The Man from Berlin (16 page)

‘Ah, well, some of them are here. The chaps from the conference. You could try to talk to them now, couldn't
you?'

‘I'm sure they have better things to do than chat with a captain of the Abwehr.'

‘Nonsense, come on. I'll introduce
you.'

Caution got the better of him, clenching a firm hand around his innards. That, and the memory of Freilinger's ice-cold eyes. ‘No, ­really, sir, you've been very kind to offer. I wouldn't want to bother any of them.'

‘Well, fine then. But come, let me introduce you to a couple of my men, at least. I'd like you to meet them. Tomas, Pieter,' he called. Two other panzer officers in the huddle of uniforms at the far end of the bar turned. Lehmann ushered Reinhardt down to them, a pair of lieutenants. ‘An old acquaintance from our first time in France. Gregor Reinhardt, of the Abwehr.'

Reinhardt shook hands with them, exchanging pleasantries. The two officers laughed when Lehmann recounted Reinhardt's joke about firm ground under their tanks. More jokes followed. Reinhardt listened with half an ear, his eyes scanning the officers sitting around the reading corner, and found himself holding a glass of beer as well as his slivovitz.

‘What's all this, Johannes?' The four of them turned to see a colonel standing behind them. Reinhardt and the two lieutenants came to attention. ‘Share the joke, why don't
you?'

‘Faber, hello. Meet Gregor Reinhardt, an old friend from France. 1940! Fancy meeting him here, eh? We used to do prisoner interrogations together.'

Reinhardt looked at the colonel's unit insignia. He was from the 118th Division.

‘Prisoner interrogations?' repeated Faber, sipping from a glass of wine. ‘We don't get too many of them around here,
eh?'

‘Yes, sir,' replied Reinhardt.

‘Oh?' said Lehmann, looking between them. ‘Why's that, then?'

‘Partisans tend not to surrender,' said Faber. ‘And when they do, they tend not to get taken prisoner. And what is Abwehr's take on this operation?'

‘Bound to be successful,
sir.'

‘What are you working on
now?'

Reinhardt took a deep breath inside and took the step he had avoided taking earlier. ‘I'm actually working on a murder case at the moment.' Lehmann and his two lieutenants went quiet, and Faber's eyebrows went
up.

‘Somewhat outside the normal writ of the Abwehr,
no?'

‘Normally, yes, sir. However, given the priority the coming operation is taking in terms of manpower, I was given this assignment.'

‘Come now,' said Faber. ‘I find it hard to believe the Abwehr has nothing better to
do.'

‘Quite the contrary, sir. Partly for the reason I just mentioned, and partly because one of the victims was a German officer. In fact, an Abwehr officer. There are standing arrangements for investigating such things.'

‘One?' interjected Lehmann. ‘You mean there's more than
one?'

‘The second was a journalist. A Bosnian Croat. A woman. Apparently well connected.'

The calm had attracted other officers, who began to gather around. One or two of them he knew by name, a couple more by sight, members of the garrison. Others he did not know at all. Reinhardt began to sweat, and he put his glass back down on the bar, partly in order to stop himself from drinking, and partly to show he was ready to go, but if any of the officers caught his intentions they ignored
it.

‘Well, apart from whether it makes operational sense, what would you know about investigating such a crime?' asked Faber.

‘Reinhardt used to be a copper.' One of the officers that Reinhardt knew slightly stepped forward, with a broad smile plastered across a freckled face. ‘Big star in Kripo. You might have seen his name in the Berlin papers, before the war. What was the big case, Reinhardt? The post
box?'

‘The Postman, sir,' said Reinhardt. ‘Dresner.'

Faber's eyes widened. ‘Right,
right
. The Postman. I remember as well. There was another one. Some gangster, wasn't there?'

Reinhardt nodded. ‘Podolski.'

‘Podolski!
Riiight!
What was it they called
him?'

‘Leadfoot Podolski.' He looked around at the flushed faces and raised eyebrows. ‘He had a habit of weighting his victims down with lead and dumping them in water.'

‘And
Paris
! There was something in Paris, no? At the universal exposition, back in thirty-seven. Something to do with the Russians?
Yes?'

