The Man from Berlin (3 page)

3

H
endel had been poster-boy good-looking. Chiselled features, blue eyes, blond hair. The works. Looking up at the wall, Reinhardt could see where Hendel's head had struck it, traced the long smear of blood the body's sliding fall had left before it came to rest there, shoulders slumped across the skirting board, one ankle crossed beneath the other. Hendel was in uniform, but whoever had shot him had emptied his pockets and removed his rank insignia, hoping, Reinhardt guessed, to delay identification. It would have worked, if one of the Feldgendarmes who responded to the call had not recognised
him.

For once, Reinhardt thanked Hendel's habit of staying out late with the ladies and the number of times the Feldgendarmerie must have fingered him stumbling back to barracks late and drunk. He lifted Hendel's leg by the boot. As with Vukić, the rigor mortis was almost gone. He could not have died much more than a day ago. Definitely about the same time as
her.

Reinhardt walked across the living room and entered a study. To his left, a tall window looked out on the garden. Against one wall was a large, heavy-looking table, the wood worn smooth and rich with age, but he did not pay much attention to it because above it, and arranged haphazardly all over the wall, were photographs in black frames. In most of them, Marija Vukić stared or laughed or pouted out at him with an intensity that made his stomach suddenly clench, remembering how they had talked at that dance. Not for long, mostly about Reinhardt's time in the first war, but for as long as he had talked she had listened with a particular intensity, blue eyes boring into
his.

Marija in flying gear, posing next to the wing of an old biplane. Marija with her hair flying about her face as she looked down from the railing of a ship, an elderly man at her side. Marija swathed in robes and turban on a camel, two Africans either side of her. Marija at a table filled with people, the glare from the flash reflected in the glasses of champagne in front of them. Pictures of Berlin, Paris, Trafalgar Square almost blotted out by a flock of pigeons caught in the moment of lifting off. Places in Africa, in Asia. Pictures of people, Germans, French couples on café terraces, families picnicking on lawns, Japanese in traditional dress, Africans, soldiers.

Lots of pictures of soldiers. A man in an old Austrian Imperial Army uniform leaning on a rifle in a trench with his feet in water. A mutilated soldier slumped against a brick wall, outstretched hand holding a begging bowl. A picture of an officer on horseback. Columns of infantry, Germans, with slung rifles, blond hair blowing in the breeze. Reinhardt swallowed in a suddenly dry throat, eyes drawn back and caught by that soldier with his head down, begging.
There but for the grace of God
, he thought…

From downstairs came the sudden sound of a man shouting. Faint, beneath it, a woman crying. Frowning in distaste, Reinhardt looked away from the begging soldier and found himself staring at a picture of the Führer. Whoever had taken it had shot him through a crowd of uniforms, black sleeves, and swastikas, some with the Ustaše armbands, and all the faces were looking one way with expressions of anticipation and delight, but
he
was looking straight at the camera, away from everyone else, face utterly expressionless. Reinhardt shivered suddenly, turned his head away.

Down the other wall were shelves filled with books and objects, floor to ceiling. Reinhardt cast a cursory eye over them as he walked slowly over to the other door, which was closed. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he opened it slowly, pushing the door open onto darkness, a faint suggestion of surfaces and cabinets appearing out of the gloom, and a smell of chemicals that peaked and faded, as if it had just been waiting for the door to be opened. Peering around the door, he found the light switch, flicked it on. It was a darkroom, and it had been ransacked. Photos blanketed the floor, cabinet doors were open, a drawer lay on the floor. Bottles of fluid, brushes, clips, and string stood or lay strewn across work surfaces. A pair of scissors lay in an empty enamel sink.

‘Shit,' muttered Reinhardt. He took a step into the room, knelt, and looked down at the photos scattered across the floor. Soldiers again, most of them. Modern photos, and recent as well, if he was any judge of uniforms. He brushed aside a photo to reveal one of what looked like Afrika Korps soldiers, men swathed in scarves and dust riding atop tanks in column and, for a moment, he was back there with them under that baking sun. Another one, Marija with goggles drawn down around her throat with a man in uniform, a minaret needling the sky behind them, a swath of sea the backdrop to it all. Frowning, Reinhardt leaned closer, then smiled in admiration. The man was Rommel, peaked cap, leather coat, binoculars and all, just as in the pictures. There were steps behind him, and Claussen came to a stop in the doorway.

