Читать книгу The Land God Made in Anger - John Davis Gordon - Страница 18

Mr Wessels’ charming wife had coffee ready. She had a slight German accent. ‘Of course I can tell you something about the old days of Swakopmund, and about my father-in-law, but I do not understand why you need to look at his old records of his patients. I agree, dental records are not so … delicate as medical records – teeth are only teeth, but nonetheless …’ She trailed off.

McQuade took a breath. ‘Mrs Wessels, I was not entirely frank with your husband when I telephoned him this morning.’ He sighed. ‘I really am writing a book. But I’ve come to do so in a roundabout way … I am trying to trace my father.’

‘Your father?’

He nodded. ‘My surname is McQuade. But that is my mother’s maiden name. You see, I am illegitimate.’

Mrs Wessels looked embarrassed. ‘I see …’

McQuade held up a palm. ‘I’m quite used to the notion. But … naturally, I have an intense curiosity about my father. I believe that that’s very normal.’

‘I’m sure …’

McQuade said, ‘I don’t even know my father’s name. My mother refused to tell me, and now she’s dead, too. But … I believe that my father consulted your father-in-law shortly after the end of the war, and I believe that if I searched through your father-in-law’s records for that period, I would be able to identify him. From the dental work done on him. Then I would have his name.’

Mrs Wessels was sympathetic. ‘I see … But why do you think your father came to Dr Wessels?’

‘Because,’ McQuade said, ‘it is one of the few details that my mother ever told me.’ He smiled: ‘One of the few things I know about myself is that I was conceived in Swakopmund. In 1945. My mother happened to be here, looking for a job. Plenty of jobs, because so many Germans were interned in concentration camps. The war ends and the Germans start coming home. And out of the desert comes staggering this handsome German. That’s how my mother described him.’ He smiled, then went on: ‘Evidently when the South Africans had started rounding up the German males, my father hid in the desert. And survived there throughout the war.’

‘I see …’

‘Evidently my father had been in a fight. He was in bad shape when my mother met him. And in pain. His front teeth had been broken. My mother took him to the dentist. And the only dentist in Swakopmund in 1945 was your father-in-law.’

‘I see …’

‘And,’ McQuade said, ‘if I could get his name, maybe I could trace him. If he’s still alive.’

In the corner of the spare bedroom stood an old filing cabinet. On the floor lay the long boxes of dental cards which McQuade had already searched. Mrs Wessels came in with another mug of coffee for him. ‘Any luck?’

‘Your father-in-law was a busy man.’

‘He used to say that his practice here extended over an area the size of Bavaria.’

‘Do you know who his dental nurse was in 1945?’

‘Sometimes it was my mother-in-law. But she’s away at the moment. Sometimes it was Mrs Kruger. She lives in the apartments on the beach called An der Mohle.’

McQuade was delighted. ‘Do you think she’d mind talking to me about your father-in-law’s patients?’

‘I’ll telephone her when you’re finished here.’

‘Thank you very much.’

Each card showed two crescent rows of teeth: upper and lower jaw. At the top was the patient’s name, address, age. On the rows of teeth, Dr Wessels had made marks in black, indicating the dental work done before the patient came to see him: other marks, in red, indicated the work which Dr Wessels himself had done. Below were notes, describing the work. Extracted teeth were marked with a cross.

McQuade was only concerned with cards after May 1945. Females, children and males under thirty he discarded immediately.

He ran his eyes over the marks on the upper jaws. He was only concerned with the front teeth and red marks. He flipped through them, his eye racing, looking for the marks on the two front teeth.

It was afternoon when he saw them.

McQuade looked at the card joyfully. There they were: the two front teeth crossed out.

And below were the notes: 27.6.45. Both front teeth broken. Extracted. Denture made.

At the top of the card was written: NAME: Mr H. Strauss. ADDRESS: In transit. Cash £10.

McQuade exulted silently. He had found it! He feverishly scrabbled through the remainder of the cards for 1945. Not one of them recorded such work on two front teeth.

McQuade sat back. This was the man: Mr H. Strauss. It was too much of a coincidence not to be true! Even the initial was right! A man who takes on a false identity wants to keep his first name because that is how he thinks of himself!

Of course it is the same man!

Mrs Kruger received McQuade cheerfully and offered him coffee. ‘Strictly speaking, you should not have been shown those records – but it’s done now.’ She put on her spectacles and peered at the dental card that he showed her. She shook her head. ‘No. We had a number of patients named Strauss, it’s quite a common name. But no H, that I recall.’

‘Mrs Kruger, you must remember the months after the war ended quite clearly? The men coming home?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘In fact, Doctor Wessels must have had fewer adult male patients than normal, because so many men were interned in concentration camps?’

‘That’s quite true.’

