'Yes,' said Vigee. 'What was her name?'
'Kettenacher,' I said. 'But there was also a Kettenacher who was on the train. Who's on this list prepared by the Red Cross.'
'It's not an uncommon name in this part of Germany,' said Moeller.
'No,' I said, firmly. 'But Frau Kettenacher's son was in the Panzer Corps. He was a Hauptmann. A captain, same as me. Richard Kettenacher. Fifty-sixth Panzer Corps. Last heard of in the battle for Berlin.'
'He missed his mother in the crowd,' said Moeller. 'It happens.'
'And what about all his comrades?' I asked. 'Would they have missed her, too?'
'Go back,' Vigee told Wenger urgently. 'Go back immediately.'
Wenger turned the car around.
'Let me see that list,' said the Frenchman.
I handed it to him and pointed out the name.
'What do you think we should do?' he asked. 'Go straight to the camp? Suppose he slips away before he gets there?'
'No,' I said. 'He's here because he needs to be official. He needs some papers. Otherwise the Russian state security people could have smuggled him across the border in Berlin. He needs his discharge papers. Ration cards. An identity document. All of that in order to enter German society. To become something new. He's not going to slip away.'
I thought for a moment.
'We need to speak to the real Captain Kettenacher's mother.
That old lady we saw at the railway station. We need her to give us a photograph of her son. So that when you and Moeller here go to the camp tomorrow and he tries to throw some sand in your face, you'll be able to deal with it by being able to produce a picture. You can leave asking her to me. I am after all a representative of the VdH.'
'You said that in a way that implied you thought you wouldn't be coming to the refugee camp,' said Vigee. 'Why?'
'Because I think you need to keep me in reserve,' I said smoothly. 'Think about it, Emile. You arrest Kettenacher on suspicion of really being de Boudel. He denies it, of course. So you take him to the Pension Esebeck and show him the real Kettenacher's photograph. He still denies it: there's some mistake. An administrative error. There were two Captain Kettenachers. You let him talk himself into a corner. That's when I step out from behind the curtain and say, 'Hello, Edgard. Remember me?' I'm your ace, Emile, But you mustn't play me until the end.'
Vigee was nodding. 'Yes. You're correct, of course. But how will we find Frau Kettenacher?
I shrugged. 'I'm a detective, remember? If finding people was difficult they wouldn't ask policemen to do it every day of the week.' I smiled at Moeller. 'No offence intended, Inspector.'
'None taken, sir.'
'So where am I driving?' muttered Wenger. 'Suppose the old lady doesn't live in Friedland? Suppose she already left town?'
'That pastor seemed to know her,' said Vigee.
'Yes, but there's no church in Friedland.'
'There is one in Gros Schneen,' said Moeller.
'Head back to the station,' I said. 'We'll see if anyone remembers them there. If not we can then decide what to do.'
The stationmaster, a stooping, etiolated figure, was sweeping up after the crowds. His flowerbed had been trampled and, as a result, he could have been in a better mood. He shook his head when I asked him about Frau Kettenacher but seemed to remember the pastor all right.
'That was Pastor Overmans, from the church in Hebenshausen.'
'Where's that?'
'A couple of kilometres south of here. You can't miss it. There's even less in Hebenshausen than there is here in Friedland.'
Wenger drove south and we soon found ourselves in a village that lived down to the stationmaster's description. We were just in time to see a bus leaving the village square and the pastor and the old lady, still carrying her missing persons sign, walking away from the bus stop. Behind the stop was a largish half-timbered house and behind the house was a small square church tower. The pastor and the old lady went inside the house and some lights were turned on.
Wenger stopped the car.
'Moeller,' I said. 'You come with me. And don't say anything. The rest of you wait here.'
The pastor was surprised to see us there so late until I explained that I was from the VdH and that we'd missed Frau Kettenacher at the station.
'I try to see all of the families in this part of Lower Saxony who have a missing loved one,' I said. 'But I don't think I've met the lady before.'
'Ah, that's because she's from Kassel,' explained Pastor Overmans. 'Frau Kettenacher is from Kassel. I'm her brother-in-law. She's been staying with me so that she could be at the railway station tonight.'
'I'm very sorry that your son wasn't on the train,' I told her. 'In the hope of avoiding further disappointments we've been pressing the Russians to provide more details of who they're still holding. And when these POWs might be released.'
The pastor, a brick-faced man with white hair, glanced around the sombrely furnished room at the sagging heap of a woman who was sitting on an inadequate-looking chair. 'Well, that would be something, eh Rosa?'
Frau Kettenacher nodded silently. She was still wearing her coat and a hat that looked like an air-raid warden's helmet. She smelt strongly of mothballs and disappointment.
I continued with my cruel deception. If I was correct and Edgard de Boudel was indeed using the name of Hauptmann Richard Kettenacher it could only mean one thing: that the real captain was dead and had been for some considerable time. I managed to persuade myself that his cruelty and the cruelty of the Russian intelligence service that had put together this legend was crueller than mine; but only just.
'However,' I said, weightily, 'the Soviet authorities are not known for the efficiency of their record keeping. I know, I was a prisoner myself. When our men are repatriated it's the German Red Cross and not the Russians who establish who is actually being released. For this reason we're in the process of compiling our own records of who is still missing. And while this may not seem like the best moment to be asking questions like this, I wonder if I might take a few details of the loved one still missing.' I smiled sadly at the pastor. 'Your nephew, is it?'
'Yes,' he said and repeated the missing man's name, rank and serial number; and the details of his war service.
I noted these down, conscientiously. 'I won't take up too much of your time,' I said. 'Do you have any personal documentation? A pay book, perhaps? Not every soldier kept his pay book on him like he was supposed to. A lot left them at home for safe keeping, so that their wives could claim the money. I know I did. Or perhaps a military service record book. A Party card. That kind of thing.'
Frau Kettenacher was already opening a brown leather bag that was the size and shape of a small coracle. 'My Ricky was a good boy,' she said in a strong Saxon accent. 'He wouldn't ever have disobeyed the rules about carrying his pay book.' She took out a manila envelope and handed it to me. 'But you'll find everything else in here. His National Socialist Party Personal Identity Card. His SA Identity Card. His Craftsman Guild Certificate. His ID for Commercial Travellers – he trained to be a metalworker, see? And then became a travelling salesman selling the things he used to make. His German State Travel Passport. That was for the time he went to Italy on business. His Bombing Victim's Pass – Ricky's apartment in Kassel was bombed, you know. And his wife was killed. A lovely girl, she was. And his Military Service Pass Book.'
I tried to contain my excitement. The old lady was giving me everything that could have identified the real Richard Kettenacher. Several of the documents contained not just photographs but personal signatures, blood- types, details of medical examinations, his size of gas-mask, helmet, cap and boots, a record of wounds and serious illnesses, and military decorations.
'The inspector here will issue you with a receipt for these documents,' I said. 'And he'll make sure that they're returned safely to you.'