‘Sir?'

‘A moment, Sergeant.' Reinhardt straightened and ran his eyes around the room, over the jumble of pictures and paraphernalia that littered the surfaces. There was a cupboard under the sink with its door ajar, and something metallic glittered back at him. Stepping carefully, he reached out and pulled the door open wider. A couple of film cases, round tins of various sizes, stood haphazardly in a curved rack that was otherwise empty. The tins had been opened, and the beginning of each roll of film had been unwound, then put back. He reached in and took the end of the nearest roll between his fingertips and turned and lifted it to the light. He passed the strand of film through his fingers but it was blank. The rest of the rack, where there was space for a couple of dozen tins, was empty. He nodded to Claussen.

‘The uniforms told us the neighbour might have seen something.'

‘Anything else?'

‘Not really, sir, and I was free with the smokes. Hueber did most of the talking, but they're being pretty close-lipped. Especially after that big fellow gave them a right beasting before he left.'

‘Yes, I saw that.'

Reinhardt looked around the room again. He doubted he would be back so whatever he needed to take in terms of impressions or conclusions from the murder scene, he needed them now. Taking a deep breath, he turned back into the study, looking down its length, running his eyes over the books in a half dozen languages, objects that looked like they had been collected in a dozen countries.

‘Bloody hell, sir,' came Claussen's voice from the darkroom. ‘There's pictures of her here with about every general in the Wehr­macht. Guderian. Hoth. There's one here with Kesselring. One with Goering…' Claussen's voice trailed off into muttered remarks.

Taking his handkerchief from his pocket again, Reinhardt opened the desk drawers one by one but saw no sign of anything that looked like an address book. Straightening, he looked back at the bookcase. On a bottom shelf, next to the door, he spotted a gap, books missing. Squatting, he ran his eyes over them. They were all of differing sizes and textures, but each one was carefully annotated along the spine with dates. He opened one or two at random. They were journals, or diaries. They went back a long way, until 1917, the later years covered by two, even three books. The writing was wide and childish in the earlier ones, closer and neater, denser, in the later ones. Pursing his mouth he stared at where the journals for 1942 and 1943 once were. Looking around, he noticed how much it resembled a man's room, rather than a woman's.

Claussen was standing not far away, seemingly absorbed in the picture of the begging soldier. Reinhardt straightened up. ‘Sergeant?' he said softly.

Claussen turned and looked at him, then back at the picture. ‘You know, for a moment, I thought that it looked like a friend,' he said softly. ‘Boeckel. Poor sod got most of himself blown off at Naroch.' The sergeant shook his head, and Reinhardt left him to it, running his eyes over the room one last time and walking back into the living room.

Standing in the centre of the room he looked around, turning slowly, trying to imagine what had happened. There were two glasses on the coffee table. There was a fight. Someone kills the soldier. Takes Vukić into the bedroom, rapes her, beats her. Stabs her to death. No. That did not feel right. Besides, there were the champagne glasses in the bedroom. Vukić and whoever was with her, they took their time, had fun about it. So what went wrong? And why was Hendel shot, when Vukić was stabbed? He looked from the bedroom to Hendel's body, the study, the ransacked darkroom. Back to the bodies, where Hendel lay sprawled across the floor, and Vukić, seemingly at rest on her
bed.

Someone was looking for something, came the thought. Searching the study, the darkroom. But they heard a noise… He shook his head. It felt elusive, too light. Not enough evidence.

He turned as Claussen came into the room. ‘I'm going to go and find my new partner. Inspector Padelin.'

‘He'll be the one giving the maid hell, would he?' quipped Claussen. As they arrived at the stairs, Reinhardt paused, looking up as the sound of voices drew him down.

‘Sergeant, have a quick look up there. Don't touch anything. Just see what's there.'