‘Yes,' he said, feeling desperately uncomfortable at talking of his past. If someone here knew enough to link him to the policeman he had been, they might know more about what had made him leave that life.

‘Come and tell us of these investigations,' said Faber. ‘It would make a change from what we usually end up talking about.'

‘Sir, really, I should not take up too much of your time.'

‘Nonsense,' said Faber. ‘Just one story. A good detective story.'

‘Paris! Tell us about Paris!'

‘Tell us about the Postman.'

With Faber and Lehmann on each side, Reinhardt was ushered around the end of the bar to the sitting area, where about a half dozen colonels, and as many majors, were standing, sitting, or leaning against the bar. There was a round of introductions, and bouts of hand waving and head nodding as the officers looked towards him, some with the curiosity that they might show to an exotic zoo exhibit, others with dead, uninterested glances. Only a few names stuck in Reinhardt's head, the first ones called out. There was Colonel Eichel, a tall, blond man with limpid blue eyes. Colonel Ascher, who looked like a monk all round and doughty with the top of his head bald, and the hair on the back and sides shaved short. Colonel Kappel, rotund and jolly looking. Reinhardt thought he remembered seeing him at the Ragusa the previous night. Colonel Forster, gaunt and cadaverous, with fingers like cords wrapped around his glass.

There were a few others, men whose names Reinhardt did not try to catch, and at least one or two of whom he was sure were at the club. His eyes, though, his eyes took in the uniforms, the insignia. 369th. A pair of SS officers from Prinz Eugen. 1st Mountain. 118th and 121st Jäger Divisions. All of them were on his list, which felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket.

‘Dresner?' asked Eichel. ‘Who is this Dresner?' His voice had a slur from his drinking.

‘Dresner was a killer! A murderer,' replied Faber. ‘Go on, tell us how you caught
him.'

‘Well,' said Reinhardt. He looked down at his feet a moment. ‘I was working with Berlin homicide at the time. It was 1935. A number of people, all men, mostly in their middle ages, had been murdered in their homes. All of them had been stabbed to death, with the killing wound under the left armpit. A very precise wound, either penetrating the heart or cutting the main arteries that led from it. All the victims had had their hands broken with a hammer, and had had their sexual organs crushed.' Some of the listening officers winced, and one pantomimed clutching his groin and falling backwards into a chair. ‘There were no signs of forced entry,' Reinhardt continued, ‘and no signs of anything having been stolen.'

‘A real mystery, indeed,' said Eichel as he tipped his head back for his glass. A couple of other officers shushed
him.

‘Go on, Reinhardt,' said Faber.

‘I was called onto the case following the fourth murder. I was struck by the way the victims were killed. No forced entry, so the killer was likely known to the victims, or was someone who would normally be above suspicion. As we investigated, we realised in two of the murders witnesses had seen someone in a uniform in the vicinity. This, and the victims' wounds, suggested it was the same person doing the killings, but nothing on why or who he might be. So, instead, we began to look more deeply into the victims' backgrounds. We were sure there had to be something linking them together. While we were on those inquiries, another two people were killed in the same way. We eventually discovered that all of them had, at one time, worked in a boys' boarding school that had been closed in the late 1920s due to rumours of abuse by the staff of some of the boys.

‘We began to follow up with boys – now men – who were at the school. They confirmed many of the rumours, and although there were variations in the names of the suspected abusers, all of the victims were on all of the lists. Those interviews gave us three more names of teachers and staff members who had been suspected of abuse. Inquiries as to the boys who might have suffered most at their hands gave us a list of a dozen or so names. Further investigation eliminated most, leaving us with four possible suspects who had, so we thought, motive, and opportunity as they all lived in Berlin. One of them interested us a great deal, as he was a postman.'

There was a collective shuffling and straightening of postures among the assembled listeners, some of them looking puzzled, some of them starting to smile as they saw the picture coming together. Kappel peered into his beer glass and belched.

