Rory Clements EVIL IN HIGH PLACES
VIKING
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For Imogen with love
Bavaria, 1936
When Elena Lang went missing, Sebastian Wolff couldn’t work out what all the fuss was about.
‘She’s a film star,’ he told his boss. ‘She’s probably overslept – in someone else’s hotel room. That’s how the business works.’
‘You’re a cynic, Wolff.’
‘Perhaps, but I’m a murder detective, not a missing persons drudge.’
‘What you are, Wolff, is my subordinate. You’ll do what I tell you to do, and today I’m ordering you to find Elena Lang.’
‘At your service as always, chief.’
That was an hour ago at the Police Presidium in Ettstrasse, central Munich. Now here he was in the south of the city at Geiselgasteig, home of the Bavaria Film AG studios, accompanied by his assistant, Sergeant Hans Winter.
Seb knew why he was here. He spoke English, and the film’s director was English, as was the company behind the production. Oh, and there was the small matter of the Olympics. Nothing must detract attention from the big event. That meant no murders, no missing people, no scandals.
Seb and his sergeant approached the front gate of the studios.
‘Did you see her latest, captain?’ Winter asked.
‘What?’
‘Elena Lang’s new film, Rapture.’
‘Nice title. I suppose you took that girl of yours.’
Winter nodded and looked sheepish.
Seb laughed. ‘Was it good?’
‘I suppose so, if you like historical romances. Malwine liked it, so did the audience: they stood up and cheered and applauded. I thought it was all rather foolish and soppy.’
‘Foolish and soppy, Winter? That’s the whole point of the cinema, isn’t it? An hour or two of foolishness to escape from the cares of reality. That, and your arm around your girl. So her name’s Malwine, is it? You hadn’t told me that before.’
‘You didn’t ask. She’s named after Bismarck’s sister. Her father, Herr Schmidt, is something senior at BMW and he’s a great German patriot.’
‘Isn’t everyone these days?’
Winter gave him a warning look as if to say, Be careful, captain. You might be safe with me, but there are less friendly ears in the new Germany.
Seb shrugged. ‘And what do they think of you, these great patriots?’
‘They were polite when I met them, but I think they disapprove. I fear they might suspect. Her father talks about Versailles and the betrayal of the Fatherland. Also his loathing of Jews. And, whenever he says that, he peers at me closely to see my reaction. I don’t know how to talk to the man.’
Winter’s words did not need comment. Wolff knew that his sergeant lived in constant fear that his part-Jewish ancestry would be discovered. ‘You can tell me all about Malwine and her family over a beer later. On the plus side, she’s certainly smartened you up.’
A new suit and tie, polished shoes. At the age of thirtyone, Hans Winter was finally beginning to look respectable.
When they first met, back in June of the previous year, his hair was badly cut, his suit was shabby, and his tie was stained. Not a good advertisement for the Bavarian Political Police.
‘For the moment,’ Seb continued, ‘we’d better find the missing Elena Lang.’
The entrance to the lot was in a quiet street, bounded by woodland to the east. Behind the fence, studio buildings that looked no more enticing than aircraft hangars dominated the scene. It all seemed very bland, but this was where the magic was created. Further to the west, beyond the lot, the Isar flowed serenely towards the centre of the city.
Two tall SS men in long leather coats, their shoulders back and rigid, eyes fixed to the front, stood to attention at the gate. Why the SS were needed here was beyond Seb. Behind the guards, a pair of even taller soldiers, dressed in the bright red of the famous old Prussian Infantry No. 6 regiment, hurried across the damp paved area, each with a glass of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
‘Who on earth are they?’ Winter said, mystified.
‘Actors playing Potsdam Giants. Obviously not the Elena Lang film – that’s a modern thriller.’ Seb showed his Kripo badge to the SS men and Winter did the same with his BPP warrant.
‘You gentlemen here about herself, I suppose.’
‘Indeed, officer. Any idea where she might be?’
‘Legs apart somewhere, I’ve no doubt.’ He grinned, without relaxing his strict posture, then immediately looked sheepish. ‘Please don’t tell anyone I said that, detective.’
‘Don’t worry. The thought had already crossed my mind.’
The SS man’s gaze drifted to the gatehouse. ‘If you go over there and sign in, they’ll put a call through so someone can come to collect you, gentlemen.’
Two minutes later, a young woman arrived. Small and darkhaired. ‘Herr Wolff?’
Seb nodded. ‘That’s me. And this is Sergeant Winter of the Bavarian Political Police. He is presently on attachment to the Criminal Police.’ He wasn’t going to mention that the BPP were Munich’s very own version of the Gestapo. Nor was he going to add that Winter had actually been foisted on him because Wolff wasn’t trusted and needed watching. Their relationship had not started well but had progressed to some kind of understanding, even warmth. They knew each other’s secrets: Seb’s loathing of the Nazis; Winter’s Jewish blood.
The woman looked Winter up and down critically, then turned her gaze back to Seb.
‘Very pleased to meet you both. I’m Olivia Sands – Alan Harcourt’s assistant. I believe you speak English. Mr Harcourt would prefer it that way.’
‘As you wish.’ He caught Winter’s eye and shrugged. ‘I’ll give you the gist, sergeant.’
‘Follow me, if you would, gentlemen,’ Miss Sands said. ‘Mr Harcourt is presently in the editing suite but will meet us in his office in a short while.’
‘Perhaps you could fill us in on what you know about the movements of Fräulein Lang.’
‘Of course.’ She smiled, her face open and welcoming. ‘And I shall arrange some coffee if you like.’
‘Thank you.’
