The Fourth Estate

31 August 1947

BERLIN FOOD SHORTAGES TO CONTINUE

“If Lauber made a will, I need to get my hands on it.”

“Why is getting hold of this will so important?” asked Sally.

“Because I want to know who inherits his shares in Der Telegraf.”

“I assume his wife does.”

“No, it’s more likely to be Arno Schultz. In which case I’m wasting my time—so the sooner we find out, the better.”

“But I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Try the Ministry of the Interior. Once Lauber’s body was returned to Germany, it became their responsibility.”

Sally looked doubtful.

“Use up every favor we’re owed,” said Armstrong, “and promise anything in return, but find me that will.” He turned to leave. “Right, I’m off to see Hallet.”

Armstrong left without another word, and was driven to the British officers’ mess by Benson. He took the stool at the corner of the bar and ordered a whiskey, checking his watch every few minutes.

Stephen Hallet strolled in a few moments after six-thirty had chimed on the grandfather clock in the hall. When he saw Armstrong, he smiled broadly and joined him at the bar.

“Dick. Thank you so much for that case of the Mouton-Rothschild ’29. It really is quite excellent. I must confess I’m trying to ration it until my demob papers come through.”

Armstrong smiled. “Then we’ll just have to see if we can’t somehow arrange a more regular supply. Why don’t you join me for dinner? Then we can find out why they’re making such a fuss about the Château Beychevelle ’33.”

Over a burnt steak, Captain Hallet experienced the Beychevelle for the first time, while Armstrong found out all he needed to know about probate, and why Lauber’s shares would automatically go to Mrs. Lauber, as his next of kin, if no will was discovered.

“But what if she’s dead too?” asked Armstrong as the steward uncorked a second bottle.

“If she’s dead, or can’t be traced—” Hallet sipped his refilled glass, and the smile returned to his lips “—the original owner would have to wait five years. After that he would probably be able to put in a claim for the shares.”

Because Armstrong was unable to take notes, he found himself repeating questions to make sure he had all the salient information committed to memory. This didn’t seem to worry Hallet, who, Armstrong suspected, knew exactly what he was up to but wasn’t going to ask too many questions as long as someone kept on filling his glass. Once Armstrong was sure he fully understood the legal position, he made some excuse about having promised his wife he wouldn’t be home late, and left the lawyer with a half-full bottle.

After he left the mess, Armstrong made no attempt to return home. He didn’t feel like spending another evening explaining to Charlotte why it was taking so long for his demob papers to be processed when several of their friends had already returned to Blighty. Instead he ordered a tired-looking Benson to drive him to the American sector.

His first call was on Max Sackville, with whom he stopped to play a couple of hours of poker. Armstrong lost a few dollars but gained some useful information about American troop movements, which he knew Colonel Oakshott would be grateful to hear about.

He left Max soon after he had lost enough to ensure that he would be invited back again, and strolled across the road and down an alley before dropping into his favorite bar in the American sector. He joined a group of officers who were celebrating their imminent return to the States. A few whiskies later he left the bar, having added to his store of information. But he would happily have traded everything he’d picked up for one glance at Lauber’s will. He didn’t notice a sober man, wearing civilian clothes, get up and follow him out onto the street.

He was heading back toward his jeep when a voice behind him said, “Lubji.”

Armstrong stopped dead in his tracks, feeling slightly sick. He swung round to face a man who must have been about his own age, though much shorter and stockier than he was. He was dressed in a plain gray suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. In the unlit street Armstrong couldn’t make out the man’s features.

“You must be a Czech,” said Armstrong quietly.

“No, Lubji, I am not.”

“Then you’re a bloody German,” said Armstrong, clenching his fists and advancing toward him.

“Wrong again,” said the man, not flinching.

“Then who the hell are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m a friend.”