The Man from Berlin (10 page)

‘I'm not sure I follow,' replied Reinhardt.

‘You're asking about Marija Vukić, as well.'

‘Yes, sir. She was found dead with the officer. Therefore, she forms part of my inquiries as well.'

‘Right,' said the officer, his glass held to his mouth and only his eyes visible over its rim. ‘And what have you learned?'

‘With all due respect, sir, I am not at liberty to divulge such ­details.'

The Standartenführer snorted, and the others around the table made various motions of amusement, like a ripple across a pond and him the source of it, like a rock tossed into water. ‘Sounds like a Jew, don't you think?' he asked his companions. ‘ “
Not at liberty to…
” ' he repeated, with a little whine in his voice. He said something to the UstaÅ¡a and the man laughed, his cheeks quivering like slabs of suet. Reinhardt flushed under their gaze. The officer's fingers tap-tapped on his holster, and he looked for a moment at Reinhardt's Iron Cross, his eyes narrowing. ‘Are you Feldgendarmerie, Captain? You don't look like a chain
dog.'

‘Abwehr.'

The Standartenführer smiled, a wet gleam that slid rather naturally into a sneer. ‘Yes. Well, would you like to ask me anything, Captain? I knew Miss Vukić rather well, you know.'

‘By all means, sir. Are you able to shed any light on her movements in her last days, or perhaps offer information as to the motive behind her death?'

The Standartenführer's nose twitched. ‘Marija Vukić was a slut, Captain. Don't let anyone tell you differently.'

‘Come on, Mladen,' said one of the other officers. ‘Take it easy.'

The Standartenführer ignored him. ‘I saw you come out from the private rooms. I presume you saw the mirrored room? Yes? They told you, that was her hideaway? Her little sex parlour, for the fortunate few. And I say that with a pinch of irony, Captain. She'd fuck just about anything.' There was a snicker of laughter around the table.

‘Present company excluded, of course, Standartenführer,' said Reinhardt. The table went still, but the SS officer's fingers continued their tap-tapping. Although Reinhardt felt himself break out in a ­sudden, icy sweat, he refused to be cowed, turning a deaf ear to the voice within that, aghast at his temerity, was urging him to back away. No good came of provoking men like this.

The Standartenführer stared back at him with dead eyes, then snorted. ‘What was it I said?' Half to himself, half to his friends. ‘Just like a Jew. Picking up the little details. Sniff-sniffing around.' He leaned forward, a sudden shift. The officer sitting behind him reached out a hand, left it hanging. Reinhardt saw it all from a distance. They were obviously used to a certain kind of behaviour from this man. Violent, probably unpredictable. ‘No, Captain. I never had that dubious honour. Thank God. I'll bet you can still smell the stink of her rutting in there.'

Reinhardt allowed himself to breathe a little easier and gave that note of inner caution its head. ‘There was something, indeed, sir,' he agreed. He needed to get away from there, and placating this officer was the best way
out.

‘A word of advice to you, Captain. This is a respectable club. Don't come back here asking questions and spreading rumours. And don't let me hear of you bringing noncoms in again.'

‘Thank you, sir. And may I have the honour of knowing to whom I have been speaking?'

The officer took a long drink from his beer before answering. ‘Standartenführer Mladen Stolić.'

‘My thanks to you, Standartenführer. With your permission?' Stolić nodded a lazy dismissal, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as Reinhardt clicked his heels and inclined his head in salute.

‘And you can take your salute and shove it up your arse. We did away with that in the SS a long time ago,' Stolić said, rising to his feet. ‘This is the way it's done.' He slammed his heels together, his right arm pistoning up. ‘
HEIL HITLER!
' he bellowed. It felt as if the bar had come to a standstill. He held the pose a moment, then relaxed, his right hand coming to rest on his belt buckle. He smiled. ‘Now. Your turn, Captain.'

Reinhardt stared back at him, then blanked his mind. ‘Heil Hitler!' he returned, fixing his eyes on the wall behind Stolić's head. For a panicked moment Reinhardt thought Stolić would make him do it again, but he just smiled, took his seat, and resumed his conversation. Reinhardt took a step back and turned for the door. Stern came around from behind his lectern to open the door, handing him his cap and inclining his head courteously as Reinhardt went past.

