The Other Side of Silence (6 page)

“Really? It strikes me that you've been on the end of blackmail often enough to know exactly how to apply a bit of pressure yourself.”

“Maybe I do. For which you have my apologies, sir. But I'm a desperate man. You can take that to the casino and buy chips with it.”

“Maybe you are desperate. But you can't trust this guy. Just because I'm the middleman doesn't change anything. Jesus, for all you know I'm part of the same scam. You don't know the first thing about me. How can you be sure that I'm not going to buy the photograph and then blackmail you myself? You can't. That's the thing about blackmail. It's a dirty business. Everyone's your friend right up until the moment they turn around and screw you.”

“You make a good point. But I have no choice but to take the risk.”

“Can I be blunt?”

“Be my guest.”

“Everyone in the world knows you're queer. What of it? Does it affect anything? You've got your invitation to the royal wedding in Monaco. Has it crossed your mind that what you do in your bedroom really doesn't matter to people anymore?”

“That's true in France, perhaps. And Italy, certainly. But it matters a lot back in England. Homosexuality is a crime in my country and I should hate to be prevented from ever going back. Besides, there's rather more to the photograph than just my being queer.”

I sat there smoking sullenly for several seconds.

“Ten percent. If I'm going to play agent I want a proper agent's commission. Ten percent.”

“All right. Ten percent it is.”

“So tell me about the photograph.”

B
efore the war I worked for the British secret service,” said Somerset Maugham. “Mostly I was based in Geneva. But some of the time I was stationed in what was then Petrograd. I shan't bore you with the details of my mission but I had a largish team of British agents under my control. Frankly, it's always been a business that attracted homosexuals, because queers are used to living their lives in secret—at least in England, where to be homosexual can still draw a sentence of up to two years in prison. Being silent about who and what you are is second nature to English queers. Things haven't improved a lot since the days of Oscar Wilde. That's why so many queers like Isherwood and
Auden went to Berlin in the twenties. Because it was a poof's paradise. And a good reason why I live here. Anyway, that's all by the by. I still have a lot of friends in SIS. Many of them, including Sir John Sinclair, the current head of MI6, were my agents. Besides, it's not the kind of business you ever really retire from.”

I nodded grimly. “Don't I know it? I've been trying to retire from the detective business for years now, but it keeps dogging me.”

“Yes. I am sorry about that.”

“I doubt it.”

Maugham stared into space for a moment and then adjusted his monocle. “Over the years since, I've done small jobs here and there for SIS,” he said, continuing. “And I've welcomed friends and acquaintances at the Villa Mauresque. In nineteen thirty-seven, not long after I first bought this place, I had a number of friends to stay, including two boys just down from Cambridge University, who came down here in Victor Rothschild's Bugatti: Anthony Blunt and Guy Burgess. Subsequently they went to work for MI5: MI5 is the UK's domestic and counterintelligence agency. Blunt is rather less well known, at least to anyone outside of the world of fine art. But Guy Burgess is now infamous as a result of a press conference in Moscow just a few months ago when he and another man, Donald Maclean, were revealed to have been long-term spies for the Soviet Union—where they're both now living. You may have read about it in the newspapers. Anyway, Guy is, and always was, notoriously
homosexual. For that matter so is Anthony. And there's a photograph of us and several others lying naked beside my swimming pool. This is the photograph that your friend Harold Hebel is in possession of and which he is threatening to send to the press in England. I can't tell you the embarrassment it would cause me if it was revealed in the British newspapers that Guy and I were intimate. It's not just a question of our homosexuality, as I'm sure you can appreciate, Herr Gunther; it's also a matter of my loyalty to my country. I'm not a Soviet spy. Never have been. But given my service in Petrograd and my friendship with Guy, who knows the trouble the newspapers might cause for me? Certainly I had contact with people who worked for the Petrograd VRK and the Cheka—the forerunner of the KGB—when I was there. So you can see how vulnerable I am. Especially in America. Senator McCarthy hasn't just been going after Communists but homosexuals, too. The so-called Lavender Scare, for example. So. Visas to the United States might be withdrawn. Lucrative film contracts cancelled. MGM are making a film of one of my books as we speak. And United Artists plan to film a short story of mine next year. I may be the most successful writer in the world but I am not immune to public opinion. To say nothing of the embarrassment it might cause for my poor brother, Frederic, in England, who just happens to be the former Lord Chancellor. We've never been close, he and I, but I would like to spare him that, if I can. He's very old. Even older than I.”

