CAVALCADE

FRANKFURT

Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof

Monday

May 15^th, 1923

Dear Evangeline,

            I have only a few moments – the train is already on the platform, the big Teutonic locomotive is snorting and snuffling, the passengers are scurrying along the walkway, mothers towing their children, husbands towing their wives.  As I sit on this uncomfortable wooden bench, feverishly scribbling, Mr Beaumont paces alongside the line of passenger cars.  Occasionally he glances over at me.  Probably he is snorting and snuffling himself, and probably he would relish a spot of towing.  From time to time, in a kind of ponderous masculine mime, he stops and pulls his watch from his pocket and glares down at it.  

            I told you in my last letter that we’ve been assigned to investigate an assassination attempt.  This is still true, but we’ll be going not to Munich, as I’d told you, but to Berlin.  We didn’t learn about this change in plan until this afternoon, when Mr Caudwell – I believe I’ve mentioned him – suddenly materialized at our hotel.

Mr Caudwell told us that Mr Adolf Hitler, the party leader, had –

            Oh dear!  I must go.  I’ll post this now and write more on the train.  We have a brief stopover at Nurnburg.  I’ll try to send a full account from there.

                                                                        All my love,

                                                                        Jane

Chapter One

            I was lying on the sofa, reading the Baedeker guide to Southern Germany.  It was a fine book, but it didn’t have much of a plot.  I had just gotten to the part about bicycling in Bavaria, and what a swell thing that was, when someone knocked at the door.

            I put the book on the coffee table, swung my legs off the sofa, walked to the door and pulled it open.

            Peter Caudwell from the London office stood out there in the hallway.  In his forties, he was short and overweight.  He wore a black raincoat over a two-piece black suit that had probably fit him better when he bought it.  He held a black homburg in his right hand and a rolled umbrella in his left.  Next to him stood a bell boy who was dressed like a French general on parade and who looked old enough to be Caudwell’s father, or maybe his grandfather.  On either side of the bellboy, a leather suitcase was standing upright atop the runner of carpet. 

            Caudwell said to me, “I’m know I’m late.  It couldn’t be helped.”

Caudwell didn’t believe in apologies

Reaching into his pants pocket, he turned to the bellboy.  “Danke,” he said, and pulled a German Mark note from the pocket.  One thousand Marks.  At the current exchange rate, it was worth about two cents.   The bellboy looked down at it, looked up, and nodded.  He’d been doing this kind of work for a while, and you couldn’t tell from his face whether he was delighted or homicidal.  “Besten dank, der Herr,” he said, and then turned and walked away.

            Caudwell didn’t believe in shaking hands either.  It wasn’t my job to change his mind about that, so I grabbed one of the bags, lifted it, lugged it over to the side of the big leather sofa, and plopped it down.

            Behind me, Caudwell had carried in the other suitcase and shut the door.  “Well, well,” he said, glancing around the room.  “The Germans have done you proud.”

            It was a suite, acres of dark wood paneling and heavy padded furniture here in the large sitting room.  Everything that could be polished, the metal and glass and woodwork, had been polished, vigorously, and it all glistened under the electric lights like a politician’s grin.

The electric lights were on, even though it was just past noon and the curtains were open, because the weather outside was gray and rainy.  It had been gray and rainy since Jane Turner and I arrived in Frankfurt, two days ago.

            “I’ve always wondered what the suites at the Carlton were like,” he said, and put the second suitcase down, next to the first.  He set his hat on top of it and leaned the umbrella against its side.

            “Where are you staying?” I asked him.

“A dreary little pension on BeethovenStrasse.  Floral wallpaper and the stink of cabbage.”  He took off the raincoat.  “Any trouble on the trip?” he asked me, his glance sliding around the room.

“At the border, but not for long.”

“Goodness, is that a bar?”  He turned to me.  “Do you mind?  I’ve picked up a bit of a chill this morning.”

“Go ahead.”

He tossed the raincoat to the arm of the sofa, waddled over to the bar, lifted a bottle of cognac, uncorked it.

“Did you bring the money?” I asked him.

He turned slightly and smiled bleakly at me.  “Straight to the point, eh, Beaumont?”

“Miss Turner and I are supposed to catch the Munich train tonight.”

He had turned his back to me and now he was splashing cognac into one of the balloon glasses.  He must’ve picked up a very large chill.  “Actually,” he said, “as it happens, you and Miss Turner won’t be catching the Munich train tonight.”

He turned to me and smiled the smile of someone who’s just scored a small but significant point.

“And why is that?” I asked him.

“Because you’ll be catching the Berlin train.”  Holding the balloon glass, he walked across the carpet.

“And why is that?” I asked him.

