She was carrying a leather shoulder bag, from which she now produced a camera, a Leica. “I think a shot for the family album.”
“As you like. But leave me out of it.”
“Such modesty.”
She took a photograph of Zaugg’s door and nameplate. The receptionist’s voice snapped over the intercom. “Please come to the second floor.” There was a buzz of bolts being released, and March pushed at the heavy door.
The building was an optical illusion. Small and nondescript from the outside, inside a staircase of glass and tubular chrome led to a wide reception area, decorated with modern art. Hermann Zaugg was waiting to meet them. Behind him stood one of the bodyguards from last night.
“Herr March, is it?” Zaugg extended his hand. “And Fraulein Maguire?” He shook her hand, too, and gave a slight bow. “English?”
“American.”
“Ah. Good. Always a pleasure to meet our American friends.” He was like a little doll: silver hair, shiny pink face, tiny hands and feet. He wore a suit of immaculate black, a white shirt, a pearl-grey tie. “I understand you have the necessary authorisation?”
March produced the letter. Zaugg held the paper swiftly to the light and studied the signature. “Yes indeed. The hand of my youth. I fear my script has deteriorated since those years. Come.”
In his office, he directed them to a low sofa of white leather. He sat behind his desk. Now the advantage of height lay with him: the oldest trick.
March had decided to be frank. “We passed your home last night. Your privacy is well protected.”
Zaugg had his hands folded on his desk. He made a non-committal gesture with his tiny thumbs, as if to say: You know how it is. “I gather from my associates that you had protection of your own. Do I take it this visit is official, or private?”
“Both. That is to say, neither.”
“I am familiar with the situation. Next you will tell me it is "a delicate matter".”
“It is a delicate matter.”
“My speciality.” He adjusted his cuffs. “Sometimes, it seems to me that the whole history of twentieth-century Europe has flowed through this office. In the 1930s, it was Jewish refugees who sat where you now sit — often pathetic creatures, clutching whatever they had managed to salvage. They were usually followed closely by gentlemen from the Gestapo. In the 1940s, it was German officials of- how shall we say? — recently-acquired wealth. Sometimes the very men who had once come to close the accounts of others now returned to open new ones on their own behalf. In the 1950s, we dealt with the descendants of those who had vanished during the 1940s. Now, in the 1960s, I anticipate an increase in American custom, as your two great countries come together once more. The 1970s I shall leave to my son.”
This letter of authorisation,” said March, “how much access does it give us?”
“You have the key?”
March nodded.
Then you have total access.”
“We would like to begin with the account records.”
“Very well.” Zaugg studied the letter, then picked up his telephone. “Fraulein Graf, bring in the file for 2402.”
She appeared a minute later, a middle-aged woman carrying a thin sheaf of papers in a manila binding. Zaugg took it. “What do you wish to know?”
“When was the account opened?”
He looked through the papers. “July 1942. The eighth day of that month.”
“And who opened it?”
Zaugg hesitated. He was like a miser with his store of precious information: parting with each fact was agony. But under the terms of his own rules he had no choice.
He said at last: “Herr Martin Luther.”
March was making notes. “And what were the arrangements for the account?”
“One box. Four keys.”
“Four keys?” March’s eyebrows rose in surprise. That was Luther himself, and Buhler and Stuckart, presumably. But who held the fourth key? “How were they distributed?”
They were all issued to Herr Luther, along with four letters of authorisation. Naturally, what he chose to do with them is not our concern. You appreciate that this was a special form of account-an emergency, wartime account-designed to protect anonymity, and also to allow ease of access for any heirs or beneficiaries, should anything happen to the original account-holder.”
“How did he pay for the account.”
“In cash. Swiss francs. Thirty years” rental. In advance. Don’t worry, Herr March — there is nothing to pay until 1972.”
Charlie said: “Do you have a record of transactions relating to the account?”
Zaugg turned to her. “Only the dates on which the box was opened.”
“What are they?”
The eighth of July 1942. The seventeenth of December 1942. The ninth of August 1943. The thirteenth of April 1964.”
April the thirteenth! March barely suppressed a cry of triumph. His guess had been right. Luther had flown to Zurich at the start of the week. He scribbled the dates in his notebook. “Only four times?” he asked.
“Correct.”
“And until last Monday, the box had not been opened for nearly twenty-one years?”