They were escorted to a first-floor office in a building deep inside the studio complex. The room was in chaos. A desk, four chairs, a very bright reading lamp, papers on every surface, tins full of film reels, drawings of what looked like potential movie scenes pinned to the four walls. The whole place smelt of tobacco smoke and sweat.
Without compunction, Olivia Sands swept piles of documents from two chairs on to the floor. ‘Your seats, detectives. Let me organise that coffee and hopefully Mr Harcourt will arrive soon.’
‘Before you go, you were going to tell us about the movements of Elena Lang,’ Seb said as he took his seat.
‘Oh, dear, where to begin?’
‘When was she last seen?’
‘That would be Friday. We didn’t work Sunday, but we did have a shoot on Saturday morning and she wasn’t here. Mr Harcourt was annoyed but he wasn’t too worried because he had other scenes to complete without her. Hardly the first time she’s missed a morning shoot.’
‘So she was last seen on the lot four days ago?’
‘Correct.’
‘And she’s been staying in central Munich at the Vier Jahreszeiten?’
‘Also correct. And, before you ask, yes, we have checked and checked again with the hotel management. Her bed hasn’t been slept in since Thursday evening and she hasn’t eaten in the restaurant.’
‘How does she normally make her way from the hotel to the studio?’
‘A car is there for her at six every morning.’
‘And the driver is trustworthy?’
‘Viktor has been with the studio for many years. If you want to talk to him, I’ll make him available.’
‘Thank you. And when did you first alert the police?’
‘Yesterday morning, ten o’clock. I placed a call to the Police Presidium myself, but I didn’t think it had been taken very seriously, so I called again in the afternoon. Since then Mr Harcourt has spoken to various friends – particularly Adolf Wagner. And now, like magic, things are happening.’
Adolf Wagner. Gauleiter – regional governor – of Munich and Upper Bavaria and, perhaps most telling of all, a close friend of his namesake, Adolf Hitler.
A phone call from the one-legged Wagner to Deputy Police President Thomas Ruff would have got things moving. Ruff was Seb’s immediate boss, a bureaucrat terrified of his own shadow since the Night of the Long Knives purge less than two years ago, and the murder of Ruff’s own commanding officer.
‘Why wait all that time before you called us?’
Miss Sands shrugged. ‘This is not untypical behaviour for an actress, I’m afraid. Anyway, it was the weekend. Miss Lang knows people in the area and might well have been visiting one of them, so no one was terribly surprised. We were all irritated but not worried for her safety.’
‘But there’s something different this time. Something’s unnerved you.’
‘Well, even when actors and actresses miss shoots, we usually have a pretty good idea where they are. You may not be surprised to learn that thespians don’t tend to shun the limelight. Often as not, if an actress is missing, an actor will be, too – and vice versa.’
‘You say she has friends in the area. I would like details of them.’
‘I don’t know any of them myself but I will certainly ask around.’
‘Tell me, if it’s not impertinent, why did Mr Harcourt choose to make this film in Bavaria rather than England?’
‘There aren’t many mountains in London and anyway he loves Bavaria – he directed in this studio back in the twenties and made friends, particularly among the senior men in the local Nazi movement. People like Wagner. When he approached various people about this new film, they were
happy to offer him studio space at an exceptionally good price, as well as privileged access to various locations, particularly the Alps, which are central to the story. The film is tentatively titled Evil in High Places.’
‘So Mr Harcourt knows Bavaria well?’
‘Indeed. And his German language skills actually aren’t bad. When I asked you to speak English, that is simply the way he prefers it.’
A door slammed somewhere below and then heavy footsteps on the stairway announced the imminent arrival of the celebrated film director Alan Harcourt. Seb had seen some of his films; he had made his name in the silent era but was proving even more popular with his talkies, specialising in high-suspense thrillers.
He knew how to make an entrance: his figure filled the doorway, shrouded in smoke. He was holding a large cigar in his left hand. A bear of a man, breathing fire. His gaze pivoted between the two new men and landed on Seb. ‘I take it you’re in charge,’ he said in English, his voice a growl.
Seb stood up and bowed perfunctorily. ‘Yes, sir. Captain of Detectives Wolff.’
‘We’re filming in the mountains tomorrow and she has to be there. This cannot be rearranged. I am on an unbreakable deadline because I have to be back in England by the twentyfourth. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So what are you doing about it?’
‘I’m talking to you, Mr Harcourt. And then I’ll talk to anyone else who knows Fräulein Lang and try to find clues to her movements and present whereabouts.’
‘Damn it, man, if anyone on set knew her whereabouts, we wouldn’t need you here.’
‘Do you have a better idea, Mr Harcourt?’
‘Yes. My idea is that you get out there and find the bitch.’
Seb wasn’t fazed. He was used to difficult people. As a non-Nazi in a city full of Nazis, he had to go along with their games, treat arrogance as a social disorder and get on with his job as best he could. ‘My feelings entirely, Mr Harcourt. First, though, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, then talk to her co-stars if they’re on the lot.’
‘Ask me questions? What use would that be? Damn it, I was told you were the best detective in Munich – what must the others be like?’
‘Miss Sands tells me that Fräulein Lang has friends in Bavaria. Perhaps you could furnish me with some of their names.’ Seb saw the irritation in Harcourt’s eyes but pressed on regardless. ‘By the way, sir, do you have any reason to believe that something might have happened to her? That her disappearance might not be entirely voluntary?’
‘You mean has she been abducted or killed? My God, I would happily kill her myself. She’s just a pain in the bloody neck. Wish I’d never cast the bloody woman. Been nothing but trouble since day bloody one.’
‘What sort of trouble, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Actors and actresses are there to do exactly as the director says. She has ideas of her own. Turns up late, has the temerity to try changing the script, suggests angles. Sulks.’
