The Seventh Secret Read Free Page A

with news of her father's death, the living had done what must be done for the dead. Emily had wanted to fly to Berlin to be with her father, to accompany him home, but wiser heads had prevailed. Someone had helped her telephone the main police station in Berlin, and when her identity had been made clear, she had been transferred to Chief of Police Wolfgang Schmidt, who had spoken to her in English. The chief's manner had been warm, caring. He had reiterated the facts of the accident, and then tried to go into more detail. The truck out of control, jumping the curb, hitting Dr. Ashcroft on the sidewalk, flinging him into the street, and then by chance running over him. Dr. Ashcroft had been killed on the spot. The drunken driver with the truck—certainly he must have been drunk—had fled. Descriptions of the vehicle were varied because of the confusion, but efforts were being made to locate it. Chief Schmidt had little hope of success. Was deeply grieved by the accident.
    After that, her uncle had forced Emily to rest. Pamela had followed through by telephone to make the final arrangements, and the body had been flown back to Oxford from West Berlin.
    Now it was over. Her father peacefully asleep in the ground. His great work unfinished. And she, alone.
    Dry-eyed, weak, emptied of all energy, she sat rig-idly in the rear of the soundless limousine, trying to look ahead. But she could not see beyond the wake that would take place during the next two hours.
    Wanting to blow her nose, she sought her handkerchief inside the purse that lay at her feet. She brought the purse to her lap, unclasped it, and was surprised to find two envelopes lying on top of her billfold and cosmetics bag. Locating the handkerchief beneath, using it, returning it, she became curious about the two envelopes. Then she remembered. Leaving the house for the funeral this morning, she had noticed the day's mail left on her desk by Pamela. Without interest she had riffled through it, and determined that most of the small square envelopes carried condolence notes. Two longer envelopes were also there, each bearing German stamps, one postmarked from East Berlin, the other from West Berlin. Odd. She wondered who could be writing her from Germany. But there had been no time to open the envelopes and read the contents, with Uncle Brian and Pamela already at the door to escort her to the funeral. She had stuffed both envelopes into her purse, and left hastily.
    Now the two envelopes remained sealed in her purse, waiting to be opened. Tentatively, she took them out, put aside her purse, and tore open the first envelope, the one postmarked East Berlin.
    The letter inside, handwritten on a single page, bore the embossed letterhead of Professor Otto Blaubach. She recalled Blaubach. Her father's good friend, the historian, an expert on the Third Reich and Hitler, and now a deputy prime minister of East Germany. Her father had spoken to Blaubach the day before his death, had obtained permission through him to excavate the area around Hitler's old Führerbunker . She recalled having met Blaubach once, a stiff, somewhat Thomas-Mannish German, but the soul of courtesy and kindness.
    His letter was in English.
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    My dear Emily Ashcroft,
    When I heard on the television, and saw confirmed in the daily press, the news of your father's untimely and accidental death, I was filled with disbelief. I had spoken to him only the evening before. He never seemed more vital, and doubly so when I was able to inform him that permission had been arranged for him to excavate at the Führerbunker. .
    My heart is heavy. For several days I could not bring myself to put pen to paper. But I want to do so now. I want to convey to you my deepest personal regrets and to offer you my condolences. We both have at least the close memory of a great and modest man.
    I still cannot believe and accept the means by which the end came to your father. It was so unlikely an accident. While