Hitler's peace

Climbing out of the cab in front of Shepheard’s, I scratched my hand on a metal hinge. Having wrapped my handkerchief around the wound to stop it bleeding, I cleaned the cut with some iodine when I was back in my room. In Cairo, it didn’t do to neglect these things. Then I shaved and drew a bath. I was just about to step into the tepid water when there was a loud knock at the door. Cursing, I wrapped a bath towel around my middle and opened the door to find myself faced by four men, two of them tall, thin Egyptians wearing the white uniform of the local police. The two Europeans with them were breathing hard, as if they’d used the stairs. One of them addressed me politely, but behind his wire-frame glasses, he had a nasty look in his eye.

“Are you Professor Willard Mayer?”

“Yes.”

The man held up a warrant card. “Detective Inspector Luger, sir. And this is Sergeant Cash.” The inspector did not bother to identify the two Egyptians. In their white uniforms they looked like a couple of pipecleaners. “May we come in, sir?”

“All of you?” But the two detectives had already brushed me aside and entered my room. Cash didn’t look at me at all. He was looking around the room.

“Nice room,” he said. “Very nice. I’ve never actually been in a room at Shepheard’s. Officers only, you see.”

“Standards have to be maintained, you know,” I said, disliking him for the way he had of making me feel like I was a criminal. “Otherwise where would the empire be?”

He winced a little and fixed me with his stoniest look. Perhaps it worked on Egyptians, but it didn’t work on me. But then he smiled. His smile was terrifying. It was full of teeth. Bad teeth. I turned to Luger in disgust.

“Look, what’s going on? I was just about to take a bath.”

“Did you spend the night in this room, sir?” he asked.

“No, I just came here to take a bath.”

“Just answer the question, please, Professor.”

“All right. I spent the night at a friend’s house.”

“Would you mind telling me the name of your friend, sir?”

“If you really think it’s necessary. The house belongs to the Princess Elena Pontiatowska. I can’t remember the street number. But it’s on Harass Street, in Garden City.” Even as I spoke, I saw Sergeant Cash pick up my bloodstained handkerchief and catch Luger’s eye. “Look, what is all this? I’m with the American delegation.” I looked at Cash. “That’s spelled D-I-P-L-O-M-A-T-I-C.”

“We’ll try not to take up too much of your valuable time, sir,” said Luger. “When did you leave the princess’s house. Approximately?”

“Early this morning. At about seven.”

“And did you come straight here?”

“No, as a matter of fact I dropped into British Army GHQ at Grey Pillars. On official business. My boss, General Donovan, will vouch for me, if required. As indeed will Mike Reilly, who is head of the president’s Secret Service detail.”

“Yes, sir,” said Luger.

Cash replaced my handkerchief carefully on the table. A little too carefully for my liking. Almost as if he contemplated picking it up again and placing it in an envelope marked “Evidence.” That was bad enough, but now he collected my trousers off the back of the chair where I had thrown them, and was inspecting the pocket. There was a bloodstain on the edge of the pocket lining.

“Look, I’m not saying another goddamn thing until you’ve told me what’s going on.”

“In that case, sir, you leave me no alternative,” sighed Luger. “Willard Mayer, I’m arresting you on suspicion of having committed murder. Do you understand?”

“Who’s been murdered, for Christ’s sake?”

“Get dressed, sir,” said Cash. “But not these trousers, eh?”

“I cut myself. Climbing out of a cab about half an hour ago.”

“I’m afraid that’s for the laboratory to decide now, sir.”

“Look, this is a mistake. I haven’t murdered anyone.”

Luger had found my shoulder holster and the Colt automatic it contained. Holding the holster, he lifted the pistol to his nostrils and sniffed it experimentally.

“It’s not been fired for months,” I said, putting on some clothes. “I wish you’d tell me what this is all about. Has something happened to Elena?”

Neither of the two detectives spoke as they escorted me to a large black car parked outside the hotel. We drove south, to the Citadel, a centuries-old bastion that, with its needle-like minarets, was just about the most dramatic feature on Cairo’s skyline. Circling the Citadel, we entered it from the back, at a higher level, close to the center of the ancient complex, and then drove through the gate tunnel and into a courtyard in front of the police station.

I got out of the car and, still closely escorted, entered the building. There, in a large room with a wear-polished stone floor, a fine view over the city, and, on the wall, a portrait of King George, my interrogation began.

It very quickly became apparent that Elena had been murdered.

“Were you involved in a sexual relationship with Elena Pontiatowska?”

“Yes,” I said.

“How did you meet?”

“We were friends, from before the war. In Berlin.”

“I see.”