‘How does she get on with the male star of the film?’
‘Gary Tate? Oh, I don’t think she has anything to do with him off set.’ Harcourt snorted at the very thought. ‘She’s not really his type.’
Seb took this to imply that Gary Tate was probably more attracted to his own sex, but that would have to remain unsaid, German laws being strict on such matters.
‘Talk to him if you must,’ Harcourt continued. ‘But just get on with it. Time is everything. He’s still here, but I’ve
dismissed the others. Can’t have them drinking endless cups of coffee and smoking tobacco fields of cigarettes at my expense – we’re on a damned budget.’
‘Where will I find Mr Tate?’
‘Stage Two.’
‘One more question, sir: you didn’t quite tell me if you believe Fräulein Lang is still alive?’
Harcourt shrugged. ‘She damned well better be because I’ll be hard pressed to finish the film without her.’ His enormous face mutated into something close to a sneer. ‘But, then again, she’s insured to the hilt, so maybe her death wouldn’t be such a bad option.’
With that, he turned and disappeared, leaving nothing but a Harcourt-shaped halo of smoke.
‘I’m sorry,’ Olivia Sands said, reverting to German. ‘I didn’t quite get around to the coffee.’
‘Don’t worry. Just take us to Stage Two and see if you can drum up the names of Elena Lang’s friends and acquaintances.’
‘Of course. And let me apologise for Mr Harcourt. I’m sure he’s desperately worried about Elena, but he’s under a lot of pressure. This film means a great deal to him – I think he sees it as his riposte to The Thirty-Nine Steps.’
‘Ah, yes, I read the book,’ Seb said. He had borrowed it from the skipper on the Eastern Star, the British freighter where he worked for four years. It was one of the books that helped with his struggle to learn English. ‘I believe it’s been made into a film.’
‘Very successfully, by Alfred Hitchcock – which has upset Harcourt no end. They are great rivals. But no matter. Come along.’
They found Gary Tate in one of the vast buildings which housed the film sets. He was in his dressing room, feet up on the counter in front of a large, brightly lit mirror, cigarette in his mouth, gazing vacantly at the ceiling.
‘Mr Tate?’
‘Is that you, Olivia?’ He didn’t bother to turn or look at her.
‘I have two gentlemen here from the Munich police. They’d like to talk to you.’
‘Are you serious? Just because that bloody tart has gone off somewhere for a shag?’
Seb stepped forward. ‘Miss Lang’s disappearance is being taken extremely seriously.’
Tate sighed, slowly removed his feet from the make-up bench with its mass of jars and bottles of slap and powder and hair-styling items, and turned around to face his visitors. He raised his right arm in a desultory, mocking fashion. ‘Heil Hitler,’ he said.
‘Heil Hitler, Mr Tate,’ Seb said, hastily followed by Winter.
‘This is Captain Wolff and Sergeant Winter.’
‘Guten Tag, meine Herren.’
‘Good day to you, too, Mr Tate. And English is fine. We just have a couple of questions for you.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Do you have any inkling where Miss Lang might be?’
‘Well, definitely not with me. Maybe she’s working her way through the local SS brigade. Ask the fellows at the gate. They might know.’
‘I’ll take that as a “no”. My next question is whether you know the names of any of her friends in Munich or the wider Bavaria?’
‘Why would I? On set we work together to make a film. When the day’s over, she goes her way, I go mine.’
‘Where are you staying, Mr Tate?’
‘That’s three questions; you said two. Oh, the Vier Jahreszeiten. Just like madame. On occasion, we’ve even shared a car to the studio.’
‘With the studio driver, Viktor?’
‘With Viktor.’
Seb could not fail to be struck by Gary Tate’s remarkable good looks. Dark hair, bright eyes, flawless skin. Perfect and yet somehow rugged, just right for the silver screen. He had
one of those faces that almost seemed to be smiling even when he wasn’t. Seb guessed his age to be about thirty. He spoke quickly to Hans Winter in German to outline the conversation and ask whether he had any questions of his own.
‘When did Herr Tate last see Fräulein Lang? Did he see her at the hotel on Friday after the shoot?’
Seb put the question to the actor and once again the answer was a curt ‘no’.
‘Did you share the car back to the hotel?’
‘We did. But I didn’t see her again.’
‘All right, thank you for your time, Mr Tate,’ Seb said. ‘We may be in touch.’
‘Don’t hurry back.’
The Vier Jahreszeiten Hotel was on Maximilianstrasse, to the north of the old city. A man and a woman stood at the front desk, both in the hotel’s smart livery. Seb made a point of approaching the woman.
‘How can I help you, sir?’
Seb flashed his Kripo badge. ‘Captain of Detectives Wolff, Police Presidium.’
The woman’s arm shot up. ‘Heil Hitler, Captain Wolff.’
‘Heil Hitler, fräulein. And this is Sergeant Winter of the Bavarian Political Police.’
The woman tensed and threw another salute. Seb understood her nervousness. Everyone knew that the BPP were the local secret police and everyone feared them because they had the power to throw you in Dachau concentration camp without trial. This was something Seb had discovered for himself the previous summer, though only for one uncomfortable night. Others stayed a great deal longer; some died. There was no appeal.
‘We are investigating the disappearance of one of your
guests, the film actress Elena Lang. Have you ever had dealings with her?’
‘Yes, sir. She’s an honoured guest.’
‘And what is your name?’
‘Ingol, sir.’
‘Fräulein Ingol, perhaps you could take me to Miss Lang’s room?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She turned to her desk colleague. ‘Herr Schell, would you cover for me here while I show these two officers to Miss Lang’s room?’
