LITMIR.BIZ

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have disturbed you, but the messenger from Count Kupka said you should be told immediately…. I felt I should come myself.’

      ‘Yes, but what is it?’ said Winter testily.

      ‘He died by his own hand,’ said the senior manager. ‘The messenger emphasized that there is no question of foul play. He made that point most strongly.’

      ‘Suicide. Well, I’m damned,’ said Winter. ‘Did he leave a note?’ He held his breath.

      ‘A note, Herr Direktor?’ said the old man anxiously, wondering if Winter was referring to a promissory note or some other such valuable or negotiable certificate. And then, understanding what Winter meant, he said brightly, ‘Oh, a suicide note. No, Herr Direktor, nothing of that sort.’

      Winter tried not to show his relief. ‘You did right,’ he said. He felt sick, and his face was flushed. He knew only too well what could happen when things like this went wrong.

      ‘Thank you, Herr Direktor. Of course I went immediately to the records to make sure the bank’s funds were not in jeopardy.’

      ‘And what is the position?’ asked Winter, wiping the last traces of soap from his face while looking in the mirror. He was relieved to notice that he looked as cool and calm as he always contrived when with his employees.

      ‘It is my understanding, Herr Winter, that, while the death of the debtor irrevocably puts the surety wholly into the possession of the nominated beneficiary, the bank’s obligation ends on the death of the other party.’

      ‘And how much of the loan has been paid to Petzval so far?’

      ‘He had a twenty-crown gold piece on signature, Herr Direktor. As is the usual custom at the bank.’

      ‘So this small tract of land on the Obersalzberg has cost us no more than twenty crowns?’

      ‘The money was to be paid in ten instalments….’

      ‘Never mind that,’ said Winter. ‘There was no message from Count Kupka?’

      ‘He said I was to give you his congratulations, Herr Winter. I imagine that…’

      ‘The baby,’ supplied Winter, although he knew that Count Kupka did not send congratulations about the birth of babies. Count Kupka obviously knew everything that happened in Vienna. Sometimes perhaps he knew before it happened.

      ‘My darling!’ said Winter. ‘Forgive me for not being here earlier.’ He kissed her and glanced round the room. He hated hospitals, with their pungent smells of ether and disinfectant. Insisting that his wife go into a hospital instead of having the baby at home was another grudge he had against Professor Schneider. ‘It’s been the most difficult of days for me,’ said Winter.

      ‘Harry! You poor darling!’ his wife cooed mockingly. She looked lovely when she laughed. Even in hospital, with her long fair hair on her shoulders instead of arranged high upon her head the way her personal maid did it, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her determined jaw and high cheekbones and her tall elegance seemed so American to him that he never got used to the idea that this energetic creature was his wife.

      Winter flushed. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean that. Obviously you’ve had a terrible time, too.’

      She smiled at his discomfort. It was not easy to disconcert him. ‘I have not had a terrible time, Harry. I’ve had a son.’

      Winter glanced at the baby in the cot. ‘I wanted to be here sooner, but there was a complication at the bank this morning. The senior manager came to talk to me while I was shaving. At home, while I was shaving! One of our clients died…. It was suicide.’

      ‘Oh, how terrible, Harry. Is it someone I know?’

      ‘A Jew named Petzval. To tell you the truth, I think the fellow was up to no good. The secret police have been interested in him for some time. He might have been a member of one of these terrorist groups.’

      ‘How do you come to have dealings with such people, darling?’ She lolled her head back and was glazy-eyed. It was, of course, the after effects of the anaesthetic. The nurse had said she was still weak.

      ‘It was one of the junior managers who dealt with him. Some of them have no judgement at all.’

      ‘Suicide. Poor tormented soul,’ said Veronica.

      Winter watched her cross herself and then glance at the carved crucifix above her bed. He hoped that she was not about to become a Roman Catholic or some sort of religious fanatic. Winter had quite enough to contend with already without a wife going to Mass at the crack of dawn each day. He dismissed the idea. Veronica was not the type; if Veronica became a convert, she was more likely to be a convert to Freud and his absurd psychology. She’d already been to some of Freud’s lectures and refused to laugh at Winter’s jokes about the man’s ideas. ‘It’s a good thing you’re not running the bank, my dearest Veronica. You’d be giving the cash away to any bare-arsed beggar who arrived with a hard-luck story.’ He moved a basket of flowers from a chair – the room was filled with flowers – and noticed from the card that the employees of the Berlin bank had sent them. He sat down.

      ‘I want to call him Paul,’ said his wife. ‘Do you hate the name Paul?’

      ‘No, it’s a fine name. But I thought you’d want to name him after your father.’

      ‘Peter and Paul, darling. Don’t you see how lovely it will be to have two sons named Peter and Paul?’

      ‘Have you been saving up this idea ever since our son Peter Harald was born, more than three years ago?’

      She smiled and stretched her long legs down in the bedclothes. She’d chosen two names her American parents would find equally acceptable. She wondered if Harry realized that. He probably did; Harry Winter was very sharp when it came to people and their motives.

      ‘All that time?’ said Winter. He laughed. ‘What a mad Yankee wife I have.’

      ‘You are pleased, Harry? Say you’re pleased.’

      ‘Of course I am.’

      ‘Then go and look at him, Harry. Pick him up and bring him to me.’

      Winter looked over his shoulder hoping that the nun would return, but there was no sign of her. She was obviously giving them a chance for privacy. Awkwardly he picked up his newly born son. ‘Hello, Paul,’ he said. ‘I have a present for you, child of the new century.’ He was a pudgy little fellow with a screwed-up face that seemed to scowl. But the baby’s eyes were Veronica’s: smoky-grey eyes that never did reveal her innermost thoughts. Winter put the baby back into the cot.

      ‘Do you really, Harry? How wonderful you are. What is it, darling? Let me see what it is.’

      ‘It’s a plot of land,’ said Winter. ‘A small piece of hillside on the Obersalzberg.’

      ‘A plot of land? Where’s Obersalzberg?’

      ‘Bavaria, Germany, the very south. It’s the sort of place where a man could build himself a comfortable shooting lodge. A place a man could go when he wants to get away from the world.’

      ‘A plot of land on the Obersalzberg. Harry! You still surprise me, after all this time we’ve been married.’ Through the haze of the ether that was still making her mind reel, she wondered if that represented some deep-felt desire of her husband. Did he yearn to go somewhere and get away from the world? He already had that beastly girl Martha to go to. What else did he want?

      ‘What’s wrong?’ said Winter.

      ‘Nothing, darling. But it’s a strange present to give a newborn baby, isn’t it?’

      ‘It’s good land: a fine place with a view of the mountains. A place for a man to think his own thoughts and be his own master.’ He looked at the baby. It was happier

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