“Where did Hebel get this photograph?”

“There are a number of possible explanations. There were
several other men at that particular pool party who might have taken photographs: Dadie Rylands, Raymond Mortimer, Godfrey Winn, Paul Hyslop. But most likely it was my former friend and companion Gerald Haxton. I met Gerald during the Great War and we were together for the rest of his life. He died in nineteen forty-four. Gerald was a wonderful man and I loved him very dearly, but in spite of my generosity Gerald spent too much and was always in debt—mostly to the local casinos. In order to raise some extra cash he may have sold the photograph to a male whore called Louis Legrand with whom he was infatuated. Loulou was here a lot during the thirties, and many of the guests here at the Villa Mauresque—myself included—were his appreciative customers. He's in the photograph, too. He went to live in Australia after that, doing what I'm not entirely sure. But he turned up here a couple of years ago demanding money for some letters written to him by me and some of my more illustrious friends.”

“And what happened then?”

“I paid him off. With a check.”

“Who handled that business for you?”

“A lawyer in Nice. A Monsieur Gris.”

“To your satisfaction?”

“Entirely. But before you ask I can't use him again. Unfortunately he died, quite recently.”

“If Louis Legrand had been in possession of the photograph then surely he'd have used it at the time, wouldn't you say?”

“Yes, that's true. But I now suspect he might not have used it
because he appears in it. Anyway, he was disappointed with his check, it has to be said, and threatened to come back with something ‘more damaging.' My lawyer wrote him a letter informing Loulou that if he ever returned with more menacing demands for money we would certainly place the matter in the hands of the police. And since Loulou did have a conviction in France, for pimping, which is illegal in this country, he could easily have been deported.”

“So, would you say it's possible that he decided to use the photograph at one remove and sold it to Harold Hebel?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Do you have a print you can show me?”

Maugham went to his refectory desk and pulled open a drawer. He took out a largish black-and-white photograph and handed it to me, without hesitation or embarrassment, which, for anyone but him, would probably have taken some nerve. But at eighty-two I guess he was through apologizing or feeling ashamed of what he was.

It was a nice swimming pool; at each corner there was an ornamental lead pinecone, with a diving board at one end and, at the other, a marble mask of Neptune as big as an archery target. There was water in the pool, too. Gallons of it. I tried to keep my eyes on the water, but it was difficult. Any self-respecting satrap would have been quite satisfied with the swimming pool's obvious luxury and, quite probably, the many naked men and boys in various stages of arousal, who were grouped around the mask of Neptune and paying particular priapic attention to the
god's open mouth. As obscene photographs go, it was up there with anything drawn by Aretino at his most provocative. I'd seen worse but not since the days of the Weimar Republic, when Berlin was the world capital of pornography.

“Who's who?” I asked. “It's a little difficult to tell anyone apart.”

“That's Guy there,” said Maugham. “That's Anthony. And that's Loulou.”

“Boys will be boys, I suppose.”

“Quite.”

“Is he offering you the negative?”

“Yes.”

“How much does he want for this?”

“Fifty thousand American dollars. In cash. For the negative and the prints.”

“That's a lot of money for a holiday snap.”

“Which is precisely why I want someone trustworthy to handle the matter for me. Someone who knows what the fuck they're doing. And who's not going to get too nervous or overexcited. Someone like you. At least that's what Hebel says. He tells me you have experience of dealing with blackmailers. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“In Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Would you care to tell me about that, perhaps? Just out of interest, I mean. If I'm going to give you five thousand dollars'
commission I think I have a right to know what kind of service I'm buying, don't you?”

