City of Shadows

by Ariana Franklin

  and very upright, and yet the wonderful eyes, always moving from one object to another, sometimes sulky, sometimes interested, gave an effect of extreme animation, as if she were jumping about the room.

  He didn’t know enough about Eastern accents to pinpoint hers but it had a different intonation from Solomonova’s. During their exchange through the door, she and Solomonova had spoken to each other in German, not Russian.

  Why did she think the man watching the flat was after her? And while that could be paranoia—and was almost certainly so in this little lady’s case—it could also be the truth. But it was Natalya who’d died.

  “We should have dog,” she said. “I have told to Esther we must have dog. She say no, we cannot afford.” She leaned closer to him, in confidence. “She is Jew. Is mean Jew. Dog would keep away Cheka.”

  “Cheka?” “Cheka,” she said, impatient, “secret police of Bolsheviki. They wish

  to assassinate me.” “Really?” That was two politically opposed forces out to get her—Yusupov and

  the Cheka. Frail? It was like interviewing a veering bloody weathervane. But she could help if she wanted to; she was hiding something—both damn women were hiding something.

  “Does Prince Nikolai treat you well?” “Yes,” she said grudgingly. “But he should give me dog.” “How long have you known him?” “I have no memory,” she said. “I was ill long time. In hospital—Esther

  will tell you.” “Before that?” “I have no memory,” she said. She was quite happy about it. “Who is the man you saw watching this apartment?” “I saw no man.”

  The hell with it. He said gently, “We’ve got to catch him, Fräulein. You must help me, because if it’s you he’s after, he’ll try again.”

  The violet eyes of the woman opposite widened. So did her mouth; out of it came a squawk, then a monotonous scream: “Esther, Esther, Esther, Esther, Esther.”

  Solomonova came running, pushing past him to gather up the woman on the bed, rocking her like a baby and hiding her from him.

  Somebody standing in the doorway said, “The interrogation is over, don’t you think, Inspector?” The man came forward, smiling, right hand outstretched, voice raised over the screams. “Prince Nikolai Potrovskov, at your service.”

  When Schmidt didn’t shake his hand, he laid it instead on Ander-son’s head. “Enough, Anna.”

  The screaming stopped. Anderson’s face emerged, turned toward him. “They try to assassinate me, Nikolai.”

  “Anna, it is enough.” The rebuke was gentle but firm. The woman nodded, cast a glance at Schmidt, and returned her head to Solomonova’s bosom. “I am a great friend of your chief of police, Inspector,” Potrovskov said.

  “Yes, sir, you were when we met before.” He followed the man into the living room; Anderson had terminated the interview in her own individual way. Well, it hadn’t been going anywhere.

  “We’ve met before?”

  You damn well know we have; Prince Nick was playing games.

  Long black cashmere coat draped over one shoulder—a style affected in the moving pictures by John Barrymore, one of Hannelore’s favorite film stars. Prince Nick was never going to be a favorite of Han-nelore’s husband.

  Willi said apologetically, “I’m sorry, sir, he had a key.”

  “But of course,” Potrovskov said. “I do not live here myself, but I have properties I avail to my compatriots in need. When I hear—heard—of poor Natalya, I drive at once to comfort these ladies, to share their grief. She was one of my employees, you know.”

  He looked as if he was bearing up. He sat himself on a chair near the stove, crossed one beautifully trousered leg over another, and produced a cigarette case. “Do sit down. Smoke, gentlemen?”

  Black Russian cigarettes, fat and aromatic, lay in a row behind the gold elastic.

  “No thank you.” Schmidt stayed standing.

  Willi, who’d been about to take one, desisted.

  “It is true, then? Natalya was murdered?”

  “When did you last see her, Herr Potrovskov?”

  “Esther.” Prince Nick raised his voice. “When did I last see Natalya? I have been away.”

  “Let’s not piss about, sir. You saw her on Saturday evening, and you quarreled. What about?”

  “Ah.” Potrovskov blew a double stream of Sobranie smoke out of his nostrils. “Money, I think.. . . Always it is money with employees.” His eyes went thin. “When was Natalya killed? After ten o’clock on Saturday?”

