Ingersoll had laughed at the irony. The fire had ended his gala celebration. And now he understood the conversation he had overheard at Berchtesgaden. He had led Vierhaus away from the crowd and back down the mezzanine to a quiet corner.
"Do you think the Communists are behind this fire?" Ingersoll asked casually.
"No doubt about it. I predict a quick arrest and the downfall of the Communist party for committing this atrocity."
Ingersoll raised his champagne glass to Vierhaus.
"Another victory for the Führer."
"You are a nervy one, Schauspieler, I'll say that for you," Vierhaus said. "Showing up in that uniform and that severe disguise has raised a lot of eyebrows."
Ingersoll had covered his crown with skinlike rubber latex and deepened the shadows in his cheeks. Bald, almost skull-like, wearing the stark SS uniform, he had startled the sellout crowd, many of whom were foreigners.
"And perhaps softened some attitudes?" Ingersoll had suggested.
"I think the Führer might take issue with your choice of words. He will not put up with softened attitudes. Blind obedience, that's what he—we all—require. Did the Führer ever mention the German shepherd puppies to you?"
"Yes." He was apologetic. "He said SS trainees are usually given a puppy when they begin their training. But in my case . . ."
"Do you know the significance?"
Ingersoll hesitated, shrugged. "They are excellent watchdogs, great pets."
"And an important part of the ritual of acceptance," said Vierhaus. "Normally, any officer in the SS must undergo vigorous training. At the beginning he is given a shepherd puppy as a companion through the course. Dog and man come to rely on each other. And on the day they finish their training and take the oath of allegiance to the Führer, they are ordered to slit the dog's throat."
"What?" Ingersoll had answered with some skepticism and not a little shock.
"What better way to show that we are loyal to only one master. That we have only one friend, Adolf Hitler, and that we will follow his orders with blind obedience."
Ingersoll said nothing. His eyes narrowed and he peered at Vierhaus with a strange new respect.
"The German people must also learn blind obedience," Vierhaus continued. "If you are not of the party, you are against it. A good rule of thumb. It simplifies things."
Ingersoll nodded agreement. "And now the Reichstag burns," he said. "A fortunate misfortune."
Vierhaus laughed at the contradiction. "Exactly, my friend. A decrepit symbol dies, new ones will take its place. The Third Reich is just that, a new order of things for Deutschland."
"A new order of things." Ingersoll echoed the words. Staring deeply into the eyes of the professor, he had said very matter-of-factly, "I think it's time to die, Professor."
"I'm sorry, old friend," Ingersoll said, putting his arm around Kreisler's shoulder and leading him toward the table covered with newspapers. "Forgive me, all right? I lost my temper. You know how that can be. Can't let politics stand in the way of a good friendship, can we?"
He pointed to the papers on the table.
"Think about it. A chance to read my own obituary. Don't you see, I couldn't resist the temptation. You know me. Could I really pass it up?"
"That's why you did this? To read your own obituary. Is that why you accepted a commission in the SS?"
"I am a Nazi, Freddie. You have known that for years. I never concealed that from you."
"But to present yourself in public in that uniform. Do you realize what this has done to your standing in foreign countries? The United States will not book your pictures anymore. Neither will England or France."
"The hell with all three of them. One of these days we will have a Johann Ingersoll retrospective in Paris, London, New York."
"I don't understand. What are you going to do?"
"Not me. Us, Freddie. What we're going to do."
"What the hell are we going to do?"
"We're going to die, Freddie," Ingersoll said. His hand swept up from Kreisler's shoulder, grabbed the back of his hair and snapped his head back. The other hand drew the long knife from its scabbard and swiftly drew the gleaming blade from just below Kreisler's left ear straight across to his right.
Kreisler did not feel the cut at first, the SS knife was that sharp. Then he felt a burning sensation under his Adam's apple. He looked down and saw geysers of his own blood gushing from the gaping slice in his throat.
He tried to scream but managed only a wracking gurgle. He couldn't breathe. He grabbed for Ingersoll but the actor stepped back and plunged the knife upward, under his ribs and into his heart.