‘I trust your inquiries were successful, sir,' he murmured. ‘A very good night to you. Do come again.'

10

R
einhardt stood out in the st
reet; holding his cap by the visor, he flipped it onto his head, working his mouth around the memory of those words. Hueber waved at him from a little farther down the street, where Claussen had parked the
kübelwagen
. Reinhardt acknowledged him, taking the time to light himself a cigarette and calm down. The night was hot, though far cooler than the club had been. Reinhardt could smell the smoke and sweat stink of it on his clothes. He wondered what someone as glamorous as Marija Vukić found in it. Maybe it was the only place like it in town. Beggars couldn't be choosers, he thought as he climbed into the
car.

Claussen wound his way through a series of narrow roads until he came to Kvaternik, where he darted over and across a bridge, turning right at the end of it. He glanced at a map scrawled hastily on a piece of paper he held in one hand, counting off streets to his left before hauling the
kübelwagen
into one of them and bringing it to a stop, the engine clattering into silence.

The neighbourhood was one of those built by the Austrians not long after they began their occupation. Designed along functional rather than ascetic lines, the houses and buildings were blocky, most of them two floors, some with three. There was no street lighting, only a few lights were on or visible, and there was the smell of wood smoke and cooking in the air. Voices drifted through the night. A child cried somewhere, a woman shouted, a man answered back.

‘What was the address?' asked Reinhardt. Claussen flicked on a torch, shining it onto Mavrić's piece of paper. ‘No number,' said ­Reinhardt. ‘Fourth on the left. Claussen, stay with the car again. Hueber, with
me.'

The sergeant took an MP 40 machine pistol from between the seats, cocking it as Reinhardt and Hueber set off down the street. The arrival of the car could not go unnoticed. Faces appeared at windows only to vanish just as fast. Curtains twitched. A door cracked open as Reinhardt walked past, a child peering out. There was a frantic burst of whispering, and the child was pulled backwards and the door pushed shut. There was the sound of a blow, and the child began to
cry.

The fourth house was a two-storey affair, with a wooden staircase up one side of it. Not knowing which floor to take, Reinhardt knocked on the front door. From behind the curtains drawn across a small window next to the door, he could see a line of light, so someone was home. He knocked again, heavier. A quavering voice came from behind the door, an old woman by the sounds of it. Hueber stepped up to the door and called through it. The voice answered back, and Hueber motioned up with his eyes.

The wooden staircase creaked alarmingly under their feet as they climbed. It ended in a small landing with a carved wooden railing. There was a door, slightly ajar, a wash of light like a candle's playing across it. The sounds of women's voices came from the apartment within. Two women, singing together softly, then a pause, and laughter. Soft and crystalline, the sound of something metallic shaking, like chains. The sound made him stop, made his heart suddenly clench. How long had it been since he had heard a woman laugh?

Reinhardt swallowed hard and walked up to the door. He knocked softly, then again, harder. The door gave under his hand, and he saw as the light flickered over it that the frame around the lock was broken, shards and splinters of pale wood showing against the black. A woman's voice called something, and he stepped into a cluttered room, piled with costumes and dresses, shoes and boots of all kinds all over the floor. A pile of boxes was stacked haphazardly in one corner, and as he came in farther, he saw in the other corner a small table with pots and bowls of makeup. A woman with long blond hair sat staring at him in a mirror under a pair of lanterns that hung from the ceiling, the light inking the cracks that crazed the rough plaster of the walls. A second woman looked up at him from a low stool next to the other, her dark, heavy features of the sort Reinhardt automatically associated with Gypsies. Full lips, liquid eyes, and thick black hair she was combing into a tress over her left shoulder, letting part of it hang over her forehead, over her eye and cheek, and Reinhardt was fairly sure it was all in order to hide the bruise that blackened her left temple.

There was silence as he looked between them. The Gypsy lowered her hands and straightened her shoulders, sending a necklace of coins sliding and tinkling over what was, Reinhardt realised, a quite substantial bust. Whether it was because she saw his gaze slide down then back up, or because of who he was, or because she would have done the same to any man who walked in on her, a fire bloomed in those big eyes.

