“Leon Donat. Engineer and man of commerce. Age at the time of the photograph—taken by his daughter—sixty-five. He’s now almost seventy years of age. Mother was French; father British, by way of Italy. Donat took over his father’s machine-tool factory in Birmingham at age twenty-five. No wartime service. On paper he was obviously too old for service in 1914, but he was very useful to us anyway because his factories—he’d expanded the business considerably—were requisitioned for the manufacture of essential parts required for the production of munitions. He expanded into France following the war, as well as Germany, plus he diversified. In France he went into production of foodstuffs from imported raw materials. His wife, incidentally, passed away four years ago. Donat is known for inspiring great respect among his employees, which has led him to achieve quite enviable production records. He provides educational grants for children of staff, and he will never see an employee sick without paying for medical attention. It has paid off. He has channeled a good deal of money toward worthy causes and is a respectable and respected man—a man in the mold of a Victorian paterfamilias. His foray into publishing academic texts in the areas of engineering, mathematics, and physics seems to have been born of a desire to diversify—and of course the business was not profitable, so it became advantageous with regard to taxation.”
He paused, passing another sheet of paper to Maisie. “Well, as we know, it seems parties are the places to meet people. Lawrence Pickering was invited to a reception at an engineering conference, where he was asked to speak about the role of academic publishing in the education of young technically minded students, and there he met Leon Donat. Donat, as ever, was on the lookout for investment opportunities, and he realized that Pickering’s fledgling company could do with some help. He took an interest, which in turn led to a partnership. Donat was just the person Pickering needed, at just the right time. Initially Donat was the silent partner behind the Pickering Publishing Company, but his involvement increased, though it appears he took care not to tread on young Pickering’s toes. Donat did not run his businesses like a dictatorship, but preferred to nurture talent. By way of information, as you know, Lawrence Pickering met Douglas Partridge at a party, and that’s how he also met your former secretary, Mrs. Sandra Tapley, who subsequently became an employee of the company.”
Huntley paused and flicked over a page. “During the years of your absence, Leon Donat became increasingly involved in the company, enthusiastically supporting Pickering’s plans for expansion. From a commercial standpoint he was right to do so; there were ideal opportunities to secure publication and translation rights in Europe, given the number of academic institutions. Donat is fluent in German, so he took over the task of making connections with German publishers—and until a few years ago, there was more publishing in Germany than in any other country in the world.”
“And now Donat is in prison in Germany.”
“Specifically, just outside Munich.” Huntley nodded at MacFarlane, who handed Maisie a bound sheaf of papers.
“This is a full report on the circumstances of his arrest and incarceration at a camp in a place called Dachau. I’d call it Hitler’s torture chamber for Communists, free thinkers, journalists, those of Jewish extraction, and anyone else who dares to have an opinion that isn’t held by the man they call the Führer.” MacFarlane paused. “It was opened for business in 1933 on the site of an old wartime munitions factory, and has built itself a fine reputation for brutality.”
Maisie nodded as she opened the report.
“While in Munich,” MacFarlane continued, “Leon Donat decided to pay a visit to the son of an old friend, formerly of Berlin, who is now living in Geneva, and with whom he wanted to discuss the representation of his list of books. The son, name of Ulli Bader, is a writer, and the friend had expressed to Donat a fear that the young man would never make a mark—in monetary terms or by reputation—so he put in a good word for his boy. On the face of it, it appeared to be a match—Bader seemed the right candidate to take on locally as a representative. But our little writer just happened to be involved in an underground rag. He also wrote for other magazines and newspapers on the fairly dull topics that young reporters starting out are usually given—obituaries, meetings, falls on the pavement, that sort of thing—and we believe he plowed every penny he earned into this paper. As you will see from our report”—MacFarlane handed Maisie another clutch of papers—“the Nazi Party have clamped down on any newspapers, any artists or writers, or any individual who does not reflect and support their manifesto.”
Having turned to the concluding paragraph, Maisie sat forward, her hands clasped on the table. “So, while in Munich, Donat gave his friend’s son—a young man who cannot at present be accounted for—a financial contribution to keep this underground journal running, and he did this out of the goodness of his heart after the young man explained his situation. Donat was observed making the payment, and he was arrested at a location believed to be the home of the illegal press, just one day before he was due to board a train for Paris. Now he is in this Dachau place—a British citizen incarcerated against his will. And for how many years?”
“Two.” Huntley did not flinch from Maisie’s gaze.
“And all Foreign Office attempts to broker his release have failed.”
“You would not believe the paperwork, Maisie,” said MacFarlane.