Munich Signature (33 page)

“What do you want with me?” she shouted. “What do you want?
Wh
at?
”

Her head throbbed from the force of the question. Sobbing, she sank back to the cot. For two days and nights the question had tormented her. “What do they want? Why have they brought me here?” she cried softly.
What use is all of this?
she asked herself as she stared miserably at the scattered papers. “All right!” she screamed again. “I understand! They are even there! They hate us even in the Promised Land! What has that to do with me? Tell me! Tell me, and I will listen!”

And so, she was broken. There was a message there that she could hear but not understand. It was a message of hatred and fear that spoke of civil war and the murder of Jews. She had grown to womanhood in the midst of such a message. It had almost destroyed her life. Had she not been on the very brink of better times? Must the message of hatred invade her soul again?

With this darkness fresh upon her mind, Elisa wept softly until at last she fell asleep.

***

The theft of copies of John Murphy’s telegrams from the file of the
Queen Mary’s
radio room had been a simple matter for Hans Erb.

All the information that had passed between Murphy and his wayward wife was easily coded and relayed by wire back to Berlin. In the basement offices of the Gestapo, those pertinent facts had been decoded and passed immediately to Himmler who relayed them to Georg Wand before he boarded the Lufthansa passenger plane bound for London.

The handful of other transmissions were much the same. If, indeed, Elisa Murphy were at the Savoy Hotel and the wires were not some screen, then the matter of finding her would be simple.

Georg Wand arrived in London before the
Queen Mary
had come within view of the shores of America. Thus, he began an assignment that he anticipated enjoying very much.

Beyond the discovery of the whereabouts of Elisa Linder-Murphy, the activities of John Murphy had proved to be a gold mine of anti-Nazi actions. His conversation with the U.S. secretary of the interior in the first-class lounge was duly reported. The information was promptly relayed to Goebbels, then retransmitted back across the Atlantic to the American leader of the Nazi party, Fritz Kuhn, and then through other channels to the great voice of American anti-Semitism and isolationism, Father Coughlin.

As head of the Gestapo and the most active promoter of purity in the Aryan race, Himmler himself was fascinated by the very visible presence of the mutant Charles Kronenberger with John Murphy.
What sort of propaganda would the Americans create with the little monster?
he wondered.
And would it still be to the advantage of the Reich to eliminate the child? Where was the twin brother, and why had he not also come to America? Had Louis remained in London with Elisa?

These unsettling matters were consigned to a file that would remain on the desk of Himmler until they were resolved on both sides of the Atlantic. He hesitated to present the matter to the Führer until then.

***

The rattle of keys sounded outside the door. Elisa opened her eyes as a lightbulb flared to life above her. Her head still throbbed, and she shielded her eyes against the glare as the door swung open with a crash.

A very large man stood at the threshold and nudged the untouched meal tray with the toe of his shoe. The bulk of his body pulled at the seams and buttons of his pin-striped business suit. He was at least six foot three and could not have weighed less than three hundred pounds. He had heavy eyebrows and a thick mustache beneath a prominent nose. Crossing his arms, he simply stared at Elisa and waited for her to speak.

The springs of the cot groaned as Elisa stood to face the man. “How dare you!” she whispered hoarsely. Anger and indignation replaced all caution.

He cleared his throat, then addressed her as if he were the night clerk at the Savoy. “Your stay has not been unpleasant, I trust.” A hint of arrogance and amusement crossed his face.

“In Germany one could expect such disregard of personal rights! But here!”

“You should know about that. You speak very good English for a citizen of the Reich.” The fat man waved away her fury like an annoying insect. “Excellent English, Miss Linder.”

“My married name is Elisa Murphy. I hold an American passport.”

“Meaningless, I assure you.” He smiled now, confident in his role of captor.

“Call the American consulate if you dare. Hoodlums! You cannot hold me.”

“We have already contacted our American friends. This wedding ceremony you cling to so solidly was a sham. It seems the fellow who conducted it was simply not qualified. He has been reprimanded and demoted, of course. Shipped back to the States. But your passport is invalid.”

