The office was small to the point of being cramped. One wall was lined from end to end and ceiling to floor in shelves, each crammed with books. The wall facing was decorated with illuminated manuscripts and testimonials from a score of organisations of former victims of the SS. The back wall contained a long sofa, also stacked with books, and to the left of the door was a small window looking down on a courtyard. The desk stood away from the window, and Miller took the visitor’s chair in front of it. The Nazi-hunter of Vienna seated himself behind it and re-read Lord Russell’s letter.
‘Lord Russell tells me you are trying to hunt down a former SS killer,’ he began without preamble.
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘May I have his name?’
‘Roschmann. Captain Eduard Roschmann.’
Simon Wiesenthal raised his eyebrows and exhaled his breath in a whistle.
‘You’ve heard of him?’ asked Miller.
‘The Butcher of Riga? One of my top fifty wanted men,’ said Wiesenthal. ‘May I ask why you are interested in him?’
Miller started to explain, briefly.
‘I think you’d be
tter start at the beginning,’ said Wiesenthal. ‘What’s all this about a diary?’
With the man in Ludwigsburg, Cadbury and Lord Russell this made the fourth time Miller had had to relate the story. Each time it grew a little longer, another period added to his knowledge of Roschmann’s life-story. He began again and went through until he had described the help given by Lord Russell.
‘What I have to know now,’ he ended, ‘is where did he go when he jumped from the train?’
Simon Wiesenthal was gazing out into the court of the block of flats, watching the snowflakes dropping down the narrow shaft to the ground three floors down.
‘Have you got the diary?’ he asked at length. Miller reached down, took it out of his brief-case and laid it on the desk. Wiesenthal eyed it appreciatively.
‘Fascinating,’ he said. He looked up and smiled. ‘All right, I accept the story,’ he said.
Miller raised his eyebrows.
‘Was there any doubt?’
Simon Wiesenthal eyed him keenly.
‘There is always a little doubt, Herr Miller,’ he said. ‘Yours is a very strange story. I still cannot follow your motive for wanting to track Roschmann down.’
Miller shrugged.
‘I’m a reporter. It’s a good story.’
‘But not one you will ever sell to the Press, I fear. And hardly worth your life savings. Are you sure there’s nothing personal in this?’
Miller ducked the question.
‘You’re the second person who has suggested that. Hoffmann suggested the same at Komet. Why should there be? I’m only twenty-nine years old. All this was before my time.’
‘Of course.’ Wiesenthal glanced at his watch and rose. ‘It is five o’clock, and I like to get home to my wife these winter evenings. Would you let me read the diary overnight?’
‘Yes. Of course,’ said Miller.
‘Good. Then please come back on Monday morning and I will fill in what I know of the Roschmann story.’
Miller arrived on Monday at ten and found Simon Wiesenthal attacking a pile of letters. He looked up as the German reporter came in and gestured him to a seat. There was silence for a while as the Nazi-hunter carefully snipped the edges off the sides of his envelopes before sliding the contents out.
‘I collect the stamps,’ he said. ‘So I don’t like to damage the envelope.’