Kreisler's eyes rolled back and he fell like a rag doll in a heap on the floor, landing in a kneeling position, his forehead on the rug and his arms stretched back toward his feet.
Blood flooded the rug.
Ingersoll leaned over and wiped the blade clean on Kreisler's suit jacket and put it back in its sheath. He rolled Kreisler over on his back and stuffed several newspapers in the wound to stem the bleeding. Kreisler stared up at him with vacant eyes. Ingersoll closed them with one hand. Then he rolled Kreisler up in the rug. He felt a rush of adrenaline. He started to get hard and he was almost out of breath. He leaned his head back, breathing heavily through his mouth. The rush of excitement continued for a full minute or two, swelling his groin, pumping blood into his temples. Then he slumped down on the edge of the table with a gasp of air.
In a few moments, he was able to walk across the room to the telephone and put in a long-distance call to Vierhaus in Berlin.
"Professor Vierhaus here," came the oily answer.
"This is Swan."
"Swan?"
"Yes, Swan. You understand?"
"Of course."
"I had to take care of part of it myself."
"I don't understand."
"I just killed Freddie Kreisler. He's rolled up in a rug in my living room at the Bergen House. I had no choice."
Vierhaus paused for only a moment. Ingersoll could almost hear the gears clicking in the professor's head.
"Have you finished your business there?"
"Yes. All the papers are in a strong box in the wine cellar. I trust you will handle all those affairs for me."
"Of course."
"You know about the wine, yes?"
"Yes. I am sure the Führer will enjoy every bottle. Now listen carefully. I want you to leave there as quickly as you can. Leave in Kreisler's car. Wear his coat and hat. Drive to the train station in Bergen. Leave the car keys under the seat. Someone will be there to meet you."
"How will I know him?"
"He'll be watching for Kreisler's car. You'll know him, he'll address you as Herr Swan. We'll take care of the body."
"Thank you."
"It's not all that much trouble," Vierhaus said. "I'm . . . sorry you had to do it. We had more elaborate plans."
"Unavoidable. By the way, remember what you told me about the dogs?"
"The dogs?"
"The German shepherds.."
"Oh, yes, of course."
When Ingersoll spoke next, he spoke with just a touch of pride.
"I don't think I'll be needing a dog when I begin training," he said.
NINE
Felix Reinhardt dashed through the summer shower from the streetcar stop to the two-story building on the edge of the last art colony in Berlin—if it could be called that—most of the artists and writers having left the city in the wake of the Nazi putsch. He huddled in the vestibule of the gaily painted building, a short, serious man, on the stout side, his black hair and mustache shaggy and uncut, his deep-set eyes peering out from behind thick glasses, his suit rumpled. The rainstorm had come up suddenly, catching him without an umbrella, so now he shook the rain off his jacket.
Reinhardt climbed the stairs to the second-floor studio. A bell over the door tinkled gently as he entered the bright, cheerful loft. Partially complete sculpture littered the big room which was l
it from above by two enormous skylights. He closed the door and began whistling the chorus of the "Blue Danube Waltz."
In a small compartment off to one side of the studio, Oscar Probst peered through a small hole in the wall. He wore an apron over his gray pants. He pulled off the apron, using it to wipe ink off his hands before draping it over one of the two tables that contained the fonts for his ancient, foot-powered Anger-stadt printing press.
In the studio, Reinhardt heard the ceiling-high bookcase in one corner groan as Probst slid one side of it away from the wall and stepped into the studio. The bookcase hid the entrance to the tiny printing shop.
"Felix, you are early," Probst said with a smile. He was a cheerful man, younger than Reinhardt, handsome and clean shaven with short-trimmed blond hair and an air of optimistic naivete that was a sharp contrast to Reinhardt's persistently dark and gloomy countenance.
"I have some changes in the lead story," Reinhardt said, taking a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket. "Not much, just a few things."
