Vanished in Berlin: Kidnap suspense mystery set in 1930s Berlin (Berlin Tales Book 2)

by Christopher P Jones

  Then the old man looked up and caught Arno’s eye among the crowd. Perhaps it was the way the spotlight glinted or just Arno’s imagination, but he was sure he saw the old gent send him a wink.

  20

  The lecture audience dispersed into the Berlin night under neon lights of a nearby cabaret show. The words Tanz Kabarett glowed red and gold, shimmering in the glossy, rain-soaked street.

  Arno left the hall feeling bemused and perplexed. It was by no means obvious why he was supposed to go there, and now, wondering what might come next, it was by no means obvious what he should expect.

  First things first, he bought himself a cake. There was a late-night bakery next door, and from the great glass cabinet layered with cheesecakes and all types of stollen, magenbrot biscuits and animal-shaped marzipans, he picked out three franzbrötchen cakes. He liked them for their buttery pastry and the sweet cinnamon fragrance. He went to a bench and took small bites, trying to catch the pastry crumbs in his hand and then licking his palm so as not to waste any.

  It was eight o’clock in the evening and the city was lighting up all around him. He noticed two prostitutes across the road exchanging money with a man in an over-sized woollen cap. Arno guessed he was their drug dealer, as a little packet of white powder was passed from his pocket into the purse of one of the women.

  Just then, a man’s voice addressed him from behind. ‘Berlin can be a gruesome place at times,’ the voice said dolefully. ‘But the cakes are second to none!’

  Arno looked up and recognised the face of the old man from the lecture hall.

  ‘May I introduce myself?’ the man said. ‘My name is Lassner. Herr Mattias Lassner.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Arno replied. In fact, he was not sure if he was pleased to meet the old gent again. Above all, he wanted to eat his food in peace.

  Herr Lassner took the liberty of sitting down on the bench beside Arno. He crossed his thin legs as if he intended to stay there for a while, and adjusted his red neck-scarf as he spoke. ‘It never ceases to amaze me how brazen some of these folk are.’ He pointed to the prostitutes over the road. ‘I think they want to be noticed.’

  Arno smiled as he rose to his feet. He intended to move away, but not wanting to appear rude, pretended to examine his watch. ‘Time for me to be going,’ he said.

  For some reason, it didn’t cross his mind that Lassner was the specific reason he was meant to go to the lecture, nor did it occur to him that seeing Lassner and Göring together on the stage in the hall, behaving like long-lost friends, was something he was supposed to witness. It was not until Lassner said what he said next that Arno turned and understood that a piece of the jigsaw had slotted into place right in front of his eyes.

  ‘I’m working on the Vendetta project too,’ the old man said, with a crisp edge of excitement to his voice.

  ‘Vendetta?’ Arno asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re involved in Vendetta?’

  ‘I do believe I am.’ Lassner gave a wry, if slightly nervous smile.

  Arno paused. Had it begun? Had his work already started? On this street corner with this old man, the same old man who knew Göring and was, he assumed, a deeply-embedded member of the party?

  Unable to quite calculate the turn of events, he said nothing. Instead, he sat back down on the bench and looked at Herr Lassner directly in the eyes.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Arno said, unable to hide his naivety.

  ‘Answer me this: Did you understand the theory?’ Lassner asked.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Infinite life?’

  Arno said nothing. He shook his head in confusion.

  ‘The lecture! I have to admit, I couldn’t take it seriously at all.’

  ‘Oh, the lecture. Well, it was interesting,’ Arno said vaguely. ‘Perhaps there was something to be gained…’

  ‘Forever young? It may sound rosy but it’s completely far-fetched. The older you get, the more you realise that part of living is making way for the young to come through. For me, life is like a garden…’ Lassner trailed off without finishing his sentence.

  Arno nodded. He wasn’t really listening. He could feel his thoughts edging towards Monika and the question of Vendetta, like a child who cannot concentrate because of the daydream that won’t leave them.

