The Grave of Truth by Evelyn Anthony Page B

Andrews puffed hard. ‘The Soviets wouldn’t like that. If you put it all down, pretty near everyone on both sides had a reason for getting rid of him. The right and the left.’
    How about the CIA, the policeman thought but didn’t say. You’ve put a few people away.… He watched the American. He knew the type. Thorough, cold-blooded, ruthless bastards. But a deal was a deal and allies were allies.
    â€˜Is there anything we can do to help?’
    Andrews paused; a waitress was passing their table. ‘One of those was a Berlin address,’ he said. ‘You could find out if Steiner’s made contact, and what sort of questions he asked. I’m going over to Bonn. You’ll be able to contact me at the Königshof Hotel.’
    â€˜I’ll send someone round,’ the Inspector promised. He left before Curt Andrews, and made no attempt to pay the bill.
    The two Swiss businessmen had asked for adjoining rooms. They had flown from Geneva to Munich via Frankfurt, hired a car at the airport and driven to a pension . The proprietress looked at the booking, and briefly at them. She was used to homosexuals, although neither of them gave that impression. They signed the register: Stanislaus Kesler, Maurice Franconi. They had booked in for a week. They were shown to their rooms, and when they were alone in Kesler’s bedroom Franconi brought out his road map. They studied it together.
    â€˜Berchtesgaden—we take the Ell, branch off here’—Franconi’s finger traced the red line of the autobahn—‘the last exit in Germany at Bad Reichenhall, and we should reach it in about two hours.’
    Kesler frowned. ‘We could start at the convent,’ he said. ‘Settle the one at Berchtesgaden and then go on to Berlin.’
    â€˜I don’t fancy the convent,’ Franconi said. ‘I was brought up by nuns.’
    â€˜She’s not a nun,’ Kesler pointed out. Franconi shrugged and went back to the map. It had taken exactly twenty-four hours to locate the people they had undertaken to murder. Their contact was a detective agency in Cologne with informants in Interpol and the major European police headquarters. A sum of money substantial enough to satisfy the agency’s principal contact in the Federal German police had produced the addresses to fit the names.
    â€˜I think we should start at Berchtesgaden,’ Franconi persisted. ‘It’s a nice drive. I’d rather get to hell out after we’ve dealt with her .’ The tip of his finger touched a name.
    â€˜All right,’ Kesler agreed. ‘We’ll set off as soon as we’ve unpacked. We can have lunch on the way.’
    â€˜I like Bavarian food,’ Maurice said. ‘But it’s terribly fattening.’
    â€˜You don’t have to worry,’ Kesler protested. ‘I’m the one with the belly.’
    Within the hour they were driving their rented Opel through the centre of Munich and on to the autobahn Ell, heading towards the majestic range of the Bavarian Alps. The tops of the mountains were crowned in snow, and they sparkled in the clear sunshine. The countryside was green and wooded; they left the autobahn, drove through picture-book villages and stopped in one at a roadside café to eat a large lunch. At four in the afternoon they arrived in the small hamlet five miles outside Berchtesgaden. Franconi parked the car in the little square opposite the church. They began to walk at a leisurely pace along the quaintly cobbled street with timbered houses on each side. They stopped at the fourth down on the right, glanced at each other, smiled, and knocked on the door.
    An elderly woman answered. She held the door open and said, ‘Yes?’
    Kesler was spokesman. His German was flawless. ‘We’ve come to pay our respects to Herr Schmidt,’ he said softly. ‘My friend and I have travelled from Munich. Would you tell him we’re