“You have the key?”
March nodded.
Then you have total access.”
“We would like to begin with the account records.”
“Very well.” Zaugg studied the letter, then picked up his telephone. “Fraulein Graf, bring in the file for 2402.”
She appeared a minute later, a middle-aged woman carrying a thin sheaf of papers in a manila binding. Zaugg took it. “What do you wish to know?”
“When was the account opened?”
He looked through the papers. “July 1942. The eighth day of that month.”
“And who opened it?”
Zaugg hesitated. He was like a miser with his store of precious information: parting with each fact was agony. But under the terms of his own rules he had no choice.
He said at last: “Herr Martin Luther.”
March was making notes. “And what were the arrangements for the account?”
“One box. Four keys.”
“Four keys?” March’s eyebrows rose in surprise. That was Luther himself, and Buhler and Stuckart, presumably. But who held the fourth key? “How were they distributed?”
They were all issued to Herr Luther, along with four letters of authorisation. Naturally, what he chose to do with them is not our concern. You appreciate that this was a special form of account-an emergency, wartime account-designed to protect anonymity, and also to allow ease of access for any heirs or beneficiaries, should anything happen to the original account-holder.”
“How did he pay for the account.”
“In cash. Swiss francs. Thirty years” rental. In advance. Don’t worry, Herr March — there is nothing to pay until 1972.”
Charlie said: “Do you have a record of transactions relating to the account?”
Zaugg turned to her. “Only the dates on which the box was opened.”
“What are they?”
The eighth of July 1942. The seventeenth of December 1942. The ninth of August 1943. The thirteenth of April 1964.”
April the thirteenth! March barely suppressed a cry of triumph. His guess had been right. Luther had flown to Zurich at the start of the week. He scribbled the dates in his notebook. “Only four times?” he asked.
“Correct.”
“And until last Monday, the box had not been opened for nearly twenty-one years?”
That is what the dates indicate.” Zaugg closed the file with a flick of annoyance. “I might add, there is nothing especially unusual about that. We have boxes here which have lain untouched for fifty years or more.”
“You set up the account originally?”
“I did.”
“Did Herr Luther say why he wanted to open it, or why he needed these particular arrangements?”
“Client privilege.”
“I’m sorry?”
That is privileged information between client and banker.”
Charlie interrupted. “But we are your clients.”
“No, Fraulein Maguire. You are beneficiaries of my client. An important distinction.”
“Did Herr Luther open the box personally on each occasion?” asked March.
“Client privilege.”
“Was it Luther who opened the box on Monday? What sort of mood was he in?”
“Client privilege, client privilege.” Zaugg held up his hands. “We can go on all day, Herr March. Not only am I under no obligation to give you that information, it would be illegal under the Swiss Banking Code for me to do so. I have passed on all you are entitled to know. Is there anything else?”
“Yes.” March closed his notebook and looked at Charlie. “We would like to inspect the box for ourselves.”
A SMALL elevator led down to the vault. There was just enough room for four passengers. March and Charlie, Zaugg and his bodyguard stood awkwardly pressed together. Close to, the banker reeked of eau de Cologne; his hair glistened beneath an oily pomade.
The vault was like a prison, or a mortuary: a white-tiled corridor which stretched ahead of them for thirty metres, with bars on either side. At the far end, next to the gate, a security guard sat at a desk. Zaugg pulled a heavy bunch of keys from his pocket, attached by a chain to his belt. He hummed as he searched for the right one.
The ceiling vibrated slightly as a tram passed overhead.
He let them into the cage. Steel walls gleamed in the neon light: banks of doors, each half a metre square. Zaugg moved in front of them, unlocked one at waist height and stood back. The security guard pulled out a long box, the size of a metal footlocker, and carried it over to a table.
Zaugg said: Tour key fits the lock on that box. I shall wait outside.”
There’s no need.”
Thank you, but I prefer to wait.”
Zaugg left the cage and stood outside, with his back to the bars. March looked at Charlie, and gave her the key.
“You do it.”
“I’m shaking…”
She inserted the key. It turned easily. The end of the box opened. She reached inside. There was a look of puzzlement on her face, then disappointment.
“It’s empty, I think.” Her expression changed. “No…”
She smiled and pulled out a flat cardboard box, about fifty centimetres square, five centimetres deep. The lid was sealed with red wax, with a typewritten label gummed on top: “Property of the Reich Foreign Ministry Treaty Archive, Berlin.” And underneath, in Gothic lettering: “Geheime Reichssache”. Top Secret State Document.
A treaty?
March broke the seal, using the key. He lifted the lid. The interior released a scent of mingled must and incense.
Another tram passed. Zaugg was still humming, jingling his keys.
Inside the cardboard box was an object wrapped in an oilcloth. March lifted it out and laid it flat on the desk. He drew back the cloth: a panel of wood, scratched and ancient; one of the corners was broken off. He turned it over.
Charlie was next to him. She murmured: “It’s beautiful.”
The edges of the panel were splintered, as if it had been wrenched from its setting. But the portrait itself was perfectly preserved. A young woman, exquisite, with pale brown eyes, was glancing to the right, a string of black beads looped twice around her neck. In her lap, in long, aristocratic fingers, she held a small animal with white fur. Not a dog, exactly; more like a weasel.
Charlie was right. It was beautiful. It seemed to suck in the light from the vault and radiate it back. The girl’s pale skin glowed -luminous, like an angel’s.
“What does it mean?” whispered Charlie.
“God knows.” March felt vaguely cheated. Was the deposit box no more than an extension of Buhler’s treasure chamber? “How much do you know about art?”
“Not much. But there is something familiar about it. May I?” She took it, held it at arm’s length. “It’s Italian, I think. You see her costume — the way the neckline of her dress is cut square, the sleeves. I’d say Renaissance. Very old, and very genuine.”
“And very stolen. Put it back.”
