The Schirmer Inheritance (10 page)

George remembered that Father Weichs spoke good English, but it seemed more tactful to begin in German. The priest’s sharp blue eyes flickered from one to the other of
them as Miss Kolin translated George’s polite explanation of their presence there and his hope that the telegram (which he could plainly see on the priest’s table) had arrived to remind him of an occasion in 1939 when …

The muscles of Father Weichs’s jaws had been twitching impatiently as he listened. Now he broke in, speaking English.

“Yes, Mr. Carey. I remember the gentleman, and, as you see, I have had your telegram. Please sit down.” He waved them to chairs and walked back to his table.

“Yes,” he said, “I remember the gentleman very well. I had reason to.”

A twisted smile creased the lean cheeks. It was a fine, dramatic head, George thought. You were sure at first that he must hold some high office in the church; and then you noticed the cracked, clumsy shoes beneath the table, and the illusion went.

“He asked me to give you his good wishes,” George said.

“Thank you. Are you here on his behalf?”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Moreton is now an invalid and retired.” It was difficult not to be stilted with Father Weichs.

“I am sorry to hear that, of course.” The priest inclined his head courteously. “However, it was not the gentleman himself who gave me special cause to remember him. Consider! A lonely old man dies. I am his confessor. Mr. Moreton comes to me asking questions about him. That is all. It is not as unusual as you think. An old person who has been neglected by relatives for many years often becomes interesting to them when he dies. It is not often, of course, that an American lawyer comes, but even that is not remarkable in itself. There are many German families who have ties with your country.” He paused. “But the incident becomes memorable,” he added dryly, “when it proves to be a matter of importance for the police.”

“The police?” George tried hard not to look as guilty as he suddenly felt.

“I surprise you, Mr. Carey?”

“Very much. Mr. Moreton was making inquiries on behalf of a perfectly respectable American client in the matter of a legacy—” George began.

“A legacy,” interposed the priest, “which he said was for a small amount of money.” He paused and gave George a wintry smile before he went on. “I understand, of course, that size is relative and that in America it is not measured with European scales, but even in America it seems an exaggeration to call three million dollars a small amount.”

Out of the corner of his eye George saw Miss Kolin looking startled for once; but it was a poor satisfaction at that moment.

“Mr. Moreton was in a spot, Father,” he said. “He had to be discreet. The American papers had already caused trouble by giving the case too much publicity. There had been a whole lot of false claims. Besides, the case was very complicated. Mr. Moreton didn’t want to raise anybody’s hopes and then have to disappoint them.”

The priest frowned. “His discretion placed me in a very dangerous position with the police. And with certain other authorities,” he added bleakly.

“I see. I’m sorry about that, Father. I think if Mr. Moreton had known—” He broke off. “Do you mind telling me what happened?”

“If it is of interest to you. A little before Christmas in 1940 the police came to me to ask questions about Mr. Moreton’s visit of the year before. I told them what I knew. They wrote it down and went away. Two weeks later they came back with some other men, not of the police, but the Gestapo. They took me to Karlsruhe.” His face hardened. “They accused me of lying about Mr. Moreton’s visit. They said that
it was a matter of highest importance to the Reich. They said that if I did not tell them what they wished to know, I would be treated as some of my brothers in the church had been treated.” He had been looking at his hands. Now he raised his head, and his eyes met George’s. “Perhaps you are able to guess what they wanted to know, Mr. Carey.”

George cleared his throat. “I should say they wanted to know about someone named Schneider.”

He nodded. “Yes, someone named Schneider. They said that Mr. Moreton had been searching for this person and that I was concealing my knowledge. They believed that I knew where this person was who was entitled to the American money and that Mr. Moreton had bought my silence so that the money could go to an American.” He shrugged. “The sadness of evil men is that they can believe no truth that does not paint the world in their colours.”

“They weren’t interested in Friedrich Schirmer?”

