The Grave of Truth by Evelyn Anthony Page A

assassins like the two who shot your husband isn’t all that impressive. You may be frightened for yourself—or for your children.… I’m just on the fringe of the thing; you may know far more than you’re prepared to tell me. But I’m going to find out what this means, and I came here to ask you to help me.’
    She didn’t answer. She got up from the chair, wearily, as if she were exhausted, found a cigarette and lit it. The lighter closed with a snap that could be heard, the room was so quiet.
    â€˜Sigmund was an old-fashioned man,’ she said suddenly. ‘He loved his country. It’s been fashionable for a long time among certain Germans to reject their race and their history, as if denying them could wipe out what happened in the war. It can’t, and Sigmund knew that. We have to forget about the past and concentrate on the future. I’ll help you to find out what Janus means. Not just to find the men who killed him, and the people who sent them to do it. But to carry on his work for Germany.’
    â€˜And Janus is connected with that work?’ Max asked her.
    â€˜Yes,’ Minna Walther said. She stood leaning against the fireplace, looking down at him. ‘You’ll have to come to Germany.’
    â€˜I was planning to,’ he said. ‘One thing: we’ve got to trust each other. You’ve got to tell me everything your husband knew.’
    â€˜I will,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m flying home this afternoon. I’ll go through my husband’s files and have everything ready for you to look at. When will you come?’
    â€˜When is your husband’s funeral?’ Max asked her.
    â€˜The day after tomorrow. In Hamburg. Our home is there.’
    â€˜His family came from Silesia,’ he said.
    â€˜So did mine,’ Minna Walther answered. ‘Where were you born, Herr Steiner?’
    â€˜Berlin,’ he said. He stood and for a moment they faced each other.
    â€˜I’m very sorry about about what happened,’ he said.
    â€˜He had a good life,’ she said softly. ‘A lot of people loved him. Telephone me and I’ll meet you at the airport.’
    He took her hand once more and held it. He hadn’t kissed a woman’s hand since the war, but he did so then. Outside in the corridor, walking down the thick-piled carpet to the lift, he thought suddenly, Christ, Steiner—what’s got into you? Then the lift came and he stepped inside, as he had done the day before with Sigmund Walther by his side. He went back to his office and wrote a special article on the murder and the short political career of the dead man, for the end of the week issue. It was easy to do; he avoided sensationalism, and at the back of his mind was the fact that Minna Walther and her family might read what he had written. He gave it in to the editor-in-chief, and waited while he finished it. Martin Jarre put the script down.
    â€˜Good. It’ll be the lead story and we’ll run a cover with Walther’s head in a mock-up. You’re looking better this morning—get a good night’s sleep?’
    â€˜No,’ said Max. ‘I didn’t go home. I stayed in the office. I’m glad you like the piece, but it’s just the tip of an iceberg. I want to do an in-depth investigation job on this Walther murder.’
    â€˜Why?’ Jarre frowned. ‘What have you held back?’
    Max picked up the script. ‘Something that could bring his killers after me,’ he said. ‘But they don’t know I know anything. I’m asking you for a carte blanche on this one: expenses, time, the lot. If I succeed in finding out what I’m after, you’ll have a big story. Very big. If I don’t, you can kick my arse. Or pay the funeral expenses.’
    Jarre’s frown became a scowl, and then cleared suddenly. ‘All right, Max. Write your own ticket. Be careful.’
    â€˜Thanks, I