The City of Shadows (33 page)

He had forced Keller's address in Langfuhr out of Francis Byrne at the end, but this would be a very different proposition from a guilt-ridden priest. Keller would be doing what he did, buying and selling information. He would have connections, and if Dublin was any measure he would have connections with the police. Stefan knew he might have to push the Austrian hard. Keller would have to believe he would suffer serious physical damage unless he told him what he knew about Hannah's whereabouts. He would probably have to hurt him. But he couldn't take it too far. If she had been arrested he might need Keller's help. Instincts he trusted told him the abortionist would respond to two things: real pain and real money. Stefan had to get the balance right. He had some money; more could be wired from Adam Rosen. The only other route was the diplomatic fuss Robert Briscoe could get out of the Irish government. Keller wouldn't like the threat of the public eye on him, neither would the Danzig police. But he had to find her before anything else could happen. And the darkness he had sensed in Francis Byrne was gnawing at him. As he drained his glass and got up, he realised it was already too late to call on Keller. Two men were approaching across the bar. In the doorway the hotel manager looked on with a smile of sour satisfaction. One of the men was a uniformed Schutzpolizei. The other sweated in a belted leather coat that was too big for him. Stefan could already identify the Danzig Gestapo.

Weidengasse was a long wide street across the river from the old town, with a tramline running its length and a tram depot at the far end. It was dominated by a sprawling, drab, four-storeyed building full of windows, its facade regularly broken by square turrets. In Imperial Germany this was Danzig's cavalry barracks, the Reiterkaserne, but it was a long time since the last regiment of Death's Head Hussars clattered out on to the cobbles to take the road to the front line, where men and horses would die together in the mud, blown apart by mortars and cannon. It was mostly empty now, a place of echoing corridors and bare, damp, unfurnished rooms. However, at one end of the building, on the corner of Reitergasse, was the District III Police Station, serving the old docks, the warehouses of the Speicherinsel and the streets of apartments south of the Mottlau River. With the election in full swing police cells throughout the Free City were crammed with disruptive opposition supporters and the Reiterkaserne, with its easily adapted cellars and a plentiful supply of vacant barrack rooms, offered the capacity for extra accommodation. The Free City's Gestapo men found it particularly useful.

No one at Police Headquarters in Karrenwall much minded what happened to the anti-social elements who wanted to vote for someone, almost anyone, other than the Nazis, but the building was still too close to the League of Nations Commissioner and to a Senate where there were a few politicians unpatriotic enough to ask awkward questions. The election was only two days away now and people were still trying to put up posters and hold meetings in the face of the Nazi juggernaut. There were still socialists, communists, liberals, Jews, Poles and other scum conspiring to exercise their right to vote. But it was a lot easier for an indignant Police President to deny his disdain for the constitution if people weren't being beaten up in the next office to his. There was plenty of space for all that in Weidengasse after all. And if there was some serious business to be done, to save Danzig from its political and racial degenerates, the Reiterkaserne's long corridors led to places where nobody would even hear the screams.

Stefan had been driven from the Stockturm across the city, through the oldest part of Danzig, into Langgasse and the Lange Markt, down to the Mottlau River and through the island docks and warehouses to Langgarten and Weidengasse. The uniformed Schutzpolizei officer drove, concentrating on blasting his horn and cursing pedestrians. The Gestapo man was still sweating, but he had become more affable once they were in the car and he was no longer on stage. Occasionally he pointed out places of interest, almost at random, as if they were on a tour. The crenellated facades of the eighteenth-century houses in Langgasse; the Neptune Fountain; the Ratsweinkeller under the Town Hall, which he thoroughly recommended for the quality of its beer and the size of its dumplings; the great medieval crane along the Lange Brücke as they crossed the river and left the old town.

In Weidengasse Stefan was put in a cell with seven other men. They included a newspaper editor whose paper had just been shut down for the third time since February, a fourteen-year-old boy who had put up an election poster outside the parliament building, and a pickpocket who claimed he was a Party member and didn't see why he should be locked up with a bunch of degenerate politicos. After two hours, Stefan was taken up to an interview room. He stepped round an old woman cleaning blood off the wall and the stairs. Someone had been unlucky enough to trip and knock his head against the wall on the way down. They were very unlucky stairs.

