The waitress looked at the photograph, shook her head, and apologized. No, she did not know the woman. Maisie thanked her and continued to enjoy her coffee, which was rich with creamy milk and hot. When she had finished, she gathered up her gloves and bag, left a few pfennigs for the waitress, and made her way back out onto the street.
She moved on to the dress shop. No one had seen Elaine. Then to the grocery shop—which she thought was rather a stretch; she couldn’t imagine Elaine cooking anything. But it was here that there was a glimmer of recognition as Maisie paid for an apple and then repeated her story. The man smiled and wiped his hands on his brown apron before taking the photograph, squinting as he studied the image. The abrupt change from helpfulness to a sudden interest in the next customer was almost imperceptible.
“Nein. Ich habe noch nie diese Frau gesehen.” No, I have never seen this woman before.
Maisie thanked the man, who was already addressing the next customer with a cheery smile. She left the shop, certain that the man had indeed seen Elaine Otterburn. Why had he lied to her? And something else was bothering her. The person waiting behind her, to whom the shopkeeper had turned when he claimed he did not know the woman in the photograph, was the same man she had watched enter the tailor’s along the street.
The general store held nothing of interest for her, though she thought she might buy some souvenirs. Purchasing a couple of postcards might not be a bad idea; at least it demonstrated an interest in the local attractions. The bar—a wood-beamed pub—was still a few yards away. Maisie imagined a darkened interior, with brown paneling and gravel-voiced daytime drinkers in corners, furtively caressing a glass of schnapps, or a rowdy crowd ready to move on to another venue for afternoon entertainment. She sighed. Yes, she would have to go in, though she dreaded it. On the other hand, she was well versed in entering dark, dingy places in the interests of gathering information. Still steps away, she heard the volume increase, with even louder laughter, shouting, teasing. The doors of the bar seemed to crash open to more giggling as a motor car came from along the street and pulled up parallel to the open doors. Three officers of the Schutzstaffel emerged from the pub, accompanied by three women. It would seem they were all enjoying the afternoon, each woman dressed in expensive clothing, one with a fur collar, the others with coats draped around their shoulders. High heels clicked along the pavement, and a woman’s laughter punctuated the air, like champagne bubbles rising in a fluted glass.
Maisie stepped back into the shadows of the encroaching dusk and watched the partygoers clamber into the motor car and the vehicle draw away from the curb. She turned away and began to walk back toward the place where she would board the tram bound for Marienplatz. It was as she approached the grocery store that she noticed the shopkeeper standing on the threshold. They exchanged glances, and he nodded. Now she knew where he had seen Elaine Otterburn, and why he’d denied any knowledge of her or her whereabouts. Maisie would have recognized that laugh anywhere. It was Elaine Otterburn who had left the bar on the arm of an officer of the feared SS.
Maisie remembered once, a long time ago, attending one of the Otterburns’ parties at their Park Lane mansion. Elaine had skipped over to Priscilla, Douglas, James, and Maisie, champagne glass in hand, her dress clinging to her narrow frame, her hair a pixie cap of curls, her eyes wide with the knowledge that she was noticed. “Lucky, lucky lady,” she’d said, teasing Maisie as she linked her arm through James’ as if to draw him to her. Priscilla had raised an eyebrow as Elaine laughed, released James’ arm, and moved away toward a clutch of young men clamoring for her attention.
“If I were you, Maisie, I’d watch that one,” Priscilla had said.
Darkness had fallen by the time Maisie reached the tram stop close to Marienplatz. She made her way across the square, past the glockenspiel, looking for the route back toward the Residenz and her hotel. After a few minutes, she suspected she might have taken a wrong path. The pedestrians had thinned out, and she felt quite alone. She hurried her step, and felt her heartbeat quicken when she heard the echo of her own footfall. The scar at her neck was throbbing a warning. She ducked into a doorway, pressing a hand to her chest to still her breath. The footsteps came closer and then slowed. Whoever had been behind her was just one step ahead now. She slipped off her gloves, feeling the chill air on her fingertips. Pulling the revolver from its hiding place in her handbag, she took hold of the grip, stepped from the doorway, and held the gun to the neck of the man who had halted, as if wondering where his quarry was hidden.
“Wer bist du? Warum hast du mich verfolgt?” Maisie whispered close to the man’s ear. Who are you? Why have you followed me? Now she knew her suspicions were well founded; she was sure it was the man who had first walked into the tailor’s shop in Schwabing, and then to the grocery store.
The man answered in English, and with a distinct American accent.