Schell clicked his heels. ‘Of course.’
Seb nodded at Winter. ‘Sergeant, you stay here with Herr Schell and see if he has any idea where Miss Lang might be.’
Elena Lang’s accommodation was a suite of four large rooms including a bathroom, sitting room, dining room and bedchamber. It occurred to Seb that few people in Munich had access to such space in their own homes; he certainly didn’t. The apartment he shared in Ainmüllerstrasse with his mother and son would fit into the two reception rooms alone.
The suite was immaculate and smelt of flowers; everything was in its place.
‘Is this how Miss Lang left the room?’
‘No, sir. I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, but Miss Lang isn’t the sort of person to tidy up after herself. But then she doesn’t need to and we don’t expect it of our guests, for our chambermaids are skilled in their work and attend to the smallest details of cleanliness.’
Seb looked in the wardrobe, which was full of women’s clothes – dresses, blouses, shoes. He opened drawers, in which smaller items were folded perfectly and divided by tissue paper. The bed was vast – big enough to sleep four adults.
He opened the drawers of the bedside tables. In one he found a well-thumbed script for the film she was supposed to be making, Evil in High Places. Also a couple of books – an Agatha Christie, Murder on the Orient Express, and The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers. Both books in the original English.
The concierge saw what he was looking at. ‘I believe Miss Lang speaks good English, for I’ve observed her talking with British members of the film crew.’
There were four telephones in the suite, one on each of the bedside tables and in each of the other rooms.
A wide leather-topped desk in the sitting room was graced with a writing pad, fountain pen, inkwell and Vier Jahreszeiten-headed notepaper. Again, nothing to indicate her whereabouts. ‘Where are Miss Lang’s suitcases?’
‘The porters bring them downstairs and put them into storage when they’re unpacked. I’m sure they’re empty.’
‘I would like to see them anyway.’
‘Of course, captain. I’ll take you to them when you’re finished here.’
‘Oh, I’m finished here.’ The rooms were almost completely devoid of anything personal save for the books, script and clothes. Clearly Miss Lang travelled light.
They rode down in the lift together. ‘Has Miss Lang had any visitors while she has been here?’
The concierge looked uneasy. ‘You mean apart from the film crew?’
‘I mean including the film crew – and others.’
‘There have been people, yes, but mostly they stay in the bar with her or they eat together in the restaurant.’
‘But not always?’
‘I’m not sure it’s my place to say, sir.’
‘She’s entertained men in her room?’
The young woman nodded, her face reddening.
‘I would like the names of these men, Fräulein Ingol.’
‘We don’t have their names. The only visitors I knew were the Englishman Mr Harcourt and his assistant Miss Sands, but they remained downstairs in the bar.’
‘And has Miss Lang gone missing before?’
‘She didn’t always stay the night here, but I wouldn’t say she was missing as such. We never had any cause for concern until now. The comings and goings of guests is no business of the hotel or its staff.’
‘Tell me about telephone calls. She must have made and received calls. Have there been messages?’
‘I’m not sure, but it is possible – likely even. My colleague Herr Schell would be able to tell you.’
‘Let’s see what he has to say.’
Schell was talking to Hans Winter at the desk. ‘Anything, sergeant?’ Seb asked.
‘Possibly. There was a message for Miss Lang on Thursday evening.’
He turned his attention to the male concierge. ‘Tell me about it, Herr Schell.’
‘The caller asked to speak to Miss Lang, but she wasn’t here. The woman on the phone said to please ask Miss Lang to call Sophie.’
‘And that was all?’
‘Yes, but I’m sure I recognised the woman’s voice, for she’s been here many times before. I believe it was Sophie von Stark, sir.’
‘Sophie von Stark? Of the von Stark family?’
‘Yes, captain.’
‘Did she leave a number to call?’
‘No, sir.’
Seb wrote his own name and numbers on a piece of paper
and slid it across the counter. ‘If either of you hears anything else in regard to Miss Lang’s whereabouts, call me without delay – any time, day or night.’
‘Yes, captain,’ Schell said.
‘And do you now wish to inspect Miss Lang’s suitcases?’ Fräulein Ingol asked.
‘Show them to Sergeant Winter.’ He had more important things to do: somehow, he had to talk to Sophie von Stark. But that might not be so easy. Such people were not accessible.
‘What am I looking for, captain?’ Winter asked.
Seb rolled his eyes. ‘Clues, Winter.’ As a member of the political police, Winter had little experience of detective work, but he was learning.
The von Starks. A noble family of extreme wealth going back hundreds of years. Older than the Rothschilds or the Krupps, they had been among the most aristocratic of German dynasties since the time of the Fuggers, the Welsers and the Tuchers, though perhaps not quite as wealthy as the Fuggers. But then no one was, for Jakob Fugger of Augsburg was the wealthiest man who ever lived.
The von Starks had made their money through mining, various manufacturing industries, slave-trading and moneylending. It was said that they had financed the winning side in every European war since 1500 – the reason for this being that they tended to finance both sides of a conflict.
The twentieth-century von Starks had not been slow to support the Nazi movement and were already reaping their reward with major contracts for shipbuilding and other great engineering projects from Hamburg in the north to Munich in the south and all points east and west.
You could not just make a phone call to such people. Which castle or palace would you call? Sophie was the daughter of the family. She and her brother, Werner, would one day inherit their parents’ riches. They lived in another world.
However, there was one man who might just be able to help Seb make contact.
Seb left his Lancia outside the hotel and strode westwards along Maximilianstrasse. He had business at the Residenz, once the great city-centre palace of the kings of Bavaria and
now the home of Seb’s uncle Christian Weber – his mother’s younger brother and boss of the city council.