“No. I think that they believed in the end that it was a trick of Mr. Moreton’s to mislead them. I do not know. Perhaps they only became tired of me. In any case, they let me go. But you see I have reason to remember Mr. Moreton.”

“Yes. But I don’t see how he could have anticipated the trouble he would cause you.”

“Oh, I have no bitterness, Mr. Carey.” He sat back in his chair. “But I should like to know the truth.”

George hesitated. “Friedrich Schirmer’s family was a branch of the Schneider family in question. The actual connection would take a long time to explain, but I can tell you that the German government did not know of it.”

The priest smiled. “I see that it is still necessary to be discreet.”

George flushed. “I’m being as frank as I can, Father. This has always been a pretty funny sort of a case. There have been so many false claimants to the estate already that, even
if a legitimate one were found, it would be enormously difficult now to establish the claim in the American courts. The fact is that, in all probability, no claim ever will be established. The money will just go to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”

“Then why are you here, Mr. Carey?”

“Partly because the law firm I work for succeeded Mr. Moreton in the matter. Partly because it is our duty to find the heir. Partly because the matter has to be cleared up so that our firm may be paid.”

“That, at least, is frank.”

“Maybe I should add, too, that if there
is
a rightful heir, then he or she ought to have the money and not the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. The federal government and the state will get most of it in taxes in the end anyway, but there’s no reason why someone else shouldn’t enjoy it too.”

“Mr. Moreton mentioned a trust.”

“Well—”

“Ah, I see. That also was discretion.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Was Friedrich Schirmer the rightful heir?”

“Mr. Moreton thought so.”

“Then why did Mr. Moreton not tell the courts so?”

“Because Friedrich Schirmer was dead and because he was afraid that if Friedrich were found to have no living heir, the German government would fake one to get the money. In fact they did produce an old man they claimed to be the heir. Mr. Moreton fought the claim for over a year.”

Father Weichs was silent for a moment; then he sighed. “Very well. How can I help you now, Mr. Carey?”

“Mr. Moreton said that you promised to let him know if Friedrich Schirmer’s son, Johann, appeared. Did he?”

“No.”

“Do you know if any letters ever came for Friedrich Schirmer to the sanatorium where he died?”

“Up to the middle of 1940 no letter came.”

“You would have known?”

“Oh yes. I visited the sanatorium often.”

“And after the middle of 1940?”

“The sanatorium was commandeered by the army. It became the headquarters of a training school for radio operators.”

“I see. Well, that seems to be fairly conclusive.” George stood up. “Thanks a lot, Father.”

But Father Weichs had made a movement of protest. “One moment, Mr. Carey. You asked if Johann Schirmer came to Bad Schwennheim.”

“Yes?”

“He did not come, but his son did.”

“His son?” Slowly George sat down again.

“He would be of interest to you, the son?”

“If he were a grandson of Friedrich Schirmer, he would interest me very much.”

Father Weichs nodded. “He came to see me. I must explain that when the army occupied the sanatorium, I visited the Commandant of the school to offer the services of my church to those who wished them. The Commandant was not himself of the religion, but he was sympathetic and made it as easy as possible for those who wished to come to Mass.”

He looked thoughtfully at George. “I do not know if you served in the army, Mr. Carey,” he went on after a moment or two. George nodded. “So! Then you may have noticed that there were some men—among the young front fighters I mean—who were not religious and yet found it necessary sometimes to seek some of the consolations of religion. It was when they had to find the courage to face death or mutilation, after they had seen what those things were, that the
need seemed to come. Then the elaborate materialism of the intelligent among them proved as useless and sterile as the hero myths they had brought with them from the Hitler
Jugend
. They found that they needed something else, and sometimes they went to a priest to look for it.” He smiled faintly. “Of course, it never appeared as simple as that at the time. They came to me for many commonplace reasons, these young men—to talk about their families, to ask advice on some material problem, to borrow a book or a magazine, to show photographs they had taken, to enjoy the privacy of a garden. But the outward reason was unimportant. Though they might not always realize it, what they wanted was, in some way, to come to terms with me as a priest. They wanted something that in their hearts they thought I might be able to give them—an inner peace and strength.”