  ‘Actually, I have been working on my own theory,’ Lassner went on. ‘My own theory about how to survive the mortal conflict, so to speak. And I’m not a spiritual man either,’ he added. ‘Except, that is, for the religion one is born into.’

  He put his hand on Arno’s arm, those big white fingers again. Arno looked hard at him. He was sleight, short, and entirely bald but for a wispy rim of brown hair which fell in light ruffled waves about his ears. Even in the artificial light of the streetlamps, his hair seemed unnaturally coloured, and Arno guessed it was dyed. His eyes were pale and his nose was turning grey from the tip upwards. Presently, a set of false teeth had come out of position, and he was easing them back into place with the knuckle of his thumb.

  ‘And what might that be?’ Arno said back eventually.

  ‘Despair!’ Lassner said theatrically, laughing. ‘Hollow despair! At this cruel life. Despair at the hopelessness of it all. That’s my only way of coping with the onset of obliteration.’

  Arno took a deep breath and composed himself. He really couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

  ‘Your silence says it all,’ Lassner said. ‘Very eloquent of you. Now let’s find somewhere to have a drink. We have much to talk about.’

  Directly above their heads, a sudden clap of thunder sounded. Dark clouds brewed above the electric lights. At the same moment, it began to rain, spitting at first but quickly building. They stood up from the bench. Then a nearby doorway seemed to present itself and they moved towards it magnetically.

  ‘Come on in,’ Lassner said, guiding Arno beneath his arm as he held the door open.

  In retrospect, Arno realised that this tiny gesture was a turning point. The way Lassner held the door open for him, offering guardianship just at the moment when he felt most confused. Suddenly the old man’s weary eyes were no longer ashen and he seemed to grow by an inch. He led Arno inside a hotel, a hotel he seemed to know well.

  ‘The lobby is this way. We can dry off in there,’ he said confidently.

  ‘You know it here?’ Arno asked.

  ‘Here? Never. But I do have an affinity with hotels. They relax me. I think it has something to do with that sense of transience. To whom does a hotel lobby belong? Nobody. We are all visitors. That idea relaxes me a great deal.’

  As they entered the lobby, Lassner took off his coat and the red scarf tied beneath it. In the same instant, a comb appeared and he was carefully arranging his damp hair into fine ridges over the round of his head. Immediately, he had taken on a different aspect. Arno saw a proud-looking gentleman, immaculately dressed, with a neat crown of brown hair that stood out in an elegant way against his pale, ageing skin. Indeed, Arno felt he was witnessing a kind of bravado in the transformation. A waxy, unexpected bravado, one that he didn’t altogether trust.

  ‘This way,’ Lassner said, indicating the lobby ahead with an open palm. ‘They will serve us coffee through here.’

  Arno was guided to a table in the middle of a lounge area and shown a seat to sit in. The lounge was mainly empty, though a few others had arrived out of the rain along with them. Lassner took a moment to arrange himself, crossing his thin legs, unbuttoning his inside waist-jacket, leaning forward with his arms tipping over his knees. He looked at Arno attentively, then suggested to him to take off his coat. This Arno did at once, because the air was warm and swollen with moisture. Yet, as soon as he had done so, he felt immediately careless for having done as the old man instructed.

  They waited in silence for a moment. Lassner bent down to the small satchel he’d been carrying and from it brought out a book. He balanced the book on his legs and opened the pages, flicking through
them as if trying to locate a particular passage. It seemed obvious to Arno that something premeditated was about to take place, and this made him feel even more foolish.

  ‘What can you tell me about Vendetta, then?’ Arno said, finding his courage.

  ‘Vendetta? Now, that is a powerful word. I wouldn’t say it too loudly if I were you, especially not in quarters such as these.’

  Arno decided to take a different approach. ‘I saw you with Göring. You seemed to know him well.’

  ‘How could you miss it!’ Lassner replied proudly.