It was a short walk, no more than five minutes, but far enough to feel the chill in the air. He sensed snow in the offing, something that would definitely please the organisers of the Olympics and the Nazi hierarchy who had staked so much on its success.
They wanted to show themselves in a good light. That meant temporarily removing anti-Jewish slogans, refraining from beating people up in the street, smiling at the foreign press – anything to prove that they weren’t the thugs depicted in the American newspapers.
As far as Seb was concerned, that was going to be difficult to pull off. He didn’t like the present government, but that wasn’t unusual. His job was to solve crimes and bring murderers to court; their politics meant nothing to him. It didn’t matter who was in charge of the country; life had to go on and people needed the protection of an impartial police force.
Uncle Christian received him in the Black Hall, as he always did. Seb suspected he did so simply because he liked the name. Because it intimidated visitors even before they arrived at the Residenz.
The room wasn’t black but it was ornate and impressive, like the rest of the immense palace, which Uncle Christian had acquired through corruption on an industrial scale and, more importantly, his close friendship with Adolf Hitler. Christian Weber was one of the select band known as the Old Fighters, those who had marched alongside the Führer in the attempted coup of 1923. Their mutual loyalty and friendship had stood the test of time.
Seb was usually made to wait, but this time his uncle was with him inside a couple of minutes, his pork belly straining against his SS -Oberführer uniform.
‘Boy, what can I do for you this time? You never come to see me unless you want something.’
‘Some advice, uncle, that’s all.’
‘My advice? Marry that girl of yours. Why didn’t you do it last summer? I’d have turned it into the event of the year and you’d have made your mother the proudest woman in Bavaria.’
‘That’s a story for another day, uncle.’ It was a good question, though. Why hadn’t he married Hexie Schuler? He had posed the question, she had said yes, and here they were seven months later, still unwed and no date set.
‘What is it, boy? What can I do for you today?’
‘I need to talk to Sophie von Stark, but I’ve no idea how to get in touch with her.’
‘God in heaven, why would you need to talk to her? Bit above your station, isn’t she?’
‘I’m looking for the film star Elena Lang. There has been no sign of her since Friday. Last hint of a contact I have for her is that Sophie left a message at the Vier Jahreszeiten desk asking Miss Lang to call her.’
‘Don’t mess with the von Starks. Be very, very careful. They haven’t survived for five hundred years by being squeamish about doing away with enemies.’
Seb wanted to laugh but restrained himself. ‘I just want to speak to her, that’s all. You know everyone in Bavaria, so it occurred to me you might just know how to contact her.’
‘Come with me.’
Weber, generally known as ‘The Pig’, turned and strode through half a dozen glittering chambers until he came to a large office. Two secretaries, both in smart skirts and white blouses and both remarkably pretty with braided blonde hair, immediately rose from their desks and stood to attention.
‘Maria, find the number for Schloss Stark.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Two minutes later she was calling through to the castle, asking whether the honourable Sophie von Stark was in residence and explaining that a senior detective with the Munich police would very much like to talk to her regarding the whereabouts of Fräulein Elena Lang.
The secretary turned to her boss. ‘The man who answered said he was in the estate office and would go and inquire.’ She held the phone to her ear for another five minutes, then nodded and said, ‘Very well. Heil Hitler and thank you.’ She put the phone down.
‘Well?’ Weber demanded.
‘The lady is not in a position to talk to the detective on the phone, but Captain Wolff will most likely be received if he would care to attend Schloss Stark in person.’
‘So they’re here in Bavaria?’
‘It appears so, sir.’
Weber clapped his nephew on the back. ‘Boy, there’s your answer. Don’t say I don’t do anything for you. Do you know Schloss Stark?’
‘Not far from Garmisch-Partenkirchen, between Grainau and Ehrwald.’
‘Off you go, then. And give my love to your dear mother when next you see her.’
Seb met up with Hans Winter at the Police Presidium in Ettstrasse and told him his plan.
‘Should I come with you, captain?’
‘No, you stay in Munich. Talk to Olivia Sands again, press her for details of possible friends or acquaintances of Miss Lang. I take it there was nothing in her luggage?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Leave messages for me if you find any leads. I’ll try to call through. Failing contact, we’ll meet here tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.’
Usually, Schloss Stark would be an easy drive in Seb’s red Lancia Augusta – probably no more than an hour and a half – but, with the weather closing in and the temperature dropping, it was not so pleasant. As he neared the mountains, the roads became icy and he was worried about the state of his tyres.
Even at this time of year, however, the Bavarian countryside would always look beautiful to Seb. He particularly loved the brooding backdrop of the Alps as he drove south towards Garmisch-Partenkirchen – ‘Gapa’, as it had been nicknamed since the twin towns had become one on the orders of the Führer.
Part of him felt irritated to be making such a long journey when a phone call would have served just as well: did Sophie von Stark know where her friend Elena Lang was, yes or no? It would have taken no more than a minute. Another part of
him was happy to make the drive, which seemed a great deal better for the soul than sitting in his office at Ettstrasse. And, yes, he was interested to meet Sophie von Stark, the daughter of this most discreet – even secretive – of families.
Never had she or her brother had their picture in the newspapers; never was the smallest detail of their golden lives revealed to the public. If he passed her in the street, he would be none the wiser.
So he was curious. How could he not be?
Gapa was busier than he had ever seen it, even at the height of the tourist season. Olympic flags and swastikas seemed to be draped from every house, hotel and public building. SS troops and Hitler Youth helpers were out in force on all the streets. Bars, hotels and guest houses were packed with pleasure-seekers and competitors. Young people carrying skis and skates walked and talked together.
