The Quiet Twin (40 page)

He reacted at once. The left hand stopped its rhythmic movement, the right hanging heavy, like a club. He peeled himself off the wall, and began to walk away from the doctor, heading for the street ahead. Perhaps he was but an apparition: within two steps he had turned into a shadow moving amongst shadows, his footsteps’ patter a quiet drumbeat in the dark. When Beer spoke it was directed at the building itself, the peeling walls and broken windows; the clods of rat shit smeared into its cracks.

‘I’m a coward,’ Beer called into the darkness. ‘A coward, a coward. Though it was brave of me to take her in.’

It was impossible to tell whether the laundry boy understood or was simply frightened by the voice that was shouting at him in the dark. Picking up his pace, his right shoulder slumping from the weight of the cast, he took three more steps and reached the end of the short tunnel; turned to his right and was lost from sight.

‘You’re a louse!’ Beer yelled after him. ‘A louse. And I – I am an intelligent man.’

He smoked one last cigarette, threw it in a puddle, then pulled out his wallet to see how much money it held. A moment later he had left the gateway, headed back towards his house, then crossed the yard and mounted the stairs in the building’s side wing.

Anton Beer had made up his mind how to proceed.

Chapter 7

The first thing Beer did, when Otto let him in, was switch off the lights. Later, during the days of his interrogation, it might help if no witness had seen them talk. Otto grunted, shrugged, but did not object. They sat down together, thigh to thigh, upon the dirty bed. Beer reached for his wallet. For a giddy moment it was as though he’d engaged Otto to become his lover: the strange and solemn moment when money exchanged hands. Beer liked them cleaner, not this rough. He wondered what Otto would have done, had he known his thought. As it was, he received the banknotes without murmur. It was too dark to say whether he was surprised.

‘There is something I need to know first,’ Beer said to him. ‘Before I can tell you what the money is for. You killed someone some weeks ago. A law student. The same night the dog got killed. He was found near the Gürtel, the face smashed in, multiple stab wounds in his neck and chest. You really must have hated the man. A white smudge from your face paint was found on his sleeve. And afterwards you came home to wash your bloody hands.’

Beer paused, turned his face to the mime. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he could make out Otto’s eyes. They were sitting so close, Otto’s breath was falling on his face, the bitter smell of beer.

‘I need to know, Otto. Why did you kill him?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘I know you did, Otto. And I don’t much care. I just need to know why. There is a lot of money in it for you, if you give me a satisfactory answer.’

Otto hesitated, stood up. The motion was seamless: he did not rock back to gather momentum, or push off with his hands. He simply pulled himself up by the strength of his legs.

‘He was my landlady’s son,’ Otto said. ‘The last place I lived. Before moving here. I told them Eva was sick. An accident. The landlady sat with her sometimes, fed her her food, turned her over in her bed. But there was always her son, sniffing around.’

‘Did he threaten you?’

‘He talked about those movies.
Erbkrank
, the lot. Left me pamphlets on the dinner table. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He –’

Otto paused, lashed out at the mirror. It wasn’t so much a punch as a swipe, palm open, clawing at the reflection of his face.

‘Same as Teuben,’ he went on, his voice shaking with anger. ‘One evening, when I was away.’

Beer understood. ‘He raped her. How did you know? Did he injure her?’

Otto shook his head. ‘No. But I knew all the same. So I moved house. It took me days to find a flat, there’s nothing going, even with the Jews all skipping town. Three days it took me, and him grinning at me across the breakfast table. At last I found this hole; paid through the nose, I did, and tried to forget about that swine. Until I saw him come to watch my show. For a laugh, I suppose, to rub it in. When the show was over, I followed him out. I was worried he’d notice my face. The paint, I mean; I didn’t have time to go clean up. So I did what I always do when I go home: put on a cap, tied the scarf all the way up to the eyes. He never even turned around. On the Gürtel he stopped off at a whore’s. I got him when he came out. He wasn’t grinning when I was done.’