  Arno widened his eyes, as if trying to imply something significant, even if he didn’t have the faintest clue what it was.

  ‘We have known one another for many years,’ Lassner explained. ‘Old friends, you might say.’

  Arno had a simple question that kept returning to him, like the beating of a moth against a lamp. ‘Who are you working for?’ he said plainly, trying to sound not the least bit frightened.

  ‘My boy, I am on the same side as you.’

  ‘Are you? And which side is that?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if you’d call them the police precisely.’ Herr Lassner glanced about him, and for the first time all evening betrayed a hint of furtiveness. ‘But they are certainly on the side of the law – and of my people too.’

  Discreetly, from his inside pocket, Lassner took out a folded skull-cap and opened it briefly to Arno, as one would present a butterfly caught in cupped hands.

  ‘You’re Jewish?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Are you a Nazi too?’

  ‘No,’ Lassner scoffed. ‘I am, however, an art dealer.’

  ‘Art?’ Arno thought back to the biography he’d been sent, his alter-ego contained in the letter. It mentioned something about art. They had to be related.

  ‘I have a gallery on Mulackstrasse. We have many clients and some of them hold senior positions in the party. One of them is Herr Göring.’

  ‘Göring likes art?’

  ‘Oh yes, he is a great art lover. Morphine and art. They are his two weaknesses.’

  ‘So the police are using you to get to him?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Lassner looked around him again. ‘I have been providing information for six months now. Not that any of it seems useful to me. I tell them when Göring comes to the gallery, what car he arrives in, who he is with. That sort of thing. Sometimes he brings a woman. Sometimes it’s other party members. Most of the time, I don’t know their names, of course. I just tell them what I see.’

  ‘Isn’t it dangerous for you?’

  ‘I am insignificant to them. So are you. That’s why the likes of you and me are perfect for this kind of work. Nobody suspects us because nobody thinks we are special. That, my boy, is precisely why we are so special.’

  ‘And what’s my role supposed to be?’

  ‘You will come to work for me.’

  ‘That’s my role?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘You will help hang the paintings and keep out the rabble. You will show our guests around. And you will pay special attention to our senior clients from the party. Beyond that, I have no more insight than you.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything about art.’

  ‘Nor do they. Apart from Göring. He probably knows more than I do. But knowledge isn’t everything.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Bluster! Bluster counts just as much. Can you feign enthusiasm? What about complete disgust? If you want to sound knowledgeable about art, then you simply need to pretend to have strong opinions about it. People tend to believe you, if only you sound like you mean it.’

  ‘That’s it? Bluster?’ Arno suddenly felt on safe ground again. He could do that. Don’t ask him to read a textbook without falling asleep, but give him a yarn to spin and he’ll be fine. He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, adopting the exact same posture as Lassner.

  ‘Well, I have been thinking about changing careers,’ Arno said with a touch of sarcasm.

  ‘They will have a plan for you, be in no doubt. You will be part of something bigger. And it will start soon, mark my words. The way they harried me to take you on, it was as if the world was about to end. No time to lose, that’s what they told me.’

  ‘What will I have to do?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

  ‘What about money?’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Will I get paid? Why should I work for free? I can’t just waste my days pretending to know about art.’

  ‘I will pay you a wage for the hours you do at my gallery. I’ll be reimbursed, of course, but you don’t need to worry about the details.’

  Arno didn’t know what to think, only that he was being pulled into a situation he had little control over. It was like he’d walked into a dark tunnel with no obvious end to it. Did he really want to be trapped like this? Part of him wasn’t sure; another part of him was captivated.

  ‘Why are you involved?’ he asked Lassner, who was now studying his fingernails as if he was about to nibble on the end of one.

  Herr Lassner smiled, his false teeth shuffling in his jaw. ‘If these monsters get into power, people like me are doomed. Personally, I’m probably safe, so long as I can find them artworks to drool over. But will my usefulness last forever? I doubt it. Something will break in the end. Something always breaks in the end.’

