Paving the New Road (40 page)

“Will there be many people there, do you think?” Milton asked, carefully casual.

“Of course … every person of substance—or who aspires to be of substance—in Munich will attend in their finest garments!”

“I suppose the Nazi hierarchy will be there in their Sunday best too,” Milton said warily.

Richter shrugged. “Perhaps not. Rupprecht refuses to join the Nazis … I suspect he does not like them. I would be surprised if he invited them to the palace … Göring, possibly, and von Ribbentrop if he is in Munich, but they are unlikely to attend. The Nazis wish Hitler to be the only king in Germany.”

Rowland glanced at Edna … it would be difficult to refuse without offending their host, and yet to attend such a function would be insanely risky.

“I have already taken the liberty of sending word, accepting for us all,” Richter announced, before Rowland could raise an objection. “Now, gentlemen, if you require attire, remember you are living with a tailor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Richter, but I’m not sure—”

“Of what are you not sure?” Richter asked immediately.

Rowland struggled for some plausible reason they could not attend. There was nothing.

“We have a very important meeting at the Kunst Haus the following morning,” Edna said, peering over Rowland’s shoulder to look again at the invitation. “Dealers from England and America.” She smiled reassuringly at Richter. “We cannot dance all night, as much as I would love to do so.”

Richter nodded emphatically. “I understand
mein Kind
, business must be done. I am not a wealthy man because I neglected my business to dance. We will return to our beds by midnight and Herr Negus shall be refreshed for his meeting.”

Rowland glanced helplessly at his companions. It did not seem they would be allowed to recuse themselves … not yet, anyway. Rowland noted the date on the invitation. They had a week to find some excuse.

The four of them set out together that morning, ostensibly for the galleries. Richter had disappeared to finalise Edna’s gown and to ensure that his own tailcoat was adjusted to accommodate any recent expansions in his torso.

“Perhaps we’ll get away with it,” Clyde murmured, as Rowland parked the Mercedes. “The three of us could just stay in the background, keep an eye out for Campbell … It’s only Ed that Richter wants to use as a billboard.”

“Ed’s pretty recognisable,” Rowland said. “Campbell’s met her too.”

“That was over a year ago,” Milton said. He turned to Edna. “Couldn’t you do something with your hair or your face to make yourself look different?”

“I can hardly grow a moustache,” Edna replied.

Milton grinned. “Look, Rowly, I don’t think it’ll be so bad. It sounds as if the Nazi hierarchy is unlikely to be on the guest list. If Hitler and King Rupert have fallen out, then surely Campbell’s not going to risk offending Hitler by going to the King’s party.”

“He’s got a point,” Clyde agreed. “Perhaps we’re swinging at shadows.”

Milton continued. “If, for some reason, Campbell is invited, and does attend, and then comes across Ed while Richter is parading her around, he’ll probably note that she looks remarkably like the girl who shot a man in his study, but he’s unlikely to assume it is the self-same girl. How many times do you see someone that you think looks just like someone else? If Ed continues to insist she’s Millicent Greenway, I doubt he’ll find the familiarity enough to investigate.”

On this point Rowland was sceptical. “I don’t know, Milt. As you said, Ed shot a man in his study. You would think he might remember her.”

Clyde raised his brows as he recalled that night. “She was splattered with blood and screaming bloody murder … With any luck, she’ll look a bit different all scrubbed up.”

“I am sitting right here, you know,” Edna said, smacking Clyde indignantly.

Rowland smiled. “Campbell didn’t only see Ed on the night she shot me, though. She came to a party at the Campbells’ posing as my fiancée, if you remember.”

Edna rolled her eyes. “Good Lord, it’s not that difficult. If we see Campbell at the ball I will simply get a headache and slip home before anybody thinks to introduce us.”

For a few awkward seconds nobody replied, as they considered what seemed too simple a solution.

“I suppose that might work,” Rowland said finally.

“Of course it’ll work,” Edna said. Her eyes glinted. “I know you fellows are getting fond of dressing up and pretending to be God knows what—”

“Yes, all right, that’s enough,” Clyde interrupted.

Rowland swung open his door. They were parked outside a modern apartment building, a structure of simples lines and occasional curves in classic art deco style, located in an expensive neighbourhood. Chic couples strolled the pavements arm in arm. Rowland’s eye was caught momentarily by a pair of glossy dachshunds holding their leads in their mouths as they trotted sedately beside an elderly gentleman.

“Well-trained,” he murmured, thinking of Eva and her desperation for a dachshund.

“You couldn’t get Lenin to do that,” Clyde agreed.

Rowland smiled. Lenin didn’t like leads. The war-torn greyhound was hard enough to control with a grown man holding onto the lead for dear life.

“Len’s an Australian dog,” Milton said glancing disdainfully at the dachshunds. “There’s something rather perverse about a hound that restrains itself.”

Rowland was inclined to agree. He missed Lenin.

“Where are we, Rowly?” Edna asked.

