‘You’d better put in those calls to the other districts.’
‘Yes, sir. Just as soon as I’ve had some lunch.’ Hauser stood up abruptly, opened the door and slipped out of the small office, picking up his coat and hat as he left for the canteen block.
Schenke exhaled a soft sigh of relief. His breath came out with a faint wisp of steam and he felt his body retreat into itself to fight the cold. Crossing to the radiator under the window, he touched it and found barely a trace of warmth. He opened the valve fully and stood against the scratched metal columns while the feeder pipes gurgled and the metal pinged as it expanded. He raised a cuff to the beads of ice on the window panes and cleared a small circle so that he could look out over the yard and the roofs of the houses and shops beyond. It had started to snow again, bright flecks swirling from the grey sky, adding more depth to the blanket already covering the roofs and streets and swiftly blotting out the cobbles that had been swept in the precinct courtyard below.
‘Shit . . .’ He muttered to himself as he recalled that he had a dinner invitation that evening at the Adlon Kempinski hotel in the centre of Berlin. He was not looking forward to it, despite the opportunity it offered to spend more time with Karin. They had been courting for over four months, having met at one of the department’s receptions hosted by Nebe. It was typical of Berlin’s social events – police officers, business leaders and lawyers jostling for the attention of senior party figures while white-jacketed waiters threaded their way through the throng balancing trays of drinks and snacks. Schenke usually left as early as was acceptable. It was a finely judged calculation, since being seen as a regular early leaver carried the risk of being judged a loner; or worse, one who was disdainful of such gatherings.
On that particular night, he had managed to edge towards the coat desk when Karin approached him, champagne glass in one hand. She was slim, in her late twenties, he guessed, and dressed in a sheer black dress sparkling with sequins. Her dark hair was cropped in a short bob, with a precise line across her forehead, like the film star Louise Brooks. After looking him up and down, she addressed him directly.
‘You’re the racing driver, aren’t you?’
‘Not any more,’ he replied politely. ‘Merely a policeman these days. And I was only a racing driver, never the racing driver.’
She smiled. ‘You are too modest. I used to be a follower of the Silver Arrows, and you were one of the best. Until . . .’ She tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips gently.
‘Until the accident on the Nürburgring circuit.’ Schenke completed the sentence for her.
‘Yes, until then. I was there that day. You were set to win the race when it happened.’
The memory rushed back into his mind. The exhilaration of speed and the prospect of winning. The roar of the engine and the jarring vibration of the track beneath the car. The instant shift to a kaleidoscopic rush of trees, sky, track – and then darkness. And afterwards, the agony, and the long months of slow recuperation. He forced the recollections from his thoughts as he responded in a dry tone.
‘What can I say? Sometimes a man tries too hard to win. He takes risks and he fails.’
‘And sometimes a man succeeds.’ She gestured with her glass towards the portrait of the Führer hanging at the end of the salon. Schenke sensed she was judging his reaction, and he nodded without committing himself to a reply.
‘Much as I would like to stay and discuss my motor-racing days, I fear I must leave. I have to start work early tomorrow. Excuse me.’ He made to turn towards the servant in charge of the coats, but she reached out and touched his shoulder.
‘You haven’t asked my name, Herr Schenke.’
‘Forgive me, Fräulein . . . ?’
‘Karin Canaris.’ She smiled, full lips drawing back to reveal neat white teeth. ‘And now we are acquainted, I’d be grateful if you’d stay for one more drink.’
It was more than one drink, Schenke reminded himself as he returned to his desk and pulled the folder closer. After that night, they began to see each other regularly. He was attracted by her striking looks and ready humour. It was true that she had recently shown a more needy side of her personality, but he had optimistically put that down to the depth of her feeling for him. He could sense himself being steered towards a more permanent relationship, and felt uneasy about the fact. It was true that Karin was well connected socially, something that might help his career. However, he considered that an unworthy motive for marriage, and while he was willing to meet her family, and risk her meeting his own, he was concerned this might add impetus to the relationship and ease its direction of travel from his grasp.
Tonight he was due to meet her uncle, who had taken charge of her upbringing after her father had shot himself during the economic crisis in the twenties. Her mother, a Russian émigré, had abandoned her and moved to Paris shortly afterwards. The uncle was a senior naval officer who commanded one of the intelligence organisations in Berlin. Schenke could imagine the type. Some Prussian aristocrat determined to look down his nose at his niece’s suitor from a lower tier of society. It would be a difficult dinner, he feared.
The phone to the right of his desk rang shrilly, and he put thoughts of Karin aside and reached for the receiver.
‘Inspector Schenke.’
A woman’s voice crackled. ‘It’s the precinct switchboard, sir. I have a call for you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘SS Oberführer Müller, sir.’
Schenke felt his chest tighten. ‘Müller?’
‘Yes, sir. Shall I connect you now, sir?’
Schenke took a calming breath. ‘Yes, of course. At once.’
There was a faint click and then a clear, blunt voice addressed him. ‘Inspector Schenke?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘This is Oberführer Müller, head of Department Four at the Reich Main Security Office. I was appointed in September, so our paths may not have crossed yet. But I have been made aware of your reputation.’
Schenke winced at the possible implications of that comment, and there was a pause at the other end of the line, as if the caller knew his choice of words might command anxiety and was content to have that effect.
‘You have a good record, Schenke. Some fine police work. A credit to Kripo.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Schenke felt a rush of relief.
‘Which is why I need to engage your services now. There has been an incident, a potentially delicate matter, and I require a reliable and discreet man to deal with it. You are that man, Schenke. I need you here at headquarters as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well. I will speak with you later.’
The line went dead, but Schenke lingered to be certain his superior had concluded the call before he dialled the precinct’s reception office.
‘Have a car sent to the entrance for Inspector Schenke. Immediately, please.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Schenke rose from his desk and slipped on his coat. His troubled mind was racing. What possible reason could there be for the head of the Gestapo to demand his immediate presence at their headquarters?
‘Scarrow’s rank with the best’ Independent
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The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19) Page 43