In a bare room that reminded him uncomfortably of Pearse Street Garda station the tour guide was joined by another Gestapo man. He announced himself as Kr
iminaloberassistent Rothe. The first thing they did was to tell Stefan what he wanted to know. They asked him why he was asking questions about Anna Harvey. What exactly was his relationship with her? Did he know where she was? They asked him if he knew where she was too many times. It didn't tell him where she was, but he felt sure the police didn't have her. And if she'd avoided the police, who else would be looking for her? The Gestapo men didn't seem at all clear what else they wanted from him. They had been told to find out if he knew where the woman was and that was it. He could sense, as a professional among professionals, that they were now looking for questions to ask to justify a report that would say nothing.

‘So, who is she, Hannah Rosen or Anna Harvey?'

‘I know her as Anna Harvey, that's all, Mrs Harvey. Maybe Rosen was her maiden name. I don't think she's been married very long. Look, we're not old friends. I'm not up on her bloody family history.'

‘Did she change her first name too?'

‘I don't know. My name's Stefan, but most people call me Stevie.'

The questions came almost exclusively from the crop-haired Rothe now.

‘Did you know she was Jewish?'

‘Yes, I suppose so. I hadn't really thought about it.'

‘Did you know she'd been living in Palestine?'

‘That must be where she got her suntan.'

The tour guide grinned. Rothe didn't.

‘Why are you in Danzig, Herr Gillespie?'

By now it was clear he wasn't there for a Gestapo thrashing. He didn't have the information they wanted. He knew when something mattered and when it didn't. He was a policeman. This wasn't important to them. He remembered the conversation with Arthur Greiser. He could take a chance.

‘Look, if I knew where the bitch was, I'd tell you. What's she done?'

‘It's not your business.'

‘It's not her husband after her then?'

He had their attention. They thought he was opening up. Maybe they'd get something out of him after all. The tour guide offered him a cigarette.

‘What do you mean?' asked Rothe.

‘I had some business in Berlin. We arranged to meet up, you know. A bit of fun, no strings. I don't know what she was doing in Danzig, but it seemed as good a place as any. I liked the sound of Zoppot too. And if you're going to fuck a man's wife, well, the further away the better.'

‘She was waiting for you here, is that what you're saying?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did she know anyone in Danzig?'

‘No idea. I've only been seeing her a couple of months. Mostly in England. It's a night here, a night there. That's how these things go.'

‘But it seems she didn't wait.' Rothe wasn't entirely convinced yet.

‘Her husband's been a bit suspicious. Maybe she changed her mind.'

The tour guide grinned. The Kriminaloberassistent was less amused.

‘You fuck a lot of Jewesses?'

‘It's not illegal, is it?'

‘It will be,' he barked, looking at Stefan with disgust.

‘It's just a fuck. What's his problem?' He winked at the tour guide. That was when the slap came. It was only a slap, but it was hard enough.

‘Jesus!'

‘Filthy bastard.' Rothe was in the mood for more.

‘I don't know what she did to you, but it looks like she's dumped me now, the bitch.' Stefan shrugged as if to say it was a pain in the arse but only a woman. ‘Doesn't look like I'll make it to Zoppot after all. Pity after what Herr Greiser told me on the plane.' He laughed a sly-dog, boys-will-be-boys laugh that was a fair stab at the Senate President's style. ‘What did he say? A place not to be missed or a great place to get pissed?' He sniggered. And now he really had their attention. ‘We'd had a couple. You know Greiser!'

He stopped. No need to overdo it.

The tour guide chuckled. Rothe was frowning. He regretted the slap.

‘You know the Senatspräsident?' he asked.

‘We were on the plane from Berlin. He dropped me at the hotel.'

It wasn't exactly an answer but it was the detail that mattered. The tour guide looked at the Kriminaloberassistent. He expected him to know more about the movements of senior Party officials than he did. As long as he didn't step on anyone's toes he couldn't care less. He definitely didn't want to tread on Greiser's. The nod from Rothe was barely perceptible. Yes, he did know Greiser had been in Berlin. The silence was uneasy now. The tour guide lit a cigarette. It was all over as far as he was concerned. Klaus Rothe had decided it was over too, but he still had some face to save.