‘About that time, don’t you remember a German man coming into the surgery who was very sunburnt? And probably dirty. Probably a bit wild-looking. And hungry-looking.’

Mrs Kruger frowned. McQuade waited, then went on: ‘He was in pain. An emergency. He probably said he had lost his teeth in a fight. He may have said that he had walked across the desert, to explain his condition.’

Mrs Kruger frowned into the middle distance.

McQuade said: ‘Now think carefully: probably his arm was injured. Maybe it had a bandage on it, or it might have healed over, but obviously it was a recent injury.’

Mrs Kruger looked at him. ‘Any other clues?’

Playing his last card, McQuade pulled out the old English five pound note. ‘Have you ever seen one of these?’

She took it.

‘Yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘And I remember now.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘The injured arm! And he paid for his treatment with two notes like this!’

McQuade was exultant. He thrust the dental card back at her. ‘Was it this man? If I tell you that I’ve been through all Doctor Wessels’ records for this period and this is the only case of two front teeth being extracted, does that jog your memory?’

Mrs Kruger looked at the card again.

‘If that’s true, then it must be the same man.’

McQuade wanted to jump up and kiss her.

‘Mrs Kruger, you’ve been very helpful. In helping me trace my father. I have only one further question.’ He paused, for emphasis. ‘Have you ever seen or heard of this man again?’

Mrs Kruger shook her head slowly. ‘No.’

McQuade got back into his Landrover, and sat, trying to think. He was exhausted after his sleepless night.

So? He had found out that the man had survived, as well as the name he had used. And, it was possible that he had continued to use that name.

So? So what?

Well, was he still alive? Where was he now? McQuade sat there, dog-tired, trying to think. Tomorrow the Bonanza was going back to sea and he had to have his decisions made. So, where did all this get him?

Well firstly, if indeed there had been more loot aboard that submarine, it was highly likely that the man had later salvaged it himself. And McQuade was wasting his time, except for having the bastard arrested for murder.

Secondly, if the man had not succeeded in salvaging the loot, but was still alive, it was quite possible that he would find out about it when McQuade started sending down divers, and it was highly likely that he would try to stop him.

Was that what that threatening telephone call was about?

McQuade stared down the road. Then he shook his head. No, he’d thought this one through last night. How could H.M., or H. Strauss as we now know him, know what McQuade had been doing these last four days? Unless Skellum was slobbering around town. But how likely was that, in so short a time? No, that phone call was purely ‘political’. Some Hitler-crank throwing his weight around because McQuade saw their orgy at the Schmidt ranch.

So, what do we do about Herr H. Strauss?

The answer would be to find that submarine as fast as possible, before thinking about Herr Strauss.

McQuade took a tense, weary breath. Okay. So, buy some decent diving gear, and speak to somebody about submarines.

Almost everybody in Walvis Bay is very approachable. McQuade had briefly met Commander Ian Manning, the officer in charge of the South African naval base, only once, yet the man was only too pleased to help and he insisted on entertaining McQuade in the wardroom while he did so. McQuade had hoped for a more private place but he had no choice. He had to rush back home to put on a tie. A smart rating escorted him from the naval base gate. Half a dozen young officers were clustered respectfully around their commander in the wardroom, whilst an orderly hovered with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Ian Manning tapped a thick book on the mahogany bar and said: ‘I’m not the best chap to advise you on submarines, but I’ve brought Jane’s Fighting Ships along. What’s your story about?’

McQuade said: ‘Well, it’s about this guy who’s cruising in the Mediterranean on his yacht. One day he drops anchor and when he comes to pull it up again, it won’t budge. So he dives down to dislodge it. And he finds it’s caught on this old German submarine. So he tries to get inside it. To see if there’s anything valuable. What I want to know is what did those German submarines look like inside and how does my hero get inside it – assuming there isn’t a big hole in the side? What problems is he going to encounter?’

The young officers were all rapt attention. Ian Manning said: ‘Hmmm. And? Does he find anything valuable?’

‘Aha. That you must read the story to find out. But, yes, he finds something very important.’

‘And from there all kinds of exciting things happen?’

‘Exactly.’ All the young officers smiled. Everybody loves a story. McQuade asked, ‘First of all, do you know the escape procedures from an old German submarine?’

‘But what type of submarine? The Germans built various kinds.’

‘I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.’

Ian Manning reached for Jane’s Fighting Ships. ‘Make it a Type VII C.’ He turned to the appropriate page. All the young officers waited attentively. Manning read aloud: ‘“There were 1,174 U-boats constructed in Germany between 1935 and 1945, of which 785 were lost. There was the Type XXIII, et cetera … Type XXI … et cetera. Then, Type VII C … This may be regarded as the standard type of German submarine, having been built in largest numbers. Displacement, 517 tons. Length 213 feet, beam 19 feet, height 13 feet. Five torpedo tubes.” And here …’ he turned over the page, ‘are some diagrams.’

