The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(67)

“How do you do it?” Maggie asked, sincerely. “Work as a detective? And keep on doing it?”

Durgin refilled his mug. “Many, many cups of tea, obviously.”

“No, really. How?”

“You’re thinking about becoming a detective?”

“I just want to do my bit to help win the war.”

“Fair enough.” He rubbed his hands through his hair. “The men I hunt are evil. I believe in Satan. I believe in his power. I believe he can work through us if given half a chance. These men I pursue, like Satan, they target the weakest among us, usually women and children. I like nothing more than to catch them and throw them to the courts. It gives me immense satisfaction. There’s nothing like it.”

Durgin took a breath. “It’s taken its toll, obviously—you can’t witness the mutilation of children and violent murder in its infinite forms without it corroding your soul. But I continue to fight. It’s all about the fight for good over evil, God over the Devil.” Then, as if realizing how much he’d said, “But enough about me—back to work!” He handed Maggie a book with cataloged fingerprints. “Let’s try to find ourselves a match, shall we?”



She was glad to see the maniacal glee was back in his eyes.

—

In her feather bed at the Adlon, Elise had nightmares of Ravensbrück. In her dreams, she was on a witness stand in a cavernous courtroom, run by impassive judges with blank faces. She was asked to describe her experiences—and the words wouldn’t come. When they did, they came slowly, painfully, with gaps and long stretches of lost memory.

She looked down at the defendant—a man made up of crawling black flies. She knew instantly he was Satan. She needed to bear witness against Satan.

It’s important. Think.

She woke up panicked and feeling powerless. Someday I will testify. She stretched her body, feeling for all the painful places. She pointed and flexed her feet. They were slowly healing.

“Elise, are you awake? You have a delivery!” her father called.

Elise rose and slipped into one of her father’s dressing gowns, which he had given her.

The package on the dining room table was from the KaDeWe department store. Elise knew the luxury store well, from the days before the war.

“Well, open it!”

Inside, wrapped in lavender-scented tissue paper, were an abundance of clothes: tights, wool dresses, sweaters, underthings, nightgowns and bed jackets, fur-lined boots, and, yes, a wig. She gasped, then impulsively pulled it over her scalp. “What do you think?”



Her father clapped and beamed. “A film star! Ingrid Bergman!”

Elise stepped to the large mirror in the hall. She saw herself with long golden waves once again and repressed a gasp. Then she reached out a hand to touch the locks. It was hair, yes—real human hair—and she suddenly had a good idea of how it had come to be a wig. She blanched and ripped it off, throwing it on the floor.

Still, it’s not his fault, she thought, struggling to control her breath. “Thank you, Papa,” she said, picking up the wig and giving her father a hug.

“I wish I could take credit, but it’s not from me.”

“Then who—?”

“Perhaps there’s a card?”

Left in the box was a heavy envelope with her name handwritten on it in old-fashioned Fraktur script.

Dear Fr?ulein Hess,

I have taken the liberty of asking my sister to put together some items a young lady might need at this time of year.

Yours sincerely,



Alexander Fausten



“Completely inappropriate!” She backed away from the box as if it were a bomb. “Throw it out,” she declared. “Wait—give it to the poor. I won’t wear anything from him.”

Hess’s eyes blazed. “Who? Who sent you these things?”

“Captain Alexander Fausten. The man I met with yesterday at the Gestapo.”

Hess’s demeanor changed from angry to beaten. “I didn’t want to ask you yesterday, because you looked so tired,” he ventured, “but how did it go? With”—he couldn’t say the words—“them?”



Elise began to pace. “Captain Fausten wants me to sign a paper exonerating Dr. Brandt and incriminating Father Licht.”

“How is Father Licht?”

“Dead.”

“They killed him?”

“The official story is he suffered a heart attack on the train trip to Dachau.”

“Ah.” Then, “If you sign this paper, what happens?”

“Then I can stay here, in Berlin.”

“And if not?”

“I go back to Ravensbrück.”

Elise’s father was silent for an agonizing moment. “How long do you have to decide?”

“I must give them my answer next week.”

Her father was silent. Then he placed his large, warm hand over hers, tears welling in his eyes. “Think carefully, my darling. Think very, very carefully.”

—

Mass at St. Hedwig’s was a somber affair, with Nazi banners hung from the soaring arches and a gold-framed picture of Hitler on the altar. When it was over, Elise waited in line to speak with the new priest, Father Ulrich Kappler.