He sat down on the sofa.  I heard the sound of a small sigh, coming either from Caudwell or from the sofa’s thick cushion.  He held up the balloon glass, stared into it for a moment, then brought it to his nose and sniffed at it delicately.  The cognac probably smelled all right, because he took a big healthy slug of it.  He cocked his round head and he smiled.  “Why don’t we wait for Miss Turner?” he said.  “I stopped at the desk and had them send a note up to her room.  She should be joining us in a moment.  How is she doing, by the way?”

I sat down in one of the armchairs.  “She’s fine.”

This time the sigh definitely came from Caudwell.  “I meant, of course, how is she doing as an Operative?”  He said it slowly and patiently, so I could understand it.  He was a very patient man.

Caudwell was Administration, not Operations.  He had no direct authority over me, and no real right to ask the question.  But I answered it anyway.  “She’s doing fine,” I said.

He nodded and then pursed his lips.  “The two of you had a bit of bother in France, I gather.”

“A bit,” I said.  “But everything worked out all right.”

“Cooper wanted me to tell you that the client is satisfied.”

“Good.”

He sniffed again at the brandy.  Looking at me over the rim of the glass, he said, “So just who did kill Richard Forsythe?”

“You’ll have to ask Cooper.”

Caudwell waved the balloon glass lightly.  “One is curious.  The decadent young publisher.  The bodies in the locked room.”

“Sure,” I said.  “One can ask Cooper.”

He smiled his bleak smile again.  “No need to be argumentative, Beaumont.  I was merely passing the time.”

“Fine.  But you know I can’t talk about the operation.”

He nodded.  “Your dedication to duty is admirable.”

There was nothing to say to that, which is what I said.

Someone knocked at the door.

“Ah,” said Caudwell.  “That’ll be Miss Turner.”

He was probably grateful for the interruption.  I know that I was.  I got up, crossed the room, and opened the door.

She was wearing the outfit she’d bought yesterday, a navy blue dress that buttoned up the front, and a pale blue Cardigan sweater, unbuttoned.  Behind her rimless spectacles, her large eyes were very blue.  Today she was wearing her thick brown hair pulled back behind her slender neck.

“Come on in,” I told her.

Caudwell might not have believed in shaking hands with me, but he did believe in shaking hands with Miss Turner.  As she entered the room, he beamed up at her.  “Miss Turner!  So good to see you again!”  He set his glass down on a side table, got up from the sofa, and then strode across the carpet, his plump hands out.

“Mr. Caudwell,” she said Miss Turner.

He took it between both of his.  “You’re looking very well, I must say.”

Miss Turner smiled.  “Thank you.”

“And Beaumont here tells me that you did a simply smashing job in France.”

She glanced at me briefly.  “Mr. Beaumont exaggerates.”

He was still holding her hand.  “Not at all, not at all.  I’m sure you did splendidly.  Come along, my dear.  You and Beaumont sit down and I’ll explain what’s going on.”

He led her over to the sofa, where he finally let her go.   I noticed that when Caudwell turned to sit, Miss Turner put the flat of her hand lightly, quickly, against her dress, as though smoothing the fabric.  She was much too polite to let anyone see her wipe it dry.  She was English.

I returned to my armchair.

“Now,” said Caudwell, addressing himself to Miss Turner and sounding like a professor about to begin a speech, “you know something, of course, about the attempted assassination of this party leader.”

Miss Turner nodded.

Caudwell looked at me.

I nodded.  “We got the telegram from Cooper,” I said.

He turned back to Miss Turner.  “This happened on the ninth of this month.  Last Tuesday.  The party in question is the German National Socialist Workers Party.  The leader is a fellow named Hitler.  Adolf Hitler.  Do you know anything about German politics, Miss Turner?”

“Nothing at all, I’m afraid.”

He smiled.  “Well, of course not.  Why should you, really?”  He lifted his brandy, took a sip.  “What about you, Beaumont?”

“No.”

He nodded, as though this was about what he’d expected from me.  “Right,” he said, and turned back to Miss Turner.  “Until fairly recently, the Nazi party, as it’s called, was virtually unknown.  But ever since this Hitler fellow took over, things have changed.  He’s a demon speaker, evidently.  And a demon organizer.  He’s brought in hordes of new members, and the party’s going great guns now.  In Munich, in particular, the Nazis have become a genuine alternative.”

He looked over at me, to see if I was still following. 
            “A genuine alternative to what?” I asked him.

“The Bolsheviks, for one.  The Social Democrats, the chappies who run the Weimar Republic, for another.  Quite a few Bavarians feel that the government in Berlin has no business representing them.  Bavarians have never had a fondness for Prussians, and they have even less fondness for Socialists.”

I nodded.

“Right,” he said.  He sipped at the brandy.   “Well.  A week ago, while our friend Hitler was on a visit to Berlin, someone took a shot at him.”

“Where in Berlin?” I asked.

 “The Tiergarten.  A large park in the center of the city.”

“Rifle or handgun?”

“A rifle.  From a distance of about one hundred yards, we’ve been told.  The bullet missed him by only an inch or two.”