“That's the thing about blackmail,” I said. “You'll soon find that you don't have any rights at all.” I shrugged. “But sure. I'll tell you. Not that there's much to tell. This was quite a few years ago, mind, so unlike that photograph—unfortunately—the story's a little grainy now. It must have been January nineteen thirty-eight. Long after I'd quit the police, and a year or two after I'd left the Adlon. When I was working as a private investigator in Berlin and before—well, that doesn't matter. But there's one detail you know already. The identity of the blackmailer. You see, a leopard doesn't change its spots. The blackmailer was a man called Harold Heinz Hennig, but I fear you know him rather better as Harold Heinz
Hebel.”

BERLIN

1938

I
'm being blackmailed.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that, sir.”

“My old adjutant told me you used to be a policeman and that now you're a private detective, and I decided that since we were old comrades that I might come to you for help.”

“I'm very glad you did. It's been a long time, Captain.”

“Twenty years.”

“You look well, sir.”

“Thanks for saying so, Gunther, but we both know that's not true.”

Captain Achim von Frisch must have been in his sixties, but
he looked much older, desiccated even; his hair was pewter-colored and his once handsome face looked drawn and poorly shaven. He wore a dark gray coat with a thick fur collar, a monocle, and gray kid gloves, and he carried a silver-handled cane. But even the wax in his imperial-style, eagle's-wing mustache looked spent and dried up, and there was a strong smell of mothballs around his person. His manner was exactly what you might have expected of an old Prussian cavalry officer, stiff and courteous, but I remembered him as a kind man who'd cared deeply about the welfare of the men under his command of whom, in 1918, I had been one. It might have been twenty years since I'd seen him, but you don't forget that kind of comradeship. I'd have done anything for my old army captain. Once, he'd grabbed me by the collar of my tunic and pulled me clear as I blundered into a position on the line that was being scoped by an Australian sniper. A second later, a .303 bullet that was meant for my head hit the back wall of the trench.

We were in my suite of offices on the fourth floor of Alexander Haus. The premises were small but comfortable and I had a pretty good view of my old office window in the Police Praesidium on the opposite side of Alexanderplatz, where I'd spent many years as a detective until my politics obliged me to resign from the force. Thanks to the Nazis, the private investigator business was brisk—mostly missing persons. People were always going missing in Berlin under the Nazis.

My business partner, Bruno Stahlecker, lit his pipe noisily
and shifted uncomfortably on his chair, but he wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as poor Captain von Frisch.

“I think I would prefer it if it was just you and I talking about this, Gunther,” he said.

“Herr Stahlecker is one of my operatives and enjoys my complete confidence. You can speak freely in front of him. I rely on him to carry out a lot of my investigative work.”

“I appreciate that. However, I really must insist. This is quite difficult enough as it is.”

I nodded. “Bruno, would you be kind enough to step outside for half an hour. Better still, could you fetch me a packet of Murattis?”

“Sure, boss, anything you say.”

Stahlecker grabbed his coat off the hat stand and, still smoking his foul-smelling pipe, he went out into the bitter January cold.

When he'd gone, I lit my last cigarette, stoked the fire, tidied my paper clips, polished my fingernails, and waited patiently for Captain von Frisch to come to the point. Patience is the key with every client who is being blackmailed. They're so used to paying someone to keep their dirty little secret that it's almost unthinkable they should just break the silence and start talking about it, and to someone they haven't seen since the war.

“I don't mind telling you that the last five years have been hell,” he said, and, taking out a handkerchief, he pressed it to the corner of his eye. “Often I have considered ending my life. But my old mother would be dreadfully upset if I did something like
that. She's ninety. And I am forced to employ a nurse to look after me, such has been the decline in my health. It's my heart, you see. In time the worry of all this will certainly kill me. I just hope I don't die before she does. That would break her heart.”

In his large gray military coat, which so far he had refused to remove—it wasn't a great fire, and he'd said he felt the cold, abnormally so—von Frisch resembled an old and venerable German battleship about to be scuttled at Scapa Flow and even now he let out such a profound and hopeless sigh that it was as if this badly damaged ship were already plunging through the depths to a watery grave on the bottom of the freezing North Sea.

“You should have telephoned, sir. Or written. I'd have been glad to come to your house. Where are you living these days?” I picked up my pen and prepared to write down a few details.