“Anna Niemann lived here,” Rowland told them quietly. “I thought there might be a caretaker or a building manager about, to whom I could speak. See if she had her things sent on anywhere … that sort of thing.” He climbed out of the Mercedes and opened Edna’s door. “You lot don’t have to come with me … In fact, it might be counterproductive if you did.”

Clyde checked his watch. He looked at Milton. “I suppose it’s too early for a beer.”

Milton smiled contentedly. “Not in Bavaria, old mate.”

“I’ll see you back here in about an hour, then,” Rowland said, tossing the keys to Clyde.

“I’ll stay with Rowly,” Edna said, adjusting her hat in the reflection of the Mercedes’ windscreen.

Leaving Clyde and the poet to find a beer hall, Edna and Rowland walked together towards Anna Niemann’s last known address.

Rowland spoke first with the doorman, making enquiries about the building’s manager and requesting an audience with the same.

The doorman directed them through a door behind the polished counter in the foyer. The office was small and clean, though cluttered. The walls were hidden by bookshelves and boards of hooks on which hung keys with brass tags. An extraordinarily short gentleman with a neat white beard stood behind a massive pedestal desk which made him seem smaller still. The manager’s name was Handel. He greeted them politely and invited them to sit.

Rowland introduced himself and Edna as Mr. and Mrs. Marcel. He hadn’t discussed this with Edna, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he adopted the guise in this case. Perhaps he just liked the idea of introducing Edna as his wife.

“I am with Film Fransçois, Herr Handel,” Rowland began, making it up as he went. “Perhaps you know this woman?” He handed the photograph of Anna Niemann to the manager. “We would like to offer her a major role in one of our upcoming productions, but we are having a little trouble locating her. Fräulein Niemann gave this as her last address, but we are told she is no longer here.”

Handel nodded. “That is true, I am afraid. We have not seen Fräulein Niemann in over a month.”

“Did she leave a forwarding address?”

“No, but she left everything else.” Handel sat back in his chair
with his hands folded over his belly. “Fräulein Niemann left in haste … My wife and I packed up her things when it was clear she would not return. Why, if it was not for her brother, her personal items would still be here in boxes.”

“Her brother—?”

“Herr Niemann. He came about a week after she left, settled the outstanding rent account and took her possessions away.”

“I wasn’t aware Fräulein Niemann had a brother … are you sure—?” Rowland began.

“Yes, yes.” Handel was emphatic. “I was surprised at first too, as Fräulein Niemann had never mentioned a brother and he had not visited before. We do not give the goods and chattels of our residents to any person that walks in off the street!”

“Forgive me, Herr Handel, I did not mean to imply such a thing,” Rowland said quickly. “It’s just that I have known Fräulein Niemann for many years and I have never met this brother. What did he look like? Perhaps we have been introduced and I have just forgotten.”

Handel shrugged. “Tall … about forty-five, I’d say … red hair … He spoke with an accent, though I could not place it. He was polite, but his face did not match his words. He showed me a photo taken just after the war … They were younger, of course, but the likeness was unmistakable.

Rowland frowned. He pulled the notebook from the lining pocket of his jacket and, opening to a clean page, drew quickly. “Is this the man, Herr Handel?” he asked, handing the notebook over the desk.

Handel took a pair of spectacles from his breast pocket and peered at the sketch of Alastair Blanshard curiously. “
Mein Gott!
That is him … with so few lines you have drawn him … You know him then, Herr Marcel?”

Rowland nodded. “I do … I had forgotten he was Fräulein Niemann’s brother until you described him just now.” He took the notebook back from Handel. “I don’t suppose he left a forwarding address.”

Handel raised a finger. “Yes, yes, he did … for mail and such, though there has been nothing.” He opened a drawer and rummaged through it to find the note he sought. Painstakingly he copied the address onto a card which he handed to Rowland. “Perhaps you will find her there, Herr Marcel, or at least Herr Niemann. She is a fine actress … My wife and I went to one of her shows.”

“We’ll do our best to find her, Herr Handel.” Rowland stood and thanked the manager for his time and assistance.

As their companions had not yet returned, Rowland and Edna took tea in a small but fashionable café near the apartment block. Rowland informed Edna then that it was Alastair Blanshard who had collected Anna Niemann’s belongings and paid her rent.

Edna gasped. “But why? … Do you think Mr. Blanshard knows where she is now?”

“I’m beginning to wonder what precisely Blanshard knows and what exactly he’s doing,” Rowland replied tersely. He shook his head, remembering that when he first asked Blanshard about the mystery woman the agent had pointed him towards Nancy. It seemed an intentional misdirection now.

“Rowly?” Edna prompted him. “What are we going to do?”

Rowland smiled, noticing that Edna had finished her cake and had duly started on his. “If we can’t trust Blanshard we’re fairly vulnerable, Ed … Are you going to leave me any of that?”

Edna took another forkful of cake before returning it. “It’s simply delicious,” she assured him.

“Wil said that Bothwell may have been betrayed by someone within the Old Guard … Perhaps it was Blanshard.”

“Are we going to confront him?” Edna asked, adding another lump of sugar to her tea.

“No, we are not,” he replied quietly. “But
I
might.”

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