“One thing at a time, Maisie. Here’s my colleague for you.”
There was an audible click on the line, and Brian Huntley spoke.
“Due care, Miss Donat. Due care. Do you understand?”
“I may have slipped up a bit with Mr. M.”
“I am by nature a very careful man.”
“Tell me what’s going on. I’m being allowed to remain here for three days—I intend to search for my father.”
“Right you are. Amateurs have been known to be lucky, but do remember that the German government is beholden to search for Mr. Donat, and there are other resources being deployed to help.”
“I take it my intentions meet with your approval.”
“I see no problem, Miss Donat—as long as you don’t tread on any very sensitive toes. I look forward to your regular reports.”
Maisie paused. “Has Miss Elaine Otterburn arrived back in England?”
“No. You had a most regrettable meeting with Miss Otterburn.”
“It was a difficult situation. I made a promise.”
“Difficult situation!” Robbie MacFarlane’s retort in the background was loud enough for her to hear. “You knew better than that, Maisie.”
“Indeed,” said Huntley, in response to Maisie’s explanation, and—Maisie suspected—to Macfarlane’s comment. “We remain troubled by the fact that plans regarding your journey to Munich were so readily available. However, that leak has been stemmed.” Huntley cleared his throat. “Please keep me apprised of your progress. I take it you will be looking for the people—professors and the like—your father visited before his disappearance.”
Maisie avoided confirming Huntley’s assumption, commenting, “I’m hampered by the fact that tomorrow is a Sunday—but I will keep you informed.”
“Very good. And do take care, Miss Donat. We will be working from this end in the search for your father.”
The meeting at the Nazi headquarters was a formality. Security was as intense as before, but there was an urgent jubilation in the air. Men rushed back and forth; motor cars drew up and left, filled with black-clad officers of the Schutzstaffel. Maisie answered one familiar question after another, none posing a challenge. Once again she assured Hans Berger that the man at Dachau truly was not her father.
For a moment a silence fell. Berger dispatched the junior officer on an errand—a ruse, Maisie suspected, so they might have a private conversation.
“Our fellow officer remains missing, Miss Donat.” Berger’s English was flawless, as before.
“I beg your pardon? I don’t understand how that has anything to do with me—or the search for my father.”
Berger leaned forward. “But you visited Miss Otterburn, and now she’s also disappeared.”
“We already discussed the problem of Miss Otterburn. She might well have taken my advice and returned to her family—or she could have absconded with your colleague. I really don’t know—and at the moment, if I may say so, there is nothing I can do about either of them, because I would not know where to start.”
Maisie felt the strength in her voice, and she feared she’d been too forthright. But to her surprise, Berger appeared to withdraw. He rose from his chair, stepped to one side, and took up a place by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Maisie remained in her seat, silent.
“I know you have no information for me, Miss Donat. But if at any point you do, please see that I receive word without delay.”
Maisie was about to reply when Berger turned. His eyes, she saw, seemed red. She cast her gaze down toward the handbag on her lap, as if searching for a handkerchief or a pen, then met his again.
“Yes, of course.” Her answer was firm.
The junior officer returned, handed another clutch of papers to Berger, who nodded. “See Miss Donat out to meet Mr. Leslie,” he instructed his assistant. He did not look up again, and she did not offer a formal word of departure. Soon she was in the motor car with Leslie, recounting to him every detail of the meeting—with the exception of the tears she had seen in Berger’s eyes.
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Leslie. “Nothing of note, everything in order—with a bit of luck, we won’t have to see this place again.”
Maisie said nothing. Though there was no indication of what had happened in the days since his death, she felt sure Luther Gramm’s body would not be found—and suspected Berger had orchestrated the removal and disposal of the young man’s remains. Berger’s attempt to hide his emotions while discussing the disappearance of the couple pointed to a deeper connection with either Luther Gramm or John Otterburn’s daughter. Hadn’t Mark Scott intimated as much? Or perhaps it was fear itself that had affected the officer—even if he was not implicated, perhaps he guessed that his colleague was dead.
But in truth, Maisie admitted to herself, she had no evidence that Berger knew anything about Gramm’s disappearance. All she had was conjecture—and Mark Scott’s innuendo.