The twin towns were straining at the seams, and the fears that hosting the winter Olympics would cost a great deal more than the income it would generate were looking to be unfounded.
The big problem was still the lack of snow on the lower slopes. Plenty at the top of the Alpspitze and Zugspitze peaks that rose above the town, but the pistes became gradually more bare and green as they descended through the trees from Kreuzeck towards the Olympic centre in the valley. The ski jumps and designated slalom and downhill courses were unusable.
Seb knew there was talk of putting the opening ceremony back by two days in the desperate hope that snow would arrive, but that plan would bring organisational problems of its own.
Passing through the Garmisch portion of the twin town, he turned westwards on the road that skirted the northern
flanks of the village of Grainau and the exquisite Lake Eibsee.
The meadows still looked green instead of white, the dozens of scattered hay-barns – so emblematic of this fertile valley – somewhat sad without their winter coats.
This was where Seb began to get the best view of the Zugspitze, Germany’s highest mountain at almost 3,000 metres. Once past Eibsee, closely following the Loisach River beneath the Ammergauer Alps, the road narrowed as it approached the border. To his right he saw it, Schloss Stark, standing in majesty on a rocky crag overlooking the valley and stream.
The castle guarded the area like a sentinel. It told the world that its inhabitants were in charge, that anyone who strayed from the path would pay a heavy price. This was architecture as a statement of power and wealth.
There was no signpost to Schloss Stark, but it could not be missed. Seb took the only road that could lead there. The ascent was steep in places, but the Lancia dealt with it surprisingly easily; with no passengers or luggage aboard, the 1.2-litre engine was more than capable even with less-thanperfect tyres.
Many old castles in Germany had fallen into ruin over the centuries, as once-rich noble families failed to keep up with the economic currents. But the von Starks had never encountered any such problems and their alpine home – one of several they owned around Germany and elsewhere – was clearly in pristine condition, its light-coloured walls of Wetterstein limestone intact, its arched windows full of light. He was stopped at the gatehouse, which had a tall, pointed tower and was almost as impressive as the castle itself, though on a much smaller scale.
Winding down the window, he found himself facing a middle-aged man in green-and-silver livery.
‘Heil Hitler. How can I help you, sir?’
‘Heil Hitler. Captain Wolff, Munich Kripo.’ He pushed his badge under the gatekeeper’s nose. ‘To see the Fräulein von Stark.’
‘Ah, yes, sir, you’re expected. Please drive on. You’ll be met at the main entrance.’
Seb thanked the man, wound up the window and continued up the road for another kilometre until he came into the shadow of the castle itself. Close up, it was very different to the impression he’d got from the valley. Yes, the walls were still light grey – just like the stone of the mountains it faced, and from which it was made – but in the lee of the building it seemed dark and foreboding and he couldn’t quite understand why. He felt overpowered, almost intimidated, as countless others must have done over the centuries.
A footman attired in the same green-and-silver livery as the gateman was waiting for him at the door. Four other men, all in SS uniform, were leaning against the ramparts, watching him. What, he wondered, were they doing here?
He and the footman exchanged the tedious salute, then Seb was ushered into the ornate and high-ceilinged entrance hall. Every surface seemed to be either gilded or painted with scenes from Teutonic mythology: knights in armour, serpents, naked maidens. It felt like being trapped inside a Wagnerian opera.
‘Wait here, please, captain.’
A massive, circular chandelier of wrought iron – like some sort of medieval wheel of war – hung above his head. It menaced rather than merely impressed, for if it fell it would crush a man with the force of a pneumatic hammer. Instinctively, Seb stepped out of its range.
The servant returned. ‘Fräulein von Stark will see you in the Paradise Hall now, sir.’
Seb followed the man through a series of golden corridors to a vast, even more ornate hall. The ceiling was painted with an idealised yet sinister version of the Garden of Eden with the snake taking prime position, curled menacingly around a naked Eve.
A young woman was standing in the centre of the room. She was small, slender, fair- haired and dressed casually in a woollen skirt, woollen stockings and a thick blue pullover. In her hand she had a glass of white wine. So this was the aristocratic daughter of the great von Stark dynasty. Was he supposed to bend the knee and kiss her hand or give the Hitler salute? He really had no idea how to conduct himself.
The servant bowed to her and indicated Seb. ‘This is Captain Wolff of the Munich Police Department, ma’am.’
She extended her tiny pale hand, palm down. Kiss it? Shake it? He took it in his own right hand and was about to lower his head to plant his lips on it when she shook his hand and all was well. No sign of a Hitler salute, which was a relief and a little surprising.
‘Captain Wolff, how good of you to come all this way. I’m afraid we were all skiing up on the Zugspitze when you called. Pray tell me, what is this about my good friend Elena?’
‘She’s been missing since Friday and I believe you called the hotel for her. I was wondering whether she had got back to you?’
Sophie von Stark looked puzzled. She didn’t smile but nor did she appear unfriendly. There was something neutral and reserved about her which he couldn’t quite fathom. Perhaps she was simply unaccustomed to dealing with people outside her charmed circle.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I remember leaving a message at the Vier Jahreszeiten, but I heard nothing back, which is most unlike
her. She has the very best of manners. Where do you think she is, captain?’
‘I wish I knew. Mr Harcourt the film director is extremely worried, for obvious reasons. Do you know Fräulein Lang well?’
‘Oh, indeed, Elena and I are the very best of friends. We’ve known each other for years. How awful that she is missing. You don’t think anything dreadful has happened to her?’
‘I have no reason to think so.’ But he was beginning to have dark thoughts, wondering whether a murder detective might actually be the proper man for this job after all. ‘Can you think of anyone else who might know her whereabouts?’
