The Sixth Key Read Free Page B

to perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit; but, in the
stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious demeanour.’ Edgar Allan Poe,
‘The Fall of the House of Usher’
Berlin, 1938
    A long corridor led to an elegantly furnished room overlooking
the street. At the threshold to this room a peculiar calmness came over Otto
Rahn. He could have screwed up the telegram or even refrained from knocking on
that door, but he hadn’t, and now he had to surrender to the moment, for good
or ill.
    In a chair by the window sat a man dressed in
full uniform: black hat with the Death’s Head emblem; long black leather boots;
shining buttons; sig runes; swastikas – the whole regalia of the SS. His
face turned only slightly, and he looked at his visitor with those small myopic
eyes ensconced behind pince-nez. To Rahn he looked like an accountant, someone
who, at another time, might have lived an inconsequential life, perhaps as a
disliked but tolerated clerk, a civil servant with shabby domestic cares. Rahn
could see him riding a bus to work, thinking about money or illness, shuffling
through his life unperturbed by the great problems of fate and goodness. But
destiny had dealt him different cards and here he was.
    When the man smiled – white, thinly
spread and shrewd – it caused a tremor to pass over his left cheek. He
blinked and blinked again, adjusting his lenses.
    Rahn realised he must do something, so he
stiffened his back and raised his right hand in what to him felt like a rather
comical version of Hitler’s salute.
    The other man didn’t stand. He gave an
effeminate little wave and said, ‘Heil Hitler.’
    Rahn waited while the seated man stared with
an expression much like that of the mouse that has tricked the cat in those
American cartoons. He almost expected the man to say, ‘Boo!’ and laugh
heartily, but he didn’t. Instead he looked Rahn over, scanning him from head to
toe, no doubt ticking off a mental check list of features that displayed the
Aryan ideal: green-grey eyes; smooth hair; fair skin; tall with good bones; not
terribly athletic but nothing that a good stint in training couldn’t cure.
    When he spoke, his voice sounded small, as if
it were coming from inside a radio speaker. ‘Otto Rahn! Delighted to meet you
at last. Will you take a seat? I did wonder if you would answer my mysterious
telegram. Sorry about that – it couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid.
Correspondence in and out of Germany has to be considered carefully these days.
One never knows who is listening in. Still, I had a feeling you would come and
here you are! Tell me, are you astonished? It isn’t every day you find the
Reichsführer waiting in an apartment to greet you?’
    Rahn faltered. To say he wasn’t surprised
might seem to be acknowledging some form of guilt. On the other hand, to say
that he was surprised might sound as though such a thing as Heinrich Himmler
coming to meet a man in an apartment in Berlin was altogether ludicrous. So he
said nothing. He simply returned the smile and sat down. It was an impossible
situation. Beyond his fear and awkwardness he began to speak, but Himmler interrupted
him with a raised hand.
    ‘There’s no need. Your anxiety is perfectly
understandable. Many people feel sick when they see this black tunic,’ he said.
‘But this is the desired effect, you see! Our aim is to be as much feared by
the criminal, as we are regarded by the German citizen as a trusted friend and
helper.’
    With immense effort, Rahn answered, ‘Of
course, in truth, Germany has never felt a safer place.’
    ‘Correct.’ Himmler gazed at him, his eyes
laconic and expressionless and his features stagnant.
    For a moment, the only sound Rahn heard was
the passing of a streetcar below. This situation was far outside his experience
and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do next. He had a terrible desire to
let go a nervous laugh, but he coughed politely into his hand instead.
    ‘Let’s get to the