He rang the bell and felt himself come under inspection through the spy hole in the centre of the heavy door. After half a minute the door opened to reveal an English maid in a black and white uniform. He gave her his ID and she disappeared to check with her mistress, her feet flapping on the polished wooden floor. She returned to show March into the darkened drawing room. A sweet-smelling smog of eau de cologne lay over the scene. Frau Marthe Luther sat on a sofa, clutching a handkerchief. She looked up at him -glassy blue eyes cracked by minute veins.
“What news?”
“None, madam. I’m sorry to say. But you may be sure that no effort is being spared to find your husband.” Truer than you know, he thought.
She was a woman fast losing her attractiveness but gamely staging a fighting retreat. Her tactics, though, were ill-advised: unnaturally blonde hair, a tight skirt, a silk blouse undone just a button too far, to display fat, milky-white cleavage. She looked every centimetre a third wife. A romantic novel lay open, face down, on the embroidered cushion next to her. The Kaisers Ball by Barbara Cartland.
She returned his identity card and blew her nose. “Will you sit down? You look exhausted. Not even time to shave! Some coffee? Sherry, perhaps? No? Rose, bring coffee for the Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. And perhaps I might fortify myself with just the smallest sherry.”
Perched uneasily on the edge of a deep, chintz-covered armchair, his notebook open on his knee, March listened to Frau Luther’s woeful tale. Her husband? A very good man, short-tempered — yes, maybe, but that was his nerves, poor thing. Poor, poor thing — he had weepy eyes, did March know that?
She showed him a photograph: Luther at some Mediterranean resort, absurd in a pair of shorts, scowling, his eyes swollen behind the thick glasses.
On she went: a man of that age — he would be sixty-nine in December, they were going to Spain for his birthday. Martin was a friend of General Franco — a dear little man, had March ever met him?
No: a pleasure denied.
Ah, well. She couldn’t bear to think what might have happened, always so careful about telling her where he was going, he had never done anything like this. It was such a help to talk, so sympathetic…
There was a sigh of silk as she crossed her legs, the skirt rising provocatively above a plump knee. The maid reappeared and set down coffee cup, cream jug and sugar bowl in front of March. Her mistress was provided with a glass of sherry, and a crystal decanter, three-quarters empty.
“Did you ever hear him mention the names Josef Buhler or Wilhelm Stuckart?”
A little crack of concentration appeared in the cake of makeup: “No, I don’t recall…No, definitely not.”
“Did he go out at all last Friday?”
“Last Friday? I think — yes. He went out early in the morning.” She sipped her sherry. March made a note.
“And when did he tell you he had to go away?”
That afternoon. He returned about two, said something had happened, that he had to spend Monday in Munich. He flew on Sunday afternoon, so he could stay overnight and be up early.”
“And he didn’t tell you what it was about?”
“He was old-fashioned about that sort of thing. His business was his business, if you see what I mean.”
“Before the trip, how did he seem?”
“Oh, irritable, as usual”. She laughed — a girlish giggle. “Yes, perhaps he was a little more preoccupied than normal. The television news always depressed him — the terrorism, the fighting in the East. I told him to pay no attention — no good will come of worrying, I said — but things…yes, they preyed on his mind.” She lowered her voice. “He had a breakdown during the war, poor thing. The strain…”
She was about to cry again. March cut in: “What year was his breakdown?”
“I believe it was in “43. That was before I knew him, of course.”
“Of course.” March smiled and bowed his head. “You must have been at school.”
“Perhaps not quite at school…” The skirt rose a little higher.
“When did you start to become alarmed for his safety?”
“When he didn’t come home on Monday. I was awake all night.”
“So you reported him missing on Tuesday morning?”
“I was about to, when Obergruppenfuhrer Globocnik arrived.”
March tried to keep the surprise out of his voice: “He arrived before you even told the Polizei? What time was that?”
“Soon after nine. He said he needed to speak to my husband. I told him the situation. The Obergruppenfuhrer took it very seriously.”
“I’m sure he did. Did he tell you why he needed to speak to Herr Luther?”
“No. I assumed it was a Party matter. Why?” Suddenly, her voice had a harder edge. “Are you suggesting my husband had done something wrong?”
“No, no…”
She straightened her skirt over her knees, smoothed it out with ring-encrusted fingers. There was a pause and then she said: “Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, what is the purpose of this conversation?”
“Did your husband ever visit Switzerland?”
“He used to, occasionally, some years ago. He had business there. Why?”
“Where is his passport?”
