Inside the hotel, Maisie bid the porter good evening and collected her key from the desk clerk. She went to her room and closed the door. In approximately thirty-six hours she would be able to claim Leon Donat from Dachau. One more full day in Munich to entertain herself—and perhaps to engineer an encounter with Elaine Otterburn. Was that wise? She weighed up the odds, then remembered the “little man” brought down to meet her, and how it felt when Lorraine Otterburn held out her grandson for Maisie to hold, to take him in her arms. She knew it was a deliberate ploy; the soft vulnerability of a child abandoned by his mother seemed to cling to her long after she had left the Otterburn mansion. And it had worked, strengthening her resolve to find Elaine Otterburn and talk some sense into her.
She also gave thought to the machinations at play in the arrest and incarceration of Leon Donat. How had the Nazis known where to find him, and who had tipped them off? What stood in the way of him proving his innocence? And was there room for doubt? She tried to put the thoughts aside. Her task was clear: bring Leon Donat home to England. It was not her place to question him.
Having breakfasted in the hotel dining room, Maisie once again dressed for a chilly but bright day and set off to board the tram that would take her in the direction of Schwabing. This time she really would be a tourist, first detouring to walk around Marienplatz, admiring the glockenspiel, and looking into shops at will. She wondered if Mark Scott would once more be in the shadows, monitoring her every move.
After a night’s respite, she was once more wearing the wig, and a plain brown hat with a black grosgrain ribbon band. She was dressed in her austere navy-blue jacket and skirt and strong brown walking shoes. Quite deliberately she omitted to leave her key at the reception desk, thankful for a clutch of tourists surrounding the clerks as she made her way out of the hotel onto the street. Within another fifteen minutes she was in the center of Marienplatz. In another time—perhaps just a few years ago—this place might have been so different. Yes, there were people rushing back and forth—mothers with children, people running errands, going into shops—but she felt a certain tension in the air. She suspected that the locals might not have the same experience; the atmosphere had changed at a gradual pace, and she knew people would accommodate even the most troubling situations to avoid recognizing an oppressive development. “It’s not so bad,” or “It will pass,” they might say, and cling to the ways life had not altered—but for some, there would be a call to arms. She knew from experience that many of the more vulnerable, those who knew themselves to be most at risk, had already left Germany. Those who remained believed they were safe because they were German. And she could see why—especially on a beautiful day—they would be loath to leave Bavaria. Tourists came at all times of year. British girls from wealthy families, women younger than Elaine Otterburn, traveled to Bavaria to attend finishing schools and enjoy a year of freedom before a husband was to be found and life as a society matron loomed. Perhaps that was one of Elaine’s problems. She could not leave her girlhood behind; the responsibilities of marriage were too much to bear.
Maisie left the tram at exactly the same place as before, and made her way to the pub where she had seen Elaine Otterburn emerging from the shadowy, smoke-filled interior, her hand draped like fabric across an SS officer’s arm. As she approached the pub, she heard bolts being pulled back inside, and a curse from a man with a gruff voice. She stopped just in time to avoid the bucketful of water thrown out as the doors bounced back on their hinges. Another curse ensued, and a stocky man with a bald head emerged, a cigarette hanging from a thick lower lip, his eyes like those of a bloodhound. His apron was coming loose, and he tried to prop a broom against the wall as he struggled with the ties below his girth. Satisfied, he cursed again and took up his broom to sweep the soiled water into the street. Maisie wondered how wise it would be to approach him. Yet time was not on her side, and this man could well have the information she wanted.
“Entschuldigen Sie, bitte.” Maisie smiled as she approached, squaring her shoulders and walking with an obvious sense of purpose. She did not want to appear apologetic, or in any way weak.
“Was wollen Sie, gn?dige Frau?” The man squinted through reddened hungover eyes.
Maisie’s German was feeling more fluid now, as she continued to converse with the man in his native language. “Sir, I am looking for an old friend of mine—I lost touch with her, but I believe she is living in Schwabing.” Maisie indicated the inside of the pub. “She loves a good party, if you know what I mean. . . .”
The man gave a grudging smile, as if he wished he had avoided the last party.
“And this is just the sort of place she would enjoy.” Maisie leaned closer, as if bringing the man into her confidence. “She’s a bit wild, you know.” She swallowed as the man’s fetid breath sullied the air between them, but smiled encouragingly as she reached into her bag for the photograph of Elaine Otterburn. “Have you seen her?”
The man continued to squint, then raised his hand and pulled down the skin under his eyes with thumb and forefinger, as if to widen the aperture through which he could view the subject.
“Ah. Ha ha!” He gave a knowing deep chortle. “Yes, she likes a good time.”
“Do you know where she lives? I am very anxious to see her.”
The man cast his gaze toward Maisie and narrowed his eyes as if to focus again, this time to assess her attire.