  “Possibly.” Damned if he gave this bugger information.

  “Then I have alibis. Completely fifty alibis, and your chief is one of them. They will say I did not leave the Green Hat from around nine-thirty until next day. I give a party for Prince Felix Yusupov and his wife, Princess Irina. You know them?”

  “No.”

  “Prince Yusupov left about midnight—he go on to another of my nightclubs with some friends, the Pink Parasol. Princess Irina stay— stayed—on at the Green Hat. Good party. Is on until dawn. I completely do not leave it, not once.”

  “We’ll check, sir.” But, screw it, he probably hadn’t. The man was a type, a racketeer, a swerver under and around the law. The inflation was throwing them up: Germans, Russians, Poles, Jews—brilliant opportunists of misfortune. The armaments industry was full of men whose wealth had been made from their skill in turning the human body into shredded flesh without being murderers according to the law. Vicious, but not vicious enough to do their own killing.

  “My sergeant will take a statement, Herr Potrovskov. When we’ve checked it, you can come down to Alexanderplatz headquarters and sign it.”

  He took Willi to the far end of the room. “Anything?”

  “The old girl saw a letter on the mat; it’d been pushed through the slot. She’s not sure of the time, but it was before Natalya got back, so

  the girl must have picked it up then.”

  “Was it in an envelope?”

  “Yes. Addressed to Anderson, she thinks. Just her first name, Anna— only longer.”

  “Longer?”

  “That’s what the old girl said, boss. She doesn’t remember very well. The letter wasn’t for her, and that’s all she was bothered about.”

  “Have a look for the envelope in the wastepaper baskets. And question Potrovskov till he sweats.”

  “Pleasure, boss. Oh, and they ain’t had any men visitors—only His Highness and some tough from the Green Hat who was called in for protection once when they was nervous.”

  “Nervous, were they? All right.”

  Schmidt went back to Solomonova. “I’ll see Fräulein Tchichagova’s room now, if you please.”

  He switched on its overhead light, which had been covered with pink paper to give an impression of warmth but left the bulk of the room in shadow. The comparison with Anderson’s bedroom was compelling; this one had the bone-dry neatness of a nun’s cell, except that the hook from where rosary beads might have hung was decorated with a frilly garter. Corners of bedcovers were tucked in with right-angled precision, the braided mat on the floor was parallel to the washstand. A side table held a framed photograph that marched alongside an icon in cheap, well-polished brass.

  From behind him, in the living room, he could hear Potrovskov painting a picture of the dead girl. “. . . nice, very gay, very willing, very pretty, well raised. ...Yes, White Russian. She escape the revolution with nothing. I find her in rags, very poor. Gave her job.”

  Willi’s voice: “Another of your aristocrats?”

  “No, no. Serving class. But I am liberal man.”

  “Where did she work in Russia?”

  Well done, Willi. Keep asking questions; look for a disparity in the answers.

  Schmidt took up the photograph. An elderly-looking man and woman stared stolidly back at him, both of them in embroidered tunics. “ ‘Serving class,’ ” he said.

  A voice behind him said, “Her parents.” Solomonova was watching him from the shadows of the doorway.


  “Where was it taken?”

  “Czarskoe Selo. It was one of the czar’s palaces, near St. Petersburg.”

  “They worked there?” He put the photograph back in its place.

  “Yes.”

  “What did they think of their daughter becoming a stripper?”

  “She left them behind to come to Berlin after the revolution. She hasn’t heard from them since. They’re probably dead.”

  “And your parents?”

  “The same,” she said.

  He said, “I thought you were Jewish. The revolution was supposed to liberate the Jews.”

  “Jews, Gentiles, we all died in Russia.” And after a minute, “Were you in the war?”

  “Western Front,” he said.

  “Then you know chaos.”

  “Yes.” What the hell was this connection between them? He wanted to be angry with her; she was yanking him about; they were all yanking him about.

