Eric Ambler - The Schirmer Inheritance

Father Weichs shrugged. “I was not sure. Perhaps, yes. But I will tell you. He had been sent to the school for special training. He was a-”

He broke off, hesitating, and then, glancing at Miss Kolin, said the word Fallschirmjäger .

“He was a paratrooper,” she said.

The priest nodded. “Thank you, yes. He came to see me one day in September or October-I do not quite remember. He was a tall, strong-looking young man, very much a soldier. He had been wounded in Belgium in the attack on the fortress of Eben-Emael, and was not yet well enough to return to combat duty. He came to ask me if I knew of his grandfather, Friedrich Schirmer.”

“Did he say where his home was?” asked George quickly.

“Yes. He came from Köln.”

“Did he say what his father’s occupation was?”

“No. I cannot remember that he did.”

“Had he any brothers or sisters?”

“No, he was the only child.”

“Did he know when he came that his grandfather was dead?”

“No. It was a great disappointment to him. When he was a boy the grandfather had lived in his parents’ house and been kind to him. Then one day there had been a quarrel and the old man had gone.”

“Did he say how he knew that the old man had lived at Bad Schwennheim?”

“Yes. The quarrel had been serious, and after Friedrich left, his name was never mentioned by the boy’s parents. But the boy loved his grandfather. Even before he went to school the old man had taught him how to write and to rule his exercise books properly. Later the grandfather helped him with arithmetic problems and talked to him much of commercial affairs. You knew Friedrich Schirmer was a bookkeeper?”

“Yes.”

“The boy did not forget him. When he was about fourteen his parents received a letter from the old man saying that he was retiring to live at Bad Schwennheim. He had heard them discussing it. They destroyed the letter, but he remembered the name of the town, and when he was sent to the army school there he tried to find his grandfather. He did not know until I told him that, by a strange chance, he was living in the building where the old man had died.”

“I see.”

Father Weichs looked down at his hands. “You would not have thought to see him or speak with him that he was a young man whom it was necessary to protect from disillusion. I think I failed him. I did not understand him until it was too late. He came to see me several times. He asked many questions about his grandfather. I saw afterwards that he wanted to make a hero of him. At the time I did not think. I answered the questions as kindly as I could. Then one day he asked me if I did not think that his grandfather Friedrich had been a fine and good man.” He paused and then went on slowly and carefully as if choosing words in his own defence. “I made the best answer I could. I said that Friedrich Schirmer had been a hard-working man and that he had suffered his long, painful illness with patience and courage. I could say no more. The boy took my words for agreement and began to speak with great bitterness of his father, who had, he said, sent the old man away in a moment of jealous hatred. I could not allow him to speak so. It was against the truth. I said that he was doing his father a great injustice, that he should go to his father and ask for the truth.” He raised his eyes and looked at George sombrely. “He laughed. He said that he had never yet had anything from his father that was good and would not get the truth. He went on to talk jokingly of his father as if he despised him. Then he went away. I did not see him again.”

Outside, on the iron balconies of the hospital, the shadows were getting longer. A clock tolled the hour.

“And what was the truth, Father?” asked George quietly.

The priest shook his head. “I was Friedrich Schirmer’s confessor, Mr. Carey.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

“It would not help you to know.”

“No, I see that. But tell me this, Father. Mr. Moreton made a rough list of the documents and photographs that were found after Friedrich Schirmer’s death. Was that all he had? Was nothing else ever found?”

To his surprise, he saw a look of embarrassment come over the priest’s face. His eyes avoided George’s. For a moment or two there was something positively furtive about Father Weichs’s expression.

“Old documents,” George added quickly, “can be very important evidence in cases like these.”

Father Weichs’s jaw muscles tightened. “There were no other documents,” he said.

“Or photographs?”

“None that could possibly have been of any value to you, Mr. Carey,” the priest replied stiffly.

“But there were other photographs?” George insisted.

Father Weichs’s jaw muscles began to twitch. “I repeat, Mr. Carey, that they would have had no bearing on your inquiry,” he said.

“ ‘ Would have had’?” George echoed. “Do you mean they no longer exist, Father?”

“I do. They no longer exist. I burned them.”

“I see,” said George.

There was a heavy silence while they looked at one another. Then Father Weichs got to his feet with a sigh and looked out of the window.

“Friedrich Schirmer was not a pleasant man,” he said at last. “I see no harm in telling you that. You may even have guessed from what I have already said. There were many of these photographs. They were never of importance to anyone but Friedrich Schirmer-and possibly to those from whom he bought them.”

George understood. “Oh,” he said blankly. “Oh, I see.” He smiled. He had a strong desire to laugh.

“He had made his peace with God,” said Father Weichs. “It seemed kinder to destroy them. The secret lusts of the dead should end with the flesh that created them. Besides,” he added briskly, “there is always the risk of such erotica getting into the hands of children.”

George got to his feet. “Thanks, Father. There are just a couple more things I’d like to ask you. Did you ever know what unit of the paratroopers young Schirmer was serving in?”

“No. I regret that I did not.”

“Well, we can find that out later. What were his given names, Father, and his rank? Do you remember?”

“I only knew one name. Franz, it was, I think. Franz Schirmer. He was a Sergeant.”

They stayed that night in Stuttgart. Over dinner George summed up the results of their work.

“We can go straight to Cologne and try to find the Johann Schirmers by going through the city records,” he went on; “or we can go after the German army records, turn up Franz Schirmer’s papers, and get hold of his parents’ address that way.”

“Why should the army have his parents’ address?”

“Well, if it were our army he’d been in, his personal file would probably show the address of his parents, or wife if he’s married, as next of kin. Someone they can notify when you’ve been killed is a thing most armies like to have. What do you think?”

“Cologne is a big city-nearly a million persons before the war. But I have not been there.”

“I have. It was a mess when I saw it. What the R.A.F. didn’t do to it our army did. I don’t know whether the city archives were saved or not, but I’m inclined to go for the army records first just in case.”

“Very well.”

“In fact, I think the army is a better bet all round. Two birds with one stone. We’ll find out what happened to Sergeant Schirmer at the same time as we trace his parents. Do you have any ideas about where his German army records would be?”

“Bonn is the West German capital. Logically they should be there now.”

“But you don’t really think they will be, eh? Neither do I. Anyway I think we’ll go to Frankfurt tomorrow. I can check up with the American army people there. They’ll know. Another brandy?”