triumphantly.
Edna leaned over to Richter and whispered. “I’m sure they must just be envious.”
Richter laughed. “Envy eats nothing but its own heart … And business has been good under the Nazis. Germany is booming again … not since before the war have we been so prosperous.”
Rowland noticed the framed picture of Richter shaking hands with a man in uniform, just below the large portrait of Adolf Hitlerthat seemed to hang in both public buildings and private homes. “You do business with the National Socialist Party, Mr. Richter?”
“We supply many uniforms to the Reich,” Richter replied. “If not for Hugo Boss and his inferior products we would have the contract solely.” He lifted his dog onto Edna’s lap and proffered his arm to Rowland. “Feel that fabric, Herr Negus. See how well the sleeve sits … note the invisible stitching.” He threw his hands up in disgust. “Hugo Boss uses cheap thread and his buttons are insecure. For this reason, he undercuts. I just hope the officers of the SS are proficient with needle and thread for they will be refixing their buttons!”
“I’m sure they’ll return the contract to you as soon as they realise, Mr. Richter.” Edna attempted to soothe the irate tailor. “I know I hate sewing buttons.”
Richter sniffed. “Perhaps I do not want that contract anymore. Hideous design!” He shook his head. “Entirely black … no colour, no style whatsoever … Now, if we had taken the red of the armband and used it for a jacket … that would have been a uniform … but no! Himmler wants black. Pah! Of course Hugo tells him it is the height of couture … simpering Schwein !”
For several moments there was silence as the Australian men searched for an appropriate response and Edna patted the indifferent dog.
The pause seemed to jolt Richter out of his invective. “I apologise … you did not come to hear of disreputable tailors. You are here on a mission more sombre, and one which saddens me deeply. My most heartfelt commiserations, Mr. Negus.”
“Thank you, Mr. Richter.”
“It was a great shock, you know,” Richter said. “To see Peter again after all these years and then …” He bit his lip and did not go on.
“What exactly happened?” Rowland asked. “We have not been told a great deal.”
“You do not know?” Richter looked at him, shocked and grieved. “It was terrible, just terrible … A tragic miscalculation, you see. Peter was not used to how cold the water can be here. The Starnberg is a glacial lake and, as warm as the day may seem, the water can cause a body to cramp and sink.”
Rowland spoke gently, for the man was obviously becoming distressed. “He drowned in a glacial lake?”
“Yes, the Starnberger See … it is about fifteen miles from here. I have a house quite near Berg Castle where I holiday at times. Peter had joined me there, but I was forced to return to attend to a problem at the factory …”
“He went swimming?” Clyde prompted.
Richter sighed. “So it seems … I have a copy of the police report somewhere.” He stood and began to rummage through the papers stacked neatly on the sideboard.
He paused to study Rowland. “And you, young man—did you know Peter well?”
Rowland elected for a half-truth. “I’m afraid I didn’t know him at all, Mr. Richter. Mrs. Bothwell is a cousin of my mother’s … and as I was coming to Munich anyway …”
“Oh, I see. And what is your business here, Mr. Negus?” He paused to smile at Edna. “What brings you and your so charming companions to Munich?”
“We are art dealers—here to buy paintings. It is a good time to buy.”
Richter seemed to accept this readily. “Yes, a great deal of art has become available lately … Jews selling up to leave.” He frowned as if the situation did not entirely meet with his approval. “Ah, here it is!”He handed Rowland a large sealed envelope. It was quite heavy. “I believe some of Peter’s personal
Edna leaned over to Richter and whispered. “I’m sure they must just be envious.”
Richter laughed. “Envy eats nothing but its own heart … And business has been good under the Nazis. Germany is booming again … not since before the war have we been so prosperous.”
Rowland noticed the framed picture of Richter shaking hands with a man in uniform, just below the large portrait of Adolf Hitlerthat seemed to hang in both public buildings and private homes. “You do business with the National Socialist Party, Mr. Richter?”
“We supply many uniforms to the Reich,” Richter replied. “If not for Hugo Boss and his inferior products we would have the contract solely.” He lifted his dog onto Edna’s lap and proffered his arm to Rowland. “Feel that fabric, Herr Negus. See how well the sleeve sits … note the invisible stitching.” He threw his hands up in disgust. “Hugo Boss uses cheap thread and his buttons are insecure. For this reason, he undercuts. I just hope the officers of the SS are proficient with needle and thread for they will be refixing their buttons!”
“I’m sure they’ll return the contract to you as soon as they realise, Mr. Richter.” Edna attempted to soothe the irate tailor. “I know I hate sewing buttons.”
Richter sniffed. “Perhaps I do not want that contract anymore. Hideous design!” He shook his head. “Entirely black … no colour, no style whatsoever … Now, if we had taken the red of the armband and used it for a jacket … that would have been a uniform … but no! Himmler wants black. Pah! Of course Hugo tells him it is the height of couture … simpering Schwein !”
For several moments there was silence as the Australian men searched for an appropriate response and Edna patted the indifferent dog.
The pause seemed to jolt Richter out of his invective. “I apologise … you did not come to hear of disreputable tailors. You are here on a mission more sombre, and one which saddens me deeply. My most heartfelt commiserations, Mr. Negus.”
“Thank you, Mr. Richter.”
“It was a great shock, you know,” Richter said. “To see Peter again after all these years and then …” He bit his lip and did not go on.
“What exactly happened?” Rowland asked. “We have not been told a great deal.”
“You do not know?” Richter looked at him, shocked and grieved. “It was terrible, just terrible … A tragic miscalculation, you see. Peter was not used to how cold the water can be here. The Starnberg is a glacial lake and, as warm as the day may seem, the water can cause a body to cramp and sink.”
Rowland spoke gently, for the man was obviously becoming distressed. “He drowned in a glacial lake?”
“Yes, the Starnberger See … it is about fifteen miles from here. I have a house quite near Berg Castle where I holiday at times. Peter had joined me there, but I was forced to return to attend to a problem at the factory …”
“He went swimming?” Clyde prompted.
Richter sighed. “So it seems … I have a copy of the police report somewhere.” He stood and began to rummage through the papers stacked neatly on the sideboard.
He paused to study Rowland. “And you, young man—did you know Peter well?”
Rowland elected for a half-truth. “I’m afraid I didn’t know him at all, Mr. Richter. Mrs. Bothwell is a cousin of my mother’s … and as I was coming to Munich anyway …”
“Oh, I see. And what is your business here, Mr. Negus?” He paused to smile at Edna. “What brings you and your so charming companions to Munich?”
“We are art dealers—here to buy paintings. It is a good time to buy.”
Richter seemed to accept this readily. “Yes, a great deal of art has become available lately … Jews selling up to leave.” He frowned as if the situation did not entirely meet with his approval. “Ah, here it is!”He handed Rowland a large sealed envelope. It was quite heavy. “I believe some of Peter’s personal
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