“Southwest Berlin. Ferdinandstrasse, twenty-six, in East Lichterfelde. Just around the corner from the S-Bahn station. Thank you, it's kind of you to say so, but the nurse is a sweet girl and I'd hate her to overhear anything of my own sordid past. A good nurse is hard to find these days. Although she is becoming rather expensive.”

“Surely the baron is still a rich man.”

“Not anymore. These terrible people have all but bled me dry.”

“I see. Then perhaps you'd better just tell me about it.”

He unbuttoned his coat and started to relax a little.

“I never married. Perhaps you knew that. And if you didn't then perhaps you can understand why I didn't, Gunther. When
a man chooses not to marry he tells his mother that for all kinds of reasons he's never met the right girl, but mostly there's just one reason. The oldest reason of all. That there never could be such a thing as the right girl. If you know what I mean.” He smiled thinly. “I imagine that it can't be the first time you've encountered this sort of thing.”

“I understand perfectly, sir. During the Weimar Republic, when I was a cop at the Alex, I think I saw every facet of human behavior known to man. And quite a few that were unknown, too. Believe me, I'm immune to this kind of thing. Moral outrage is something only Nazis seem to suffer from these days.”

This wasn't true, of course, but you have to say that to your clients or they'll never open up. I have just as much moral outrage as the next man, provided that man isn't called Adolf Hitler. According to the English
Daily Mail
—currently the best-selling newspaper in Berlin because it's the only paper in which the story appears—the Führer and most of the German High Command were currently exhibiting a great deal of outrage concerning the marriage of the minister of War, Field Marshal von Blomberg, to a woman of low birth and even lower morals named Erna Gruhn. Just how low was a matter of common knowledge in and around the Alex because Erna Gruhn was a prostitute and a former nude model. It was said the morals boys had a file on her that was almost as thick as von Blomberg's skull.

“In November nineteen thirty-three,” began von Frisch, “I met a boy in the lavatories at Potsdamer Platz station. His name was Bavarian Joe and he was—well, he was—”

I nodded. “A warm boy for a cold night. I get the picture, Captain. No need to say any more about exactly what happened. Best get to the squeeze. I mean, the blackmailer.”

“Following this liaison, while I was boarding a westbound train, another man got on and told me he was a police officer. I think he said his name was Commissioner Kröger. It wasn't. He isn't even a police officer, let alone a commissioner. Anyway, he said he'd seen exactly what had happened and threatened to place me under arrest for being a 175er, which is to say a homosexual. Then he offered to drop the charges if I would pay him five hundred marks in cash. I had about two hundred on me at the time so I handed this over and promised to take him to my bank the next day, where I would pay him the balance. And I did.”

“Which bank was this?”

“The Dresdner Bank, on Bismarckstrasse.”

I nodded and made a note of the bank, not that it was relevant, but most clients like to see you taking a few notes.

“I thought that was the end of it. But a few days later Schmidt—that's his true name, Otto Schmidt—returned with another man, who turned out to be a real Gestapo officer called Harold Heinz Hennig, who worked for Department II-H, which exists, I am informed, to investigate homosexuality. They asked me for more money—to be precise, another thousand marks. And once again I paid up. They said if I refused to pay they'd make sure I was sent to a concentration camp, where I'd be lucky to last the year.”

“Cash?”

“Always. Small bills, too.”

“Hmm.”

“But this was just the start, and since then I have paid this pair of scoundrels a thousand a week, which at this present moment in time amounts to almost two hundred and fifty thousand marks. I'm afraid I could ill afford the taxi that brought me here this morning.”

I whistled. Two hundred and fifty thousand marks is as attractive a figure as any you can see outside of a life class in the Berlin School of Art.

“That's a lot of money.”

“Yes it is.”

“Look, with all due respect, sir, this horse has bolted. I fail to see how it might help for me to help you close the stable door now.”

“For the simple reason that I am now being blackmailed by the same people—or at least one of them, Captain Hennig—in an entirely different way and for an entirely different reason. Not for money. At least not for the moment. It's my silence that seems to be required right now. If it wasn't so tragic it might be funny. But this is where I need your help, Gunther. I assume that the Gestapo possesses a code of conduct. That corruption is frowned upon even among Nazis. Presumably this Captain Hennig has a superior, and one imagines he would hardly welcome the news of bribery in his own department.”