“I do not believe you!” Elisa snapped. “And what does any of that have to do with this—” She swept her hand over the debris of the newspapers on the concrete. “Who are you and why—”

“Patience, Miss Linder.” He nodded and she fell to a smoldering silence as he took a step nearer.

“I am no citizen of the Reich!” she spat.

“Oh?” He circled her once. “Ah, yes, you held a Czech passport. I remember now.”

“What do you want?” Her voice was shaking in spite of her attempt to control it. “Has this . . . is this something about my passport? Please, where is my husband?”

“You are not married, Miss Linder, as I explained to you. As for John Murphy, he should be in New York by tomorrow night. We have explained your whereabouts to him and he is not unduly alarmed,” the fat man whined in a patronizing voice.

“Please—” Elisa sat down on the cot. She could not think anymore. Could not find the strength to fight. “If you will contact John Murphy, he will explain everything.”

“You mean about your need for an American passport in your work for the underground?” he probed.

Deny everything, Elisa! Deny everything that might be harmful!
Had that not been the first rule! Elisa lifted her chin defiantly. “I do not know what you are talking about. If my husband and I were misled by a false clerk in the American Embassy, that is one thing. I can tell you nothing about any underground.”

The fat man laughed heartily. “Very good! Very good, indeed! If that is the case, then you might explain how it is you knew about an impending assassination attempt on the life of the Czech president?”

Elisa did not answer. She focused her eyes on the black and white newsprint of the
Chicago Tribune.
The big man waited patiently.

“A very interesting question, eh, Miss Linder?” he said at last. “You will have to think very hard before you come up with an adequate explanation for that.”

“I owe you no explanation. It is you who must explain to
me
! Why have you detained me? Who are you? What right do you have—” She was shouting again. “This is England! Where is your warrant?”

“There are times even civilized men dispense with such bothers.” He bowed slightly. “I assure you we have our reasons.”

“My husband is a journalist. When he learns the truth of this—”

“He won’t. It is quite a simple matter. We have taken care of it.”

“You are Gestapo, are you not?” she asked in German.

The man roared, his huge frame shaking. “Gestapo? No, indeed. No, my dear!”

“You might as well be.”

“I cannot believe you mean that. You cannot tell the difference in the way you have been treated? Good meals from the pub. Soap and towels and reading material.”

“You are wasting your time with me.” Her eyes blazed with rage. “Whoever you are, whatever you want from me, you are wasting your time.”

He shrugged. “Would you be mollified if I were to explain that my name is Amos Tedrick and that I am an officer with His Majesty’s Intelligence Service?”

“You lack intelligence if you think I will believe anything but that you are a hoodlum. A gangster who kidnaps women.”

“Ah, well, as I thought.” He frowned and clasped his hands behind his back, rising up on his toes. “We know all about the inner workings of the violin case, you know. You have smuggled a bit of this and that?”

“Musical scores. Jewish operettas. Items to infuriate the Nazi pigs.” She let her look sweep over him in disdain.

He shrugged. “We have it all quite documented, you see. All your little travels. Berlin. Vienna. Paris. And in Paris, yes . . .” He pretended to think. “You visited our Le Morthomme, did you not? A fine fellow he was. Helpful. And you refused to help him with certain matters. A great disappointment to us.”

“Le Morthomme.
The Dead Man?
A curious name.” Elisa felt the blood drain from her face. Hadn’t she been warned by Le Morthomme that the organization would make certain she would not live if she pulled out? Did she know too much? Had she seen too much of the inner workings of the underground network?

“Le Morthomme truly is a dead man now, you know.” He rose up on his toes again. “Murdered.”

Shock registered on her face—too late to call it back. The fat man saw the expression and seized on it like a cat on a mouse.

“You really would be insignificant to us if it had not been for Thomas von Kleistmann.”

She did not answer as she suppressed her emotion even at the mention of Thomas.

