to Adolf Eichmann—he and an entire cabal of Nazi leadership had fled here in the chaos after Hitler’s suicide. Among them, die Jägerin’s SS lover, Manfred von Altenbach, who had died resisting arrest. Some of his companions had submitted to handcuffs; some like Eichmann had managed to flee uncaught . . . But however the men ended up, they’d left a number of wives and girlfriends behind.
“Frau Liebl,” Klara corrected. “She took her birth name back, after the war. So there wouldn’t be talk.”
“Is Frau Liebl still there?” Tony asked, tone casual.
“Yes.” Helga shrugged. “Now that I have taken over Klara’s job at number three, I see her sons running up and down every afternoon, playing.”
“And their father?” Ian couldn’t resist asking. Adolf Eichmann was a far, far bigger fish than those the center had the resources to chase, but if something could be learned here, perhaps in the future . . .
Head shakes from the two sisters. “You’re not looking to bother Frau Liebl, are you? It all happened years ago.”
A familiar flare of anger warmed Ian’s chest. The excuses people were willing to make, the things they were willing to forget, all for the sake of it happened years ago. “I have no intention of bothering Frau Liebl,” he said lightly, smiling. “It’s someone else who interests me. I know that in ’45, a group of women came to stay at number eight. One was blue eyed, dark haired, small, in her twenties. She had a scar on the back of her neck, reddened, fairly recent.”
His heart pounded, and Ian thought what a slender thread this really was. How many women of that description did the world hold? Who could guarantee a scar would ever be seen?
“I remember her,” Klara said. “I only talked with her once, but I noticed the scar. A pink line across the back of her neck, trailing under her collar.”
“What was her name?” Ian’s mouth had gone dry. Beside him he felt Tony coiled taut as wire.
“Frau Becker, she called herself.” A little smile. “Not her real name, we all knew that.”
Ian couldn’t keep the sharpness out of his voice. “You never asked?”
“One didn’t.” She pulled her son closer, smoothing his collar. “Not during the war.”
No name. Ian swallowed bitter disappointment, hearing Tony press on.
“Anything else you can tell us about her, gnädige Frau.” He made a discreet gesture of reaching for his wallet. “It’s important that we locate this woman. We would be very grateful.”
Klara Gruber hesitated, eyeing the notes Tony had conjured. The center might not have the cash for large rewards, but Ian was perfectly willing to give up the week’s supper budget to grease a few wheels. She nodded, whisking the money away as if it had never been there at all. “Frau Becker stayed at the Liebl household a few months after—well, everything.” A vague gesture Ian took to mean the arrests, the Americans, the end of the war. The unpleasantness they could all pretend had not happened. “She kept to herself. I’d see her in the garden sometimes, on my way to market. I’d say hello, she’d smile.” Pause. “I don’t think Frau Liebl liked her.”
“Why?”
A very female shrug. “Two women in one house, wartime shortages having to be shared. Everybody staring at them, knowing who their men were. I think Frau Liebl asked her to leave—she left Altaussee in the fall of ’45. September, maybe.”
The bitter taste came back to Ian’s mouth. “Do you know where she went?”
“No.”
He hadn’t really thought she would.
“But Frau Becker asked me something, the day she left.” Klara Gruber hoisted her fussing son to one hip. “She called me over to the yard at number eight as I came back from the market. She must have noticed me going by at the same time every morning, because she was waiting for me.”
“What did she ask?”
“To deliver a letter for her in a few days. I asked why didn’t she post it before she left, and she said she was leaving Austria, almost immediately.” A pause. “That’s why I think she and Frau Liebl didn’t like each other. If they had, she wouldn’t have given her letter to a maid down the street.”
“A letter to whom?” Ian’s heart thudded all over again; Tony had turned back into a stretched-taut wire.
“Her mother in Salzburg. Frau Becker said she’d pay me to deliver it myself, not put it in the post. She didn’t trust the post.” A shrug. “I needed the money. I took