“What's this man Hennig like?”

“Young, smooth, arrogant. Clever, too. Always plainclothes. Good suits. Buys his hats at Habig. Rolex wristwatch. Drives a black Opel Kapitän, which means I've never been able to follow him. We always meet in public places. And never the same place twice.”

I nodded slowly. I don't mind trouble. It's an occupational hazard, but already this case was starting to look as if it might be more than the usual amount of trouble, which, in Nazi Germany, is always dangerous.

“As far as I can remember,” I said, “II-H is run by two revolting bastards, Josef Meisinger and Eberhard Schiele. The chances are that they're getting a large piece of everything this man Hennig's extorting from you. I'd be very surprised if they weren't. But Meisinger does have a superior he reports to. A man I know called Arthur Nebe, who's not entirely without principles. It may be that he takes a dim view of these sordid activities. I suppose we might persuade him to get them to lay off.”

“I hope so.”

“But wait, you said they were now blackmailing you to keep quiet. If it's not too embarrassing, maybe you'd like to explain why. I'm not entirely clear about that.”

“Actually, it's not embarrassing at all. Otto Schmidt spent time in prison. While he was there Schmidt informed some other people in the Gestapo that he had been blackmailing me for some years and the idiots managed to confuse me with the commander in chief of the army—Blomberg's number two, Colonel General Freiherr Werner von Fritsch. That's Fritsch with a
t
, you understand. He's an officer of the old school and very definitely not a Nazi, so perhaps they are looking for an excuse to get rid of him. In other words, it would seem they have deliberately mistaken him for me in an attempt to smear his name and force his resignation from the army. And I am now being blackmailed to keep my mouth shut regarding what I know about this.”

“By Hennig.”

“By Hennig.”

“And who's the officer in the Gestapo who's trying to pin this on General von Fritsch?”

“A commissar by the name of Franz Josef Huber. And a Detective Inspector Fritz Fehling.”

“But it doesn't make any sense,” I objected. “They're already trying to get rid of von Blomberg. Surely von Fritsch is best placed to succeed von Blomberg. Why get rid of him, too?”

“Sense? None of this makes sense. As far as I can see, dumb and unswerving loyalty to Hitler is all that matters to the Nazis. The question as it affects me is this: How far up the chain of command does this go? That is what I need to know. Does this knowledge that von Fritsch is entirely innocent extend all the way up the chain to Göring and to Hitler?”

“And if it did? What then, sir?”

“Just this. A military court has been appointed to hear General von Fritsch's case on March tenth in the Preussenhaus. It will be chaired by Göring, Raeder, and Brauchitsch, and the charges will relate to Paragraph 175 of the German Penal Code,
which makes homosexuality illegal. Before then I need to decide whether, as a point of honor, I should insist on giving evidence and tell the court that it was me and not the general who was the subject of the Gestapo's blackmail. In other words, how much am I risking by taking on the Gestapo?”

“Off the top of my head I'd say that it's never a good idea to go toe to toe with the Gestapo. The concentration camps are full of people who thought they can be reasoned with. How ill are you, sir? What I mean is, can you travel? Have you considered leaving the country? There's no dishonor in running away from the Nazis. Many others have already done so.”

“I might have done that,” he admitted, “if it wasn't for my elderly mother. I might just find the strength to travel somewhere. But she certainly would not. And I could never leave her. That would be unthinkable.”

“I can see you're in a difficult position.”

“That's why I'm here.”

“Look, have you spoken to General von Fritsch about this? I imagine he'd be quite interested in what you have to say.”

“No, not yet. As I say, I want to find out how far up the chain this goes before I go out on a limb for the general. But if it should come to that, I'd prefer you to make the first contact with his legal counsel. I'm afraid I have little energy for waiting around the Bendlerstrasse to see him. I intend to retire to my bed the minute I return home.”

“Do you know who his legal counsel is? I take it this is another senior army officer.”