‘Ko si ti, i što želiš?'
The challenge in her voice was unmistakable.

Reinhardt did not bother turning to Hueber for a translation. He took another step into the room. ‘Do either of you speak German?' he said, looking between the two of them.

The women exchanged glances, and the Gypsy looked about to speak when the blonde put out her hand. ‘I speak German,' she said softly. The Gypsy subsided, but the fire remained bright in her eyes as she crossed her arms under her considerable breasts. ‘What do you want? Didn't you cause enough harm before?'

‘Your names, to start with,' replied Reinhardt, ignoring the ­accusation.

The blonde sighed, gently. ‘I am Anna. This is Florica.'

‘The barman at Ragusa, Dragan, said I should talk to you,' said Reinhardt. The Gypsy frowned and muttered something darkly under her breath. ‘You knew Lieutenant Hendel?' Anna nodded. ‘You are aware that he has been killed?' The blonde nodded again, face blank. ‘How did you know
him?'

‘He would come to the club, often. He liked our music.'

‘That was
it?'

Anna shrugged. ‘He said he liked me.' She pursed her lips, looking straight at him. ‘He was kind. Generous. We spent some time together. How much detail do you want?'

‘You do not seem too surprised at his death.'

‘Your chain dogs told me. Last night, when they came looking for Peter.'

Reinhardt noted the colloquial reference to the Feldgendarmerie, but what surprised him more was the fact that Becker had told him nothing this morning. ‘Hendel's first name was not Peter.'

Anna frowned slightly. ‘I know. It was Stefan. They were not looking for him. It was Peter Krause they were looking
for.'

Reinhardt ran his bottom lip across his teeth. ‘Who is Peter Krause?' Something jogged his memory. Why did he know that name?

‘A soldier,' replied Anna, simply. ‘One of Stefan's friends.'

‘And the Feldgendarmerie were looking for him?' Anna nodded. ‘Did they say
why?'

‘They said he was a deserter. But I don't think that's what it was. They kept asking whether Stefan had ever given him anything, or had he left anything with us. They turned this place upside down,' she said, motioning around the room.

‘And gave your friend that black eye, correct?'

Anna nodded. Florica, who it was clear spoke at least some German, drew herself up, which had the unfortunate side effect of pulling her dress even tighter across her bosom, and glared at them. Her eyes were liable to strike sparks and it was lucky for her, thought Reinhardt, the Feldgendarmerie had left her just with a bruise.

‘What did they think Krause
had?'

‘They didn't say. They just kept asking, and I kept saying I didn't know. But I think it was some pictures. I heard them talking. Especially the one in charge, the second time they came.'

‘They came twice?'

‘The first time was on Sunday, in the evening. The last time was this morning. They were in a big hurry to find whatever they were after. The one in charge was very angry. He hit
us.'

‘A tall man, blond? Big chest?' Reinhardt asked, pushing up his shoulders.

‘No,' replied Anna. ‘Thin, and quite short. And he had thin hair. Dark, like red,' she said, tilting her head down, and checking for ­Reinhardt's reaction through her eyelashes. She tilted her head as Florica whispered something at her. ‘And glasses. Little metal ones.'

She had described Becker quite accurately, despite Reinhardt's attempt to throw her off. Why had he stymied Reinhardt? ‘What did they want?' he asked, again.

Anna sighed. ‘Do you maybe have a cigarette?'

Reinhardt shook a couple of Atikahs from his pack and offered them to her and Florica, who refused with an imperious shake of the head. Reinhardt lit a match and Anna leaned forward. She cupped her hand lightly around his as she lit the cigarette, closing her eyes as she exhaled a long cloud of smoke.

‘They wanted what, you said?' Her hand was warm and soft where it lay around
his.

She shook her head and opened her eyes. ‘I didn't say,' she said. She let go of his hand, slowly. ‘I don't know. I said I think it was pictures. They kept asking if Peter had a camera, and where it was. Or if Stefan was a photographer.'

‘Were either of them?'

‘I never saw either of them with a camera.'

‘Krause,' said Reinhardt, after a moment. ‘Can you describe
him?'