Everybody clustered round. The scale of the drawings was small. A confusing mass of dense detail.

‘What exactly was abandon-ship procedure?’

‘Well,’ Manning said. He called for a sheet of paper from the barman, drew a large cigar-shape. He sketched in the conning tower. ‘There’s a water-tight hatch in the top of the conning tower. There’s another hatch below it, in the central control room. Now, mounted in this second hatch is a telescopic escape tube, which you can pull down. Big enough for a man. Here.’ He drew it in. ‘So, when your submarine is wrecked, and you abandon ship, you pull down this telescopic tube until it is about two feet above the deck of the control room. So.’ He drew it in. ‘Now, you open valves in the hull of the submarine,’ he drew a few crosses, ‘and flood water into the submarine. The water stops entering when the air pressure inside the sub is the same as the sea pressure outside. The sub is now about half-full of water, and everybody is standing in water up to their waists. Each man has an air-bottle. Now, the upper hatch is opened, and water floods into the conning tower, and into this telescopic tube. But no more water enters the part where the men are because the pressure has been stabilized. Now, each man ducks under water, into the flooded tube, and swims up it, one at a time. Up through the conning tower, out into the open sea. He rises slowly to the surface.’

‘I see. And every man could escape like that?’

‘Every man. Provided the sub was in less than fifty metres of water. Deeper than that and the sea pressure would kill them.’

So why did only two men escape? And suddenly McQuade knew how to get into the submarine: the same way that those two men got out, but in the reverse direction.

‘And after forty years, would the submarine still be half-full of air and that tube still full of water?’

‘Yes.’

‘So my hero could get into the submarine the same way? Go into the conning tower and swim down that tube?’

‘Theoretically, yes.’

McQuade ran his hand over his hair. ‘And what’s it going to be like when he gets inside?’

‘Black as ink. Stinking. The air would be unbreathable, he’d have to keep his breathing apparatus on.’ He turned to one of his officers, ‘Daniels, you’ve done a diving course?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Daniels said. ‘We dived down on a number of wrecks, but never on a submarine.’

‘What marine life is our hero likely to find down there?’

Daniels said earnestly: ‘My guess, sir, is that the conning tower is likely to have a lot of fish living in it. In the lower part of the submarine the water would be pretty foul, but my guess is that there would be sufficient circulation of water down that tube to support marine life like crabs and some small fish. And possibly some octopus.’

McQuade did not like the sound of this. Black as ink. ‘And skeletons? Of crew who did not manage to escape?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes, sir. The crabs and crayfish would have eaten them long ago. Just skeletons now.’ He added cheerfully, ‘Their hair would survive.’

Ian Manning said: ‘Why didn’t they all escape?’

‘Ah,’ McQuade said, ‘part of the story.’

The plot thickens, eh? All right, but if some chaps failed to escape they might have crawled up onto their bunks to die. Above the water line. What would their condition be? Would they be kind of mummified in that salty environment?’

‘Skeletons, sir,’ Daniels assured him.

‘I wonder,’ Manning said. ‘Barman, pass me the phone please.’ He dialled, then said, ‘Doctor Walters, please … Jack, this is Ian. Got a technical question for you … These chaps have been in this sunken submarine for forty years … Yes, of course they’re dead, not just irritable …’ He gave the naval doctor the facts, grinning. He listened, then thanked him and hung up. He turned to McQuade: ‘Didn’t follow all that medical jargon but it’s possible that the chaps on upper bunks may be mummified. Something to do with body fats hardening into a wax-like substance under certain conditions. Interesting, that.’

‘Thank you very much,’ McQuade said.

‘What else do you want to know?’

‘I need to know the entire layout of the submarine. Where the water-tight doors are, how they lock and unlock, what the different compartments hold, and so on. You haven’t a bigger-scale diagram than that one in Jane’s?’

The commander stroked his beard. ‘Not in Walvis Bay. They’ve got a submarine in the war museum in Johannesburg. Don’t know what type it is. Otherwise, you’d have to go to Germany to their submarine museum. In Kiel, I think it is, but that would be a ridiculous expense …’

It was eight o’clock when McQuade got back to his house, scratchy-tired. He snapped on the telephone answering machine. A sultry female voice said:

‘Jim, please come to see me urgently. This is important for both of us. I know you are not at sea, so I’m waiting. Helga.’

McQuade snorted. Important, huh? After slapping his face and shrieking Heil Hitler? No way. He picked-up the telephone and dialled Elsie’s number. He got his answering machine.

‘Elsie, please phone the Kid, Tucker and Potgieter and tell them there’s to be a shareholders’ meeting aboard the Bonanza at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. And get word to the Coloured crew that we’re not going to sea because we’ve got repairs to do.’

He went to his bedroom, to sleep, sleep, sleep.