“You know Thomas. We are certain of that.” She was quiet and sullen but he continued pacing the length of the room and back as he spoke. “There are other matters, but I suppose it will do us no good to discuss them here.” He moved toward the door. “Get dressed,” he ordered, slamming the door behind him.

For a moment Elisa did not move. She stared wearily at the powder blue skirt and blouse she had chosen to wear aboard the
Queen Mary
. Both were stained with diesel fuel. She had folded them and put them at the foot of the cot. Mutely, she retreated behind her curtain and stripped off the warm sweater and wool trousers. She dressed hurriedly, feeling that somehow she was about to learn what this ordeal had been about. A muddle of thoughts assaulted her.
Not married! Invalid passport! Thomas involved again, and Le Morthomme murdered!
What did it have to do with her? Why had she been kept here if this man was really a British government official?

This time the man named Tedrick knocked before he entered. Elisa ran the brush through her hair, although she knew she was still a disheveled mess. He stepped aside and let her pass out of the cell into a larger dockside warehouse and then through the gloom to where a shiny black limousine waited outside. She was afraid as she stepped into the automobile, but she did not show her fears. The dark interior reeked of cigar smoke. After a moment Elisa’s eyes adjusted. She gasped as Tedrick closed the door and a familiar face turned from the front seat to greet her.

“Elisaaa Murphy, isn’t it?” Winston Churchill said in his characteristic drawl, extending his hand. “So sorry about the bother. I would have done it another way myself. All this cloak and dagger business. Amos thought you might be a bit reluctant to believe him, so he rang me up.”

21

The Turtle and the Barking Dog

Just behind the quay along the River Seine was the winding little street where Thomas spent much of his free time in Paris. The rue de la Huchette ran from the place St. Michel and ended at rue du Petit Pont. The street was only three hundred yards long, but it was long enough for the decrepit Hotel du Caveau, the
Bureau de Police
, and three of the most famous bordellos in Paris.

Eventually, every tourist managed to wander up the rue de la Huchette. The street had been made famous by the patronage of a host of American writers who had lived in Paris during the twenties. Just steps from the stalls of the open market booksellers, it seemed to embody every cliché about the city. The police station existed in harmony with the maison de joie across the street, the house known as le Panier Fleuri, “The Basket of Blossoms.” “Only in Paris!” the American tourists would exclaim loudly.

Often tourists from every nation would enter the Café d’Eiffel for strong espresso or a glass of chilled white wine. Thomas, dressed in street clothes, took his place among a group of regulars—writers, artists, Bohemians, and exiles. They gathered in that place each evening for no other reason but to talk and drink the night away. Students of the Sorbonne often joined the ranks of malcontents. Long-legged, dark-eyed girls smiled at Thomas with sensuous mouths. They tossed their long black hair like the manes of wild horses, beckoning him closer. Chianti splashed onto the tablecloth. Art. Music. Literature. Philosophy. The politics of the day. Everything was discussed in the fluid accent of the French language, a prelude that sometimes led to talk about love. It was empty talk, as short as a stroll up the rue de la Huchette, as meaningless as a visit to the Basket of Blossoms. Yet it filled the empty hours, even though it could not fill the emptiness inside Thomas.

Two trips to Berlin had etched the German Führer’s madness more deeply into Thomas’s mind. Torchlight processions to the accompaniment of slowly tolling church bells resembled the march of dead men toward the brink of a glowing inferno. In such dark ceremonies, Hitler administered the blood oath: “I vow to remain true to my Führer, Adolf Hitler. I bind myself to carry out all orders without reluctance . . . ” As the hour tolled midnight, men sold their soul to this vow. And the whole world, Thomas knew, was drawing near to midnight as well.

Each day he had hoped for some contact from the British, from Churchill. He did not trust the French, so when a dark-eyed beauty had claimed to be allied with those opposing Hitler, he had clicked his heels and bowed and left the little hotel room with a brisk, “Heil Hitler!” He played the game well for the Gestapo agents he sensed were omnipresent in Paris. But he held out hope that at some point, as the riots in Czechoslovakia increased in intensity, the resolve of Britain and France to defend that nation would not crumble completely.