"It is no problem," the younger man answered. "The foot pedal broke on me again. I'm afraid the old press is about to give up for good. Anyway I'm behind about half an hour."
Every two weeks Probst printed a four-sheet underground newspaper called The Berlin Conscience. It was one of the last free voices left in the city. Its editor was Felix Reinhardt. Probst also manufactured passports for political dissidents escaping from Germany. In fact, Probst was probably the best passport counterfeiter in the country.
Both the Conscience and his passport service were extremely dangerous enterprises. In public, Probst professed to be an ardent Nazi, a sham that had enabled him to escape detection by the Gestapo. Reinhardt was internationally famous. His articles appeared in newspapers in London, Paris, and New York, occasionally in The New Republic. He had escaped the wrath of the Gestapo only because he was so well known internationally but his situation grew more precarious by the day. His telephone was tapped and he was often followed. The Gestapo was looking for any reasonable excuse to silence Reinhardt forever.
Both men knew they were marking time with disaster. The Berlin Conscience was high on the Gestapo's hit list and both men knew they would be killed if they were caught.
"One more issue," Probst would say every other Thursday. "We have to stop, Felix, they're getting too close."
Reinhardt knew Probst was right. Every issue drew them closer to disaster. Yet every fortnight brought new revelations, new atrocities and decrees that both men felt compelled to reveal to the people, so they continued their dangerous enterprise. Sometimes Reinhardt would awaken sweating in the middle of the night, his discomfort caused by the hot breath of the Gestapo, whether real or imagined.
"So, the pedal is fixed," Probst said. "Give me the corrections and I'll make them. Go have a beer. Come back in thirty minutes."
"Can I bring you something?"
"No, thank you. Go out the back way to the Hofbräu across the street. You won't get too wet."
"Danke," Reinhardt said.
Felix Reinhardt could not have known when he left that his best friend had less than a minute to live. In fact, if Probst's printing press had not broken down, Reinhardt would have died with him.
As they spoke, a gray command car pulled up in front of the building and four Sturmabteilung jumped out. The brownshirts were led by a stout, granite-faced sergeant, his nose streaked with the broken blood vessels that are the sign of a heavy drinker. They moved quickly, entering the stairway to the second floor and taking the steps two at a time.
Reinhardt was on his way down the back stairs when the SA crashed into Probst's studio.
"Oscar Probst?" he heard a gruff voice demand.
"What do you want?" Probst answered.
Reinhardt sneaked back up the stairs when he heard the commotion. He peered through the half-open door just as one of the brownshirts grabbed the tall oak bookcase at the rear of the artist's studio and sent it crashing down. He kicked open the hidden door behind it and stalked into the small printing shop, looked around, picked up several sheets of copy from a table and quickly read them.
With a roar of anger, he tossed the papers in the air and putting a shoulder under the edge of one of the two tables where type fonts were stored, hefted it over. It smashed to the floor and hundreds of lead letters cascaded out.
"No, no!" Probst said and rushed toward the big man in the brown uniform. The brownshirt grabbed Probst by the shirt front.
"Traitor," he snarled and shoved him back across the room. Then he turned over the second table.
"You swine!" Probst screamed.
They were his last words. The SA sergeant entered the studio and marched to the door of the printing room. As Probst charged forward again, the sergeant drew his Luger and shot him. The bullet tore into Probst's chest and knocked the artist backward. His knees buckled but he didn't fall. He looked at the SA sergeant with a mixture of surprise and horror.
The sergeant's attack on Probst spurred on the other three brownshirts. They all pulled their pistols and the room exploded with gunfire. Several more shots tore into Probst's body, knocking him against his desk. He fell backward across it, arms outstretched, his legs dangling to the floor. Half a dozen bullet holes had chewed up his sweater. Blood began to ooze out.
Reinhardt held his hand over his mouth to trap his own scream of horror. He could do nothing for Probst, so he bolted down the stairs, his eyes darting back toward the rear door of the studio as he rushed down the steps sideways, expecting to see the Sturmabteilung assassins come after him. Instead he heard them smashing things in the print shop and in Probst's studio. Then there was a dull thud and someone yelled, "Fire!"