The kitchen was as well appointed as the bathroom upstairs. On a chair in a corner, with Padelin looming over her, sat an elderly lady in a neat black uniform and a cleanly pressed and starched apron. Her hair was grey, tied up behind her head in a bun. She swallowed a sniff as he came into the kitchen and rose quickly to her feet, did a little curtsy. Reinhardt watched her the whole time, saw the fear shoved back in watery little eyes at the sight of him, but the urge he once had to reach out and calm people like her was long gone, quashed deep inside him. It only ever confused them anyway; people did not expect sympathy and understanding from people like him, not anymore.

He looked questioningly at Padelin, who looked down impassively at the maid. She shook her head, not able to look up at him and whispered something into a crumpled handkerchief.

‘She has told me what she knows.'

‘I look forward to hearing it,' said Reinhardt. He glanced around the kitchen again. It was neat, tidy, smelling of polish and a faint smell of spices. The only thing drawing his eye was a padlock hanging from a tall cupboard door by the stairs. ‘Just ask her one thing, if you would. Does she know where her mistress kept an address book?' Padelin rapid-fired a question at the maid, who peered at him over the ripple of her knuckles. She looked at Reinhardt as she replied, gesturing upstairs. She sniffed as Padelin answered for her, her eyes flickering back and forth between the two of them, hands clenched hard around her handkerchief.

‘Upstairs in the study. A red leather book.'

‘It would seem it's gone.'

As the two of them went out into the hallway, Claussen came downstairs. Padelin looked hard at him, and then at Reinhardt. ‘Who is this?'

‘This is Sergeant Claussen. He is assisting me.' Claussen nodded cordially at Padelin.

‘What were you doing up there?'

‘Checking the top floor. There's nothing there, sir,' he said to Rein­hardt. ‘All the rooms have been closed up for a while. Sheets over the furniture. It hasn't been cleaned in a while. My boots left marks in the dust, and mine were the only tracks up there.'

Padelin said nothing, only stared at Claussen. Claussen, unfazed, stared back. ‘And the ground floor, Inspector? What do we have down here?'

The detective turned his eyes slowly from Claussen. ‘Downstairs was the father's apartments. The parents were divorced, said the maid. Father and daughter lived here. But he was killed last year by Četniks, and the maid said these rooms have not been used since then.' He turned and went back outside.

Reinhardt and Claussen exchanged glances. ‘Sergeant, quickly, go upstairs and have a look at the bodies. Just look at them. I'll ask you later what you think.' Claussen nodded, and then Reinhardt followed Padelin out, holding back when the detective began talking to three uniformed policemen. Hueber was hovering nearby, and Reinhardt motioned to him to listen to what was being said while he went back over to their
car.

Padelin gave a flurry of orders to his men, then came over to Rein­hardt's car. Reinhardt offered him a cigarette, which he again refused. Lighting his own, he waited for the detective to tell him what the maid had said.

‘The last time the maid saw Vukić was Saturday morning. She was asked to prepare food and drinks for Vukić and a guest. A man. She does not know who the man was, but she's positive it wasn't to be your officer. Hendel, she knew. This other one, she didn't.' Reinhardt took a deep pull on his cigarette and nodded for him to continue. ‘She has Sunday off. She came in this morning, found the bodies, and called the police. According to her, when Vukić wasn't travelling, she kept a busy social agenda. Lots of parties and outings. People coming and going.'

‘Very good. So we need to find some of these friends. Talk to them. See what they know.'

Padelin grunted assent, those eyes flat, far back in his head. ‘That is for us, I think.'

Reinhardt pursed his mouth and stared at the ground. Not much to go on, his new partner already playing jurisdiction games, and they were the best part of two days behind the killer, or killers. He raised his head. ‘There is something I heard about a witness who might have seen something on the night of the murder?'

Padelin blinked slowly and nodded. ‘Hofler. The old lady across the alley. She saw a car on Saturday night.'

‘Hofler? A German? I'd like to talk to her. Coming?'

4

T
he two of them headed over the narrow
road and away from Vukić's house. The houses up here were beautiful, set in large lawns, with all the space the city lacked. ‘Who lives up here?' Reinhardt asked, as they walked.