‘How much longer do you intend to stay in Danzig, Herr Gillespie?'

‘I might try the casino after all. A little bit of culture goes a long way.'

‘You think Frau Harvey, Fräulein Rosen, has left the city then?'

‘If her old man got the scent she wouldn't want to cross him. Too much dough. Well, he's a Jew. Still, if you can't screw them one way, you can screw them another.'

The tour guide liked the joke. Rothe didn't. Sexual intercourse with a Jewess was the abomination of abominations. He couldn't approve of what Stefan was doing, but at least he was doing it with the proper degree of contempt. If he'd been a local he would have taught him a lesson about racial purity he wouldn't forget in a hurry. But this was a waste of time. He had better things to do. He looked at his watch. The rally would have started. Josef Goebbels, the Reich Propaganda Minister, had just flown in from Berlin to wind up the faithful for the election. He didn't want to miss it.

As the two Gestapo men walked to the front desk with Stefan, a door from an office opened ahead of them. He recognised Hugo Keller again. He was in the suit he'd been wearing in Merrion Square, but it hung on him like something from a second-hand clothes stall. He was thinner, greyer. His skin was pale. He wasn't the same man now that Stefan was close to him. He laughed as he stepped into the corridor, calling back into the room, ‘I'm counting up those fucking drinks you owe me. Make sure you can afford it!'

The moment he saw the Kriminaloberassistent his face was more serious.

‘Were you coming to see me, Hugo?' asked the Gestapo officer.

‘I just needed some money, Herr Rothe.' His voice was deferential.

‘Whatever you need, you ask me. I thought that was clear.'

‘You were busy, Kriminaloberassistent.'

‘Then you should have waited till I wasn't. You only talk to me.' There was irritation in his voice and behind that there was contempt.

Hugo Keller may have been about to say more, but he wasn't looking at the Gestapo man now, he was looking straight at Stefan Gillespie. The surprise on Keller's face was entirely genuine. And he didn't know what to do about it. Stefan could read the thought process in the abortionist's eyes. He needed time. He needed to know what this was about. The two men looked at each other warily. Then, quite unexpectedly, Rothe laughed.

‘Perhaps you know our friend here, Hugo. He's an Irishman.'

Keller was recovering his composure. He smiled at Stefan.

‘I don't think so, Kriminaloberassistent.'

Stefan's eyes widened.

‘There were a few people I didn't get round to meeting,' continued Keller, his gaze fixed firmly on Stefan. The two Gestapo men were unaware of the intensity of that gaze, but Stefan understood what it was telling him: ‘Shut up!' He couldn't make any sense of it, yet he had no choice but to be grateful for the lifeline he had been thrown. Hugo Keller could have driven a coach and horses through the story he had just given to Klaus Rothe.

‘I lived in Dublin for several years, Mr –' Keller spoke in English.

‘Gillespie. I'm in Dublin myself.'

‘Have we met then? I didn't think –'

‘No.' It seemed to be what Keller wanted him to say.

‘Where are you staying?'

‘The Danziger Hof.'

‘He speaks good German, Hugo. Don't give us all that English crap.'

‘We must have a drink, Mr Gillespie.' Keller still spoke in English.

‘A word, Hugo, now please!' The Kriminaloberassistent turned back along the corridor, walking slowly; the Austrian followed him obediently.

The tour guide walked on with Stefan to the front desk. Moments later he was in Weidengasse, walking back to the river and the old town, wondering why Hugo Keller had saved him from the beating the Gestapo officers only needed an excuse to deliver. It was all the more odd because despite the fear that had risen in his throat when he saw the Austrian in the police station, he had sensed that Keller's fear went deeper than his own. Yet even though he was obviously working for the Gestapo, he had lied to them.

As Stefan turned into Langgarten, towards the Mottlau and the stone tower that Danzigers called the Milk Can, he heard his name being shouted.