  ‘And the book?’ Arno said, pointing at the object still balancing on Lassner’s knee.

  ‘This? Oh yes. This is for you.’ Lassner handed it over.

  Arno flicked through the pages. ‘It’s empty,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. You can fill it with notes and observations. Bring a pencil. I’m going to teach you all you need to know.’

  21

  On the streets, the first ochre leaves had fallen from the lime trees that grew tall and misshapen across the city. The fallen leaves lit up beneath his feet as the streetlamps caught their golden reflection.

  Arno made his way back towards home. He lived in Hallesches Tor, south of Mehringplatz. It was a mixed district, with pockets of wealth scattered among plenty of down-and-outs. The local pawnbroker was one of the busiest places in the area. He was just closing up for the day as Arno returned, removing the vast array of wristwatches, wedding rings and war medals from his window display.

  Within twenty minutes, Arno was sat in his favourite bar, Café Kaiser. It was too early for the crowds, but later there would be music and singing, and the red table-lamps would be switched on, and the drumming and saxophone would start up. There would be dancing and cross-dressing and lingering glances between strangers. It would all happen when midnight came, like a frightful mirror-image of the day.

  He sat in a cushioned booth, hidden within the black painted walls and dirty chandeliers that later would sparkle with light, transforming the soot-coloured barroom into a dazzling diamond. He sipped on his drink. It tasted good, this cocktail known as a Tschunk.

  Memories of Monika seeped into his mind like water spilling beneath a door. He let himself remember her, the line of her shoulders, the shape of her tummy, the covering of fine invisible hairs on her neck.

  Where was she? The question would not fade. What about the police? Hannah Baumer and her ugly side-kick? What did they know? What the hell did they know?

  He was angry with himself for not making sure he had a way of contacting them. He had nothing. No addresses, no telephone numbers. Only the grey postbox he was supposed to deliver his findings to.

  He thought about wandering into the street and accosting the first policeman he bumped into. But he knew he’d be wasting his time. These weren’t the everyday city force he was dealing with. If he was going to find them, he was going to have to take to the same shadows as them. He was going to have to occupy the same invisible contours that they travelled.

  As the cocktails slowly filtered through his veins and warmed his insides, he
felt as though the answers to his questions were only a glass or two away…

  In the event, it was the police who made contact first. When Arno made his way back to his apartment, he found a man waiting for him at the entrance to his attic room.

  The stranger was stood on the fifth floor, leaning against a wall, half-disfigured by shadows and the flashing of a neon light. He was not unlike many men you saw around Berlin, jobless or wife-less, with plenty of time on their hands. The city was full of these drifter-sorts who didn’t know whether a life of boredom was something to be feared or celebrated.

  Arno passed by the stranger at first, until the man spoke up.

  ‘Herr Hiller?’ he asked, at which Arno turned around, not knowing if it was a real voice or just his drunken imagination. He wasn’t prepared for visitors. His eyes were misted by several more Tschunk cocktails and his step was swaying. The man came forward. He was lean about the face, with a pair of heavyset eyebrows and sunken cheeks that caught shadows like the hollows of a tree.

  As he came closer, Arno realised he was nothing like the drifter he’d assumed him to be. He was smartly dressed, wearing a starched white collar strapped around his neck, with the two corners folded forward like the wings of a moth. A dark grey-blue jacket fitted him well, with white shirt sleeves poking out of the arms at a precise margin. He had three pens lined up in the breast pocket of his jacket; perhaps each one contained a different coloured ink. Under his arm, he carried a parcel. It was covered in brown paper; rectangular, about the size of a foldaway table.

  ‘Arno Hiller?’ the man asked again.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I’ve got something for you.’ The man offered the brown parcel. Arno took it. It weighed little more than a hard-cover book or a telephone or a Spanish guitar. With its brown wrapping, it reminded him immediately of the gift presented to Göring at the lecture hall earlier.

  ‘What is it?’