Padelin glanced around as he spoke. ‘Only the rich live out here. Bankers. Lawyers. Businessmen.'

‘And how did Vukić come by the house she was
in?'

‘The maid said it was her grandfather's.'

Reinhardt nodded. ‘And the father? What happened to him? The Serbs got
him?'

Padelin's strides were heavy, his arms hanging almost unmoving from his wide shoulders. ‘Yes. The father was a senior Ustaše official,' he said, referring to the governing political party in the NDH. The Ustaše were fascists, and quite incredibly brutal about it, to the extent that their excesses sometimes even turned the stomachs of their German allies, and had thrown up two main resistance movements in Bosnia: the Četniks, Serb nationalists and royalists led by a former colonel in the Yugoslav Army called Mihailović, and the more formidable Partisans, who were Communists and, far more worryingly, multiethnic, led by a man known only as ‘Tito'. ‘Četniks killed him in an ambush in Herzegovina, down near Gacko.' He turned at a house a couple of hundred metres up from Vukić's, with a high, pointed roof and walls of red brick. Reinhardt finished his cigarette and tossed the butt onto the road as Padelin rang the doorbell and heard a dog bark somewhere inside. A maid dressed in a neat, black uniform with a white lace apron answered the door. She ushered them in and asked them to wait a moment in the hallway while she announced them. She whispered down the hall and vanished into the main living room. A shrill, imperious sounding voice rang out in Austrian-­accented German.

‘But of
course
!
Show
them in, show the brave officers
in!'

The maid reappeared at the entrance to the living room, and ­beckoned them forward. They paused at the door while she took Rein­hardt's hat, and even Padelin seemed somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer volume of lace and frills in the living room, such that it took them a moment to spot Frau Hofler, sitting with her back regally straight in an armchair with ornate wooden arms. She wore a flowing dress of a creamy colour and fabric that fell and pooled around her feet and looked like it might have been fashionable in Vienna in the last century. A small dog sat upon her lap, a pink bow tying its hair back above beady black eyes. Hofler sat with the light behind her, grey hair forming a halo around her head. A heavy smell of perfume and talcum powder deadened the still
air.

‘
Officers!
' she gushed as they came in, her eyes lingering on Reinhardt. She wore heavy red lipstick that split in a smile to reveal teeth far too white and even to be real on a person of her age. She held out a frail-looking hand, a ring on each finger. ‘
Do
come in,' she said, fluttering her hand like a piece of paper caught in a breeze. The two moved into the room, walking carefully around small tables and display stands that held a profusion of porcelain figurines. ‘Sit down. Sit down there.
There
, on the sofa.' Padelin inched his bulk onto a wickerwork sofa strewn with cushions. It groaned under his weight, shifting and squeaking. Padelin looked straight at the old lady, his face carefully blank. Reinhardt hid a smile and took a chair to the left of Frau Hofler. She looked between the two of them, a broad smile deepening the wrinkles around twinkling eyes.

‘
Well!
' she exclaimed, beaming proprietorially at them. ‘
What
can I do to help two such fine-looking servants, one of our dear Fatherland, and the other of our dear Poglavnik? But
no
!' she said, holding up her hand as if to stop any questions. ‘My manners.' She put her chin down, eyes up, then called out in a ringing voice, ‘Gordana!
Gordanaaaa!
Ah,
there
you are, child. I was calling you for an age. Bring some of the coffee you just made, for the two officers. And perhaps a little something stronger on the side,' she added, with a conspiratorial wink at Padelin. Reinhardt hid another smile, the old woman already figuring Padelin for the burly, honest policeman not averse to the odd tipple. ‘Chop-chop, dear,' said Hofler as she dismissed the maid. The lapdog glared at Reinhardt with its round, wet eyes while Hofler smiled genially at them.

‘You are Austrian, Frau Hofler?' said Padelin, filling the silence.

‘From Vienna. My husband is the general manager at the tobacco factory,' she replied.

‘And have you been here long?'

‘My
dear
, sometimes it feels like forever.
Not
that there's anything wrong with the city, or the wonderful country,' she hastened to add, bringing Reinhardt into her confidence with wide eyes. ‘But, it's not
Vienna
. You understand, of
course
, Captain.'