My God, Reinhardt realized, they're setting the whole building on fire.
He slipped out the back entrance into the rainy afternoon crowd that scurried along the street and walked away as quickly as he could.
Ahead of him a woman on the street pointed behind him toward the building.
"Look," she cried out, "that building is burning!"
Reinhardt didn't stop or turn around. He tried not to run, not to be too obvious but he was overwhelmed with fear, fear that they were right behind him, fear that they would shoot him in the back. He half ran, half walked to the corner a block away, then he stopped to look back for the first time. Flames broiled out of the second-story windows of the freestanding building. Reinhardt's heart was racing and his mouth was dry. He leaned against the building to get out of the rain and watched.
A few moments passed. Two brownshirts emerged from the back door, looked up and down the street. A Nazi command car, its red and black swastika flags flapping from the fenders, wheeled around the corner and stopped beside them. The ugly sergeant who had fired the first shot at Probst stood up in the open car and pointed up and down the rain-soaked street. His orders were interrupted by the arrival of a fire truck.
Reinhardt squeezed tighter against the wall. Standing in the shadows, he watched as the firefighters dawdled setting up their hoses. Several SA stood around, encouraging them to take their time.
"Too late anyway," one of them said. "The building is gone. Why waste water, eh? Let the rain put it out."
They all began to laugh.
The roof of the building was now ablaze, the flames snapping up at the sheets of rain.
The brownshirts fanned out from the building, looking through the gathering crowd. Several of them had photographs which they showed to the people staring at the fire.
"Listen to me," one of the SA yelled to the crowd while he held up a photograph. "You see this man, Felix Reinhardt? I know you recognize his picture. He is very famous. We have orders to arrest him for crimes against the Führer and the Fatherland. Anyone who hides him or fails to turn him over to us will be shot. Has anyone seen him? Speak up!"
Reinhardt hurried away from the scene. The nearest tram stop was two blocks away. A crowd was already gathered there, huddled under umbrellas. He headed stra
ight for it, holding his head down against the driving summer rain. He could not return to his house, they would be watching it. Nor could he risk a taxicab. He needed the security of a crowd. A few more people gathered at the streetcar stop and he crowded in with them, holding a newspaper in front of his face, pretending to read as he peered over the top. He tried to slow his breathing but he had never been this afraid in his life.
Two blocks away the streetcar rounded the corner and crept toward them. It was still a block away when two brownshirts started down the street in his direction. The rain began to slacken. They stopped and looked up and down the street, started to cross toward him, stopping occasionally to show the photograph to wet and annoyed pedestrians.
Sweat mingled with the rain dribbling down the side of Reinhardt's face. He could feel its dampness under his arms, spreading down under his jacket.
The streetcar pulled up and he clambered aboard. It pulled away with a groan as the two brownshirts reached his side of the street. One of them walked briskly alongside the streetcar as it pulled away, peering intently in the windows. Reinhardt turned his back to the brownshirt, watching the SA's reflection in the window as the stormtrooper walked the length of the car checking the pedestrians from outside. He could feel his own heart beating in his temples. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly to calm down.
Thank God, he missed me.
He rode the bus for seven or eight blocks until the passengers began to thin out, then got off and flagged down a taxicab.
"Take me to the American embassy," he told the driver. "It's on the Munich highway."
"Yes, I know it," the driver said. He looked in his rearview mirror. "Are you an American?" he asked.
"No, no," Reinhardt answered quickly. "I . . . I'm a carpenter. They want me to do some work for them."
"Make them pay good, eh?" the driver said with a smile.
"Oh yes, they will pay dearly," Reinhardt answered, trying to look relaxed.
When they were two blocks from the embassy he saw the two touring cars parked across the street from its arched gate. Two men in black raincoats, their black felt hats pulled down over their eyes, were talking to the Marine guard at the gate. Four others sat in the cars across the street with the doors standing open.