."

General Tanz gave a nod of assent, as though his deepest suspicions had been confirmed. "I don't know how they turned up in my bedroom," he mused. "Presumably the hall porter obtained them for me. He must have been told to draw my attention to items of particular interest."

Hartmann stared at Tanz as if the man had suddenly grown two heads. He was utterly bewildered.

"These," Tanz went on, gesturing vigorously at the postcards, "might interest me. I'd like to see them. Arrange it, Hartmann."

Hartmann withdrew as soon as he could and ran downstairs to the porter's desk, where he put through a call to the number Sandauer had given him. He asked to speak to the G.S.O.1 on a matter of extreme urgency, but was informal that Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer was not available.

It was July 19th 1944. Place: the Hotel Excelsior, Paris. Time: thirteen minutes to nine.

Lance-Corporal Hartmann decided that he must have been labouring under a temporary delusion. The exertions of the previous night had been too much for him. It was the only possible explanation.

Hurrying round the corner to get the Bentley, Hartmann told himself that he must have misheard Tanz. Either that, or the man wanted to test his reactions. Who could tell what went on inside a mind like that?

With an arduous and sleepless night behind her, Frau Wilhelmine von Seydlitz-Gabler prepared to face what promised to be an equally arduous day. Too much was at stake for her to have abandoned herself to sleep.

The stations of her nocturnal Calvary had been as follows: 11.42p.m. Frau Wilhelmine completes the daily entry in her journal flushed with hope for the future. She sees her husband Herbert going from strength to strength in his professional career, her daughter Ulrike married to General Tanz, and herself firmly established as the wife of a military leader and the mother-in-law of a national hero. Fired with enthusiasm at this burgeoning prospect, she feels prompted by maternal solicitude to pay her daughter a visit with a view to probing and reinforcing her moral fibre.

11.47p.m. Frau Wilhelmine enters her daughter's room on the second floor. It is empty, but Frau Wilhelmine ascertains that her daughter's absence can only be temporary. All Ulrike's clothes seem to be there, including the sensible underclothes which she has personally selected for her. The only missing items: a pink nightie, a blue dressing-gown and Ulrike herself.

Logical inference: Ulrike cannot be far away.

Likeliest explanation: a call of nature.

11.51p.m.--12.07 a.m. Frau Wilhelmine makes her way to the second-floor ladies' lavatory. This too is empty. What now? Frau >Wilhelmine concludes that it must have been occupied by someone else at the critical moment. If so, two other alternatives present themselves: the ladies' lavatory on the first floor and its counterpart on the third floor. These are also vacant. Frau Wilhelmine is filled with foreboding.

12.07--4.12a.m. Frau Wilhelmine waits for Ulrike in her room, at first sitting in a chair, then perched on the bed and eventually--for comfort's sake and because she feels in urgent need of sleep--lying at full length. Hours of feverish anxiety ensue. Distressing pictures conjured up by a usually inhibited imagination show Ulrike wandering through the night, trustful as a child, falling victim to some brutal assault or overpowered by some shadowy, lust-maddened figure. The only common denominator of all these pictures: Ulrike with a man. Beside him, beneath him, on top of him, entwined around him like a rope. Oh, fearful thought!

4.13a.m. Frau Wilhelmine emerges from an uneasy doze with a start and sits bolt upright. Ulrike has returned. As expected, she is wearing a pink nightie and a blue dressing-gown. Both garments are crumpled and her hair is in disarray. Frau Wilhelmine's opening question: "Where have you been?" elicits the reply: "That's my business."

4.14--4.28a.m. Frau Wilhelmine bombards her daughter with questions. Ulrike remains silent. Frau Wilhelmine appeals to her family loyalty, her sense of responsibility, her sense of decency, her better nature, understanding, goodwill--even her common sense. In vain. Frau Wilhelmine switches to massive threats of parental intervention, paternal power and influence. Ulrike yawns wearily and says: "If you only knew how tired I am, Mother. I've hardly had a wink of sleep." Frau Wilhelmine snaps: "Neither have I!" To which Ulrike: "For entirely different reasons, I trust."

4.30--8.47a.m. Back in her room once more, Frau Wilhelmine throws herself on to her bed and stares heavenwards, seeking inspiration but conscious only of the ceiling above her with its scattering of plaster ornamentation--roses issuing from four cornucopias, one at each corner of the room--now greyish-white in the light of early dawn. After four hours Frau Wilhelmine closes her eyes.

8.48a.m. One minute later Frau Wilhelmine's slumbers are cut short by a knock at the door. It is the day porter, a man with wide experience in the ways of the world. After listening politely to Frau Wilhelmine's opening remarks he diverts the storm which is threatening to break over his head on to the night porter. Only the latter, he assures her, would have any information on the subject under discussion.

The night porter, who is on the point of signing off, finds himself summoned to Frau Wilhelmine's suite. He stands there respectfully, also a man with long experience of awkward guests and equally confident of his ability to handle any situation.

"A porter sits at his desk, Madame," he says patiently. "He sees and notes everyone who comes in or goes out, but he has no idea what goes on upstairs. It's not his job."

"Whose is it, then?"

"No one's, Madame. From midnight onwards there are no floor waiters or chambermaids on duty."

"And whatever happens on the upper floors--no one worries about it?"

"Why should they, Madame?"

"But that means anyone can walk into any room in the hotel!"

"Always providing he has a key to it or the room in question is unlocked--which usually means in practice that it's been left open on purpose."

Frau Wilhelmine dismisses the porter, who retires thankfully. She puts a call through to the Moulin Noir and asks to speak to her husband. "Please come at once, Herbert! I have something to discuss with you--urgently. No, don't try to dodge the issue. There's a scandal in the offing."