“And Schirmer’s grandson was one of them?”

Father Weichs shrugged. “I was not sure. Perhaps, yes. But I will tell you. He had been sent to the school for special training. He was a—”

He broke off, hesitating, and then, glancing at Miss Kolin, said the word
Fallschirmjäger
.

“He was a paratrooper,” she said.

The priest nodded. “Thank you, yes. He came to see me one day in September or October—I do not quite remember. He was a tall, strong-looking young man, very much a soldier. He had been wounded in Belgium in the attack on the fortress of Eben-Emael, and was not yet well enough to return to combat duty. He came to ask me if I knew of his grandfather, Friedrich Schirmer.”

“Did he say where his home was?” asked George quickly.

“Yes. He came from Köln.”

“Did he say what his father’s occupation was?”

“No. I cannot remember that he did.”

“Had he any brothers or sisters?”

“No, he was the only child.”

“Did he know when he came that his grandfather was dead?”

“No. It was a great disappointment to him. When he was a boy the grandfather had lived in his parents’ house and been kind to him. Then one day there had been a quarrel and the old man had gone.”

“Did he say how he knew that the old man had lived at Bad Schwennheim?”

“Yes. The quarrel had been serious, and after Friedrich left, his name was never mentioned by the boy’s parents. But the boy loved his grandfather. Even before he went to school the old man had taught him how to write and to rule his exercise books properly. Later the grandfather helped him with arithmetic problems and talked to him much of commercial affairs. You knew Friedrich Schirmer was a bookkeeper?”

“Yes.”

“The boy did not forget him. When he was about fourteen his parents received a letter from the old man saying that he was retiring to live at Bad Schwennheim. He had heard them discussing it. They destroyed the letter, but he remembered the name of the town, and when he was sent to the army school there he tried to find his grandfather. He did not know until I told him that, by a strange chance, he was living in the building where the old man had died.”

“I see.”

Father Weichs looked down at his hands. “You would not have thought to see him or speak with him that he was a young man whom it was necessary to protect from disillusion. I think I failed him. I did not understand him until it was too late. He came to see me several times. He asked many questions about his grandfather. I saw afterwards that he wanted to make a hero of him. At the time I did not think. I answered the questions as kindly as I could. Then one day
he asked me if I did not think that his grandfather Friedrich had been a fine and good man.” He paused and then went on slowly and carefully as if choosing words in his own defence. “I made the best answer I could. I said that Friedrich Schirmer had been a hard-working man and that he had suffered his long, painful illness with patience and courage. I could say no more. The boy took my words for agreement and began to speak with great bitterness of his father, who had, he said, sent the old man away in a moment of jealous hatred. I could not allow him to speak so. It was against the truth. I said that he was doing his father a great injustice, that he should go to his father and ask for the truth.” He raised his eyes and looked at George sombrely. “He laughed. He said that he had never yet had anything from his father that was good and would not get the truth. He went on to talk jokingly of his father as if he despised him. Then he went away. I did not see him again.”

Outside, on the iron balconies of the hospital, the shadows were getting longer. A clock tolled the hour.

“And what
was
the truth, Father?” asked George quietly.

The priest shook his head. “I was Friedrich Schirmer’s confessor, Mr. Carey.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

“It would not help you to know.”

“No, I see that. But tell me this, Father. Mr. Moreton made a rough list of the documents and photographs that were found after Friedrich Schirmer’s death. Was that all he had? Was nothing else ever found?”

To his surprise, he saw a look of embarrassment come over the priest’s face. His eyes avoided George’s. For a moment or two there was something positively furtive about Father Weichs’s expression.

“Old documents,” George added quickly, “can be very important evidence in cases like these.”

Father Weichs’s jaw muscles tightened. “There were no other documents,” he said.

“Or photographs?”

“None that could possibly have been of any value to you, Mr. Carey,” the priest replied stiffly.