  He opened the table’s drawer. Natalya had made partitions for it. One held makeup, nail polish, and a vicious-looking crimping iron. A second contained neatly ironed handkerchiefs, another a packet of letters secured with a rubber band. He riffled through the packet—no envelope— then put it in his pocket.

  In the wardrobe were a pair of boots and a pair of scuffed high-heeled shoes. She’d worn her best pair to go and get killed in. A box held clean underwear, garter belt, and rolled stockings, a bit of nonsense with breast pieces consisting of spangles and tassels, and a matching bespangled, betasseled something to cover the pubic area.

  “Did she like stripping?” In these times women were being compelled into professions, mostly the oldest, to feed their families.

  “Yes, but what she wanted was to be a film star.”

  “Any other relatives?” “No.” “Fiancé? Lover?” “Not since I’ve known her.” He grunted. The letters in his pocket would tell him more. The few clothes hanging on the wardrobe rail indicated a jaunty but

  careful owner: a woolen two-piece dress with a collar of faux fur, a

  blouse and skirt and a feather boa, all of them covered with tissue paper. “Was she happy?” There was a pause. “She was ambitious, which made her discon

  tented, but yes, on the whole she was a happy person. A nice one.” He turned around. She was not weeping—perhaps she couldn’t

  weep—but the eyes were desolate; she’d cared for Natalya Tchichagova. He got down on his knees to peer under the bed. “What are you looking for?” “An envelope.” It wasn’t here; maybe she’d put it in the stove. Well,

  the fact that she’d got rid of it was significant. “Can I see this letter?” Solomonova asked. “No.” It was with the fingerprint boys. “Can’t you tell me what it said?” He turned on her. “I’ll tell you what it did, Fräulein.” He was angry

  enough now, in Natalya’s room where she’d looked forward to a future, in a fucking flat where nobody was helping him find out why she wasn’t going to have it. “I’ll tell you what it did for your nice, happy friend. It lured her out into the snow so that she could be killed. ‘Come to Charlottenburg,’ it said, ‘I can authenticate you. Come alone. No prompters.’ It was signed ‘Prince Yusupov.’ And Yusupov, or whoever it was, waited for her. And got her. Held her up and sliced her neck and chucked her into the snow like a cabbage stalk.”

  She was very still. The good side of her face had whitened so that, in the bad light, she appeared to be wearing half a mask. “ ‘Authenticate you,’ ” he shouted at her. “Authenticate who? For

  what?” She said something he didn’t hear. “Who wrote it? Yusupov? Potrovskov?” He was still shouting. The mask flickered; she was shaking her head.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You’re still going to tell me you don’t know.”

  “I don’t,” she said.

  He pushed past her, out into the living room, and took up a position by the window to listen to Willi’s questions and Potrovskov’s answers.

  In the courtyard below, he could just see the shape of a wreath laid on the snow. Somebody in the tenement was marking the anniversary of a war death. In his own building, he and Hannelore and the rest of the tenants had contributed to a wreath like that in remembrance of their landlord’s son who’d died on the Somme. At one time there’d been a wreath in nearly every courtyard in Berlin, but they were rarer now; people were forgetting. Or couldn’t afford them.

  Potrovskov was talking rapidly: what a shock, what a crime, so young, so pretty, so good a performer. “Everyone love her.”

  The man worked hard at his German, which was not as exact as Solomonova’s but fluent, and with a twang of American. Everything about Potrovskov was nearly perfect—but not quite. The smooth hair was a little too brilliantined, his suiting cut too close to his slim body, the diamond cravat pin too big, the spats over his shoes too white— everything just the wrong side of the line separating sophistication from ostentation.

  “. . . the reason for the party, sir?”

  “Noblesse oblige, Sergeant, noblesse oblige. What would you? Once the second-richest man in Russia, now poor Felix needs my charity.”

  “She have any enemies?”

  “No, no, everybody love Natalya. Everybody.” He called down the room to Solomonova. “That’s right, Esther, uh? We all love Natalya. A popular girl.”

  Schmidt raised his voice. “I want a full account of her background. And Anna Anderson’s.”