Overcome once more by his old anger, Otto kicked over the chair, then took position in front of Beer, both fists rammed into the sides of his hips. Even more so than during their conversation on the bed, his proximity felt out of place. Beer sat staring straight at his crotch.

‘So why are you here, Dr Beer?’

Beer rose, stepped past the mime; bent down and righted the chair Otto had knocked over, then stood holding on to its back.

‘It’s like this, Otto. Somebody saw us. Saw me. At the window. Speckstein knows and he will tell the police. Tomorrow morning I will be arrested. And a few days later, so will you. Unless you run away.’

Halfway through Beer’s explanation, Otto had started to shake his head.

‘I’m not running away! Not now. I met people at the party. Important people. They liked my show. Things are looking good for me.’

‘You are not listening. I will be arrested. It might take a day or a week, but sooner or later I will tell them the truth. Then they’ll come after you.’

Otto stared at him, stepped over, put a big hand on Beer’s chest.

‘You’re threatening me.’

‘I’m telling you what will happen. But there’s a way you can go free. And make some money at the same time. I just needed to know you had a good reason to kill that man.’

Otto thought about it. The light of the moon came in through the window and caught his face full on. It was as though he had reapplied his paint. Beer looked at him, his heart beating against Otto’s palm. He counted twenty beats until the mime made up his mind.

‘How?’ he asked at last.

‘I will give you a letter, some more cash. The letter will be addressed to my wife. She lives in Switzerland. You take a train to Vorarlberg or the Tyrol – don’t tell me which, the less I know the better. You can buy a day visa at the border, if you think your papers can stand the scrutiny. Or else you have to bribe a local to lead you across the mountains. The letter will instruct my wife to sign over to you a thousand reichsmarks. In whatever currency you please. As simple as that.’

Otto listened to these instructions, let go of Beer’s chest. Every time he moved the moon cut new shapes out of his face.

‘Why help me? I killed him. Why not just give me up to the police?’

‘Because there is something else you have to do, Otto. You have to take the little girl along. Anneliese. There won’t be any money if you don’t bring the girl. That’s what the letter will say. If it’s only you – then there won’t be a penny.’

Beer had thought that Otto would be insulted by these terms, or ridicule the thought of dragging a ten-year-old girl across mountains in November, but he simply nodded as though he thought their bargain was fair. Slowly, giving himself a few more seconds to think it through, he raised his palm, spat in it, then offered it to Beer. Somewhat awkwardly, Beer repeated the gesture: he too spat in his palm, then accepted the handshake. Once in his grasp, Otto held on to him.

‘And Eva?’

‘She’ll be safe. I have a plan.’

A lightning struggle ran through Otto’s features: concern, suspicion, fear for his sister wrestling with the wish to hand her over for good.

Beer made it easy for him.

‘It’s better you don’t know the details. Do you need to see her? Say goodbye?’

He answered without hesitation. Relief shone in his eyes, so obvious as to be indecent.

‘No.’

‘Then I’ll meet you outside the front door, at a quarter past four. You can catch the first tram to the station.’

Beer wished to leave, but still Otto held on to his hand. The mime’s left dipped into his shirt pocket, picked out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth. He pulled out a second, looked at the doctor, saw him nod. Only then did he break the seal between their hands and pat down his trousers in search of some matches.

They smoked, each lost in his own thoughts. Halfway through his cigarette, Otto opened a bottle of beer. They passed it back and forth. When Beer finally turned to leave, it must have been past midnight. There remained precious little time.

‘One last thing,’ said Otto, as he watched the doctor step through the door. ‘Last night, when I reached for the beer. After we’d thrown him out the window.’

He mimed the event, lifting Teuben’s body against the pivot of the invisible window frame. Even in so casual a gesture he was able to recall the event in all its details. His body told stories when he wasn’t even trying.

‘All the beer was poisoned, wasn’t it? You were hoping that the detective would drink one. But he never opened his bottle. It fell out of his coat pocket.’