Anna and Florica exchanged glances, the Gypsy shrugging expressively. ‘Sort of, nothing special, really,' said Anna. ‘Brown hair. A little bit
fat.'

‘His rank?' Anna shook her head, pursing her lips slightly, and drew deeply on her cigarette again. Reinhardt turned, taking in the room, the jumble of possessions. The Feldgendarmerie were looking for something, more than someone, but the someone was unknown to Reinhardt. Someone completely new to the investigation. ‘Were they often together, Hendel and Krause?'

Anna nodded, thoughtfully. ‘I think so. They were often at the club together. And here, sometimes.'

‘How did Hendel seem to you? The last time you saw
him.'

Anna exchanged a glance with Florica. The Gypsy stared back at her. ‘He seemed excited,' said Anna, finally, still looking at the other woman. ‘Something at work, he said,' turning to look at Reinhardt. ‘I know it had something to do with Marija Vukić, but he did not say what.'

‘Do you know what kind of relationship the two of them
had?'

Again, that exchange of glances between the women. Florica snorted and turned away, exasperated. Anna hissed something after her, her eyes darting back to Reinhardt, then back to the other woman. ‘I know the kind of relationship he wanted to have,' she said, finally. ‘But she was not interested.'

Florica spun back towards Anna, hissing something at the blond girl. Anna snapped back, the two of them whispering urgently, their voices dragging at the back of their throats. Reinhardt turned to Hueber. The young corporal was fascinated by the two of them, his eyes flicking back and forth between them. ‘What are they saying?' asked Reinhardt.

‘They're saying, sir…' He cut off, and Reinhardt looked back at the women. They were both staring at the boy like cats at a wounded bird. Hueber blushed bright red again. ‘They're saying, at least, Miss Florica is saying, that Hendel, that is, Lieutenant Hendel, could not have Miss Vukić, so he used Anna as the next best thing,' he finished desperately, his embarrassment written plain across his face. Anna's face coloured, but when Hueber had finished speaking she held Reinhardt's eyes nevertheless.

‘Very well,' he said, finally. He brought his heels together and bowed his head to each of the women. ‘My apologies for the interruption, and my apologies especially,' he said, looking at Florica, ‘for the way you were treated.' The pair of them looked more than a little taken aback at the courtesy. ‘I wish you both good night.'

Clattering back down the steps, Reinhardt looked up at the stars. They shone bright here, even in the city. There was almost no light to rival them, just the mountains to frame and block them. Stepping back onto the street, he looked for a moment towards the looming bulk of Mount Trebević to the south, along the rise and roll of its long summit where it cut the night sky in two, then turned back towards the car. In the darkness, with no one to see, he lifted his hand and smelled Anna's perfume where it lingered faintly on the back of his fingers.

There was a metallic clack as Claussen stepped out of the shadows, putting the safety back on the MP 40. He had turned the
kübelwagen
around so it was pointing back towards the city, and he wasted no time in gunning the car down the narrow street and back towards the bridge.

Back in his room, Reinhardt slumped back against the door as he closed it, feeling drained. It had been one of the longest days he could remember in quite a while. The difficulty of thinking like a policeman again. The stress the city always engendered in him, with its labyrinthine character. The hostility of the people. The mistrust of his own side. But in the middle of that, he felt a sense of lightness. Of completion. A thread to long ago, a memory of a better man, better times.

He sat on his bed, emptying his pockets on the table. He poured a drink and knocked it back, poured another, and unholstered his pistol, watching the light ripple across its matte surface. He turned it up, looking down the shiny roundel of its muzzle. His finger slid across the bruise at his temple, then gently beneath his nose, smelling Anna's scent. He reached for his glass. And then his mind went suddenly blank, and he saw it – the motorcycle and sidecar, parked in front of Vukić's. Two men. Hendel and Krause. God, what a fool he'd been.

He looked down at his hands. He saw himself as if from far away, with the eyes of the man he used to be, and he did not like what he saw. Pistol and glass. His two faithful companions. This macabre ritual. With a stir of self-loathing, he put them both away, kicking off his boots, throwing an arm over his face. It was enough for today. Tomorrow would bring as much, if not more.