The death of Siggy Beer, Germany’s most venerable publisher, was widely mourned. St Peter’s, Munich’s oldest parish church, was crowded for the funeral. Academics, civic dignitaries and writers stood shoulder to shoulder in the pews with a surprising number of tearful, good-looking women who had mingled inconspicuously with the congregation as they arrived. The local press had reported that Siggy had died alone in his apartment after one of the famed parties at the Beer Verlag publishing house, but it fooled few of Siggy’s female friends. It is more than likely that in the quiet moment at the end of the service, there were many silent prayers of thanks that the old publisher had not had his cardiac failure on a previous party night.
Siggy’s son, Harald, was not available for comment. After the private service at the crematorium, he returned to the office, had one scotch and a sandwich at the chairman’s desk, and spent the afternoon and evening examining files and assessing the current commitments of the firm.
He worked late. At around 9.00 p.m. he was alone in the building. His father had never been persuaded of the need for night security, so after the cleaners left at 8.00, the place was usually empty for twelve hours. The argument had always been that if you trusted people, they respected you for it; the presence of a man in uniform could have been a provocation.
As he replaced the cash-books in the safe, Harald noticed a heap of dog-eared documents on the lower shelf. He lifted them out and thumbed through them. It would take more time to sort them out properly, and he wanted to get away now. They looked like long-elapsed guarantees and service agreements for office equipment. But among them was a heavier item: a sealed package, about the size and shape of a script. It was sealed, literally, with red wax, stamped with a Beer signet that Harald had never seen before.
He examined the writing on the front. It was in his father’s hand, written when there was still some snobbery about the use of fountain-pens. Strictly Private and Confidential. To be opened only in the event of the decease of Herr Rudolf Hess, Prisoner in Spandau. It was signed by Sigmund Beer in the presence of Janus Winkler, the firm’s lawyer, on 26 April 1964.
Winkler had died some time in the seventies. Harald turned the package in his hands, fingering the edges. His father had never mentioned its existence to him. Once or twice in the past twenty years, he had made some remark about wanting to outlive the old man of Spandau. Another time, he had talked vaguely of some promise he had given about an unpublished work. Siggy was always going on about trust and promises that had to be honoured.
Harald put it back in the safe with the other things. He looked at his watch and reached for his jacket. Tomorrow he would start early. Better get some sleep.
He prepared to slam the door of the safe, hesitated, took out the sealed package, stuffed it into his briefcase, closed the safe and left the building.