No: a pleasure denied.

Ah, well. She couldn’t bear to think what might have happened, always so careful about telling her where he was going, he had never done anything like this. It was such a help to talk, so sympathetic…

There was a sigh of silk as she crossed her legs, the skirt rising provocatively above a plump knee. The maid reappeared and set down coffee cup, cream jug and sugar bowl in front of March. Her mistress was provided with a glass of sherry, and a crystal decanter, three-quarters empty.

“Did you ever hear him mention the names Josef Buhler or Wilhelm Stuckart?”

A little crack of concentration appeared in the cake of makeup: “No, I don’t recall…No, definitely not.”

“Did he go out at all last Friday?”

“Last Friday? I think — yes. He went out early in the morning.” She sipped her sherry. March made a note.

“And when did he tell you he had to go away?”

That afternoon. He returned about two, said something had happened, that he had to spend Monday in Munich. He flew on Sunday afternoon, so he could stay overnight and be up early.”

“And he didn’t tell you what it was about?”

“He was old-fashioned about that sort of thing. His business was his business, if you see what I mean.”

“Before the trip, how did he seem?”

“Oh, irritable, as usual”. She laughed — a girlish giggle. “Yes, perhaps he was a little more preoccupied than normal. The television news always depressed him — the terrorism, the fighting in the East. I told him to pay no attention — no good will come of worrying, I said — but things…yes, they preyed on his mind.” She lowered her voice. “He had a breakdown during the war, poor thing. The strain…”

She was about to cry again. March cut in: “What year was his breakdown?”

“I believe it was in “43. That was before I knew him, of course.”

“Of course.” March smiled and bowed his head. “You must have been at school.”

“Perhaps not quite at school…” The skirt rose a little higher.

“When did you start to become alarmed for his safety?”

“When he didn’t come home on Monday. I was awake all night.”

“So you reported him missing on Tuesday morning?”

“I was about to, when Obergruppenfuhrer Globocnik arrived.”

March tried to keep the surprise out of his voice: “He arrived before you even told the Polizei? What time was that?”

“Soon after nine. He said he needed to speak to my husband. I told him the situation. The Obergruppenfuhrer took it very seriously.”

“I’m sure he did. Did he tell you why he needed to speak to Herr Luther?”

“No. I assumed it was a Party matter. Why?” Suddenly, her voice had a harder edge. “Are you suggesting my husband had done something wrong?”

“No, no…”

She straightened her skirt over her knees, smoothed it out with ring-encrusted fingers. There was a pause and then she said: “Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, what is the purpose of this conversation?”

“Did your husband ever visit Switzerland?”

“He used to, occasionally, some years ago. He had business there. Why?”

“Where is his passport?”

“It is not in his study. I checked. But I have been over this with the Obergruppenfuhrer. Martin always carried his passport with him. He said he never knew when he might need it. That was his Foreign Ministry training. Really, there is nothing unusual about that, really…”

“Forgive me, madam.” He pressed on. The burglar alarm. I noticed it on my way in. It looks new.”

She glanced down at her lap. “Martin had it installed last year. We had intruders.”

Two men?”

She looked up at him with surprise. “How did you know?”

That was a mistake. He said: “I must have read the report in your husband’s file.”

“Impossible.” Surprise had been replaced in her voice by suspicion. “He never reported it.”

“Why not?”

She was on the point of making a blustering reply -’What business is it of yours?” or something of the sort — but then she saw the expression in March’s eyes and changed her mind. She said, in a resigned voice: “I pleaded with him, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. But he wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t tell me why.”

“What happened?”

“It was last winter. We were planning to stay in for the evening. Some friends called at the last minute and we went out to dinner, at Horcher’s. When we got back, there were two men in this room.” She looked around as if they might still be hiding somewhere. “Thank God our friends came in with us. If we’d been alone … When they saw there were four of us, they jumped out of that window.” She pointed behind March’s shoulder.

“So he put in an alarm system. Did he take any other precautions?”

“He hired a security guard. Four of them, in fact. They worked shifts. He kept them on until after Christmas. Then he decided he didn’t trust them any more. He was so frightened, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.”

“Of what?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

Out came the handkerchief. Another helping of sherry was sloshed from the decanter. Her lipstick had left thick pink smears around the rim of her glass. She was sliding towards the edge of tears again. March had misjudged her. She was frightened for her husband, true. But she was more frightened now that he might have been deceiving her. The shadows were chasing one another across her mind, and in her eyes they left their trails. Was it another woman? A crime? A secret? Had he fled the country? Gone for good? He felt sorry for her, and for a moment considered warning her of the Gestapo’s case against her husband. But why add to her misery? She would know soon enough. He hoped the state would not confiscate the house.

“Madam, I have intruded too long.” He closed his notebook and stood. She clutched his hand, peered up at him.

“I’m never going to see him again, am I?”

“Yes,’he said.

No, he thought.

IT was a relief to leave the dark and sickly room and escape into the fresh air. The Gestapo men were still sitting in the BMW. They watched him leave. He hesitated for a second, and then turned right, towards the Botanischer Garten railway station.

Four security guards!

He could begin to see it now. A meeting at Buhler’s villa on Friday morning, attended by Buhler, Stuckart and Luther. A panicky meeting, old men in a sweat of fear- and with good reason. Perhaps they had each been given a separate task. At any rate, on Sunday, Luther had flown to Zurich. March was sure it was he who must have sent the chocolates from Zurich airport on Monday afternoon, maybe just as he was about to board another aircraft. What were they? Not a present: a signal. Was their arrival meant to be taken as a sign that his task had been completed successfully? Or that he had failed?

March checked over his shoulder. Yes, now he was being followed, he was almost certain. They would have had time to organise while he was in Luther’s house. Which were their agents? The woman in the green coat? The student on his bicycle? Hopeless. The Gestapo were too good for him to spot. There would be three or four of them, at least. He lengthened his stride. He was nearing the station.

Question: did Luther return to Berlin from Zurich on

Monday afternoon, or did he stay out of the country? On balance, March inclined to the view that he had returned. That call to Buhler’s villa yesterday morning — “Buhler? Speak to me. Who is that?” — that had been Luther, he was sure. So: assume Luther posted the packages just before he boarded his flight, say around five o’clock. He would have landed in Berlin about seven that evening. And disappeared.

The Botanischer Garten station was on the suburban electric line. March bought a one-Mark ticket and lingered around the barrier until the train approached. He boarded it and then, just as the doors sighed shut, jumped off, and sprinted over the metal foot-bridge to the other platform. Two minutes later he got on to the south-bound train, only to leap out at Lichterfelde, and re-cross the tracks. The station was deserted. He let the first north-bound train go by, caught the second, and settled into his seat. The only other occupant of the carriage was a pregnant woman. He gave her a smile; she looked away. Good.