‘I’m sure she has lots of acquaintances, for she’s a much loved figure.’
‘Any names in particular?’
‘Oh, I’d have to give that some thought.’
Seb smiled. ‘It would be a great help to me.’
Her eyes met his. ‘I suppose my present guests know her. We’ve all been skiing together.’
‘Perhaps I could talk to them?’
She hesitated, then shrugged her slight and elegant shoulders. ‘Why not? I’d hate to think your long journey here a total waste of time. We’re having a little après-ski get-together. Perhaps you’d like to join us for a drink and some cake?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Come through to the drawing room. It’s much warmer. We must find the divine Elena as quickly as possible, for our own peace of mind as much as for Mr Harcourt’s splendid film.’
The room was much smaller than the hall and had a log fire in a stone hearth. It was more like a cosy drawing room in a great house than a cold, cheerless castle. The walls were full of remarkable works of art. Seb’s eye was immediately drawn to a small but exquisite portrait of a dark-haired young woman. Though not a scholar, he knew straight away that it was by the Austrian master Gustav Klimt – the light, the decorative swirls, the gold leaf.
‘Do you like it?’ Sophie von Stark inquired.
‘I do. Very much.’
‘One of our more recent acquisitions. I adore it. Now let me introduce you to everyone.’
His eyes were pulled away from the portrait and back to the daunting group that awaited him.
Besides Sophie, there were four men and another woman. All wore ski-wear – the men in corduroy trousers tucked into long woollen socks, with pullovers, thick checked shirts and knitted ties.
Dear God, the other woman was none other than the blue-eyed English valkyrie Unity Mitford, towering over Sophie by about thirty centimetres. Seb despised her. Uncle Christian had told him to avoid her at all costs, but Seb hadn’t needed the warning. She was the fourth of the six celebrated – notorious – Mitford sisters, all daughters of a British nobleman. But, more worryingly, she had become good friends with the Führer, dining with him regularly at
his favourite restaurants in Munich or taking tea and pinkiced cakes with him at his apartment in Prinzregentenplatz.
She had made her presence felt last year when Seb was investigating the murder of an aristocratic young Englishwoman. Unity had done her damnedest to bring about the conviction and execution of a young Jewish man whom she loathed; Seb had done his best to prove that the man was innocent, and in doing so he knew the anti-Semitic Miss Mitford would never forgive him.
Seb’s beloved Hexie had told him that Unity had designs on marrying Hitler. And Hexie should know, because she worked at the counter of the photographic shop owned by Hitler’s constant companion Heinrich Hoffmann.
There was no better place for picking up gossip in the whole of Germany. And the source of much of the gossip was Hoffmann’s young daughter Henriette, who just happened to be married to Baldur von Schirach, the man in charge of the Hitler Youth.
Very little that happened in the higher reaches of the Nazi Party escaped Henriette’s keen eyes and ears, and she loved to pass on what she learnt.
The heads of the après-ski group all turned in Seb’s direction.
Unity immediately stepped forward, addressing Seb in English. ‘It’s Herr Wolff the clever detective, isn’t it?’
‘Miss Mitford, what a pleasure.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Ah, yes. Heil Hitler, Miss Mitford.’ He thrust out his arm in the approved manner. Were you really supposed to go through this charade every time you met someone indoors? How long until the dreadful man with the ridiculous moustache was voted out of office?
‘That’s much better. Heil Hitler, Herr Wolff. Try not to
forget again. I would hate to have to report you.’ She wasn’t smiling. Seb wasn’t convinced she was able to, but he knew that she would indeed denounce him without a qualm.
Hexie had told him that there were those in Munich who avoided any sort of social gathering where Unity might be in attendance, for a misplaced word would inevitably find its way to the political police and the offender could expect a dawn visit.
‘I’m looking for Fräulein Elena Lang the film actress,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you know her, Miss Mitford.’
‘Of course I do. I know everyone.’
‘She’s missing. I was hoping that someone here might have an idea where I could find her. Or, if not, perhaps point me in the direction of someone who might.’
‘Elena missing? That’s impossible. Have you tried the Bavaria Film Studios? She’s making a movie, you know – with that English director, Harcourt.’
‘It’s Mr Harcourt who has asked us to locate her. Her disappearance is holding up filming.’
‘Then you’d better find her, hadn’t you? Do your job, Wolff.’ With that she turned her back on him and resumed her conversation in English with a rather delicate-looking man.
Sophie von Stark took Seb’s elbow and guided him towards the other three men. ‘This is my brother, Werner Freiherr von Stark,’ she said, indicating the first of the three men, a slim man in his mid-twenties, about the same height as Seb and perhaps a little older than his sister. The siblings had similar features, their skin glowed, and their fair hair, though tousled from the skiing, had a rich sheen.
Seb began to go through the Hitler salute again, but Werner reached out and pulled down his arm. ‘That’s quite enough of that nonsense,’ he said.
Presumably, the von Starks considered themselves above
such commonplace practices as the Hitler salute. People bowed to them, not the other way around.
‘So you’re from the Police Presidium?’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘And you can’t find Elena. That’s rather alarming.’ He turned to his neighbour, a man Seb recognised as Unity’s friend – or was it minder? – the SS officer Fritz Mannheim, a junior adjutant in the Führer’s personal bodyguard. ‘Do you have any idea, Fritz?’
‘None at all.’ He threw out his right arm. ‘Heil Hitler, Inspector Wolff.’
Seb returned the salute. He didn’t bother correcting the bespectacled Mannheim by mentioning that since their last meeting he had been promoted from criminal inspector to captain of detectives.