‘Quite,' said Reinhardt.

‘Do you know Vienna, Captain?'

‘I do. I lived there for a year. In 1938.'

‘Ah,
what
a year,' enthused Hofler. ‘A
great
year.' Reinhardt only smiled. That year, for him, for Carolin, had been anything but great.

‘Frau Hofler,' said Padelin, clearing his throat and pulling out a notebook. ‘We are investigating the murder of Miss Vukić, who was your neighbour, and were wondering if we might ask you a few questions about the statement you gave earlier?'

A lace handkerchief appeared suddenly in Hofler's hand, and she dabbed delicately at the corner of one eye. ‘Yes. Yes, the poor child. Please, ask me
anything
,' she said with a decisive sigh, drawing herself up even straighter.

‘You told the police you saw a strange car on Saturday night. Please can you tell us more?'

Frau Hofler sighed again and stroked the back of the little dog, which thumped its tail once, then put its head down. ‘I was walking my little Foxi as I often do at night, as I'm something of a late sleeper. It was around nine o'clock at night. I can't be more exact, I'm sorry. And then, as we were approaching poor Miss Vukić's house, Foxi began getting all
restless
, like he never usually does. I wondered what was happening, and then I smelled this
horrible
smell, terribly acrid, and I saw smoke coming from a car parked just in front of Miss Vukić's.
Well
, Foxi was growling – he's
terribly
sensitive to smells, you know – and I picked him up before he began making a fuss and walked by the car. I looked in and saw a man inside smoking a cigarette, and
that
was what was making the smell. And
such
a smell! When I came back, perhaps half an hour later, he was just driving away. He came past me and
honestly
I could
still
smell that beastly smoke.'

‘Can you describe the man, Frau Hofler?' asked Padelin, pencil poised over his
pad.

‘I'm sorry, I don't think so. It was
dark
, you see. But he was wearing a cap. Like a chauffeur's cap.' Reinhardt and Padelin exchanged a glance, and the detective made to ask another question, but the maid arrived with a silver tray, which she set down next to Frau Hofler. The old lady held up an imperious hand. ‘One moment, Inspector.' Padelin set his pencil down on his notebook, clearly holding his temper in. Reinhardt watched him carefully. Brauer, Reinhardt's company sergeant during the first war, and then later his partner on the Berlin detective force, had had an explosive temper on him, a temper that had terrified Reinhardt as a young lieutenant new to his regiment. Like Brauer, Padelin was flushing at the back of his neck, a thin crease of white skin showing along the line of his collar. Never a good sign with Brauer; Reinhardt wondered how Padelin would control himself. Hofler shooed the maid away, insisting on serving her gallant officers herself.

‘Frau Hofler…' Padelin tried to continue.

‘How is the coffee?' She beamed at him, stroking her little
dog.

‘Very good.' Hofler gave a coquettish smile and sat straighter. ‘Can you tell me anything more about the car, perhaps? What colour, or what make?'

‘Oh dear, I don't
think
so. It was dark.' She pursed her lips in thought. ‘It was big. Long. I
suppose
it was a dark colour.' She fluttered her eyelids and smiled. ‘I'm
so
sorry. I'm not terribly helpful, am I?' she said, turning to Reinhardt. She smiled at him, a tight pull of her mouth.

‘Not at all, Frau Hofler,' said Reinhardt, who had been thinking about her description of the cigarettes this man had smoked and wondering why it sparked a memory. ‘You are being most helpful.' He exchanged a glance with Padelin. ‘Now. Just think. Close your eyes, try to see the car. Can you see anything? Anything at
all?'

The old lady put her head back with her eyes closed. For a long moment she stayed that way. ‘You know, it does seem to me it was an
official
sort of car. The sort that important people drive.'

Reinhardt gestured to Padelin to continue. ‘So that means that it might have had a special licence plate, or a badge on the door, or a flag at the front?' said Padelin.

