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Beimler asked her more questions about how she had come to Berlin, and she thought of Walter Mann and his help. She told Beimler she had traveled alone. He asked why she had chosen that hotel. Then, of course, why she had run away and where she had gone. Who had sheltered her, fed her, kept her safe.
Elena lied where necessary about that, too, and felt that he probably knew it, even expected it. But as long as she did not say anything that would lead to Jacob or Eli and Zillah, it did not matter.
Oddly enough, he did not suggest that she had prostituted herself to get either money or protection. He assumed she had sought the help of friends from her earlier stay during her father’s appointment at the embassy, and he did not press her for their names. Did he assume she would not tell him? She hoped so. On the other hand, maybe he already knew them?
In between the questions, they spoke of how order had returned to the country. There was work again, and hope. Certainly, there was more food, even if still not enough. And the despair was gone.
She agreed with him and saw a misery in his eyes that he did not give words to.
Every so often he glanced at the photograph. She did not ask their names; she did not want to know. In a way, they stood for all the innocents who had no idea what lay ahead, what future guilt or grief.
When he looked across the polished wood desk at her, was that what he was thinking also? Of course, neither of them would ever say.
They mentioned music, briefly. He said his wife played the piano. He wished he could.
“It would be a wonderful thing to re-crea
te such beauty,” he said with a wry, almost dreaming smile. “To reach back into the past and build such glory, dreams in the air, almost as if the soul of the composer still lived. It is a…place to go to…to be…”
She knew exactly what he meant. There was no need to say so. Why use words when silence was more fitting.
Before they could speak further, the other police came for her, the manacles were replaced, and she was returned to her cell. She heard the iron lock shoot home into its place like the weight of a dead thing.
CHAPTER
26
Margot was not going to wait sitting around in her hotel while Cordell, from whom she had heard nothing, looked for Elena. She would at least call on the people she knew best. She had a list of her own, and money for taxis to take her anywhere she wanted. She hailed a cab and set out for the smart Charlottenburg district to the west.
The grand houses looked run-down even here. Margot tried first one address and then another. At each, the door was answered by a housekeeper who said she did not know of the former residents Margot sought. At the third place Margot was invited in and offered coffee by Frau Kopleck, who remembered well Charles at the embassy and had been a friend of Katherine’s. When Margot outlined her mission and her fears for Elena, the redoubtable Mitzi Kopleck sympathized. She thought killing Scharnhorst was an excellent thing, but she also thought Elena would not have the courage or the skill to do it.
“Little Elena? Such a big thing to do—a political assassination! I cannot believe the Gestapo really think she did this. They are using her as a scapegoat, I’m afraid, my dear. How did she get caught up in all this anyway?”
“I’m not sure, Frau Kopleck. I…”
“Go to the embassy and see what they can do there, Margot. You are powerless on your own and so many things in Berlin are different now from when your father was here. I’m sorry, I cannot advise you any other way.”
Margot drank her coffee, exchanged news about their families, and surreptitiously checked the current whereabouts of other people on her list by asking after them. Mitzi Kopleck knew so many people, and she was no fool.
“Don’t waste your time or endanger yourself, Margot,” she advised as she kissed Margot’s cheek on the doorstep. “One question in the wrong place and you never know where it may lead you. You might find Elena but you could also find yourself in deep trouble.”
“Thank you for your advice, Frau Kopleck. I’ll be careful,” Margot said, then with a smile and a wave she set out to find the next person on her list.
But each acquaintance she visited said much the same as Mitzi Kopleck. They did not know where Elena could be—they certainly didn’t think she could have shot Friedrich Scharnhorst—and they expressed sympathy for both the Standish sisters. But they also could not help.
It was after five, too late to do anything really useful, and yet too early to give up, when she decided to make one last effort. She was near where Cordell lived, or used to. Perhaps he still did? Cecily was likely to be home at this time. If she was going out for the evening she would be changing for the event. Margot had no qualms about intruding, or being an inconvenience.
She gave the taxi driver directions and thanked him when he dropped her there.
It was as she hoped. Cecily was twenty-two now, and she had always been pretty, friendly, and full of life. Winifred was another matter, but Margot was not about to be refused—by anyone.
The butler opened the door and she gave him a ravishing smile.
“Good evening. I am Margot Driscoll—used to be Standish—the daughter of a previous ambassador. I am in Berlin just for a day or two, but I couldn’t leave without calling in. Is Mrs. Cordell at home? And Miss Cecily? She was great friends with my sister…”
However surprised the butler was at this unexpected visit, he would never be rude to a woman so closely related to one of Mr. Cordell’s previous superiors. He backed away, opening the door for her.
Margot stepped inside. “So kind of you,” she accepted, still smiling.
