Eric Ambler - The Schirmer Inheritance

“Of course.” She picked up her bag. “Good-bye, Mr. Carey.” “Good afternoon, Miss Kolin.”

With a nod she went.

For a moment he looked down at the cigarette she had stubbed out and the lipstick on it; then he went to the lift and was taken up to his room.

He telephoned the Embassy man immediately.

“I’ve just seen Miss Kolin,” he said.

“Good. All fixed up?”

“No, not all fixed up. Look, Don, isn’t there somebody else I can get?”

“What’s the matter with Kolin?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it is I don’t like it.”

“You must have caught one of her bad days. I told you she’d had some pretty rugged experiences as a refugee.”

“Look, I’ve talked to lots of refugees who’ve had rugged experiences. I’ve never talked to one before who made me sympathize with the Gestapo.”

“Too bad. Her work’s O.K., though.”

“She’s not.”

“You wanted the best interpreter available.”

“I’ll take the next best.”

“Nobody who’s actually worked with Kolin has ever had anything but praise for her.”

“She may be fine for conferences and committees. This is different.”

“What’s different about it? You’re not on a vacation trip are you?” There was a note of irritation in the voice now.

George hesitated. “No, but-”

“Supposing there’s a dispute later over the testimony. You’re going to look pretty silly explaining that you passed up the chance of getting a reliable interpreter because you didn’t like her personality, aren’t you, George?”

“Well,-” George broke off and then sighed. “O.K.-if I come back a raving alcoholic I shall send the doctor’s bills to you.”

“You’ll probably end by marrying the girl.”

George laughed politely and hung up.

Two days later he and Maria Kolin left for Germany.

A book-keeper named Friedrich Schirmer had died at Bad Schwennheim in 1939. He had had a son named Johann. Find this son. If he was dead, then find his heir.

Those were George’s instructions.

There were probably thousands of Johann Schirmers in Germany, but certain things were known about this one. He had been born somewhere about 1895, in Schaffhausen. He had married a woman whose given name was Ilse. There was a photograph of the two taken in the early twenties. George had a copy. It would probably be of little help in making a positive identification at this stage, but it might serve to remind former neighbours or acquaintances of the pair. Appearances were usually better remembered than names. The photograph itself supplied another faint clue; the photographer’s imprint on the mount showed that it had been taken in Zurich.

However, the first move in the plan of campaign which Mr. Sistrom had mapped out for him was, as Mr. Moreton had surmised, to go to Bad Schwennheim and start where the former inquiry had stopped.

When Friedrich Schirmer had died, he had been estranged from his son for several years; but there was always a chance that the war might have changed things. Families tended to draw together in emergencies. It would have been natural, Mr. Sistrom had contended, for Johann to try to get in touch with his father at that time. If he had done so, he would have been officially notified of the death. There might be a record of that notification giving his address. True, Mr. Moreton had heard nothing on the subject from Bad Schwennheim, but that proved nothing. The priest might have forgotten his promise or neglected it; his letter could have been lost in the uncertain wartime mails; he might have gone off into the German army as a chaplain. There were endless possibilities.

In the train on the way to Basel, George explained it all to Miss Kolin.

She listened attentively. When he had finished she nodded. “Yes, I see. You can, of course, neglect no possibility.” She paused. “Do you hope much from Bad Schwennheim, Mr. Carey?”

“Not much, no. I don’t know exactly what the German procedure is, but I would say that when an old man like this Friedrich dies, the authorities don’t fall over backwards finding relations to notify. We wouldn’t, anyway. What’s the point? There’s no estate. And supposing Johann did write. The letter would go to the sanatorium and most likely get returned through the mail marked ‘Addressee deceased’ or whatever it is they put. The priest could easily not have heard about it.”

She pursed her lips. “It is curious about this old man.”

“Not very. That sort of thing happens every day, you know.”

“You say that Mr. Moreton found nothing of the son except this one photograph among the old man’s papers. No letters, no other photographs, except of his dead wife, nothing. They quarrelled, we are told. It would be interesting to know why.”

“The wife got tired of having him around, probably.”

“What disease did he die of?”

“Bladder trouble of some sort.”

“He would know he was dying, and yet he did not write to his son before the end or even ask the priest to do so?”

“Perhaps he just didn’t care any more.”

“Perhaps.” She thought for a moment. “Do you know the name of the priest?”

“It was a Father Weichs.”

“Then I think you could make inquiries before going to Bad Schwennheim. You could find out if Father Weichs is still there from the church authorities at Freiburg. If he is not still there, they will be able to tell you where he is. You might save much time that way.”

“That’s a good idea, Miss Kolin.”

“At Freiburg you may also be able to find out if the old man’s belongings were claimed by a relative.”

“I think we may have to go to Baden for that information, but we can try at Freiburg.”

“You do not object that I make these suggestions, Mr. Carey?”

“Not a bit. On the contrary, they’re very helpful.” “Thank you.”

George did not find it necessary to mention that the ideas she had put forward had, in fact, already occurred to him. He had given some thought to Miss Kolin since taking his reluctant decision to employ her.

He disliked her and, if Mr. Moreton were to be believed, would end by detesting her. She was not somebody he had chosen freely to serve him. She had, to all intents and purposes, been imposed upon him. It would be senseless, therefore, to behave towards her as if she ought to represent-as a good secretary ought to represent, for instance-an extension of part of his own mind and will. She was rather more in the position of an unsympathetic associate with whom it was his duty to collaborate amicably until a specific piece of work was done. He had encountered and dealt philosophically with such situations in the army; there was no reason why he should not deal philosophically with this one.

Thus, having prepared himself for the worst, he had found the Miss Kolin who had presented herself with suitcase and portable typewriter at the Gare de l’Est that morning an agreeable modification of it. True, she had marched along the platform as if she were going out to face a firing-squad, and, true, she looked as if she had been insulted several times already that day, but she had greeted him in quite a friendly fashion and had then disconcerted him by producing an excellent map of Western Germany on which she had drawn for his convenience the boundaries of the various occupation zones. She had accepted with businesslike comprehension his patently guarded outline of the case, and shown herself alert and practical when he had gone on to explain in detail the nature of the work they had to do in Germany. Now she was making intelligent and helpful suggestions. Kolin on the job was evidently a very different person from Kolin being interviewed for one. Or perhaps the man at the Embassy had been right and, having experienced one of her bad days, he was now enjoying a good one. In that case it would be as well to discover how, if at all, the bad might be avoided. In the meantime he could hope.