The Eye of the Abyss by Marshall Browne Read Free Book Online Page B

change. The new art on his wall, for example. That gilded woman must be on the borderline of the Fuehrer’s edicts on acceptable art. But he was inclined to think that if a little eccentricity was in play, there’d be method in it.
    Wagner leaned back, and said flatly, quietly now, ‘They’ve been watching my flat this last week. Dressed in the standard black leather coats. The clichés of fear, purveyors of doom. That’s what they’re becoming. D’you know our people call you the Doomsayer?’ Schmidt did know. He regarded his voluble colleague with fresh concern. Threats seemed to be multiplying around them, and Wagner’s face was set with strain. ‘They watch from doorways, sometimes a car. So there we are.’
    â€˜For God’s sake, Heinrich, you must mend your ways. Keep your mouth shut.’ Schmidt barely spoke above a whisper.

    Wagner sucked at his cigarette, savouring the tobacco. He laughed and a nerve jumped under his eye. ‘I’m afraid it’s much more than my mouth.’
    Schmidt was to meet Helga in half an hour at a restaurant. More than my mouth. What was Wagner talking about? If they weren’t watching him because of his indiscreet and traitorous remarks? Mentally, he framed a question – .
    Wagner cleared his throat. Schmidt swung around. Fräulein Dressler, her overcoat skimming the floor, was going with her precise walk to a table in a far corner. A huge man followed her closely, as though paying court. He removed an old military-style greatcoat, passing it to a waitress, who staggered under its weight. Schmidt noted the luxuriant moustache. A delicate pink necktie added a strange touch to the gigantic, muscled figure.
    â€˜Our dear fräulein,’ Wagner said tersely, ‘and her father, Senior Detective Dressler of the Municipal Police. They’ll have plenty to consider tonight.You might say a prayer on their behalf.’

7
    A T 6.30 PM SCHMIDT walked to the city centre. Around him buildings soared up like stony cliffs. His shoe-leather smacked down sharply in the empty streets of the financial district. Streetlamps swung in the wind. He turned a corner, and was assaulted by electric light and crowded streets. It was the sensation he imagined an actor might have stepping from the wings onto a bright stage. Stage? Actor? Were these notions presentiments? Or, was everything down to chance? Wagner, the Calvinist, would sneer at that.
    The few dim figures he’d spotted on his way suggested covert forces closing in. Closing in on individuals and groups throughout the Reich. Overt forces, too. His own case. Beaten down in the street and his eye whipped out in a second. The terse official apology acknowledging his ‘cooperation’. The bureaucratic cover-up of heedless animalistic violence, with the euphemism ‘mistaken Party fervour’.
    A night for sad and nervy recollections.
    Helga was waiting at their favourite restaurant. She was bare-armed, and he’d an illusion that summer hadn’t gone. Her pale skin, the blonde permed hair, was set aglow by the shaded wall lights. For the thousandth time, he admired the freckles across the tops of her breasts. This was very much better. He kissed her hand, thinking her in the full flood of her existence.

    â€˜Franz, so serious. Even for you. What’s wrong? The bank?’
    He smiled. ‘Nothing is wrong on your birthday.’
    â€˜You don’t deceive me,’ she said.
    â€˜Is Trudi better tonight?’
    â€˜She ate her supper, and we read a book together. She’ll go to school tomorrow.’
    He nodded pleasantly, checked the room. He’d been a patron for twenty years. The owners, the chefs, the waiters, the decor, hadn’t changed; they were all gracefully ageing together. He’d never seen a brown or a black uniform or a Nazi badge here. Far too staid a place.
    He chose a sparkling Rhine wine, and the waiter with a discreet,