‘So, now we had someone in uniform. Someone who could reasonably expect to be welcomed into a stranger's house. Someone normally above suspicion. That information and those suppositions led us to fasten on one Ferdinand Dresner, a postman, who worked at the central sorting office for Berlin and had easy access to addresses. And, in Dresner's case, someone who was also a former medical student.' More of the officers began to grin and nod. Reinhardt gave a small smile back, nodding with them, the memories coming thick and fast, almost enough to push back the desperate discomfort he felt whenever he had to relate anything to do with his career. ‘Which led me back to my suspicions about the killings, and the wounds, that they were too well placed to be coincidental. And it got us thinking, what was a former medical student doing working for the post office.' To one side, Eichel ordered another drink and turned away to talk with one of the other colonels. Ascher, Reinhardt remembered. Ascher inclined his head to listen to Eichel but kept his eyes on Reinhardt and the story.

‘We put Dresner under surveillance and then, after interviewing them, also put the three remaining members of staff under watch as well, believing that sooner rather than later he would seek to kill them. When we talked again with some of the ex-pupils, they confirmed that Dresner had experienced quite sadistic treatment from some members of the staff, and had undergone psychiatric care as a consequence, and had dropped out of his studies. And, sure enough, he attempted to kill again, and we were able to apprehend him as he tried to commit another murder. And that was
it.'

There was a round of applause and a chorus of bravos. ‘Brilliant.
Brilliant
work,' enthused Lehmann. Eichel glanced at him, Ascher's eyes glinting over his shoulders.

Reinhardt ducked his head. ‘It was merely patient detective work, following up on all leads, examining all possibilities until they could be eliminated, and keeping an open mind.' Nothing about the political interference they had run into, the pressure to pin the murder on someone, anyone, just to end the publicity about the killings. The competition from the other squads on the case, the procession of suspects rounded up, taken down to the basements under Alexanderplatz. The resistance they had met from the Nazis who clung to the belief that the murderer was a Gypsy, or some other undesirable. Nothing about their ideological refusal to countenance the possibility of an Aryan serial killer, which led to the bungle when Dresner had actually been interviewed by one of the other squads but released because he was above racial suspicion.

‘What about the wounds? The stabbing, and the mutilations?' called an officer.

Reinhardt nodded. ‘Yes. As we suspected, Dresner's medical training indicated where to stab into the heart. He then said that, although he killed in cold blood, he was afterwards taken by rage. Rage at what these men had done to him with their fists, and… in other ways. So he took his revenge on them as best he could.'

‘So, tell us more about this investigation you are on now,' asked Faber. ‘Another drink?'

‘What's that, then?' asked several officers.

‘Well, it's not advisable for me to talk too much about the case. No, thank you, nothing more for me to drink,' Reinhardt demurred.

‘Ah, come now. You can talk with us, surely?' said Faber, clearly enjoying himself. Over by the bar, Ascher raised his hand to someone behind Reinhardt, gesturing him over.

‘Well, I am working with a detective from the Sarajevo police. He is investigating the journalist, while I am concentrating on our officer.'

‘Journalist? What's going on?' asked an officer.

‘Any leads, then?' interjected Lehmann.

‘What's this about a journalist?' demanded a couple of officers. Lehmann turned to them, keeping an eye on Reinhardt as he briefly outlined the murders in Ilidža.

‘No leads, not really.'

‘Where were they found?' someone called.

‘At her house.'

‘Where's the house, then?'

Over at the bar, Reinhardt saw Standartenführer Stolić join Ascher and Eichel. His throat clenched, and he swallowed. He had to get out of there, but that giddy sense of invulnerability pulled him on. The feeling he got when on the trail of good evidence that things were right, just right. ‘In Ilidža. Behind the Hotel Austria.'

‘When were they killed?'

‘Late on Saturday night.'

There was a babble of excited talk.

‘Wasn't there a party there that night?'

‘You were there, weren't
you?'

‘Yep. The high point of that bloody planning conference.'

‘Hey, just think, boys, a murder like that happening next door!'

‘Saturday night?' repeated one of the officers, with mock relief, clapping his hand over his heart. ‘Thank heavens, that counts me out. I was in Rogatica. Just ask the ladies at Petko's bar!' Several other officers joined in the laughter.