  “Anna’s?” Potrovskov was unfazed. “But we don’t know it. She has no memory. I rescue her from an asylum. Before that her past . . .” He spread his hands. “A blank.”

  Schmidt was sick of it; they were wasting his goddamn time. “That’ll do for now, Willi. All three of you to report to Alexanderplatz tomorrow.”

  Potrovskov, it appeared, was staying. He bade them good-bye, smiling, with one arm around Solomonova’s shoulders. He’d been declaring ownership of the apartment and everything in it since he came in.

  Solomonova broke away to show them downstairs to the front door, and while Willi scraped ice off the car’s windshield, Schmidt lingered in the hallway, watching her. He was reminded of a soldier. She had the detachment of an army veteran, the apartness he’d seen in men who’d survived the war. As if, at some time in her life, she’d looked on hell.

  In which case we both have, he thought. For him the partition between ordinary life and what he’d seen at the front had taken years to melt; he’d watched people on the other side of it busying themselves with trivialities, worrying about what was proper, what was not, whether our Gretchen behaved herself, opening their mouths and making no sense. Some survivors adapted quickly, others had gone mad and were still finding better company in the lunatic asylums.

  He said, “He’s out there, still breathing and, for all I know, getting ready to do it again. Why don’t you mind?”

  “Give me until tomorrow,” she said.

  The Ludendorff woman with her hair in curling papers came out of the ground-floor flat, the smell of cabbage soup emerging with her. “Is that you, Fräulein Solomonova? This is terrible about Fräulein Natalya. This is a respectable house— Oh.” She’d caught sight of Schmidt. “Well...please to shut that door. Are we to freeze to death?”

  Schmidt shut the door and stayed inside it as staccato grumbling, in which the word “Jew” was audible, faded back into the apartment. He looked at Solomonova for a reaction; there wasn’t one. She’s used to it, he thought.

  On impulse he said, “What happened to you?”

  She pointed to her face. “This?”

  “That,” he said. “Everything.”

  “It was a pogrom,” she said.

  She opened the door for him. On the front steps, he paused again, angry. “Why the hell are you with a man like Potrovskov?”

  Her head went up, and he expected her to make a defense, tell him how hard it was for women like her to make a living in today’s Germany.

  “Because every now and again he fucks me,” she said, and shut the door.
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  Willi was warming up the engine. “Fucking foreigners,” he said. “See the ring on that bloodsucker’s finger? Bastard. Feed my family for the next three years, that could. Reckon he did it, boss?”

  “Afraid not, Willi.”

  Somebody tapped on the window. Schmidt wound it down, and General Ludendorff ’s head inserted itself, curling papers, and the smell of cabbage soup into the car. “That letter,” it said, “now I remember the name on the envelope. I thought it was for Fräulein Anderson because it was like her first name, but longer.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was Anastasia.”

  “Thank you, madam,” Schmidt said, and meant it. “Thank you very much.”

  “I always wish to help the police.”

  “Thank you.” He wound the window up.

  “Anastasia,” Willi said. “Mean anything to you, boss?”

  “It’s beginning to.”

  UPSTAIRS, NICK HAD dropped the assurance he’d assumed for the police and was panicking. He was on the phone.

  “Baron von Kleist, please. Tell him it’s Prince Nikolaevich Potrovskov.” He covered the mouthpiece. “We’re getting rid of her right away, if not sooner.... Baron? Potrovskov. We met at the— . . . That’s right. I believe you hear from a Frau Clara Peuthert on a certain matter.... That’s right. Yes, oh, yes, I am convinced. You will have no doubt.. . . Well, tonight, if you wish. Eight o’clock? I inform Her Imperial Highness.” He put the receiver down, laid his head back, and closed his eyes. “Thank you, God.”

  “Who’s Baron von Kleist?” Esther asked.

  “One of Crazy Clara’s correspondents. She’s got him interested in our princess. I’m taking her to his place tonight—with luck I’ll offload her.” He passed both hands over his smooth hair. “Murder. If the papers get hold of it . . . Holy Mary, it could ruin me.” He sat up. “Get me a drink.”