Beer gave a barely perceptible nod. One could hardly count it an admission. ‘What does it matter now?’ he asked.

‘What did you plan on doing with the body?’

The doctor flashed a tired smile. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Goodnight, Otto. See you at a quarter past four. Here, take my watch.’

He took it out of his pocket and passed it over.

Five minutes later he was back in his own flat. He wrote the letter first, leaving it unsigned, then gathered up whatever money was in the house. Lieschen was sleeping on her blankets. Her clothes were dirty, she had not changed them in days. They would have to do. Coming into Eva’s room, he found himself hoping she was asleep. She was, but her sheet and clothes were wet with urine and he had no choice but to change her and wake her in the process. The green eyes stared at him as he bedded her head back into the pillow. Then he bent close to her, until their noses nearly touched.

‘I lied to your brother just now,’ he whispered to her. ‘I told him there was a plan.’

They were so close, his smoke-and-beer breath reflected back on him. Perhaps it reminded her of Otto.

‘There is no plan,’ he whispered. ‘I will ask Speckstein to look out for you. He’s a doctor, after all. He, too, swore an oath.’

‘All I can do now,’ he whispered, ‘is help the little girl. Make sure she gets away from here.

‘It’s a shame,’ he whispered. ‘I was going to teach you how to speak.’

He stayed there with Eva until it was time to wake Lieschen and get her ready for her journey to the Alps.

Chapter 8

Zuzka woke at four-thirty in the morning. She was still wearing her clothes. No sooner was she fully conscious of her surroundings than she started to pack. Her suitcase was on top of the wardrobe. She fetched it down, opened it, found the return ticket for the train that her father had bought her before she had set off for Vienna. Back then she had protested that she might not be back for years. Now she quickly stuffed it in her handbag. She packed her underwear and stockings, two of the blouses that she liked; the winter skirt and the fur-lined hat. Everything else could be sent after her, or replaced. Not once did she step to the window and look out. The yard was quiet. Other than that, she did not want to know.

By a quarter to five she was ready to go. All that remained was to say her farewells. Her first instinct was to write a note. She found a pen and paper, put together two or three lines, and left them on the seat of her wooden chair. Then it came to her that she was being rude. Her uncle was an early riser. There was a chance, at least, he would already be awake. She left the suitcase by the front door, slipped into her coat, then walked back through the flat to the big door that separated her uncle’s apartment from the rest of the rooms. Her uncle’s bedroom was to the right of the living room, opposite the study. She stepped up to the door (it was open a crack) hoping to see the light of his bedside lamp, but the room remained in total darkness. Through the gap came the noise of Speckstein’s snore: not the regular, throaty breathing of a happy sleeper, but a desperate, gagging battle for air accompanied by an odd whinny. For a second it occurred to her that he was not alone in the room: that there was a man there, with his hands around her uncle’s throat. She dismissed the thought as too fantastic. Some minutes later she had left the flat and was walking to Alserstrasse with her half-empty suitcase in her hand, hoping she would find a taxi that would drive her to the Westbahnhof.

Chapter 9

Otto and Lieschen arrived at the train station a little before five. Over his back there was slung a dirty canvas bag. It held all his belongings. They had met Beer in the dark of the building’s doorway, then rode the tram. At the entrance to the station a man with a handcart was selling hot rolls. Otto bought a half-dozen, and passed one on to the girl. They ate hastily, in silence.

Lieschen was holding on to the back of Otto’s jacket. It was the doctor’s doing. He had crouched down to throw a blanket around her shoulders like a shawl, then had taken her hand and clamped it firmly around the hem of Otto’s coat. From that moment on, she hadn’t let go. All through the tram ride she had stood behind him, sullen and watchful, clutching his coat. When he’d got off he had moved too fast for her, and she’d stumbled on the steps that led from tram to pavement. He had caught her by the elbow, put her back on her feet. And again she’d followed him in her crablike walk, one shoulder leading, her chin drawn low into her narrow chest.