“What was Hitler doing in the park?”

“He was meeting with someone.”  He held up a plump red hand.  “Don’t ask me who, because we don’t know.”  He frowned, probably because he didn’t like to admit that there was anything he didn’t know.  “Someone in the government, that’s all we’ve been told.”

“Who else knew he’d be there?”

“Yes, that’s the obvious question, isn’t it?  Apparently, at his end, Hitler’s end, merely a handful of people knew about the Berlin trip.  Most of them are party members in Munich.  You’ll have to interview them all.”

“Then why are we going to Berlin?”

“The police investigation in Berlin is being handled by a Sergeant Biberkopf.  The Party doesn’t trust him.  Well, to be honest, they don’t trust anyone in the Berlin police department.  Most of the police, they assume, are Marxists or Marxist sympathizers.  They may well be right.  And that’s why they’ve called in the Pinkertons.  They felt that we, as a private enquiry agency, would conduct a more thorough investigation.”

I liked that “we”.

Caudwell took another sip of brandy.  Looking over at Miss Beaumont, he said, “Our best information on Biberkopf, from reliable sources, is that he’s a good police officer.  But, probably because of that mysterious “government someone”, he’s had to conduct his investigation with enormous discretion.  And nearly all the people he needs to question are in Munich, and few of them seem anxious to help him.”

I said, “So we go to Berlin, check out the scene of the crime, hook up with Biberkopf.  And then we go to Munich and talk to the party people.”

“In a nutshell, yes.  You’ll be met in Berlin tomorrow, at the station, by a fellow named Hanfstaengl.  Ernst Hanfstaengl.  Quite a pleasant sort, I’ve been told.  An art dealer. He’ll get you started.”

“We’ll need the money,” I said.

“Yes, Beaumont,” he said patiently, “I know.”  He reached into his right hand coat pocket, pulled out a small cardboard box, set it on the coffee table.  “Ammunition for your Colt .32.  You haven’t lost the gun, have you?”

“The pistol,” I said.  “No.”

He reached into his left hand coat pocket, pulled out a small pistol.  “Another Colt.  For Miss Turner.”  He offered her the weapon.

I was curious to see how she’d react to it.  I knew that she’d taken a weapons course in London – all the London operatives were required to take it – but I’d never seen her handle a pistol.

She must have gotten an “A” in the course.  She took the weapon nonchalantly, as though it were a cup of tea.  She thumbed the magazine release, caught the empty magazine in her left hand, and then used the same hand to snick back the slide.  She looked into the breech, making sure there was no cartridge in there.

“Cooper thinks we’ll need the Colts?” I asked Caudwell.

“The opposition has already used a rifle.  He wants to be on the safe side.”

Miss Turner slipped the magazine back into the Colt, pulled back the slide, released it, flipped the safety on, and then lay the pistol on the coffee table.

Caudwell reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a large leather wallet.  He plucked some tickets from the wallet and slapped them onto the table.  “Tickets for the night train to Berlin, separate compartments.  First class.”

“Very swank,” I said.

“It wasn’t my idea.”  That didn’t surprise me.  “The party people insisted,” he said, “and they’re the ones paying for it.”

He pulled out a thick stack of currency.  “And now we have the money.”

He counted it aloud out onto the table.  It was in twenty-dollar bills and it came to five hundred American dollars.  A lot of money, even in the United States.  In Germany right now, it was a fortune.

He took one last item out of the wallet.  “The receipt,” he said.  “I’ll need you to sign it.”

I got up, crossed the room, picked up the receipt.

He opened his jacket, pulled out a pen, held it up to me.  I took it, signed the receipt, and handed it back to Caudwell, along with the pen.

“Right,” said Caudwell.  He reached into the other side of his coat, pulled out two British passports, tossed them to the table.

“Just in case,” he said.  “They’re in the name MacNeil, Joseph and Charlotte.  The visas say you arrived in Germany from Rotterdam two days ago, in Bentheim.  They should pass a casual examination.  We’d rather you not use them, however, unless they become absolutely necessary.”

“Not much point in using them otherwise, is there?”

            He looked at me and smiled bleakly.  “There’s one thing more.”

I waited.  I could be patient too.

Caudwell said, “Cooper would like you – both of you – to learn as much as you can about this chap Hitler.”

“Learn what?”

“Whatever you can.  What sort of man is he.  What is it he wants, for himself and for Germany.”

“Who wants to know?”

“I told you.  Cooper does.”

“When Cooper wants to know something, it’s usually because someone else wants to know something.”

“I don’t think you need worry about that.”

“I’m not worried.  I’m curious.”

Another bleak smile.  “If you just do your job, everyone will be happy.”

“That’s my goal in life,” I said.  “To make everyone happy.”

Caudwell sighed again.  Patiently.

I wasn’t getting any closer to my goal, it looked like.