Frau Hofler stayed with her eyes closed, the dramatic effect somewhat spoiled by the beady-eyed little dog that had begun to drool on her skirts. ‘A flag. Yeesssss… I
do
believe there was perhaps a flag, at the front.' She opened her eyes and gave that coquettish little smile again. ‘Why,
Inspector
, how clever and persistent of
you.'

Padelin smiled back, a little tight around the eyes. ‘Can you describe the flag?'

‘No, I'm afraid not. I can't really remember whether it was unfurled or not, and in any case, there was no wind.'

‘Could you see if anyone else was in the car? Maybe in the back?'

‘No. No, really, I can't tell
you.'

‘Thank you, Frau Hofler,' said Padelin, putting down his cup and raising his eyebrows at Reinhardt. The captain leaned forward in his chair.

‘You've been most helpful, indeed. Just a few more questions. What can you tell me of Miss Vukić?'

Hofler's mouth firmed a little, and she ran a hand down the dog's back. ‘Well, she was often away. Her job, you know. I did not know her that well. In fact, I would say I did not know her at all. I saw her from time to time, and we would exchange greetings, but that was it, really.' Reinhardt stayed silent, and she looked from him to Padelin and back. Her mouth firmed again. ‘Well, I suppose it does no harm to say it, but I did not approve of her coming home at all hours, really quite,
quite
drunk, and that
singing
.'

‘Singing?' said Reinhardt.

‘Yes,
singing
! The most
appalling
songs. The kind that one imagines the commonest sort of labourer might sing.'

‘Or soldiers?' said Reinhardt, quietly.

‘Exactly!'
said Frau Hofler. ‘Like the sort a common soldier would sing.'

‘Did you ever see her in anyone's company? With a man? Perhaps a soldier?'

Hofler frowned, lips pursing as she leaned back, eyes flickering between them. ‘Well,' she sighed. ‘There were often men at her house, yes.'

‘Do you recall any in particular?'

‘No, I'm sorry. I do
not.'

‘How about if we were to show you a photograph?'

‘Yes,' the old lady said. ‘Yes, that might help.'

Reinhardt glanced at Padelin. ‘Someone will show you some pictures, of men you might have seen her with. You will maybe recognise one of them,' said the detective, a peculiar emphasis on his words.

Reinhardt placed his cup and saucer on the table, exchanging a glance with Padelin. ‘Well, Frau Hofler, you have been most helpful. If you think of anything, be sure to let us know.'

‘Yes, most helpful,' said Padelin, placing a calling card on the table. ‘You can contact me at that number.'

‘Oh, I will, officers,' smiled Frau Hofler, looking somewhat relieved. ‘Gordana!
Gordanaaaa!
' The little dog jumped and barked. ‘Ah, there you are, child, don't make me call for so long. Show the ­officers
out.'

Making their bows, they followed the maid to the front door. As she opened it, Padelin put a hand out to stop her. Reinhardt kept walking and paused on the step. ‘
Koliko dugo ste radili ovdje?
' Padelin asked in a low voice. When the questions were simple, Reinhardt could follow the language.

She kept her eyes down, but that was normal. ‘I've been here four years with Frau Hofler.'

‘What can you tell me about Miss Vukić?'

‘Nothing, sir. I never talked to her.' Padelin said nothing, only kept his eyes on her. After a moment, the maid glanced up, then down and away. ‘Honestly, sir,' she whispered.

‘
Dobro
,' said Padelin. ‘That's it for the car,' he said to Reinhardt, switching back to his German. ‘Not much.'

Reinhardt nodded his head in agreement. ‘This place. Ilidža. Who lived here before? Serbs? Croats?'

Padelin looked at him, his eyes flat and heavy. ‘Serbs. Mostly.'

‘Now?'

‘Croats. Some Muslims.'

‘Is there a Catholic church here?'

‘No,' frowned Padelin. ‘Time now to get back to town, I think. I have to inform the mother.'

‘Mind if I join you?' Reinhardt did not wait for an answer but walked on back down the path. After a moment, he felt Padelin's heavy tread following. He held the gate open for him, noting the flush at the back of his neck as he passed. ‘Would you like to sit with us on the way back? Give us a chance to talk, share notes?' Padelin thought a moment, then nodded.