The Odessa File

‘What was the name of this Jewish orderly?’

‘Hartstein, sir.’

‘And the convalescent clinic you were sent to?’

‘The Arcadia Clinic, at Delmenhorst, just outside Bremen.’

The lawyer nodded again, made a few notes on a sheet of paper taken from a writing bureau and rose.

‘Stay here,’ he said, and left.

He crossed the passage and entered his study. From telephone directory inquiries he elicited the numbers of the Eberhardt Bakery, the Bremen General Hospital and the Arcadia Clinic at Delmenhorst. He rang the bakery first. Eberhardt’s secretary was most helpful.

‘I’m afraid Herr Eberhardt is away on holiday, sir. No, he can’t be contacted, he has taken his usual winter cruise to the Caribbean with Frau Eberhardt. He’ll be back in four weeks. Can I be of any assistance?’

The lawyer assured her she could not, and hung up.

Next he dialled the Bremen General, and asked for Personnel and Staff.

‘This is the Department of Social Security, Pensions Section here,’ he said smoothly. ‘I just wanted to confirm that you have a ward orderly on the staff by the name of Hartstein.’

There was a pause while the girl at the other end went through the staff file.

‘Yes, we do,’ she said. ‘David Hartstein.’

‘Thank you,’ said the lawyer in Nuremberg and hung up. He dialled the same number again and asked for the Registrar’s Office.

‘This is the secretary of the Eberhardt Baking Company here,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to check on the progress of one of our staff who has been in your hospital with a tumour in the stomach. Can you tell me of his progress? Rolf Gunther Kolb.

There was another pause. The girl filing clerk got out the file on Rolf Gunther Kolb and glanced at the last page.

‘He’s been discharged,’ she told the caller. ‘His condition improved to a point where he could be transferred to a convalescent clinic.’

‘Excellent,’ said the lawyer. ‘I’ve been away on my annual ski-ing holiday, so I haven’t caught up yet. Can you tell me which clinic?’

‘The Arcadia, at Delmenhorst,’ said the girl.

The lawyer hung up again and dialled the Arcadia Clinic. A girl answered. After listening to the request she turned to the doctor by her side. She covered the mouthpiece.

‘There’s an inquiry about that man you mentioned to me, Kolb,’ she said. The doctor took the telephone.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This is the chief of the clinic. I am Dr Braun. Can I help you?’

At the name of Braun, the secretary shot a puzzled glance at her employer. Without batting an eyelid he listened to the voice from Nuremberg and replied smoothly, ‘I’m afraid Herr Kolb discharged himself last Friday afternoon. Most irregular, but there was nothing I could do to prevent him. Yes, that’s right, he was transferred here from the Bremen General. A stomach tumour, well on the mend.’

He listened for a moment, then said, ‘Not at all. Glad I could be of help to you.’

The doctor, whose real name was Rosemayer, hung up and then dialled a Munich number. Without preamble he said, ‘Someone’s been on the phone asking about Kolb. The checking up has started.’

Back in Nuremberg the lawyer replaced the phone and returned to the sitting room.

‘Right, Kolb, you evidently are who you say you are.’

Miller goggled at him in astonishment.

‘However, I’d like to ask you a few more questions. You don’t mind?’

Still amazed, the visitor shook his head.