Sturmbannführer Mannheim, like the von Stark siblings, was in his twenties. Ostensibly, he was Unity Mitford’s boyfriend, but no one really believed that. Some thought he was deputed to accompany Unity to keep her safe; others believed he was spying on her for SS chief Himmler.
The other man at Werner’s side was tall and athletic and aged about forty. Like Unity, he was fair-haired and, like her, he did not smile or display the slightest semblance of warmth when introduced. In fact, he looked at Seb with suspicion and a hint of animosity. His name was Paul Jena and, though they hadn’t met, Seb was well aware of who he was. Were those SS men outside something to do with him? It seemed likely.
Paul Jena was an SS -Gruppenführer – major general – presently assigned to the SS central office at Karlstrasse 10, Munich, and the SS -Junker School at Bad Tölz. He was one of the most powerful men in Bavaria, known as an old friend of various senior members of the Nazi regime.
While the von Starks smelt of extreme wealth, Jena exuded
power. It was impossible to live and work in Munich without being aware of him; he was a man to be avoided.
‘You have lost Elena Lang, Herr Wolff? You’d better find her quickly or there will be consequences. We cannot have world-famous film stars disappearing.’
‘Indeed not.’ It really wasn’t worth Seb’s while to point out that he hadn’t lost Elena Lang.
‘Oh, stop bullying the poor man!’ It was the fifth member of the party speaking, the delicate one who had been conversing with Unity. He was clearly British. ‘I’m Howard Jack,’ he said, shaking Seb’s hand. ‘Bobo tells me you speak English like a native.’
Bobo. Unity’s nickname among her close friends and family.
‘I do speak English, yes. I worked aboard a British merchant ship for four years.’
‘How wonderfully romantic. I must go down to the seas again and all that.’
‘Masefield. “Sea-Fever”.’
Jack beamed. ‘Well done, officer, well done indeed. Are you a poet?’
‘I’m afraid not. Are you, Mr Jack?’
‘Oh, I scratch away to pass the time, as one does. Now let’s find some cake and wine for you and remove you from the scowls of these ghastly Nazis.’ He stuck his tongue out at Unity and she returned the insult.
Seb did not like this conversation. An upper-class Englishman might be able to get away with describing Nazis as ghastly or bullies to their faces, but it would do an ordinary German no good to be associated with such language. Important not to smile or let it be known that one approved, especially not in the presence of two SS officers, one of them a Gruppenführer.
A waiter was hovering and Jack summoned him over. Seb took a glass of wine but declined the cake.
‘Perhaps you have some idea where I might find Elena Lang, Mr Jack.’
‘Hmm, that’s a tricky one. But let’s see what we can do with a little magic, shall we?’ He looked at his companions, then clapped his hands. ‘Abracadabra,’ he said, his voice loud and dramatic. ‘Hey presto!’
And, almost instantly, there she was.
Elena Lang, in all her movie star glory, was striding out from a door at the end of the room, a glass of wine in her hand and a grin on her beautiful face.
They were all looking at Seb, awaiting his reaction. And then, as one, they all roared with laughter.
What had just happened? Some ridiculous practical joke at his expense. Was that the sort of thing these aristocrats did? Mock the little people?
Seb felt like hammering one or two of them to the ground with his fist or the butt of his Walther PPK , and yet what could he do but accept that he should be relieved that Elena Lang was alive and well?
‘Well, you had me there,’ he said, trying to smile, while realising the words were pathetically inadequate.
‘It seems the joke’s on you, detective.’ The Englishman Howard Jack was grinning broadly. Unity at his side was clapping frantically and the others all seemed mighty pleased with themselves.
Seb couldn’t bear to look at them. He could take a joke at his expense, but this was of a different order: this impinged on his honour as a professional police officer.
‘So you’ve been here all along, Fräulein Lang?’
‘I have. I’d done the big scenes and needed a few days’ skiing with my lovely friends. I don’t understand what all the fuss is about.’
‘Mr Harcourt was worried. He’ll be very pleased that you’re safe and well.’
‘Alan Harcourt is a monster and I really don’t care a jot whether he’s pleased or not.’
‘I’ll be expected to report back to him. May I tell him you’ll be available for filming tomorrow?’
‘I’ll tell him myself. Perhaps you’ll give me a lift, officer.’
‘I’m leaving now.’ He badly wanted to get out of this place and away from these people.
‘Perfect.’
It was only when they were halfway down the hill from the castle to the main road that it occurred to him to ask Elena Lang where she wished to be taken. ‘The studio – or the Vier Jahreszeiten perhaps?’
‘No, I have a hotel in Garmisch. The Alpspitze. Harcourt and the others will be coming here this evening for tomorrow’s mountain sequences.’
‘You know, I rather think he was hoping to have you on set today, Fräulein Lang.’
‘My name is Elena. Perhaps I can use your name, too.’
‘Sebastian – Seb to my family and friends.’
‘Then Seb it is. And, yes, I know Harcourt was expecting me today, but I had a point to make. He treats me like a slave, there to do his bidding, as if I have no say in how I should play my role. I despise him.’
Seb knew the feeling was mutual, yet he found himself taking Elena’s part. His brief encounter with the cigarchomping bear that was Alan Harcourt had left him cold. But their relationship, however fraught, was their business. ‘What about the others on set? Your co-star, Gary Tate?’
‘He’s a tailor’s dummy.’
Seb waited for her to continue, but her summation was limited to those four damning words. He’s a tailor ’s dummy. As far as Elena Lang was concerned, he was a nobody.
‘And Harcourt’s assistant, Olivia Sands?’
‘Yes, I like her. She tries to smooth things, keep us from each other’s throats. The film would be a great deal better if she were the director. If Leni Riefenstahl can make films, why not Olivia? Why not me? I could do it.’
