Philip Kerr - The Lady from Zagreb

“Ermatingen? That’s not so far. About an hour away by car. We might meet there, perhaps. But Rapperswil would be better for me. I could easily get to Rapperswil and there are lots of hotels in Rapperswil.”

“I’ll call you when I get to Wolfsberg. Maybe we can meet up at Rapperswil. I don’t know. But don’t give up, angel. Don’t give up. Like you said before. Love will find a way.”

Wolfsberg occupied an elevated, north-facing plateau between the Thur valley and the Untersee of Lake Constance. I parked beside an extensive pear orchard and walked toward one of several buildings and, summoned by the crunch of my car tires on his gravel, I found Paul Meyer-Schwertenbach walking toward me, taller and more handsome than I remembered, and smiling warmly. He was wearing the informal clothes of a southern German gentleman: a gray Trachten-style hunting jacket with green piping and gold deer on the lapels, a pair of matching riding pants, and short brown ankle boots. There was a hock glass in his hand. I expect there were servants around but at least for the moment I didn’t see any, and Meyer struck me as the type to pretend that he and his wife were simple souls who much preferred to look after themselves. Preferring to look after yourself and doing it by necessity are very different things; especially when you have a butler and a maid and a cook and maybe a couple of gardeners to help out with a few light duties around the house.

“You made it,” he said, and handed me the glass. “I’m very glad. Welcome to my house. Welcome to Wolfsberg.”

“Thanks,” I said, and tasted the wine, which was a delicious Riesling. “That’s the most hospitality I’ve had since I got to Switzerland.”

“We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow,” he said.

“I had to change my plans.”

“Let me show you around,” he said with justifiable pride.

“You have a beautiful home,” I said redundantly.

“There’s been a house on this site since 1272.”

“That’s nice. With a position like this, it makes you wonder why they waited that long.”

“I’m pleased you think so.”

The château comprised the old château and the new château — a nicety that was lost on me, save to say these were two separate buildings — a sweet little chapel, a library, a coach house, a pantile-roofed walkway, and, for all I knew, a police presidium and a dungeon that was home to the man in the iron mask. Meyer told me that the new château was in a poor state of repair — which struck me as being counterintuitive — and that I would be staying with him and his wife, Patrizia, and their other guests in the old château. With its three stories and a façade that faced south toward an attractive French garden, the old château was a compact four-square building with dormer windows and a pyramidal mansard roof, on the summit of which was an onion-topped bell-carriage that resembled the cherry on a very large white cake — the kind of cake that very rich people are wont to have. It was a spectacular house, but for my money it was the view that made it especially enviable because, in the middle of Lake Constance, you could see as far as the German island of Reichenau with its famous abbey. Meyer told me he had some powerful binoculars on a tripod and through these you could see German soldiers watering their horses in the lake. I didn’t doubt this for a second. From Wolfsberg Castle you could probably have seen Abbot Berno of Reichenau eating his breakfast back in 1048.

One thing I didn’t expect to see from the terrace at Wolfsberg Castle was General Schellenberg. Wearing a light summer suit, he was sitting below the terrace on the lawn at the back of the house with a woman I guessed was the wife, Patrizia, two dogs, and, in no particular order, Major Eggen. Meyer led the way down a flight of steps to greet them.

“This is the man I was telling you about, my dear,” he told his wife. “The famous Berlin detective. Bernie Gunther.”

“Yes, of course. Welcome to Wolfsberg, Herr Gunther.”

She stood up politely to shake my hand. Patrizia was a woman of spectacular beauty who reminded me a little of Hedy Lamarr. Tall and willowy, with an easy laugh, she wore a floral summer dress and white Persol sunglasses and smoked as if her life depended on it. I might justifiably have paid her more attention but for the realization that Schellenberg and Eggen had certainly used me to smuggle gold across the Swiss border — that I’d taken all of the risk, unwittingly, while they’d traveled in complete safety.

“Everything all right, Gunther?” asked Schellenberg.

For the moment I decided not to let on I knew about the gold or to tell Schellenberg that the OSS had mistaken me for him, and with lethal consequences. The two Germans remained seated, smirking quietly and looking like they’d both been very clever. But the P38 in the shoulder holster I was wearing under my jacket was just itching to come out.

“Yes, everything’s just fine, sir,” I said.

“Any problems with the car?”

“None at all.”

“Good. And where is it now?”

I was tempted to say I’d left it in Zurich. Instead I sat down and let Patrizia refill my glass, and after a short delay, said, “Out front.” I teased him with the keys for a moment and then dropped them back into my pocket.

“How was Zurich?” she asked.

“I liked it. Especially the lake. And the hotel was lovely.”

“Where did you stay?”

“The Baur au Lac.”

“That’s the nicest,” she said.

“This is all very cozy,” I said. “I certainly wasn’t expecting to see both of you here. General. Major.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing,” explained Eggen. A little bead of sweat rolled off his forehead and onto the bony bridge of his nose. It was a warm day but not that warm, and I realized he was nervous — of me, perhaps.

“I could sit here all day and look at that view,” I told Patrizia.

“We frequently do,” she said. “The desk in Paul’s study is set deliberately against a wall, so that the view doesn’t stop him from writing. It’s a tip he picked up from Somerset Maugham when we were on the Riviera before the war. Although Paul hasn’t done anything as extreme as Maugham did. When he bought the Villa Mauresque, he had the window in his study bricked up so that the view wouldn’t distract him.”

“It’s difficult enough to write a novel as it is without staring out of the window all day,” said Meyer.

“I have the same problem at police headquarters on Berlin’s Alexanderplatz,” I said. “I frequently find myself staring out the window. Wondering what I’m doing there at all.”

“I’m looking forward to hearing much more about that,” said Meyer.

“Uh-oh,” said Patrizia. “I hear a writer coming. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see how dinner is coming along.”

“I’ll come and help you,” said Eggen.

Schellenberg waited until they’d gone and said, “I thought I told you not to bring a gun to Switzerland.” His keen eyes hadn’t missed the fact that I was wearing a shoulder holster.

“This?” I patted my left breast. “I didn’t bring this to Switzerland. I acquired it along the way. A souvenir of my visit, you might say.”

“Get rid of it, for Christ’s sake. You’re making our hostess nervous.”

“You know, I don’t think I will, General. Not for the moment. Too much has happened since I got to Switzerland. Best it stays where it is for now. Tucked up in its little holster.”

“I can assure you,” said Meyer, “Patrizia is fine with guns. Like most Swiss, we keep quite a few guns around the house.”

“It’s too late for that,” I said. “The Germans are already here.”