Berlin.
Monday, December 1.
Ten a.m.
The pain was unbearable and he had lived with it for four weeks.
The doctor had left some pills for him, but Walther Gassner was afraid to take them. He had to stay constantly alert to see that Anna did not try to kill him again, or to escape.
"You should get right to a hospital," the doctor had told him. "You've lost a good deal of blood - "
"No!" That was the last thing Walther wanted. Stab wounds were reported to the police. Walther had sent for the company doctor because he knew he would not report it. Walther could not afford to have the police snooping around. Not now. The doctor had silently stitched up the gaping wound, his eyes filled with curiosity. When he had finished, he had asked, "Would you like me to send a nurse to the house, Mr. Gassner?"
"No. My - my wife will take care of me."
That had been a month ago. Walther had telephoned his secretary and told her that he had had an accident and would be staying home.
He thought about that terrible moment when Anna had tried to kill him with the shears. He had turned just in time to catch the blade in his shoulder instead of through the heart. He had almost fainted from the pain and shock, but he had retained consciousness long enough to drag Anna to her bedroom and lock her in. And all the while she was screaming, "What have you done with the children? What have you done with the children?..."
Since then Walther had kept her in the bedroom. He prepared all her meals. He would take a tray up to Anna's room, unlock the door and enter. She would be huddled in a corner, cringing from him, and she would whisper, "What have you done with the children?"
Sometimes he would open the bedroom door and find her with her ear pressed against the wall, listening for the sounds of their son and daughter. The house was silent now, except for the two of them. Walther knew there was very little time left. His thoughts were interrupted by a faint noise. He listened. And then he heard it again. Someone was moving around in the hallway upstairs. There was not supposed to be anyone in the house. He had locked all the doors himself.
Upstairs, Frau Mendler was dusting. She was a dayworker, and this was only her second time in this house. She did not like it. When she had worked here on Wednesday the week before, Herr Gassner had followed her around as though expecting her to steal something. When she had tried to go upstairs to clean, he had angrily stopped her, given her her wages and sent her away. There was something about his manner that frightened her.
Today he was nowhere in sight, Gott sei Dank. Frau Mendler had let herself in with the key she had taken the week before, and she had gone upstairs. The house was unnaturally silent, and she decided that no one was at home. She had cleaned one bedroom and had found some loose change lying around, and a gold pillbox. She started down the hallway toward the next bedroom and tried to open the door. It was locked. Strange. She wondered if they kept something valuable inside. She turned the handle again, and a woman's voice from behind the door whispered, "Who is it?"
Frau Mendler jerked her hand away from the knob, startled.
"Who is it? Who's out there?"
"Frau Mendler, the cleaning lady. Do you want me to do your bedroom?"
"You can't. I'm locked in." The voice was louder now, filled with hysteria. "Help me! Please! Call the police. Tell them my husband has killed our children. He's going to kill me. Hurry! Get away from here before he - "
A hand spun Frau Mendler around and she found herself staring up into the face of Herr Gassner. He looked as pale as death.
"What are you sneaking around here for?" he demanded. He was holding her arm, hurting it.
"I - I'm not sneaking," she said. "Today is my day to clean. The agency - "
"I told the agency I didn't want anyone here. I - " He stopped. Had he telephoned the agency? He had meant to, but he was in such pain that he could no longer remember. Frau Mendler looked into his eyes and she was terrified by what she saw there.
"They never told me," she said.
He stood still, listening for sounds from behind the locked door. Silence.
He turned to Frau Mendler. "Get out of here. Don't come back."
She could not leave the house fast enough. He had not paid her, but she had the gold pillbox and the coins she had found on the dresser. She felt sorry for the poor woman behind the door. She wished she could help her, but she could not afford to get involved. She had a police record.
In Zurich, Detective Max Hornung was reading a teletype from Interpol headquarters in Paris.
INVOICE NUMBER ON SNUFF FILM RAW STOCK USED FOR ROFFE AND SONS GENERAL EXECUTIVE ACCOUNT. PURCHASING AGENT NO LONGER WITH COMPANY. TRYING TO TRACE. WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED. END MESSAGE.
In Paris the police were fishing a nude body out of the Seine. She was a blonde in her late teens. She wore a red ribbon around her neck.
In Zurich, Elizabeth Williams had been placed under twenty-four-hour police protection.