That is what the dates indicate.” Zaugg closed the file with a flick of annoyance. “I might add, there is nothing especially unusual about that. We have boxes here which have lain untouched for fifty years or more.”
“You set up the account originally?”
“I did.”
“Did Herr Luther say why he wanted to open it, or why he needed these particular arrangements?”
“Client privilege.”
“I’m sorry?”
That is privileged information between client and banker.”
Charlie interrupted. “But we are your clients.”
“No, Fraulein Maguire. You are beneficiaries of my client. An important distinction.”
“Did Herr Luther open the box personally on each occasion?” asked March.
“Client privilege.”
“Was it Luther who opened the box on Monday? What sort of mood was he in?”
“Client privilege, client privilege.” Zaugg held up his hands. “We can go on all day, Herr March. Not only am I under no obligation to give you that information, it would be illegal under the Swiss Banking Code for me to do so. I have passed on all you are entitled to know. Is there anything else?”
“Yes.” March closed his notebook and looked at Charlie. “We would like to inspect the box for ourselves.”
A SMALL elevator led down to the vault. There was just enough room for four passengers. March and Charlie, Zaugg and his bodyguard stood awkwardly pressed together. Close to, the banker reeked of eau de Cologne; his hair glistened beneath an oily pomade.
The vault was like a prison, or a mortuary: a white-tiled corridor which stretched ahead of them for thirty metres, with bars on either side. At the far end, next to the gate, a security guard sat at a desk. Zaugg pulled a heavy bunch of keys from his pocket, attached by a chain to his belt. He hummed as he searched for the right one.
The ceiling vibrated slightly as a tram passed overhead.
He let them into the cage. Steel walls gleamed in the neon light: banks of doors, each half a metre square. Zaugg moved in front of them, unlocked one at waist height and stood back. The security guard pulled out a long box, the size of a metal footlocker, and carried it over to a table.
Zaugg said: Tour key fits the lock on that box. I shall wait outside.”
There’s no need.”
Thank you, but I prefer to wait.”
Zaugg left the cage and stood outside, with his back to the bars. March looked at Charlie, and gave her the key.
“You do it.”
“I’m shaking…”
She inserted the key. It turned easily. The end of the box opened. She reached inside. There was a look of puzzlement on her face, then disappointment.
“It’s empty, I think.” Her expression changed. “No…”
She smiled and pulled out a flat cardboard box, about fifty centimetres square, five centimetres deep. The lid was sealed with red wax, with a typewritten label gummed on top: “Property of the Reich Foreign Ministry Treaty Archive, Berlin.” And underneath, in Gothic lettering: “Geheime Reichssache”. Top Secret State Document.
A treaty?
March broke the seal, using the key. He lifted the lid. The interior released a scent of mingled must and incense.
Another tram passed. Zaugg was still humming, jingling his keys.
Inside the cardboard box was an object wrapped in an oilcloth. March lifted it out and laid it flat on the desk. He drew back the cloth: a panel of wood, scratched and ancient; one of the corners was broken off. He turned it over.
Charlie was next to him. She murmured: “It’s beautiful.”
The edges of the panel were splintered, as if it had been wrenched from its setting. But the portrait itself was perfectly preserved. A young woman, exquisite, with pale brown eyes, was glancing to the right, a string of black beads looped twice around her neck. In her lap, in long, aristocratic fingers, she held a small animal with white fur. Not a dog, exactly; more like a weasel.
Charlie was right. It was beautiful. It seemed to suck in the light from the vault and radiate it back. The girl’s pale skin glowed -luminous, like an angel’s.
“What does it mean?” whispered Charlie.
“God knows.” March felt vaguely cheated. Was the deposit box no more than an extension of Buhler’s treasure chamber? “How much do you know about art?”
“Not much. But there is something familiar about it. May I?” She took it, held it at arm’s length. “It’s Italian, I think. You see her costume — the way the neckline of her dress is cut square, the sleeves. I’d say Renaissance. Very old, and very genuine.”
“And very stolen. Put it back.”
“Do we have to?”
“Of course. Unless you can think of a good story for the Zollgrenzschutz at Berlin Airport.”
Another painting: that was all! Cursing under his breath, March ran the oilcloth through his hands, checked the cardboard container. He turned the safety deposit box on its end and shook it. Nothing. The empty metal mocked him. What had he hoped for? He did not know. But something to give him a better clue than this.
“We must leave,” he said.
“One minute.”
Charlie propped the panel up against the box. She crouched and took half-a-dozen photographs. Then she rewrapped the picture, replaced it in its container, and locked the box.
